tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-13739885749763993472024-03-14T02:26:14.515-07:00Mountain Citywillie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-7883093349010909102013-11-08T19:19:00.001-08:002013-11-08T19:34:23.398-08:00A Day on the KlickitatPhotos from a glorious autumn day fishing on the Klickitat River in southern Washington with Matt Wadsworth. Read <a href="http://williegmcbride.blogspot.com/2013/11/the-cassius-clay-of-klickitat.html" target="_blank">"The Cassius Clay of the Klickitat"</a> to get the full story. Enjoy!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zFxcBi00nX0l9pW_pJcDg9F7iVw_8K4hIPWlb5GdB06umyEufLBNJBuXgrHIMTCQkup9LMST1q9Z0s4pin2bbrbepbBKmRdwSxzwICg6dRJ5JHq8ZyQNur77VLKTEfKhSUNSMRyWey98/s1600/k1ROufjQdIdl2WbYYtpYuKLh9s78pfsV-OBbfBRODh8,011TAebZHX3Ah53eJ3m3WjK-cYqaR7o4gVWwOlojhKM,tjLzUTTpjOsswiU3OWbwumMme3Ov93B8x24H-iCT6UY.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_zFxcBi00nX0l9pW_pJcDg9F7iVw_8K4hIPWlb5GdB06umyEufLBNJBuXgrHIMTCQkup9LMST1q9Z0s4pin2bbrbepbBKmRdwSxzwICg6dRJ5JHq8ZyQNur77VLKTEfKhSUNSMRyWey98/s640/k1ROufjQdIdl2WbYYtpYuKLh9s78pfsV-OBbfBRODh8,011TAebZHX3Ah53eJ3m3WjK-cYqaR7o4gVWwOlojhKM,tjLzUTTpjOsswiU3OWbwumMme3Ov93B8x24H-iCT6UY.jpeg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The photographer/author Willie McBride (photo by Matt Wadsworth)</td></tr>
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willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-86228003684144743342013-11-04T22:45:00.001-08:002013-11-09T10:45:12.865-08:00The Cassius Clay of the Klickitat<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://williegmcbride.blogspot.com/2013/11/a-day-on-klickitat.html" target="_blank">More pictures here...</a></td></tr>
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It can be hard to tell the difference between a fish testing your bait and the sensation of that bait bumping against the rocks of a shallow river. When a fish does take a bite and the hook sets in though, there's no question what's on the other end of the line. There is a pulsing energy in the rocks and flowing water but not the same kind you feel from an animal that suddenly finds itself fighting for its life. The fish knows and you know; a collective consciousness is formed, two beings tethered together by a filament.</div>
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I learned the difference quickly. We had just pulled the drift boat over for lunch to the sandy shore of the Klickitat River in Southern Washington on a sunny, late October day. Matt, an aspiring ultra marathon runner that I train and coach and my guide for the day, set me up with a bobber and jig and then went about preparing our midday meal on his small habachi grill that he had stashed in the bow of our watercraft. We'd be feasting on Chinook salmon, caught by him on the Oregon coast, and quinoa and andouille sausage, all wrapped up in tin foil and ready to be cooked. He also had two tall bottles of "Fish Tale" Organic IPA for us to enjoy. An appropriate choice of beverage and a fine meal.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I began casting into the deep, swift-flowing current along the far bank. The intention was to have my bait and bobber drift downstream while gently drawing it ever so slightly into mingling with the eddy line. Fish would be there Matt told me, reveling in the swirling, undulating water, just out of the fast lane.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I'm not much of a fisherman. It had been years since I'd fished and the last times were in small lakes and ponds in Kansas, near my father's house on the prairie in the Flint Hills. We caught bluegill and bass and some other small fish I didn't know the names of. I'd never fished in the true mountain west for salmon or steelhead, for exciting, "destination" type fish so to speak. This was all new to me. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was with some surprise then that I cast right to the spot I'd intended. Of course I attributed this to luck and the improvements in fishing equipment over the years, not my skill. I'd take it though: luck, technological advancements or not. The bait and bobber drifted down almost exactly as planned. I let out line as it drifted on, to extend the life of the cast, careful not to affect the natural movement of the bait and give it up as fraudulent fishmeal. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Nothing on the first pass. I reeled it in and cast again. Nothing. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>And again. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On my third try it happened. From the first instant I knew it wasn't the bait tap-dancing on the river bottom. This was a fish, and with its bite came that split-second realization; like the flip of a light switch sending the world from black to blinding, or the sharp, shocking sting of a bee you didn't see coming. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A quivering energy shot down the line, from the reel, through the ceramic eyelets of the rod and the autumn air, and into the shining water. Matt looked over excitedly. His one, overwhelming desire that day was for me to catch a fish, to experience the unique thrill he so loved. He was far more eager for it than I was, bless his heart. Matt didn't have an extra pair of waders so he gave me his mid-calf high waterproof boots. I could only stand in the shallow water near the bank but it was enough, my position was fine. I stood wide-legged and leaned back against the force as the fight began, while bright teal-blue gnats wove themselves through the air around me.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>With 10 lb. test line I couldn't just muscle it in--the line would break--and, besides, it wouldn't be any fun. It wouldn't be an artful dance, demanding patience. Finesse had to be involved, gentle coercion of the submarine being. Brute force would not be rewarded; the fish--or whatever the hell it was down there--would be lost. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I took my time, enjoyed the give and take with this fellow animal. I'd raise the rod skyward and then reel in the line as I dropped it back towards the water again, easing it toward me, slowly but surely--up and down, up and down. It would get closer and then suddenly the will to live, the stubborn, searing, blood-boiling animal instinct for survival would send the line slicing through the glimmering surface of the Klickitat once more, away from me to the far bank, the great force on the line dissipating with audible "clicks" from the reel.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Matt came over and adjusted the tension setting on the burdened reel after seeing that the fish had a good, strong fight and was evidently not small. There had to be give in the system or the line would break for the pull of this proud beast was far more than 10 lbs. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>No hurry. The weather was perfect and we had plenty of time. Another drift boat with two guys in it--one of the many on the 18 miles of water we traveled that day--floated past and looked on grinning while I toiled away. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Like a boxer--the Cassius Clay of the Klickitat--the fish worked left, cut right; left then right, right then left; rising, diving, rising again. Fighting hard, defying my pull. My arms grew tired, I had to switch hands on the rod, adjust my grip, shake out my forearms and tiring biceps, adjust my stance, reset my feet in the sandy river bottom. We were locked in this thing together. Give and take. I felt our kinship growing and my respect for it building with every passing second; </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><i>If that goddamn fish could stand before me I'd look it right in its eyes and shake its hand (or fin or whatever) with the firmest grip; I'd give it a bear hug and say: You're one hell of an animal, I'll respect you 'til the day I die, thrashing for your sweet life like that with a hook in your face. </i></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I felt I could empathize with its defiant spirit and could even feel it within myself, burning deep down. If some unknown brute hooked me in the face and tried to reel me in I'd spit and kick and go buck wild even if it torn my face clean off. That stubborn, searing, blood-boiling animal instinct for survival is all I mean.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As I inched it in Matt told me that when the fish saw the bank it would become filled with vigor again and jet away with everything and anything it had left. He was right. As soon as I had finally reeled it within a couple feet of the shallows it tore off with renewed fight, line slicing water; left, right, left. Of course I had the advantage and it was only a matter of another minute or two before it had nothing left to give, no line to take.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Matt was giddy, standing ready with the net. The thing was pretty darn big. I reeled it in the last few feet and with the final pull, right as it entered our waiting net, the line snapped and the fish flopped down, defeated. The buoyancy of the water takes a great deal of the weight of the fish off the line, so as soon as it was out of the water the heft was too much and it broke. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There the fish was, laying before me, captured, beautiful and glistening with color. We'd come for steelhead and this was a salmon, a Chinook, in good condition though spawning and therefore near the end of its life. Not the best for eating, not the best for taking as it's about to reproduce, so we'd be robbing the ecosystem of a new batch of young ones. Why do that? Let the rivers restock, more for everyone later. This gorgeous beast had come all the way from the ocean, up the great, wide brown Columbia to the Klickitat and then miles and miles north--upstream don't forget--to where we intimately interacted that late October day. It seemed a shame to take its life after it had worked so hard, given such a monumental effort, all in the name of giving back to life. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I knew I could keep it--permits would allow--but didn't want to. I made the decision looking down into its half-shuttered eye, feeling the bond and admiration from our toils together; <i>You're one hell of an animal, I'll respect you 'til the day I die.</i></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Matt pulled out his Leatherman and worked the hook out of its mouth (barbless, as regulations stipulated.) He ran over to the boat and got his camera and told me to grab the thing quick and pose for picture so we could get it back in the water. I stood there with the Klickitat lapping gently against me and the fish at waist height, one hand around the tail and the other holding the bulk of it. The picture was snapped and it was time to let the fine fish go; catch and release. Just like that it was gone, let go, with a great swish of its scaled body, away to the depths, as far from us and our hooks as possible. </div>
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<i> Take care</i>, I thought, <i>I hope I didn't hurt you too badly, and thanks for your effort, it was a hell of a fight</i>.</div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Matt was overjoyed and I was pleased, thankful for the unique experience of it all. We were both ready for lunch; we ate sitting there on the beach, drank our beers. After that it was getting later so we packed up and pushed on. We had miles to cover before the take out at the Ice House. Not much more fishing would be done but that was fine by me, I was more than satisfied and Matt's one wish had come true. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The sun lowered in the sky and highlighted the gorgeous land around us, the glowing, breath-catching colors of autumn. My feet were up on the bow, no responsibilities left for the last few miles except to soak it in and relax. </div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I said a thank you to the Klickitat and to all the fish, darting below us as we drifted on. </div>
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Thanks for reading!<br />
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Check out the <a href="http://williegmcbride.blogspot.com/2013/11/a-day-on-klickitat.html" target="_blank">pictures</a> if you missed them before...</div>
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willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-84650678101516395162013-10-20T21:04:00.001-07:002013-10-21T22:10:05.744-07:00Cold Night near Warm Springs<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I laid on the cot and drifted in and out of napping because I was tired already from the weekend. Some of the runners who came through thought I was a fellow racer and that I was injured and dropping out. I wasn't injured, just cold and damp and somewhat bored out in the dark woods under an event tent set to half height in the midst of a monsoon.<br />
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Bryce and Heather sat in chairs across from me; music played from the small speakers on the iPhone and the bourbon was gone. The sound of the storm was constant and my sleeping bag was wet but it didn't matter anymore, I kept it around me regardless. Miserable but fun...that about sums it up. We were happy to serve the ultra marathoning, trail running community. Crazy group of freaks that they are.<br />
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Aid Station #10--Little Crater Lake--at the inaugural <a href="http://www.mountainlakes100.com/">Mountain Lakes 100</a> was our outpost in the madness. We'd hiked the gear out from the cars on the thankfully short, 1/4 mile trail, passing the namesake Little Crater Lake (a stunning geologic oddity) en route, to assist runners on their day-and-night 100 mile journey. Our station was at mile 60.6 so the runners (if they made it that far) would already be in the thick of it: raw and ensconced in their epic mental and physical battles and hopefully ready for more.<br />
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It was raining all day but the latter half of our ~7 hour shift was in a full on gale, a bucking and spitting typhoon. We'd started our stint out there in the afternoon with the tent at full height, of course, to give us proper head room, but the weather steadily deteriorated and those cold Oregon raindrops began to blow sideways with vigor. We shortened the legs and dropped it down to save our lives. <br />
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Luckily it worked. <br />
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The runners at that point (and all points really, since it was driving snow and rain at 6:00 am at the start of the race...12+ hours before) were shining, inspiring, drenched-rat style warriors, soul-shakingly impressive in their resolve and composure given the ferocity of the elements and enormity of the challenge. 60 miles in, "just" 40 to go. <br />
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We had a classic orange Gatorade style container on the table to fill the runners' bottles with water and a special, electrolyte-type drink all mixed up and ready to go. Beside that was the normal array of aid station food: Gu, potato chips, gummy bears, Fig Newtons and so on. Not "health food" but ultra running food...a somewhat strange bit of counter-intuition. <br />
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25 hearty souls made it through our aid station before things really came crashing down. A headlamp came bobbing through the night, not from the race course but from the direction of the parking lot. Scott's face emerged out of the dark as he crouched to enter our hovel. <br />
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"Race is over," he said. Pulling the plug, just too gnarly. Hypothermia was already strengthening its grip on an unjustifiable amount of exhausted, sodden runners, weary from now 14+ hours on the trail, all of it in ~40-50 degree rain.<br />
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"Break things down here and drive back to Clackamas. And Todd wants you," he stopped and pointed to me, "to sweep the trail back to the ranger station and make sure there are no runners in that section." <br />
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<i>Well...ok then I guess...looks like it's a wrap. I guess my night is not over yet either, but then again it wasn't supposed to be. </i><br />
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The plan had been to pace my friend and client--the famed Portland chef Gregory Gourdet--the final 30 miles to the end--through the mad 3-D aquarium that was the first major storm of the '13/'14 fall and winter season. I must say, although this belies my fierce machismo and typically hyper-sensitive egotism, I was quite relieved not to have to do so. It would have been so dark and wet and scary...and long! I mean, come on, 30 miles isn't a hundred but it's still a long way.<br />
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We packed everything up, broke down the tent and loaded the cars. I stood at the back of my 4runner, sheltered under the raised back hatch and prepped myself for the short but exciting 6 or so miles back to the ranger station. I put on some dry layers, filled my water bottle. Besides keeping an eye out for ailing runners I was going to be taking down the orange ribbon course markers that I had put in place that very morning. <br />
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The day before Heather and I had marked the 30 miles from Olallie Lake (the start of the race) to Clackamas Ranger Station, all on the Pacific Crest Trail, past Olallie Meadows, the Pinheads, Warm Springs and Red Wolf. We camped in the parking lot at the ranger station and then the next morning my friend Matt and I marked the 15 miles around Timothy Lake and the little out and back to the Little Crater Lake Aid Station. After we marked around the lake we met Bryce and Heather and headed in to set up Aid Station #10. <br />
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That was all over, though just a few hours past. The race was done. Triage was in effect; I could only imagine what the big aid stations looked like. I heard stories later: downed trees, fallen limbs crushing cars, haggard, zombie-like runners with blue lips wrapped in space blankets, looking like despondent, tinseled-Christmas ornaments, in need of medical assistance. God bless their souls. Dreams were broken and there was plenty of upset but the outcome later seemed good at least. Spirits were high, the community came together and prevailed once again. There were no hard feelings. <br />
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Storms come, races get cancelled, and sometimes it rains on wedding day. The whole point of all this trail running, mountain stuff is that we put ourselves in the hands of nature, we let go of the reigns a bit and hand over the keys. The uncertainty is the thrill. The unknown is why we partake. We're not control freaks. You may be in your normal life, but not out there; you can't be. <br />
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I traveled those 6 miles on the PCT back to the ranger station and what remained of the dispersing circus of the dramatic night. My head lamp lit the narrow trail that was flooded with water. There were no "puddles" or even anything that could be classified similarly. The footpath, for long sections on end, was a river; a 6-8" deep pool of brown, earthy ice water. Wind whipped about, rain drove down, trees swayed wildly. Movement was everywhere. The energy of the storm was clearly felt.<br />
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I grabbed the orange ribbon markers off the branches where I'd attached them earlier with clothes pins. I swore though that people removed some or they blew away or something; I ran along and began to spook myself, fearing ironically that the trail marker himself was off-trail, somehow, someway lost on some other forest tread through the nameless trees. <br />
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<i>Jesus, the PCT is pretty easy to follow. I've been on this section of it so many times before...WTF? </i><br />
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I was tripping though, literally and figuratively; the storm was getting to me but I was going along just fine. The creaking, squealing, moaning, groaning trees added a ghoulish ambiance to the experience and helped urge me on despite icy feet and the challenge of running through the constant water. <br />
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I was reassured by my progress when I recognized and passed the eclectic camp of crazy men that I'd talked to earlier on the day; hunters and rough necks and the like--not that there's anything wrong with that. These guys were drinking when I came through the first time 12 hours before, and proudly pointed out the array of nudie-pics they'd stapled to the trees around camp. I told them to watch out for crazy runner types on 100 mile runs through the woods and not take down any trail markers. I'm not entirely sure they respected the latter request, though they seemed like nice guys.<br />
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When I came through the second time they were still stirring, no doubt more drunken than before. I could only imagine--in my darkest mind--what sort of wild debauchery went down on that torrential night in the camp of pornographic conifers. <br />
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I moved on, happily.<br />
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I was nearly there at last. Having run the <a href="http://www.mthood50.com/">Mt. Hood 50</a> and the Timberline Marathon each twice before I knew exactly how long to the end. I was excited to get out of the storm, stop running, stop wading through icy rivers, get dry, eat food, drink beer hopefully. I pulled up the last of the markers and coasted into the ranger station. All of the aforementioned haggard runners had left already, escorted to warm vehicles by selfless friends and family. Heather was waiting in my car, sitting in shotgun with the windows steamed up. <br />
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The very next weekend the weather could literally not have been better. Absolutely stunning in every way, just ridiculous; blue bird and beyond. Of course this prompted talk: was that section of the Pacific Crest Trail and its environs cursed for races? The "100 in the Hood" race a few years before was a disaster and had covered many of the same sections as Mountain Lakes 100. And with the Warm Springs Indian Reservation right there...it's hard not to ponder: did our "forefathers'" (whatever the hell that means) treatment of the Native Americans have something to do with all this? Does the blood on our hands make for irate spirits on the Pacific Crest Trail between Olallie Lake and Mt. Hood, along the Warm Springs Indian Reservation? <br />
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<i>Who knows... who knows?... </i><br />
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Fate will be tempted for Mountain Lakes 100 Round #2 again no doubt and maybe with enough penitence well be able to pull it off. As for the living peoples at least things turned out ok and the community grew ever stronger. <br />
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Thankfully for us all, there's always next year.<br />
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<br />willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-29857093567541152592012-08-07T23:26:00.000-07:002012-08-08T23:19:55.516-07:00Taking it Slow: The Zigzag Mountain Trail and Paradise Park<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I raced the <a href="http://www.mthood50.com/">Mt. Hood 50</a> on Saturday July 28th and then did the <a href="http://rimtorimagainstnestle.wordpress.com/">Rim to Rim Against Nestle</a> protest run in the Gorge on the Wednesday after that. The tough, epic 50 mile course of the Nestle run (of my creation!) felt like a 100 miler due to my fatigue but was good training for my last two ultras of the year, the <a href="http://waldo100k.org/">Waldo 100k</a> on Aug. 18 and <a href="http://www.thebear100.com/">The Bear 100</a> on Sept. 28-29. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I needed to rest my body and give it time to recover; with Waldo only 2 weeks away I wanted to make sure I was good and ready. I got restless though with a rare free weekend and the perfect Oregon summer weather and had to take advantage and get into the mountains. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I decided to go hiking and spend a night alone out in the woods somewhere. Being in the mountains in any way--hiking, running, climbing, strolling, observing, sleeping out--increases one's fluency with them. Mountain travel is a true art and familiarizing with all its facets and getting to know the land and the movements intimately is essential. I vowed to just take it nice and easy, go old school, take lots of pictures, have no real agenda, play it by ear, sleep wherever. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My Monday was free until the afternoon so I chilled Saturday and left Sunday morning and drove east toward Mt. Hood. I'd gone back and forth literally dozens of times about where to go and what to do. It was ridiculous. First the 3 Sisters area, then Olympic National Park, Alpine Lakes Wilderness, the Mt. St. Helen's area, and on and on. My going solo definitely played a part in my decision making and I always considered driving times. With so much so close, it's hard to justify driving three or four hours when you could drive one. I ended up staying close and was, yet again, blown away beyond comprehension. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I parked at the Zigzag Mountain Trailhead just off the East Lolo Pass Rd. off Highway 26, 45 miles from Portland. I packed up and set off climbing out of the bottom of the valley; a nice early start at just after 10 am. My small pack weighed maybe 25 lbs. at most with one long sleeve shirt, a ~2 lb. 32 deg. sleeping bag, a headlamp, hat, map, cell phone, ID, cash, and food and water. For the food I had some gels and the like but also real stuff: a couple prepackaged burritos, a Dave's Sin Dawg, and a stick of <a href="http://www.olympicprovisions.com/">Olympic Provisions</a> Salami (OMG! This stuff is SO next level.) It was nice to feel still relatively light but have plenty to spend the night out comfortably.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The trail followed mellow switchbacks for three thousand feet, ascending onto the massive ridge system that runs all the way into Mt. Hood itself. I'd eagerly scoped the feature on maps and was thrilled to be finally exploring the area. Once up the main climb the trail is surprisingly moderate, rolling along the ridge line, in and out of the trees. When it did pop out of the trees the views were incredible, initially to the south with Mt. Jefferson and Devil's Peak and the countless others in between and all around, and then in every direction, to Helens, Rainier and Adams to the north. Wildflowers abounded. No clouds, hot, 90 degrees, but perfect. Mt. Hood looked really far away. I had some epic schemes flitting through my head and visions of grandeur about going all night and doing a 60 mile loop around the whole mountain but those quickly dissolved as I was stopping constantly and taking my time to look at things and take pictures. And I was hiking. Things go much slower when you're not running. I decided to follow the Zigzag trail all the way to the Pacific Crest Trail/Timberline Trail and then see what I felt like doing. I already had an inkling that I might be tempted to head to Timberline Lodge for beers (and because I love that place, such a work of art.)</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I was constantly blown away by the Zigzag Mountain Trail and the area right there to the west of Mt. Hood, with Cast and Burnt Lakes and the exposed, wildflower strewn high points and outcrops all along the ridge. I finally saw a few people near the Burnt Lake trail junction (where they took a picture of me) but before that I had been completely alone, fighting through the spiderwebs across the trail all on my lonesome. For real though it was crazy, spider webs and the occasionally quite large spiders residing on them were the theme of the trip. I was seriously very thankful to have my trekking poles with me if only for the sole purpose of clearing my way on the trail. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After reaching the PCT/Timberline Trail I was, as suspected, hankering for a beer and not looking for the epic miles I'd briefly pondered. After all I was supposed to be resting. I would go to Timberline Lodge I decided, enjoy a beverage, some company, maybe catch some coverage of the Olympics, and then sleep somewhere around there. In the morning I'd cut down the mountain on a shorter route to Highway 26 then hitchhike the short distance to the town of Zigzag and my car nearby. That was the plan.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">...And I did exactly that. The last three miles of my day, on the PCT/Timberline Trail from the Zigzag Mountain Trail to the Lodge, were dramatic and beautiful, contouring in and out and the great and massive drainage below Mississippi Head and the headwaters of the Zigzag River. I was buzzing off the brilliant sights and perfect early evening temperatures. Blissful. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At the Ramshead Bar I drank two IPAs, ate a bread bowl of clam chowder, talked to some PCT through-hikers, watched Olympic beach volleyball and gymnastics, then headed back out of doors again, into the lovely night. The talkative older character of an employee said there was a lightning show going on out to the south east and so I went to watch it. I hiked up the rocky, scree slopes above the lodge and found a little perch near some trees, technically right on the ski slope, but out of sight of any of the lights of the lodge. I pulled out my sleeping bag and crawled in and watched the storm flashing out there in the cool night. I awoke to rain, as the storm apparently had moved north a bit, and had to move under the shelter of the tree in the middle of the night. Pleasurable temps though. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I awoke to the ski lifts running nearby, taking folks up the mountain to carve up the snow parks and few runs. There was a surprising number of people headed up at 7 in the morning, all dressed like it was winter. I just sat and enjoyed the view, looking south at Mt. Jefferson in the early light. I backtracked to the lodge to have some coffee and look at my map in the great room and decide which route to take down. I walked in the back door and the coffee was all laid out right there on a huge table in front of the window with big white porcelain mugs lined up invitingly, ready to go. What more could I ask for? Well, there was no food prepared for me but I didn't even think the coffee would be free so I was already pleasantly surprised. I sat and consulted the map and decided to retrace my steps on the PCT/Timberline Trail through some of the most dramatic parts of the day before, then take the Paradise Park Trail down the mountain. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">It was a stunning morning. Couldn't have been more agreeable to the senses. When I reached my cut off to start descending I couldn't help myself and chose to add on the Paradise Park Loop (an additional 4 miles) before heading for home. I had enough time and I was already up there and I'd never been on the loop before. I mean what if I died the next day? I had to take advantage while I had the chance...</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I actually thought I had died and gone to my alpine mountain heaven...I can't say much more than that. It is hard for me to comprehend that the trailhead to this literal paradise is less than 1 hour from Portland. That fact makes me catch my breath. The privilege of having that access is immeasurable. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I did the loop then headed down, running a little here and there, but still battling spiders and webs. I finally saw hikers coming up and was thankful that they had just cleared my way, as I had theirs. I reached the road and walked the pavement of Rd. 2639 for a mile or so to the busy Highway 26. Thumb out, hot in the full sun at 12:30 on the side of the road. Some cars passed and I started to have the normal doubts, what if I never get back? But 2 minutes later a guy stopped and I hopped in. Edwardo--super cool dude, soccer coach from Portland, been to the summit of Hood--told me about his weekend in Bend and we chatted and in no time he dropped me at the Lolo Pass Road and we said goodbye. I walked the last mile to my car and then I was back, thankful for no broken windows. I switched into flip flops, started driving and an hour later I was home, ready for work in the afternoon. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Another good adventure, dirt bag style.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Enjoy the pictures (there's lots...)</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Thanks for reading and looking! Here's a wonderful video and song for your viewing and listening pleasure...</span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/08WeoqWilRQ?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
<br />willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-88824558854276345222012-02-01T10:37:00.002-08:002013-12-15T14:36:30.498-08:00Flashbacks #2- Another Trip Home (Yosemite '10)<i>I've worked on this piece for awhile now, tinkering and reworking, and am excited to finally share it. When the story was nearly completed I came across a video someone had posted entitled "Yosemite HD." It's a spectacular collection of images from the great national park and the time lapse techniques and new age technology make it truly stunning and unique to watch. I realized then that it was a perfect compliment to my story (or vice versa) about a solo adventure right through the heart of that land. Hopefully the combination of words and images will provide a stimulating multi-media experience of the great Range of Light and accurately portray the wonder, excitement and amazement I've felt when visiting. Enjoy!</i><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">Another Trip Home</span><br />
A Solo, Trans-Sierra Journey<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I felt bad for lying to my boss. The coming weekend was prime time for a mission though: my girlfriend was away and the weather was perfect. All I needed was another excuse. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I liked being a carpenter for many reasons; a major one was that it was a profession more accommodating of a vagabond's schedule than most. On many occasions I had taken off on short notice, heading to Yosemite National Park and the Sierra Nevada mountains for another adventure. Even with all my boss' forgiveness and understanding I sometimes felt guilty enough to lie. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I have a doctors appointment at 1 back in the east bay, so I was hoping to leave at lunchtime," I explained to him.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The plan was to leave work promptly at noon and drive to Yosemite Valley to catch the YARTS (Yosemite Area Regional Transit System) bus at 5:15 pm, headed for the town of Mammoth Lakes on the east side of the Sierras. Then, over the next two days, I would run and hike the 70 miles back to my car and drive straightaway back to Berkeley on Sunday night for work the next morning. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had chosen my route with great excitement. Sitting on the couch on the summer evenings after work, with door open and Berkeley Hills beyond, I scoured the maps laid out before me, memorizing the features and trails. I wanted to cross the Sierra Nevada range from east to west by a grand and aesthetic route. I craved a real challenge, a true journey; over passes, around peaks, into deep valleys and out again.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I am always thrilled to see new sights and visit new landscapes but I relish the trips back to the same places, each time forging a more intimate connection. I have spent a lot of time in Yosemite over the years, increasingly exploring the magical spaces in between and just beyond the more popular destinations; climbing walls and mountains, hiking on and off trails, attempting to complete the web.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had the route planned and couldn't stop thinking about it. I would begin at Agnew Meadows and follow the Mammoth Trail over the low pass just south of the Minarets and the Ritter Range, then descend into the valley of the North Fork of the San Joaquin River deep in the Ansel Adams Wilderness. I would cross the North Fork at Hemlock Crossing and zigzag northwest to Isberg Pass, a remote southwesterly entrance to Yosemite National Park. From Isberg Pass I would go down and up again to Red Peak Pass, then begin the final descent, past the Ottoway Lakes to Illilouette Creek and down to Yosemite Valley. On the last miles I'd hit the crowds by Nevada and Vernal Falls and on the Mist Trail, and soon arrive at Happy Isles and civilization. I figured (and hoped) it would take two days: begin Friday night/Saturday morning and finish Sunday, in time for the 5:15 pm bus back to my car.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I arrived in Presidio Heights, one of San Francisco's wealthiest neighborhoods, on Friday morning and got to work. I was perched high off the side of the fourth story on a tiny platform I'd constructed, blasting away with the nail gun for four hours, reframing and attaching plywood as the base layer for new siding. The cold summer sea fog rolled past and through the breaks in it I could see the colorful houses of Presidio Heights, Laurel Heights and the inner Richmond. I could see the UCSF campus by the gigantic mushroom cloud of a Eucalyptus grove and the Twin Peaks above it. There were the massive bulbous canopies of Buena Vista and Golden Gate Park and the de Young Museum amidst the tree tops and clouds like a Mayan temple from outer space. A wonderful city, but nevertheless I checked the time incessantly, waiting for my escape from it. Finally the moment arrived and I began frantically putting my tools away.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I skipped my ritual pre-adventure In & Out burger feast in Manteca, but only because I didn't have time to stop. There was traffic in the city and on 580 getting out of the Bay and I was behind schedule already and realized my plan needed amending. It was too much of a gamble to try for the 5:15 bus from the Valley, there was only one eastbound bus a day so if I missed it my plan would be foiled. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The bus was scheduled to be at Tuolumne Meadows at 6:50, in the Yosemite high country on highway 120. Catching it there seemed to be my only choice so I rerouted to Tuolumne, parked, grabbed my pack and walked to the bus stop. There was only one down side: I had wanted to park in the Valley so I would be finishing at my car and my things, ready to start the drive home. Unfortunately with the change of plans, I would need to take the bus to get to my car, which meant making it back in time to catch it. I would deal with that later, the important thing was that I was on my way to Mammoth Lakes.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The sun set and the purples, pinks and blues aged into richer tones over the peak tops. The bus descended the serpentine road thousands of feet from Tioga Pass to Lee Vining, down the immense valley that dwarfs vehicles like ants. We reached June Lake as it grew fully dark and shortly after entered Mammoth Lakes and drove through the town to the final stop by the ski resort. I stepped off into the cold night air of a town at elevation.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had only my small day pack. I wanted to move fast so I'd tried to be as light as possible, although I've suffered a great deal in the outdoors so I've become a little more realistic about what I bring along. I had a few layers, a rain jacket, a 32 degree ~1.5 lb sleeping bag, a headlamp, hat, and heaviest of all, my food. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I'd gotten tired of eating bars and gels all the time and wanted more real food on my adventures. I'd started making homemade energy wraps that my friend and I jokingly referred to as "love logs." They began with a whole wheat tortilla and a smear of peanut butter, almond butter, and/or any other nut butters available. I then added an array of ingredients: hemp, sesame, flax, sunflower, and pumpkin seeds, almonds, cashews, dates, cranberries, raisins, bananas, banana chips, agave syrup, coconut butter, chocolate chips, olive oil and sea salt. I would wrap it up burrito style, pack it tight in a plastic bag to help form it up, and that was it. The results were great.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had 5 of those wraps and 5 other savory wraps with turkey, cheese, onions, tomatoes, spinach, mayo, and Sri Racha. Each wrap weighted probably a pound so the food bag was ridiculously heavy. I could have fed a small child for a month. Before I even started on the trail I forced myself to eat one of each variety to cut down on weight. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was about nine when we arrived in Mammoth Lakes. I could see the outline of the mountains looming in the night sky and I was intimidated to start and hungry as always. The bus stop was across from a Swiss mountain-lodge style restaurant, so of course I went in. I ate a burger at the bar and people watched and idled for awhile, enjoying the warmth and light and human contact before setting off into the dark. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I walked outside and called a cab, which was part of the plan. The cab came and we drove west away from the lights of town and into the forest toward Agnew Meadows. The driver eyed my small pack skeptically when I explained I was going to cross the Sierras over to Yosemite Valley. He just smiled and wished me luck and dropped me at the pullout with a sign for the Pacific Crest Trail. I paid him and said goodbye. He was off and I was alone in the mountains. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I promptly called my girlfriend. She was with her family visiting her sister in New York City. I was amused at the situation: it was 10:30 on a Friday night and I was in the wilderness with not another human soul around for miles while she was on the other side of the country seeing thousands of people passing before her eyes every second in one of the biggest, most vibrant cities on earth. It was just me and the darkness, the animals, the mountains. I told her I loved her and that I'd call her as soon as I could, then said goodnight and turned off my phone. The little screen faded to black and I was cut-off. At last.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I put my pack on and started running south on the Pacific Crest Trail toward Red's Meadow. I was tired so I knew I didn't want to go for long that night. I often imagine myself going non-stop on a minimum of rest but after getting up at six, working a half day of construction, driving for five hours and busing for two, I was ready for sleep. The land was gentle aways before the trail began to switchback and descend into a canyon. I couldn't see much except what my headlamp illuminated, but I felt the wind blowing down the canyon from the north and saw the trees and grasses waving and could hear the sounds. After a few miles the trail leveled out and I was in the canyon proper with the river close by. Sleep was calling me so I stopped and walked over to a suitable plot beside a large downed tree, just fifty feet off the path but out of its view. No sleeping pad or tent or bivouac sack necessary; the ground was soft under clear skies and it wasn't too cold for the elevation was low. I chose my spot so I had an open view of the bottomless black above, littered with points of light that shone long ago, the whole sky a Milky Way. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I awoke around 7 and packed my things, happy no animals had helped themselves to my food that I'd half-heartedly hung on a tree limb nearby. I began running through the chilly forest, waking up to my surroundings and warming up to the morning workout. The path crossed the river back and forth a few times on foot bridges and I saw people fishing, setting off on hikes, enjoying the crisp air. The Pacific Crest Trail crossed the Muir Trail just west of the busy hiker hub at Red's Meadow and there I left them both and took the trail straight west. I started hiking as the angle increased, pushed on by the views of the valley of the Middle Fork of the San Joaquin River to the south. The ski mountain at Mammoth Lakes rose high in the brilliant blue sky behind me as I sweated onward, taking my time but mindful to keep a decent pace. <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I'm often (re)surprised at the ruggedness of mountain trails, gladly taken aback at the narrow, rocky, ankle-break footing, and the overgrown, hard to follow paths. I always day-dream of running non-stop through the high peaks like an animal without fatigue, without thought, unified with everything around me, deriving unending energy from Nature like a plant absorbing the sun. Then I arrive from sea level, tired and work weary, and try to run with a pack at elevation on the grinding ascents and treacherous descents and I quickly realize that I'm not as unstoppable as I'd wished.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I ate brunch at the first pass, atop a boulder amidst the thinning trees, looking west into the most remote of the Ansel Adams Wilderness where I was headed. The ridge line to the north from the pass became increasingly jagged and foreboding with each peak. When it finally reached the Minarets and Mt Banner and Ritter, the spiny ridge was so sharp and fierce in its topography that it evoked great kingdoms where unfathomable forces reigned. Over the next thirteen miles I would be heading north along the North Fork of the San Joaquin, edging around the base of that dark kingdom. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My plastic bag of savory wraps was a nightmare. Apparently due to the juice of the tomatoes I had used, combined with mayonnaise and Sri Racha and some condensation, the bag had literally become soup. Miraculously though, the tortillas were remaining intact. Reaching into that bag of sodden food was no pleasant task, but I had no choice. I ate that dripping tortilla wrap and, by the end, all the others too. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Over the next ten miles the Ansel Adams Wilderness presented me with the most stunning wildflower display I've ever seen. The Cascade and Olympic Mountains in Washington, the Wahsatch in Utah, the Rockies in Colorado, and the Coast Ranges in northern California and Oregon had all blown me away before with their dazzling arrays but this was the grandest of all. The series of meadows--Summit, Stairway, Cargyle, Corral, Headquarters, Earthquake, and Naked Lady (my favorite)--came one after another, a chain of sublime spaces, of color and light and open air. I'd see them from a distance, the marvelous colors slowly emerging out of the glowing bright between the trees. Through the shadowed forest I would move until at last the sun would illuminate the air and ignite the world around me, the yellows, purples, oranges, and reds of the wildflowers and the pulsing blue of the sky overhead. I couldn't help but stop and stare, hypnotized by the beauty.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I looked over to my left into the staggering perfection of Cargyle Meadow and froze suddenly. What the...A sheep!?!? The nearly white hair tricked my brain for an instant. I was actually looking at a blonde black bear. It meandered through the meadow not thirty feet away and made no signs of noticing me. It was beautiful, young and small(ish) and as unified with its surroundings and present in the moment as I wish I could be. Seeing an animal in the wild is an instant resetting of my mind. It's an immediate <i>tabula rasa</i>, a stark and certain wake up call like cold water to the face. It is witnessing for a moment the pulsing essence of Nature, catching a bittersweet glimpse of a world we've turned our backs to. It is the ecstatic sensation of experiencing the impossible, like walking a bridge we burned long ago.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I moved slowly back up the trail paralleling the graceful beast, transfixed by it as I sensed my footing, careful for noise. For a few minutes I observed as it nosed along, entranced by its instinctual movement. Eventually my tracking skills failed me and I kicked a rock and the bear moved away to the far end of the meadow and disappeared into the forest beyond, just like that. I stared after it, not wanting to accept that it was gone. I continued on finally, clinging to the scene and its image in my mind like when you wake up from a good dream and want to go back to sleep. Once you've had experiences with animals in the wild you can close your eyes and remember the moment and feel a deep comfort from it.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>As much as I relish time alone in the mountains I would never claim not to get nervous, self-doubting or even down right scared at times. I can see or hear strange things, imagine figures in the woods, make up creepy scenarios and get scared of the dark. I worry about wrong turns, fear being lost, injured, battered by storm, dashed upon rocks, drowned in the rivers, stranded by broken ankle, starved to death. These fears demand my attention and awareness, necessitate my focus on the task and my presence in the moment and so they are good. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My solitude was further pronounced the more remote my position grew, the less and less trodden the trails. I never considered the option of turning back though, it wasn't in the plans. I would have face any fears, doubts, or challenges that arose. My commitment was complete.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The meadows ceased and the trail descended rocky and narrow until it reached the banks of the North Fork of the San Joaquin. There it was paradise of waterfalls and pools, lush and luxurious, with the sharp spires of the Minarets overhead. The trail crossed Dike Creek where it flows out of a dramatic, sheer-walled chute of rock and plunges into a perfect swimming hole beside the path. I impulsively stripped naked at the sight of it but lingered too long in the shallows and wimped out. The pain in my feet was unbearable and an ice cream headache all-consumed me, so I swallowed my pride and put my clothes back on. It was warm and sunny but just not hot enough. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>At Hemlock Crossing there was a stout and tank-like metal bridge over the North Fork. Under the bridge the water flowed through a beautiful passage carved in white granite to another waterfall over sculpted rock, giving me good reason to relax again beside the river and enjoy the sound. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I hiked up below Sadler Peak, climbing out of the valley of the North Fork to the southwest on the Stevenson Trail. I enjoyed the endless views of the whole valley; the headwaters to the north and the confluence with the larger Middle Fork to the south, the dark kingdom across and the meadow lands below that I'd traversed earlier that day. The Minarets, Mt Banner, Mt Ritter, and Mt Davis showed endless opportunities standing tall and enticing in the early afternoon sun. It was a staggering spectacle, the kind that makes you feel small, humble, and happy.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I crossed Chetwood Creek and entered an area of lakes and meadows between white granite temples rising from the trees. Those meadows had good names too: Bugg, Detachment, Knoblock. I looked upon the escarpment of Timber Knob to the west as the sky grew dense with dark clouds. The day was fading and I started feeling the usual anxieties: ornery animal friends, injury, loneliness, the unknown. Then, as if on cue, the sky broke over me and thunder cracked and lightning flashed for a splitting instant. The clouds opened and cold rain poured down as I stood shin deep in the middle of a flooded meadow. There was nothing to do but laugh and shake my head and grin at my vulnerability. I walked on, dripping wet and still eager like a dog.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I passed the decaying Chetwood Cabin and began the climb to Isberg Pass, following the East Fork of Granite Creek in the thickening twilight. The rain stopped and the clouds broke a little and the sunset shone purple on the white granite peaks. Thoughts of sleep drifted into my mind like nighttime fog as I reached Sadler Lake. I considered stopping but wanted to get as far as possible that day so I continued. I could hear people in the night and see the lights of tents on the west side of Sadler. I could see lights and hear more people too once I got up to Lower Isberg Lake but it wasn't bothersome to the peacefulness of the night. It was actually a nice reminder of humans experiencing the pleasures of wilderness. My breath showed strong in the illuminated air before me and I began to feel that familiar loneliness. Oh, how nice it would be at one of those camps! Warm food, companionship, stories, laughter, maybe some whiskey. No, that would have to wait for another trip. I didn't have my sweet girlfriend to snuggle with, had no stove, no warm and comforting food, no tent, no sleeping pad, few clothes. I relish being alone in the wilderness but I must admit that the distant presence of others was comforting that night. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I reached Lower Isberg Lake and stepped off the trail to look for a good place to sleep. I was careful to pick a durable spot to minimize my impact and soon found an appropriate depression in the tundra near the lake. I felt fortunate to be perched atop an elegant valley and surrounded by a regal ridge of scoured granite made by Post Peak, Isberg Peak, Sadler Peak and Long Mountian. The sky was lighter in the west through the notch of the pass and made stark the ridge line as stars emerged upon the inky canvas, pinpricks poking through from the other side.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I put on all my layers and crawled into my sleeping bag that was quickly feeling inadequate at 10,000 ft. I queasily ate a wet savory wrap that somehow hadn't fallen apart yet, drank some water, and laid my head on a pillow of shoes and pack. It was 10:30 pm and I'd gone roughly 35 miles, about halfway. Over the 15 hour day of sun and blue sky and afternoon thunderstorm, I'd taken plenty of time to stop and marvel at the sights. My mind had drifted with the wind over the far peaks and blew with the clouds around their summits. My imagination had flowed around the rocks in crystalline waters, buzzed among the flowers in the meadows and followed with the blonde bear away into the forest. It was a fine day.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was up at 6, happy to get moving and warm my cold body. The rising sun lit the high country above the trees while the valleys slumbered on in lingering night. Packing is fast when you have little and in a moment I was heading to the pass. I went by a few tents with inhabitants still fast asleep, ensconced in a wonderful warmth I hadn't had. The sun soon hit directly though and the chill left me as I moved over the rocks, giddy with the scenery. There's truly nothing like being above treeline. The land glowed with the orange of the earliest sun and as I stopped and soaked in the warmth a chorus of coyotes began their morning song. Their jabber echoed off the peaks and vibrated in the light, lilting, playful and erratic. The wild language perked my ears and sent a shiver down my body, my attention demanded in the moment by their primal exaltations. I gazed out toward the noise trying to spot them on the rocky slopes but I couldn't pick out their graceful forms. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The trail ascended steeply below Sadler Peak but soon leveled out and traversed to the pass. There stood the metal National Park Service sign, welcoming me to Yosemite. I enjoyed the vantage point, looking south from where I'd come and north and east and west into Yosemite at mountain after mountain unrelenting to the horizon. Simply thrilling; the no-bullshit world right in your face. If you go you will feel it too.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The valley of the Triple Peak Fork of the Merced lay below me to the northwest, carved generously into the Yosemite back country. My route went down into the valley but up once more over the Clark Range via the final pass of my route at Red Peak. The Clark Range is a perfect mountain chain, finely sculpted and colored with a rich palate. I'd been up Mt. Clark twice and had wanted to reach Red Peak Pass for years as I became increasingly enthralled with the relatively untraveled and overlooked area of the national park. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The path was steep and rocky descending from Isberg Pass but soon enough grew gentle and rolled on to the intersection down in the valley where the Red Peak Pass trail diverged. The section over the Clark Range was 12 miles long, the final unknown stretch to familiar terrain. I forged on excitedly, ascending the grey and brown and red rock, over cobbled faces marbled with infinite other heavenly tones. It was a fairly gradual climb with short steep sections between lake basins; Red Devil Lake, Edna Lake, and countless others scattered like precious stones over the landscape, reflecting in day and night. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was only slightly concerned about time although I knew my slow pace wasn't boding well for catching the one and only bus to get back to my car that evening. I was having too much fun though to be preoccupied with that "minor" detail, besides if I was going to miss the bus, I was going to miss the bus; worrying wasn't going to change that. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I hiked steadily until there was no more path upwards and I found myself in the sharp groove of Red Peak Pass itself, between toothy daggers of rock that spiked into the blue above. The view west spilled out before me, a whole other world just a moment before hidden from my eyes; Merced Peak and Upper and Lower Ottoway Lakes, Merced Pass and the Buena Vista Crest, the lesser-traveled back country of southwest Yosemite. The central valley was way out there and my house in Berkeley beyond it and the Pacific Ocean beyond everything, not that I could see all that. I sat and enjoyed the gun sight perch, with the cloudless sky making strong contrast against the mountains. I felt so lucky to see those ethereal lands and to experience that sort of freedom. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I had to keep moving, urged by the necessity of at least trying to get home for work the next day. I felt annoyed by my materialism, by our material culture, by society and our self-perpetuating routine of endless work to afford possessions we think we can't live without. I fully embrace and relish some of the comforts and conveniences of our modernity no doubt, but I try to keep perspective on their true worth and where they fall in the grand scheme.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I was surprised at how precipitous the trail was leaving the pass. Basketball sized boulders atop loose sand and gravel made the footing unsure and reiterated that the trip was by no means a run. I'd already accepted that though. I made it down the steeps and descended past the shining lakes of Upper and Lower Ottoway to the intersection with the trail along Illilouette Creek. I'd traveled the last long downhill section from there many times so I could really put on cruise control to the end.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My imminent tardiness was slow to sink in to my uncaring brain that was still lost in and buzzing off the freedom of the wilderness. It was a perfect grade along Illilouette creek and my eyes and legs and mind settled into the endless motion. I measured my progress against landmarks from past trips: certain pools or drops in the river, bends in the trail, or features of the massive granite cliffs above. The dome summit of Mt. Starr King and the other towering pieces of polished stone guided me like beacons, all distinct like classic art. The familiar jigsaw shapes of the Clark Range, Gray Peak, Mt. Clark, and Quartzite Peak, accompanied me on my right as I went. I looked upon their craggy features and remembered thrilling adventures with good friends. I recalled storms, driving snow and blistering sun, sleep deprivation, heat exhaustion, fatigue, building shelters out of downed limbs, climbing perfect rock with vast air beneath, feeling the textures, relishing the dizzying positions. I remembered grinning and laughing, balancing on spiny ridge tops, taking pictures on the summits of a timeless playground. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I hit the final little uphill near Panorama Point, across from Illilouette Ridge and Glacier Point, before the steep descent to Happy Isles. When I reached the John Muir Trail near Nevada Falls I struck up a conversation with a guy from Montana. He told me about his day running and hiking, away from his wife and daughter who were off on a hike of their own, so I told him about my past two days. He was thrilled for me and excited to hear about my journey. I finally felt like running (it's easier to pass all the crowds that way anyhow) and the Montanan was game so we started down the last ~3-4 miles together, gradually increasing the pace until we were nearly sprinting, flying by countless others the entire way. I never expected to reach the end at such a clip. It felt great to finish with a strong heart-pumping effort, breathing hard until the final steps. The human interaction and connection was a nice too after two full days of almost complete solitude. His wife and daughter were waiting by the bus and he was happy to tell them of my hike and our run down together. They were sweet and congratulatory and we chatted on the free shuttle as we rode into the summer evening. Even with the speedy finish I was too late for the bus, so I had some figuring to do. <br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The foremost task on the agenda though was to stop at the convenient store by the Yosemite Lodge for ice cream and beer, "It's-Its" and IPAs to be exact. I sat on a bench outside the Mountain Room Bar and gleefully indulged and began thinking about what to do. I was down in the Yosemite Valley, my car was up in Tuolumne Meadows and there were no more buses going there that night. The first one the next morning wasn't until 8 or 9. Unless I could manage to hitchhike to Tuolumne to get my car and drive back to the Bay, I simply couldn't make it to work the next morning. <i>Shit</i>, yet another missed day at the job...<i>sorry!</i> My phone was dead but somehow had just enough juice to turn on and for me to type and send the simplest, shortest text message to my boss before shutting off again (something like: STUCK IN YOSEMITE, CANT MAKE IT TOMORROW, BACK TUES.) I was able to talk to my girlfriend and family on the pay phone because I knew their numbers by heart.<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I sat and people watched and drank beer and ate ice cream and microwave burritos. People passed through the central space to or from hotel rooms or restaurants and all the while gigantic cliffs stood above the commotion like temples, vibrant and ever-looming. Countless adventures that had formed me had transpired between and upon those towering rocks and so many unique and influential characters had colored those experiences too. The memories drifted through my head like slow moving mist in the early mornings while a Ranger gave a talk to a small audience nearby. I thought of jumping off stone bridges into frigid water, swimming in the Merced River in the woozy heat, rappelling down thousand foot faces, climbing the boulders, lounging around campfires and cookstoves in Camp 4, drinking water, coffee, whiskey and beer, making food, plans, and music. I thought of nights spent on the sides of the big cliffs, some planned, some not. I recalled spending 3 days on Half Dome at age 16 and the horror of seeing the sheath of the rope cut as my partner swung across the rock face below our anchor, 2,000 ft. off the ground. I remembered my 21st birthday, sitting on the tailgate of a friend's pickup sipping scotch while a large bear walked silently before us, just feet away in the ghostly glow of the full moon.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>My post-hike beer craving had sent me 6 deep and I was ready for bed. I stumbled over to Camp 4 and spread my sleeping bag out in the dirt. My set up was minimal and I knew to be up early to avoid issues with park rangers unapproving of my guerilla style. I gazed up at the sky and let my eyes scan the heavens and my body and worn legs relax into the warmth of the bag. I smiled in the darkness, thankful for one more night under the stars, pleased with my route over the Sierras. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>On the bus ride to Tuolumne Meadows the next morning I looked out at shimmering Tenaya Lake and the graceful sweep of Tenaya Peak and at the fractured and polished rocks and emerald forest. I tried to soak up all I could of the glow of the high country and tried to store up some of the peaceful feeling to bring back to the city. The bus neared my stop and I felt the familiar disappointment of an adventure coming to a close. I shut my eyes and pictured the scenes I'd witnessed, trying to prolong it. I thought of the blonde black bear ambling through the meadow and the coyotes bantering at sunrise and wished to remain among them, a part of the cycle too. But as I got in my car I knew it wasn't possible, I had responsibilities and obligations in another world. I consoled myself as I drove though, knowing I'd be back again soon, making another trip home.<br />
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Thanks for reading!<br />
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...and another music video for your enjoyment!<br />
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<br />willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-52972235136170581312011-12-03T11:48:00.000-08:002011-12-03T12:37:18.020-08:00Evolving with an Open Heart and an Open Mind...<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Thoughts on a Monoculture vs. Permaculture Existence:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Monoculture in America</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Monoculture is the agricultural practice of producing or growing a single crop over a wide area; the mode of modern agri-business. Permaculture, in opposition, is a more holistic approach to agriculture based on bio-diversity and modeled on the symbiotic relationships of different species found in nature. Even a brief look at modern farming illuminates the pitfalls of monoculture in spades. Monoculture farms have limited, less multi-faceted arsenals of immunity, so they are uniquely susceptible to a host of ills that biologically diverse, permaculture systems are not. This is why big monoculture farms need all the herbicides and pesticides and other chemicals, that, in turn, adversely effect the land and the water and the workers. The sheer size of these farms too, is a major reason why they are not sustainable; the bigger the land, the more machinery needed to work it; more impact on the land, on the environment in general, on resources, on the farmer her/himself. Permaculture's essence is being </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">appropriately</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">-sized, working </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">with</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Nature. The results of this method are unavoidably sustainable, giving more to the land, to the animals that rely on the land (us included!), enriching</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">it, rather than taking from it. </span></span></div>
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Permaculture in America</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">It is clear which style of farming is preferable and will actually survive the test of time and truly provide for humans and other animals, as well as the land which sustains all.* These opposing methods, these two different approaches, can be applied to life beyond farming. This is what I want to talk about: A monoculture existence versus a permaculture existence. For optimal mental, emotional, and physical health people must choose their jobs, orient their professional and personal lives, align their hearts and their minds to the wisdom of permaculture, and, in doing so, give themselves to an eternal open-mind, to a life of diversity. In terms of athletics and physicality too, following the permacultural-minded path will be more sustainable, supporting longevity of health and physical ability. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> *-(I acknowledge that I am vastly simplifying the huge and complex issue of food/world hunger, etc...because it's simply too large an issue to grapple with here and besides, that's not specifically what I wish to address.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In a profession setting and generally in life, monotony (hmmm...sounds like monoculture) doesn't breed contentment. Sitting at a desk all day, staring at a computer, making the same small motions and movements over and over again, is not sustainable, not optimal for employee, or employer. Even at a great and stimulating desk job, (of which, needless to say, there are many) the physical stresses of those postures have been proven to cause all sorts of harm. Most people know the frustrations, and repercussions in the rest of life, of having monoculture jobs/desk jobs (think Carpal Tunnel Syndrome, bad posture, back problems, sore eyes, trouble sleeping, stress, disconnection with nature, potential disconnection with family.) So cultivate a permaculture job! Doing what you love or something you are passionate about will instantly provide a more engaging work environment and if you're engaged and happy with your work, the results will be better, and everyone involved will benefit, especially you. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Multi-task, be multi-faceted; move around, and work with your hands sometimes. Monotony of task is mentally draining, reducing our brain functions to repeating only a few well-trod pathways, so diversifying thought and motion is therefore improving the ability of our brains, allowing us to use more of it. Specialization is good, often necessary, and appropriate in moderation, but switching things up, breaking out of the patterns as often as possible, is key to wellness. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So it is too with athletics and movement and general physical ability. Specialization here too is necessary (especially at the "elite" levels) and appropriate in moderation, but more important is being </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">well-rounded</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, an able-bodied and all-around </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">athlete,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> of sport and life. Over specialization and the ways our muscles develop accordingly, creates clear deficiencies in others areas, often leads to serious imbalances, some muscles over-developed, while others are sorely under. But you must train with narrowed intent, with a specialized focus, to get to the highest levels of a given sport or activity! This, as I said, is very much so, although it questions the wisdom of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">doing one thing, all the time</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, often </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">to the exclusion of nearly all else</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (no time to read, to write, to cook, to watch movies, to be attend political protests, to be a part of your local community, to be with your lover/your friend/your family, to indulge, to read the paper and eat pastries and drink black coffee at a buzzing little cafe.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Being an all-around athlete of life increases your chances for physical contentment, for health, for survival; it develops your ability to adapt to </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">whatever may come</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, to whatever twist or turn that life demands, whether that is running 100 miles, dancing in the club, busting a kick flip down a 5-stair, or throwing a ball to your granddaughter, or all of the above. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Lots of love and thanks for reading...have fun out there!</span></div>
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<br />willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-86147370116239525212011-08-08T15:25:00.000-07:002011-08-10T22:06:21.177-07:00Returning to the Womb: Mishap on Moffett Creek<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I have many topics that I've been meaning to write about (and haven't been) but a little over a month ago I had an experience that demanded to be written down before anything else. It was slow going though, figuring out how to write it, how to lay it out and get it down, sorting through the thoughts and emotions of it. There's a lot to be said about what happened; I just did the best I could for many complicated topics were at hand. As you can derive from the title and my tone, this adventure was more of a <i>mis</i>adventure. I felt badly for the mistakes I made but positive elements existed too; strong and necessary lessons of the wilderness were learned and relearned, mental tenacity endured under harsh scrutiny, hard earned skills were put to good use, trust and faith, respect and friendship developed.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span><b>What Happened</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Aj, a new co-worker and friend, came over on Sunday at about 8:30 in the morning and we drank stumptown and looked at the map of the Columbia Gorge, trying to decide where to go. We'd been out on a few ~8 mile runs in Forest Park and he'd proved to be in good shape and down for the trails. I suggested we do something longer somewhere, have a real adventure in the mountains. Since Aj was just getting used to longer runs though and building up mileage I was having trouble figuring out what to take him on; I wanted something quite challenging but not <i>too</i> long, 15-20 miles would do. We could take our time and hike as much as needed and since he was a fit guy and long time bad-ass soccer player I figured that that distance wasn't too crazy for him. We hadn't yet decided the route when we packed up and left, so we didn't tell my girlfriend Sonya exactly where we were going, only "the Gorge." I wanted to be back to watch Game 6 of the NBA Finals and drink beer by 6, at latest, and Aj had places to be by 5. I'd been eyeing the Nesmith Point trail on the map, a sweet looking, steep and switchbacking ascent up almost four thousand feet in 4 miles. As we drove along east on 84, I managed to pick out Nesmith Point and the valley that the trail ascended. It looked sweet, perfect. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Ok, exit here, exit here!" I blurted out excitedly. Game for anything, Aj turned off as instructed at exit 40, for the Bonneville Dam. A quick right and we parked on the side of the car lined road by the trail for Wahclella Falls. I had the plan in my head, the clear and seemingly simple route. Leave the car and run west along the Gorge trail (a cool trail although the highway noise sort of kills the vibe). From the Gorge trail, we would turn left and make the big ascent up nearly to the top of Nesmith. After hitting the fire road near the top we'd turn left again and head south along the old dirt road a short distance to the Moffett Creek trail. Then across the big and rolling, high and forested shelf below and between Mount Talapus and Palmer Peak we would go, crossing the head of Moffett Creek itself. Then all down from there, dropping off the east edge of the shelf and descending steeply into the valley of Tanner Creek. The trail would turn into dirt road and we'd follow that out to the mouth of the valley by the Columbia, and our car there; a simple loop. The map I was using, the National Geographic Trails Illustrated one, didn't have specific point to point mileages but that loop appeared to be just what we wanted at 15-20 miles. If we left the trailhead by 11 am then we'd have at least 5 hours to cover that ground; plenty of time. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Well, we definitely <i>could</i> have done it.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Since we intended to be mostly running, we went with minimal equipment. We each had a single handheld water bottle (I choose to drink the stream water in the area and do it all the time in the mountains (if it seems to come from a non human/agriculture/industry-tainted source), call me crazy. Aj chose on this trip to do so too. We went out with only one bottle with the knowledge that we'd have a multitude of opportunities to refill.) I brought maybe 7 gels for the both of us and a few other random energy food/gel-type things. We both wore running shoes, shorts, and basic, long sleeve synthetic tops. I had a synthetic short sleeve shirt as well. Going so minimally for 20 miles in the mountains may seem like insanity to a lot of people but when you do it often, going 20, 30, 40+ miles without a hitch you can forget that minimalism can have its consequences. The forecast was good when I checked a few days before and people said the rain had <i>finally</i> stopped so it seemed like it'd be pretty casual...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I'd been exploring the Gorge trails fairly frequently, running and hiking more and more of them, feeling confident and like I was getting to know the terrain, getting a sense of the larger area in my head, connecting the peaks and the valleys and ridges in between. It was feeling like my backyard, so close, nice well-defined trails...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We set off from the car at 11 am, as planned. I never bring my cell phone and it must have not occurred to Aj either. Who can get service in the mountains? Besides, I hate technology (what the hell do you think I'm running from anyway?!?!) and don't tell me we're not all getting brain tumors from our phones. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We lamented the noise of the cars and trucks on 84 as we rolled along the Gorge trail, west. After a few miles we came to a junction busy with passing groups of hikers. I misread the sign and we took the wrong trail a half mile out of our way to Elowah Falls via a dramatic trail literally blasted into the cliff face, complete with hand rail. A nice and scenic detour although I pride myself on my directional and navigational capabilities so I felt a little bit off my game; I should have known it was not my day. We headed back down from Elowah and got back on the right trail. Just a minute further on we hit the junction with the Nesmith Point trail. The big climb began. The trail switchbacked incessantly up the lush, green drainage below Nesmith. We mostly hiked the very steep ~4.5 miles to the intersection with the fire road on the shoulder below the point. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>About halfway up we came upon a deer and her two beautiful fawns. They were on the trail ahead of us and continued up the incline, ascending effortlessly. We spoke kindly and the mother calmly pulled off to let us pass but the little ones didn't follow the cue and forged on, a bit frightened. We stopped and tried to show our good intentions and coerce them back toward mom but they went on, and so we hiked on too. Finally they headed off the trail with small sounds of distress, moving over the land with their astonishingly nimble and light step. We apologized for the scare and wished them well.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The trail ascended out of the drainage, climbing less steeply at last to the fire road. We went left, passed a group of hikers coming off Nesmith Point who were going to head west down Horsetail Creek trail. We continued past that turnoff a ways to the Moffett Creek trail. We were feeling good, had been keeping along at a good pace. The climb was over, it was early, and now all we had to do was cruise along over the high shelf, the headwaters of Moffett Creek, and then drop down into Tanner Creek and back to the car. We were a little less than half way, feeling great. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>It was evident from the first step on it that the Moffett Creek trail was different. As in, less used, <i>way</i> less used. It was still easy to follow, just far fainter and less defined than all the Gorge trails I'd been on up to that point. We ran easily on the fun rolling terrain through the trees and I was happy to see almost no snow up there at 3,000+ ft. We crossed a creek and filled our bottles and ate, still feeling good, on track. It was maybe 2:30 or 3 o,clock. Onwards from there to snow. It came by surprise as we neared a much bigger creek, the headwaters of McCord Creek, I believe. It was north facing and the shape of the little valley kept it shadowed and protected, and the drifts were deep although thankfully it was hard and our steps didn't break through. I was able to piece together distant bits of bare ground and stay on the trail to the creek's edge, but it was impossible to determine where it went on the other side, there was just too much snow and definitely no tracks. I crossed the narrow flow and headed up the snow on the opposite bank. I figured that since the trail was heading east we should continue to head easterly. I proposed that we ascend the next little rise and see if we hit it. We both moved along scanning the woods and soon, after just a few minutes, we hit a trail. <i>A</i> trail, but unfortunately, little did we know, not <i>the</i> trail. I hadn't brought the map along since I'd studied the route a good deal and there were no trails shown on my map that branched off of Moffett Creek trail. The trail we hit was descending slightly to the northeast and since our intended route was descending to the east as well, and since I believed it to be the one and only trail in the area, we followed it. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The trail wove its way out to where the land began to form a ridge line. It was quite stunning as the narrow path, not much more than a game trail, danced along spiny sections with huge views in both directions. I should have known that the Moffett Creek trail didn't traverse any terrain like that but I'd been duped into blind faith and fully consumed. I'd fallen prey and my guard had been broken down. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We crossed some open rocky sections following cairns and finally arrived at a more prominent craggy perch, with great vantage to the mountains and gorge before it. The trail appeared to terminate here, right at the edge of a valley, dropping off steeply, downwards from that point. I wrongly believed that this valley was Tanner Creek, and that the trail went down from there, as I'd seen on the map, but we just couldn't find it. We searched around for awhile and couldn't find anything. It was around 4. Again, I thought that if we headed down the slope we might intersect one of the switchbacks of the trail and, anyway, if we didn't hit it, we could just plan on finding it in the bottom of the valley along Tanner Creek where it was guaranteed to be. That errant assumption was the major error of the experience; hope, over-confidence, and that damn blind faith egged me on and I took the bait when we should have accepted defeat and turned around right there. It was just so far to retreat when we were so near the end, and we still thought we were generally heading correctly and had been on the right trail all along. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So down we went, into the lonely and dark valley, the steep and shrouded clutches of Moffett Creek itself. At some point in this rocky, mossy, wet descent it began to dawn on me a bit that this maybe wasn't the best idea. What if the terrain cliffs out before we ever reach the river? I figured we would wait and see and went on. The land did get steeper and steeper as we neared the bottom of our ~1,750 ft. drop and I soon found myself down-climbing the final 20 ft. to the river, a near vertical wall of moss, running with water. I stood on the edge of the creek, or really in it, as Aj approached from above, and surveyed the scene. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I <i>immediately</i> realized the flaws in my decision making. The little canyon was sheered walled on the other side, and narrow, and there was no trail in sight or even space for a trail. It was like we were going canyoneering. WTF!? This was one of those times where things have gotten pretty bad before accepting defeat you try desperately to fix it and end up making it even worse. Aj made it down and of course we figured we might as well walk down stream a bit to see what we could see, maybe we could work our way down, we reasoned, until we could exit the valley at the bottom, near Wahclella Falls and the car. I thought it might not be that far away. We headed down stream, wading through the ice cold water at times, balancing on the treacherous rocks underfoot, getting wet. After just a few hundred yards the nightmare worsened as we hit a waterfall, a 40-50 ft. drop off. Dead end. Maybe, we reasoned further with a stubborn and desperate motivation homeward, we could just bypass the waterfall by climbing up the slope above the creek, traversing over, and then descending to the water once again down stream of the drop. We accomplished this, by moving up and across on wet, mossy, rugged slopes of forest life, sometimes using our hands on the humus, on that stunningly rich mix of things decaying and things growing. Once back to the river we forged on, wanting so badly for this plan to somehow work. The time was getting on. We didn't want to face the impending truth. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Another waterfall. Another attempt to move up and over and around it. Devil's Club everywhere, a freakishly thorny and aptly named bit of flora, pricking and slashing my bare legs and arms as I bushwhacked through the mess. I was worried, starting to get that sick feeling in my stomach and mind, like a bomb ticking away with every moment, every wrong turn and dead end, every maddening, torturous struggle through the brush, every stumble on the rocks and slip into the river. The slope we were traversing was becoming too steep, too dangerous to attempt and, rounding a little bend, I saw the worst case scenario. Cliffed out. Dead end. We tried to go up and around but as we ascended we hit more cliffs above. Dead end. One final idea, to follow a steep little gully straight down to the river, proved fruitless. Another drop off. Sheer. Overhanging even. Dead end.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>That's when it became blaringly and unavoidably clear that the jig was up. We couldn't go forward, in any direction from where we were; we could only go back. We checked the time. 7 o,clock. It would be dark in an hour and a half. That initial nagging worry back home had already begun but I couldn't ponder it, couldn't let it break me down, I had more important issues to deal with, like keeping our shit together, mentally and physically, and not dying out there. I had someone else's life on my hands, on my conscience, too and I knew it was game time. There was only one choice; we would have to backtrack, retrace every step back up that long mountainside and over to where we initially lost the trail and back down to safety. But since we didn't have headlamps we simply couldn't do it safely until the next morning (I felt it to be the wiser choice to be conservative and take the time to build an effective shelter than to push it until the point of darkness and then try to do that) and so, therefore, we had to spend the night. When we realized this fact there was little to say. I told Aj that we would be ok, that I'd been stuck out before, and that the most important thing was to remain calm and not freak out. We worked back upstream, toward where we'd entered the valley from above, looking for a place to call home for the night and to take advantage of what light we did have and shorten our trip in the morning. A small, flat(ish) little area presented itself, on the steep slope of moss and ferns and lush green forest above that initial big waterfall we'd come to. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Ahhhh...a night in the woods, stuck out, unplanned, unprepared...you got to love it. As I said it had happened to me before. The first time it almost happened (we did get back to the car well past dark with no lights) was with my mom on a climbing trip in southern Illinois in eighth grade. A friend and major supporter of my adventures, my mom belayed me selflessly as I climbed the sandstone bluffs all day and our chocolate lab Babe slept at the base of the cliff in the sun of sniffed around with a deep nose. Later, after we couldn't find the trail out and the rough terrain demanded we backtrack, we worked our way together through the dark woods, helping Babe along as we scrambled through boulders and blankets of fallen leaves to the car. Then there was the time a few years later, maybe sophomore year of high school, on Middle Cathedral Rock in Yosemite, huddled on a tiny ledge a thousand feet up with a New Zealander, shorts and t-shirts, no headlamps, food, water, nothing. Other times: I'd huddled in a ditch, highway side, during college, after attempts at hitchhiking hadn't panned out. Old friends, new friends, strangers even, shouldn't afraid to spoon when need be; of this, now, I am a firm believer. </span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The dark and lonely valley, the Moffett Creek Drainage. We entered it from the righthand skyline,</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The most essential element to a night out in the woods thought is faith and trust in nature. It's the ultimate "tough-love" to be sure, but it is just that. A night in a mossy lean-to may not be comfortable by normal standards but nature can provide for us, can cradle us, can sustain us. But first you have to give it your faith, your love, your calm surrender. Embrace it even when it wears it toughest face, displays its harshest moods. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We stood and surveyed the tiny plot in the shadowed woods of the Columbia Gorge. A long and slender trunk was already downed on the site, laying horizontal to the ground. I grabbed it, pulled it up a bit and propped it on limb from a nearby tree; voila, the central beam to our earthen A-frame. We then moved about the area collecting pieces of wood, limbs and boughs, the long sections littering the ground. These we leaned up and propped against the beam from either side (creating an "A" shaped shelter.) Large carpet-like sections of moss, ferns, pine boughs, and anything else we could grab were placed atop this frame to provide the actual roofing. We took the necessary time gathering materials and filling in the patchy roof, getting warm in the process. It was still light when we'd finished but there was nothing to do but get inside and begin the miserable but essential process of suffering. We crawled in and it was a very tight fit indeed, but that was probably for the best in terms of warmth. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I thought of my girlfriend and her sister worrying, waiting for me to return , to meet them out and watch the Finals and have a good time. I knew it would be hell for them, the stress and uncertainty and worst-case thoughts, but I had to try to push it out of my mind or else I'd lose it and start crying. I'd been in a few such situations before and I knew I just couldn't dwell on that; I had to focus on surviving and keeping this two person team safe and sane. As we accepted the fact that we had to spend the night, all I could say to Aj was: "Just don't panic, we're going to be fine. This sucks...bad...but we're going to be ok." He nodded in understanding and never waivered in his faith and perserverence. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>We climbed into the shelter at 8 pm. Shortly after, as if to make the situation as arduous and dangerous as possible, the valley filled with dense, cold fog and it began to rain and continued to do so until we climbed out at 6:30 am. All night we shifted and spooned, and shivered, and shuddered, tried to stretch our aching, cramped limbs, spooning, turning, and shivering more, in and out and in and out of consciousness, arms inside our shirts, knees to our chests, two wilderness travelers in fetal position, side by side, raw to the earth, in the dirt, enmeshed in pure elements, in complete and utter submission to mother earth. I had set the alarm on my watch for 5 but when it went off in the dark and it was still raining we decided it was worth it to wait a little and see if the rain let up with the coming light. Of course it didn't let up, so we figured we just had to go for it, rain or not. The shelter, while cramped and uncomfortable, was surprisingly waterproof. We were a little wet and clammy to be sure but not soaked after 10 hours of sleeping in a mossy shelter in the rain...pretty good.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>All night, when I was conscious, I thought about what it would take to get us back safely. The route back, although tough and tiring, was known. It was the wet and the cold that could kill us and our only safety was in constant motion. I knew that when we climbed out of that shelter into the wet, foggy, mountainous world we couldn't stop until we'd made it back. Another wrong turn, inactivity once we were fully wet, could mean death. I knew this. I knew we weren't going to stop until the end. We crawled stiffly out into the light, stood up, blinking into the relative bright, looking around at our surroundings, and began moving forward. We were on our way...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I felt clumsy and uncoordinated as I tried to wake up while slipping and tripping down the creek from our shelter. We still had to go up river a bit to where we'd dropped in and I stumbled and almost totally fell in, partially soaking myself. The ice water filling our shoes once again probably helped to snap us to life a bit. I lead, as I did all day, and Aj followed behind, silently enduring, engaged in his own struggle and mental games, although the team was strong together. We reached the point where we'd descended into the whole mess and I began the process of getting fully soaked by climbing the mandatory moss wall, about 20 ft. of thick emerald moss over near vertical rock, all pouring down with cold water. It was miserable of course, uncomfortable to the utmost, and the journey ahead was daunting but there was no thinking now, only survival mode, nothing but action. We ascended through the trees, trying to pick the right course upwards, scared now of somehow losing our way again. 1,750 ft. back up the steep fern and moss slopes, through enshrouded boulders and short cliffs, arguing here and there about the right direction of ascent to where we wanted to go. I tried to be as accomodating as possible and not be too insistent or forceful on my position, although I felt I was doing a fine job of steering us back. I knew he was scared and had already done so amazingly in enduring the challenges we'd faced, I wanted to support and comfort him as best I could. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>To our relief the trees finally cleared and we reached the top of the valley right at the rocky area where the trail we were following the day before had terminated. It was a welcome sight and a relief to have completed one of the hardest parts of getting back to warmth and security. The elation was short lived though for the high top of the valley and the semi-exposed ridge line that the trail follows for a ways was being whipped by a strong and cold wind and the rain had intensified accordingly. Of course, we were already completely soaked through from the climb up and then the temperature dropping and the wind really made things dire. I put my arms inside my shirt and cupped my hands around my mouth to catch the warmth of my breath. I hiked like this for 4 miles or so, shivering and sluggish, uncoordinated and numb, until the wind died down and I warmed sufficiently. Aj marched along behind all the while, never complaining, beyond words. We were both scared and focused, zen like, driven by the instinctual motions of survival; there was little talking, only forward motion. We actually found the junction (with the "mystery" trail that we hadn't known even existed) we'd missed before, where we'd first gotten off, although it wasn't much, still snow covered with a small sign broken and laying flat. We crossed the snowy area that had foiled us and picked up the trail on the other side and continued our backtrack to safety, seeing then, as with most things in retrospect, how we'd been tripped up and turned around. Hiking on over the rolling terrain, we finally reached the dirt road up to Nesmith with excitement. Done with the Moffett Creek trail. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Down the big climb up from the day before, we ran for a bit and warmed up but our beaten bodies were quickly happy to settle again into our previous slow and constant march. Near the bottom, near highway 84, we passed a hiker and told him what had happened and that we were trying to find a ride the few miles east to our car. He was headed up but told us that he had just passed someone farther down who might be able to help. On we went and finally reached the guy farther down, told him the story, and he gladly agreed to drive us the short distance. He offered us granola bars and we were happy to accept them and indulge instantly. The first food in maybe 19 hours. We got in his car once we reached the road, apologizing for our glorious, earthen scents and filthy, dirt-caked bodies; he had us sit on towels. We chatted on the short drive and soon he dropped us at Aj's truck. We thanked him profusely and waved as he drove away. There was a note on the windshield but no one and nothing else around. It read: "Call 911," so we knew something was up. Then we got in his car and realized our wallets and cell phones had been taken, although the doors were locked and the windows weren't broken. Right then, as we stood slightly bewildered, an SUV pulled up and a blond haired woman stuck her head out of the window.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Are you guys the lost trail runners?" She asked excitedly. Aj and I looked at each other.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I guess so, yes." She motioned to the driver and they pulled over immediately and jumped out. The guy had a news camera and she a microphone. <i>Oh no! Not the local news!</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i>They questioned us and we answered light-heartedly, not knowing the full extent of what had happened/was happening. Only after minutes of questioning did she tell us that not even a mile up the road a major search and rescue operation for us was based and that people had been out looking for us all night. OMFG!!! What?!?! We felt terrible, of course. After borrowing the news lady's phone to try and make contact with my girlfriend and my family, Aj and I hopped in his truck and drove up to the center of the search and rescue (SAR) operation. We got out and timidly began waving in acknowledgment to the people on the scene as it became obvious that we, haggard and dirty, were in fact the two they were looking for. We were ushered into the "mobile command center," a massive RV-like vehicle, to talk to the guys in charge of it all and to explain what had happened and where exactly we'd been. They were excited to know. Our wallets and cell phones were there with them, they'd opened Aj's truck and gotten them to identify us with. My map, that I should have had with me, was there too. I showed them exactly where we'd been, where we'd slept, where we'd gone wrong. They seemed impressed actually and were extremely nice to us, wide eyed as we told of spooning the rainy night away in our moss and fern covered lean-to. They even handed us a huge bag of McDonalds and told us to grab a burger. I hadn't eaten McDonald's in probably a decade or more but I took one so I wouldn't seem ungrateful (I ate it in the car for the hell of it and, damn, it's like candy, there's nothing to it, so bad in so many ways, so fleetingly and sickeningly delightful.) I was truly humbled and deeply sorry, and we thanked them and everyone around over and over and apologized for our errors and in creating such a spectacle and worrying so many people. More reporters and their cameras tried to interview us as we left the command center but we'd had enough of that so we declined them and got into his truck and drove off. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This incident was quite intense, needless to say, and left with me with a lot to think about. I have a great deal of experience in the wilderness, climbing, running, backpacking, and boating, with a Wilderness First Responder medical certification (or two, since I decided to re-take it once it had expired, for a job leading teenagers in the wilderness), so of course I want to understand what I did wrong so as to learn from my mistakes. Although there were things that I clearly did wrong, there were essential decisions that were made correctly; I will mention both. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>The main problem was not taking the map. <i>Duh</i>, so to speak. I had studied the route and it showed no trails branching off so I thought it would be impossible to take a wrong turn. This assumption was clearly wrong and if I'd had the map I would have been checking it and would have realized that we were veering off in the wrong direction. Simple. Besides the map, some extra food and a headlamp would have been a minimal but solid additions. If we'd had headlamps we would have backtracked and gotten out that night. Given that we hadn't brought the map, the other big error was in forging on, hoping that my assumptions were correct. It is easy to get like this when you think you are still navigating correctly, overly optimistic, unwilling to accept defeat and just go back. We must be humble in the wilderness! No matter how experienced, how trained, how fit; sometimes you make honest mistakes and the art lies in realizing that sooner than later and dealing with it, as gracefully as possible. I should have know better than to continue on when it began to look bleak but hope can really spur you on when you think salvation might be just around the next bend.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Another problem was not telling someone <i>exactly</i> where we were going. (This may sound strange but given that we were still uninjured and functioning and able to self-rescue I am actually very, very thankful that the search and rescue didn't know exactly where we were; our position, where we spent the night, was so rugged and inaccessible that a rescue effort there would have been dangerous for others and <i>hugely</i> involved.) Although I hate cell phones, that is one more component that many have been urging me to bring along (I guess even if it's turned off "they" can still locate you with a "ping." Very creepy but for my loved ones I must swallow my pride and learn to take the good with the bad sometimes.) I've been bringing it along, turned off, on every adventure run since.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>There were some major criticisms of us that I would like to address (most of them written in the comment section of the videos of us on the local news sites.) First off I want to say that I am so sorry for ever making anyone worry about me; I know this is no small thing and I don't desire recklessness. When people say things, though, like: <i>they must have no experience! who goes out to run 20 miles in the mountains? who would bring such little gear? they should pay for the rescue efforts, I don't want my taxes going to save them!</i> I can't help but feel that they are not considering some things. Lots of people go and run 20-30-40-50+ miles in the mountains all the time, and that number is increasing rapidly. I know it sounds crazy, and is in some ways, but it's entirely feasible too. You can't run those distances in the same way if you have lots of gear with you. Yes, you do up the risk a bit, but you also have the great advantage of being light and fast and if you're fit enough and choosing to be out there doing it in the wilderness then you must have at least a certain level of mountain aptitude and amount of self-reliance. In terms of tax payers' money going towards rescue efforts like these, I would say first: of course, you don't want totally inexperienced people going out and being far too ambitious and getting in way over their heads and then relying on a costly rescue to survive, but there's a big difference in someone with a great deal of training and experience making an understandable error and then dealing with it and getting out safely <i>without</i> assistance. The second thing I'd say to those concerned about tax payers' dollars is: Better you should be worried about how much of your hard earned cash is going toward wars or Wall Street bonuses or any of the other myriad sick and warped ways our government spends our money than about whether a few cents worth goes to finding someone who got turned around in the woods. I am forever apologetic for having the rescue efforts made for me and Aj and I would choose self-rescue at almost any cost but <i>come on, let's keep it in perspective here, I mean for real!</i></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>A note on local news: Don't trust it. The seemingly simple plot of our misadventure was reported differently and never accurately by the handful of local news channels that covered the story. Every question that was asked of </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">us oozed sensationalism, they wanted to film me, up close, talking to my family on the phone. No thanks. The inaccuracy though was baffling and no wonder then how stereotypes form from one-sided, biased reporting, spreading fear and all the negativity and discrimination that results. Just a quick aside. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><i> <span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></i>Back on topic, I must say for all the mistakes made we did do some things right, things that saved our lives. Here they are:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>-We stopped early. still in the light, to make a shelter. We didn't forge on into the night and get wet and cold before trying to find/make a shelter without headlamps. We accepted our fate, knew we couldn't get out safely with what we had that night, and knew we had to spend the night. We took the time to create an effective shelter, our salvation from 8 pm to 6:30 am, and it very possibly was the difference in our survival. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>-We kept things together mentally. This was truly <i>the</i> most important thing that happened. It served as the basis for all other decision making. Panic causes rash decisions to be made, like desperately hiking into the night without lights trying to get home, like building a half-assed shelter in the dark. Things snowball, death occurs. Calmness in the mind, acceptance of the situation, informs a relaxed body. Better energy for survival. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>-Of course there's the super basics, like we weren't wearing cotton (a serious liability when wet), but that goes without saying. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>So, we made it. That was that. It was epic and moving, deeply affecting, and loved ones were worried and I felt bad, missing acutely all those I love, and remembered the essential, vital importance of those relationships and bonds. The real important stuff took center stage, all the meaningless details of life that occupy us were dissolved away in a moment, in my life and in the lives of those connected to me. But, as it is now in our modern times, in our modern lives, all that was gone in an instant. Time flew by, marched on, rushed past. The experience seemed more and more dreamlike as it receded into memory, as the scrapes healed and the lingering sense of the womb of the forest slowly faded from me. Everything went back to normal, as to be expected, but it reminded me of how we're living now and how we are changing as humans beings, and the interrelation of the two. Long reflection, contemplation and slow living is being systematically bred out of our society, of our culture (if you can even call it that anymore.) Raw, real, animal-like experience in nature isn't valued; it can't be sold, can't be made big business. Our society can't see the chance for true wisdom there, doesn't see the opportunity for the cultivation and exercising of real bravery and courage, or developing a unity with the last untouched, unfettered, untainted thing we know. Don't get me wrong, please, I am forever and wholeheartedly apologetic for making anyone worried, for having rescue efforts mobilized, for every bit of that, but in terms of learning to trust, love, and respect nature, and to gain perspective on this world we live in, it might do people good to get turned around in the woods a little more often. <i>Get up close and personal with it! A guaranteed adventure, a story to tell your kids! Explore the brilliance of something untouched by man, crawl around in the woods, nuzzle your face in the dirt! </i></span></div>
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<b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">(just tell someone where you're going and not to wait up!)</span></b></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>I want to give an extra special mention to my girlfriend Sonya, who took the brunt of the worrying, and also her sister Nina. I am forever sorry for the bad night!!! Also to my family: I know I've put you through some scary times over the years but I learn more every time and I swear I'm becoming more conservative. <b>Love you all!</b></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Last, but clearly not least, to Aj. An amazing guy, I am forever impressed at your tenacity and toughness in the experience. Thanks for rocking it out and sorry again for the poor navigation. I just hope one day you'll go on another run with me.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Thanks for reading! Peace...</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">here's another video for your enjoyment. Amazing talent! Rest in peace, Amy Winehouse.</span></div>
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willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-55309436723112308362011-07-03T15:39:00.000-07:002011-07-03T15:39:22.571-07:00ART! inspired by and celebrating NATURE!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bull of the Woods Wilderness, Oregon, Oct. '10</td></tr>
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"...to deny one's genealogy with the earth was to commit treason against one's soul."<br />
-Terry Tempest Williams, <i>Refuge</i><br />
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I've always made art, since I was a child, and from an early age I was taught to respect and love Nature; being inspired creatively by that world was the natural result. My mother is a landscape architect and was and is still a huge and enduring influence on my life. I vividly remember at a first grade birthday party at a friend's vacation home by the Indiana Dunes all us boys were out in the woods. A kid named Billy was kicking down a small, young sapling of some sort and it as as if he was stomping on my own mother. I let out a wail and charged toward him, leveling him to the forest floor. As I said, I've always been into the outdoors...<br />
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Over the years, as a kid and then mostly after college, I've continued creating and making art of all kinds. Drawing, sewing (designing and making women's purses for a few years, etc.), stenciling, furniture making, and other things here and there. I've been embracing the need for hands-on, inspired creation in my life and have actually been keeping up almost more than ever. My girlfriend, <a href="http://www.etsy.com/shop/afriendofafriend">Sonya Montenegro</a>, and her sister <a href="http://www.gocollective.tumblr.com/">Nina</a>, are HUGE inspirations as well, creating and art making and thoughtfully and passionately crafting incessantly. <br />
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Loving Nature and loving the act of creating art and craft is so closely linked, so tightly bound together. Inherent in both, especially in today's world, is the acute sense of things true and real. When you're on a hike in the woods or sitting and putting pen to paper, paint to canvas, you are present in that act, not watching it on a screen, not experiencing something synthesized. Your actions have <i>direct</i> results; you see the fruits of your labor. A walk in the woods, a run in the mountains, <i>is</i> art, since it's a conscious choice, a deliberate action. It's a gesture of respect, an example for others to not forget that which sustains us. <br />
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What inspires out there? Well, everything really. The patterns all around, the intricate weblike veins on the leaves, the textures on the trees and rock. The shapes, some jagged and rough, some smooth and sensuous. The sounds, the smells, the Forms (all gracefully and simply one and the same with their Functions.) The sweeping ridge lines, the waterfalls and all the endless sculptures, true sculptures, carved by that essential liquid. The plants, the flowers!!!! I mean, for real, it's staggering. It's funny that I could create those "fantasy" plants in my head, make them as wild and crazy as I wanted, and yet they're nothing in comparison to what you can go out and see in Nature almost anywhere. Dive into the ocean, see the plants and animals up close, go into the forest and the mountains and stare deeply into what you find...the flora and fauna in <i>Avatar</i> won't seem so far out (I think that was part of the point...a natural world so stunning and amazing that you'd fight for it exists right in front of us, all around us.) <br />
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Here's a variety of images of works old and new. Please enjoy!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mar. '11, on display at the Paradox Cafe, Portland, OR</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 10.8333px;">Mar. '11, on display at the Paradox Cafe, Portland, OR</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: 11px;">Jun '11, on display at the Paradox Cafe, Portland, OR</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sewing on stretched fabric, Spring '10</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">'09-'10</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mar. '11, on display at the Paradox Cafe, Portland, OR</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">old work (~'05-'06), sold at the Paradox Cafe, '11</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fantasy Mountainscape, past work</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Peruvian Mountainscape, from an image</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fantasy Plant, ~'09</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fantasy Plant, ~'09</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fantasy Plant, '09</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQaXJcblZJbWJlvxOufNq8t6cFMbpSh4rYA8-aed09F0bFFTl_Z6tqf74jNB4NDIO5HRxX35rDqstIlwbHnkS04gb3xOLcDoT62sncipM-X7LOgmqq0mV8Z0AUkmrOONXxtSY2JiLuadu/s1600/wgm-0038.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUQaXJcblZJbWJlvxOufNq8t6cFMbpSh4rYA8-aed09F0bFFTl_Z6tqf74jNB4NDIO5HRxX35rDqstIlwbHnkS04gb3xOLcDoT62sncipM-X7LOgmqq0mV8Z0AUkmrOONXxtSY2JiLuadu/s640/wgm-0038.jpg" width="556" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Orchid, from life, ~'09</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fantasy Plant, on wood, ~'09</td></tr>
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</div>willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-54485413335671189932011-05-22T14:04:00.000-07:002011-05-22T14:04:49.833-07:00The Cycle Continues<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A few weeks ago I ran the <a href="http://ultrasignup.com/register.aspx?did=11446">Capitol Peak 50 mile</a> trail race outside of Olympia, WA in the forested (and deforested) small mountains there. I'd been training more and feeling good being out on long runs in steep terrain although self-doubt and insecurity often set in when I compare my loose discipline and meager mileage to other ultra runners I know. But more and more I accept the ways I am, I run when it suits me (which is still </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">fairly</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> often) and for the love of it. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My girlfriend couldn't make it to the race so I lingered in the city with her after work, putting off the solo drive up (albeit only 2 hours). We ate dinner at a bomb spot in NW Portland called <a href="http://www.muumuus.net/MuuMuus/muumuus.html">Muu-Muu's</a> and in typical fashion I didn't get on the road until well after 9, but again, no apologies anymore. The drive went smoothly as I went gliding through the northwest night on I-5, over the great Columbia and into Washington. To the exit and finally to the campground, I had to get out to open the long and heavy metal gate, trying to be silent as it creaked open; it was nearly midnight and I knew countless runners and loved ones were trying to rest nearby. I already assumed it but a little drive around the campground loop confirmed no open sites; I parked at the side of the road and threw my camping pad and sleeping bag down in a nice grassy area next to it. Ahhhh....a glorious night, not too cold, a good 4-4 1/2 hour sleep. Never enough and not ideal before a big run. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Wrist watch alarm at quarter till 5. Lingering, then reluctantly up, I left the divine warmth of the sleeping bag and began to groggily face/stomach the fact that I was about to run 50 miles. I stoked my little MSR stove, got that blue flame going and set water to boil for the mandatory cup of <a href="http://www.stumptowncoffee.com/">Stumptown</a>. Once done I drank the brilliant black elixir, relishing it as always. I tried to eat some food but I always feel a little queasy in those early morning hours before a race, so not much went in. Checked in and number pinned on my shorts, I was ready to go. The time of departure crept up suddenly, as it always seems to do, with runners all queued up, anxious legs ready to release. GO...drop it like it's hot.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Well, I'm not going to bore you with every detail of my race but I'll share some of it, what went well and a bit of what could have gone better. In other races I've started off too fast, overcome with the excitement of the experience, the fresh trail, the infectious energy; so I knew I didn't want to do that. But you don't want to start off </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">too slow</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> either, if your intent is to push it and really give it a good go, </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">race</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> it a bit more. A fine line, a delicate balance, like so many things. I felt like I did it right this time, or at least better than times before. I wanted to stay </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">near</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> the front but not let myself be fooled into thinking I can hang with people who train way, way, way harder than me (as I naively have before.) I managed to push myself, staying relatively consistent and strong throughout, while feeling calm and relaxed. This is the ultimate key to all successes, athletic and otherwise, and I am an eager student. Over-thinking, and over-running, will do no good. I was more disciplined about eating gels/GUs/what-have-you (although I'd rather be fueling myself with only my delicious homemade concoctions I have to say that they're quite effective and convenient) and I drank more too, of some electrolyte drink mix or other, and I felt the benefits. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I should have used the bathroom before the race. This error slowed me down. Enough said on that topic. Also, some tenderness in my ankles prevented me from going as hard as I normally like to on the downhill sections. The course overall was forgiving and fast though (even with ~7,000 ft. of +/-) and, in the end, I managed to arrive in 16th place in 8:44. My previous two 50 mile races, the <a href="http://www2.thenorthface.com/endurancechallenge/races/2011/ca/index.html">North Face 50</a> in the Marin Headlands and the <a href="http://ultrasignup.com/register.aspx?did=10290">Lake Sonoma 50</a> a bit farther north in California, I ran in 10:58 and 10:25 respectively, so covering the same amount of miles (although with less +/-) in almost 2 hours shorter was an enjoyable new experience for me. Thankful to be done, of course, and pleased with it all, the beautiful day, I ate some food and got on the road, heading back for some TLC in PDX. Good times and good training for the races and adventures to come.* </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">As I mentioned before, the course travels through the Capitol State Forest which is utilized for its timber; much of the run is through gorgeous, pristine forest, while others parts traverse these relative clear-cuts. I personally don't love gazing upon bare slopes of stumps, scattered about like open wounds (incisions I've admittedly made as a carpenter and as a citizen living in wooden structures), but as I ran along through some of these sections I was reminded a few things. I remembered that beauty can be found everywhere; I saw again how Nature goes on, how the cycle continues, how death allows life, and life allows death and so on. Fallen giants allow new trees to grow, makes way for new foliage to see the sun, free from a dismantled canopy. The blinding green of the new growth among old and dead wood dazzled me, photosynthesizing feverishly, juxtaposing vividly, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">bursting with vibrance</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. Nature never stops, never ceases, the flow is constant, a pure, staggering oneness of energy, of matter living and matter dying and everything in between, all at once. Embrace the oneness and love the earth for we will all go back to it, sooner or later, no doubt.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ok, ok...I'll stop with the metaphysical ranting, for now. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">One final bit of news to share. Next week I fly to Salt Lake City to meet bad ass mountain man/ultrarunner/Alta Ski Patroller/and good friend Chris Cawley to drive up the Idaho for the <a href="http://pocatello50.com/">Pocatello 50</a> (supposedly one of the harder 50 mile races in the country!) I've only flown to one other race in my life so this is a very special treat. New scenery, new mountains, unexplored country, fresh trail, lots of up and down, lingering snow, wildflowers, some good people, and day spent in paradise, amongst things pure and real. Oh yes, I am excited. Story and photos to come! </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Thanks again for reading and enjoy this sick video! (Thanks <a href="http://arlenhart.com/">Arlen</a>!!!)</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">*Watch out folks, that's right, there's some super next level Animal Athletics mountain wilderness raging going down this summer. EPIC. E-P-I-C for real. Stayed tuned.</span></div>willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-2703519172409145012011-04-11T19:54:00.000-07:002011-04-11T20:03:45.255-07:00Flashbacks #1-Yosemite Summers, '04 & '05<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJXmceSTk79h8M0E89kZa-2_LNVq68DKGQx5sXqTOlyJGMJ1dHkY1P22P76_w6rqUVKAqj0aRHWlr7PSklQ3Z7yh7SHu_mgmwWoBmtOOA1QXoD9cNGCyGru4g_QrsttBqYdHpXunb8NyA/s1600/IMG_0698.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYJXmceSTk79h8M0E89kZa-2_LNVq68DKGQx5sXqTOlyJGMJ1dHkY1P22P76_w6rqUVKAqj0aRHWlr7PSklQ3Z7yh7SHu_mgmwWoBmtOOA1QXoD9cNGCyGru4g_QrsttBqYdHpXunb8NyA/s400/IMG_0698.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Jared, on the Sawtooth Ridge</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">While unpacking boxes at my new apartment in Portland, I came across a CD with "Yosemite for Willie" written in marker across it. I popped it into my laptop and soon memories of climbing glorious white granite came flooding back to me in picture after picture. I purred like a cat. Ahhhhh, Yosemite. That beloved land I know so well. I have been fortunate to spend a great deal of time in that amazing park over the years. I began climbing young, at age 10 in Chicago, and was soon petitioning hard for my parents to take me on trips out west. Yosemite was the mecca and I read and gazed at all I could, drooling over the unfathomable images, dreaming of the day I'd be there. By age 14 my coercion had finally worked and my mom, sister, aunt and I headed to the golden state for a two-week trip. I stayed in Camp 4 alone and put notes on the bulletin board looking for partners while the others stayed in tent cabins in Curry Village. Needless to say I met many weird and wonderful people and it was a thrilling and awe-inspiring introduction. The love was consummated, so to speak. For four more summers after that initial trip, for two to three weeks each, I managed to return to Yosemite from the Midwest, suffering through the tedium of high school while my mind dreamed only of climbing those gleaming faces of rock (well...and girls, of course.)</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">After college in Colorado, and copious amounts of climbing there, I moved to California and continued my love affair with Yosemite, exploring more and more of the vast park. The pictures I found on the CD during the move to Portland were from the summer following college graduation (summer 2004) and the one after that. I had gotten the alpine climbing bug so Tuolumne Meadows and the High Sierra was my focus then, no longer down in the Valley. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I realized while looking at the photos that some of them that I wanted to share were of objectives that weren't reached, climbed that we hadn't completed. We had bailed, wimped-out, or otherwise, somehow making the decision to go down. I realized though that it was all ok. We still had lots of fun and I was still uninjured and alive, able to happily think back and enjoy the memories. I had learned so many lessons, about weather, land, and rocks, about decision making and getting down safely, about levels and limits of risk, and about how far I wanted and was willing to push. And of course, we had plenty of successes too. But most importantly, the times were good, real and raw, and the experiences soul-filling, all with Jared Vazales, one of my best friends. 'Nuff said.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">When we were actually down in the Valley, during the summer after graduating, we climbed the Royal Arches Route one day for a quick way to get up high. I had climbed the route many times before, that ascent being during that first summer at age 14, en route to North Dome and the airy and breathtaking Crest Jewel (10 pitches, 5.10a.) The climbing on Royal Arches is easy and you can string many of the pitches together so it's a very fast way to get a thousand feet of air under your heels. We cruised it in under three hours, rappelled down, and then probably drank beer and swam in the river. Here's a few photos from that climb and one of Camp 4 living:</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first pitch of the Royal Arches Route, you gotta go <i>behind</i> that thing!</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The first of many rappels off Royal Arches</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkWcJSVAkNuNBXoWlGS5AWQzbC9m2_Q2NiPOZDoaRG-Whf-hgKI3q-edVmhYHuHTrdymdm7B96dp_JtvnEpYWSnT3HIpmbh7YbU__ypGM0InHP-gpm4pc_hl0B8F98VHF6fy5yVpURN5B/s1600/IMG_0354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitkWcJSVAkNuNBXoWlGS5AWQzbC9m2_Q2NiPOZDoaRG-Whf-hgKI3q-edVmhYHuHTrdymdm7B96dp_JtvnEpYWSnT3HIpmbh7YbU__ypGM0InHP-gpm4pc_hl0B8F98VHF6fy5yVpURN5B/s640/IMG_0354.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Good 'ol Camp 4</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The second bunch of photos on the disc was from when Jared and I attempted the Cathedral Traverse in Tuolumne Meadows. This was one of the bailouts, and for no good reason really, besides depression issues I think. The weather was perfect, all the climbing well within our abilities, and we had plenty of daylight, etc, etc. I had recently broken up with a long term girlfriend and I was having a hard time with the change, even though I'd wanted it. It was the first time that my emotions prevented me from enjoying the outdoors, for normally they are the #1 remedy. Hmmm...well...ups and downs, strikes and gutters, man. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">We started with a couple pitches of moderate rock up the wonderful Unicorn Peak (10,823 ft.), then danced along the ridge spine, over snow, scree, boulders, past the small peak they call Al Tuskey and on up to the aptly named Cockscomb (11,065 ft.) We did steep, overhanging moves to gain its spiny summit, thankfully roped, feeling the air beneath us. The Yosemite high country is a true playground, a jungle gym of domes and spires, of rich forest over rolling and immaculately sculpted land, all teeming with beauty and pure, striking sublimity. Combined with the good weather, it is truly heavenly. From the Cockscomb Jared lead the traverse over the awesomely exposed Echo Crest (the high point of the route at 11,120 ft.), reveling in our position. By the time we reached the group of Echo Peaks my melancholy set in and we (I) got lazy bagging all their (nine) summits. The mellow 5.6 route up Cathedral Peak would have been an easy end to the traverse after that but the motivation just wasn't there. But again, all good, and Jared got to see a bear on the descent. Well, there's always next time...</span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ascending toward Unicorn Peak</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Couple of badasses just chillin'</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fun climbing and some good exposure on the Echo Crest</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhbHnevfff-XX3rFSu0FZxZZw0-MmqlYpuiw-3kgDs2MuUCk6EAW7GQb-MlAFTU9OjjTRdB267Rhpk5CcSMG2RAd3hlwuJSZ50kCYNPOIUXc-hFwGKV-tPTrBNOrcygiP-y9z-JQfSgtk/s1600/IMG_0654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWhbHnevfff-XX3rFSu0FZxZZw0-MmqlYpuiw-3kgDs2MuUCk6EAW7GQb-MlAFTU9OjjTRdB267Rhpk5CcSMG2RAd3hlwuJSZ50kCYNPOIUXc-hFwGKV-tPTrBNOrcygiP-y9z-JQfSgtk/s640/IMG_0654.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The bear, G<i>ood day kind sir!</i></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Jared and I had our eyes on the Direct West Pillar (8 pitches, 5.10b) on Eichorn Pinnacle (10,700 ft.). Twice we hiked up and gave it a go, neither time making the top. The first time we wanted to follow the regular West Pillar but couldn't figure out exactly where it cut right after pitch 2. I launched up the vertical 5.9 double cracks of the direct route and belayed atop a tiny 4" stance, anchored to the great pinnacle with metal wedges jammed in the cracks in the bullet-proof rock. Jared followed as the sky filled with dark clouds, the daily midday threat of thunderstorms. We rappelled down, a few times, to reach the safety of the ground and gain cover from the electric sky. The second time was the same deal. I was up in the steep corner of the 5.10b crux, the pitch above the 5.9 double cracks, scared with the height and the position. I forged upward and then down climbed, up and down, up and down, trying to get up the nerve to just fire it, threat of fall or not. Luckily the sky clouded densely again and I didn't have to; we quickly built a rappel anchor and headed down, alternately nervously eyeing the darkening sky and the two tiny metal stoppers wedged in the crack. It sucks to bail, and it burns the ego but, as the guidebook says, "this is a terrifying place to be in an electrical storm, so plan your day accordingly and keep a watchful eye on cloud buildup." I'm not too sore we didn't make it. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hmmm....those clouds are a bit sketch</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">F this! I'm out</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNx9CmGp3QETfvM7H2L5TvNxdla5Ksd50bVdEOR7LFGRghUxtliMXYbhyphenhyphenhZN97mTHL76DZcVziux9ddUi8gNTeF55IXdRvwj3gpxcESXmdU2jMKYTXksEExEQt1ZQvJ2VGQnf49LTI4ZN_/s1600/IMG_0339.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNx9CmGp3QETfvM7H2L5TvNxdla5Ksd50bVdEOR7LFGRghUxtliMXYbhyphenhyphenhZN97mTHL76DZcVziux9ddUi8gNTeF55IXdRvwj3gpxcESXmdU2jMKYTXksEExEQt1ZQvJ2VGQnf49LTI4ZN_/s640/IMG_0339.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Weary and defeated, pointing up at Eichorn Pinnacle</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The last and grandest adventure that I came across in the photos was of Jared and my attempt on the Sawtooth Ridge, on the northeast boundary of Yosemite National Park. We carried small(ish) overnight packs with sleeping, cooking, and, of course, climbing gear. We tried to be minimal but they still felt pretty damn heavy and we surely had way too much. We parked at Twin Lakes, by Bridgeport on the eastern side of the Sierras, and set off bushwhacking 3,000 ft. up Blacksmith Creek. We were still learning the mountain craft and toughening our bodies and minds; that trip was a great teacher. The hike was exhausting but we finally gained the ridge above Glacier Lake and began to have real fun. Our plan was to spend the night and begin the traverse proper in the morning, so we began to hunt for a suitable perch to sleep. We found and settled into an elegant ~5'x10' platform at 10,000 ft., an extravagantly airy little suite with million dollar views to the east and across at the exceptionally jagged ridge line named the Cleaver. We lounged in the late sun, watched the light and clouds move over to the eastern side of the Sierras, saw the shadows play on the toothy ridges. We cooked and ate, talked and laughed, loving where we were as we relaxed into our sleeping bags on our sleeping pads, the cold of the night descending upon us. We rested well with the open air all around. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Above Blacksmith Lake on the bushwhack up</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Loving our position, with the Cleaver Ridge beyond</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking down on our glorious perch</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The next morning we set to work. We packed up and descended to the snowy gully below, leading us back up to the saddle between Blacksmith and Cleaver Peak. The snow was hard as it was early still and we slid around a bit sans crampons, forced to ascend precariously, hugging the rocky edge of the steepening chute. From the saddle we roped up and simul-climbed the moderate terrain to the top of Cleaver. We relished the summit although the view southeast along the spine of the great ridge, our intended route, was downright nauseating. The next section--the Sawblade--looked horrifying and after that it didn't look much better. The motivation and confidence began to waver. Could we do it? Well, yes...but do we really <i>really</i> want to? Hmmm...not sure anymore. Hey, I never claimed to be the toughest guy around.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">But on we went. The exposure was truly dizzying. Unfathomable distances to pure granitic chaos all around, like Nature screaming in stone while dancing around an open fire. Open air that makes your stomach hurt, vertigo. Rawer than raw, jagged to the utmost. Like a child smashing on a drum set, transformed into mountainscape. I remember a distinct feeling of wanting to flee, to wail like a terrified child and run and hide from these grotesque and looming pinnacles; so beautiful and sublime, but plainly inhospitable. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Sawblade</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On the descent off the Sawtooth Ridge</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Not feeling <i>too</i> bad about bailing</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The clearest memory, because I was the most scared, was of leading up a vertical wall to regain to crest proper. My pack weighed heavily and my approach shoes skated on the crumbly granite. The gear I had put in to catch me if I fell was dubious at best and a fall would have been guaranteed injury. I began to panic as my hands desperately searched for purchase, sweating as the imminent approached; I went with the only option and charged upward in a last ditch effort. Pure being then, no thought, only action. No fear, no life and no death, no "me" or "I", no concepts of "risk" or "danger." No other option. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I made the mad dash and reached some more solid ground as the rope ran out. There was little place to stop and make an anchor, only a short chimney system behind a boulder wedged within and no suitable place for gear. I worked my body into the crevasse and turned so that my shoulders tightly spanned the width of it, that would have to do. <i>Ok, Jared, the anchor's set, on belay!</i> </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Up and down, terrifying rappel after terrifying rappel, vertical, loose, and uncertain ascent after vertical, loose, and uncertain ascent. We reached a notch and prepared to find the route up the other side. Nothing looked possible, probable, safe, or fun. Well....hmmm. Ok, let's bail. A few sketchy rappels later and we were on the snow and heading down to Horse Creek and the trail back to Twin Lakes. Tension flowed from us as we fled, relaxing into our defeat. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">My ego was slightly sore for a time but, as usually happens, perspective kicks in and you realize it's all good. There's always next time.</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-76019681599912318662011-04-07T10:48:00.000-07:002011-04-07T10:48:17.924-07:00Humbled<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I am here in the ultra hip </span><a href="http://www.acehotel.com/portland"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ace Hotel</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> lobby/</span><a href="http://www.stumptowncoffee.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Stumptown Coffee</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> seating area, posting this. The ambiance is pleasing and everything looks nice but the coolness is pretty intense. Anyway, I needed to use the internet and the coffee is great.</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Since writing the following piece I had to return to the Bay Area to get my car and stuff that was stored there. I was able to get in some good runs in Marin and the East Bay Hills while there and then had a proper adventure with the infamous Animal Athletics co-founder, Tony Barbero, in the Columbia Gorge after we caravanned back up north in a Subaru/U-Haul truck tandem. I've included a few pictures from the California trip for your enjoyment. </span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And, of course, I'm feeling stronger everyday and patience is the key. I'll relearn it over and over as long as I live.</span></i><br />
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Enjoy!</span></i><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL7pULhXLYpp3BiOKFBHAZrwkzdxykG99M4wG1ButtVJ1Qo2VM6HL3bhutlwptATbJ2iOt8ljViccAJW3-CQ2C6AQKkfav9xkFqitGB9KY_dIvK7wGN1XEHmVsMgoqfj-OdbLT2JCZWRqA/s1600/DSCN2353.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgL7pULhXLYpp3BiOKFBHAZrwkzdxykG99M4wG1ButtVJ1Qo2VM6HL3bhutlwptATbJ2iOt8ljViccAJW3-CQ2C6AQKkfav9xkFqitGB9KY_dIvK7wGN1XEHmVsMgoqfj-OdbLT2JCZWRqA/s400/DSCN2353.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Angels Rest, looking west toward Portland along the Columbia Gorge</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Marin Headlands, looking south to San Francisco and the Golden Gate Bridge</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> I have been incredibly fortunate to have gotten in touch with two great ultra runners since arriving in Portland, Nick Triolo and Yassine Diboun. When I ran with Yassine, in Forest Park, it was the week before the Chuckanut 50k, up in Bellingham, WA. Luckily for me he was tapering, which meant that he wouldn't be running at his normally blistering pace. We had a good time and it was a nice introduction to a new friend and an amazing park, my new local training grounds. A week later, after finding a nice apartment in the Alphabet District, I headed out to the Columbia Gorge with Nick, as Yassine was battling it out a few hundred miles north. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">As we drove out of the city the scenery instantly demanded my attention. After lots of rain and grey, the sun and blue skies were almost shocking. Mt St. Helens and other snowy peaks on the Washington side appeared out of no where to the north and Mt Hood looked relatively Himalayan to the southwest. Huge cloud forms danced on the sky and clung to the peaks, collected in the valleys. We drove less than thirty minutes, parked at the Angels Rest Trailhead and set off. Nick led the way, ascending quickly up the steep trail. It was a fairly stout little climb, ~1,500 ft. in 2.3 miles, the first part of the ~12 mile loop. I chugged along behind him for a very short while, and then realized that there was no hope. He fierce pace never slackened and he quickly was out of sight. <i>Goddamn it! Ahhhh... Go easy Willie, just go easy</i>. My ego began to cry out like a weak and pathetic puppy as my lack of fitness became brutally apparent. I tried to relax and enjoy it, which wasn't too hard given the grandeur around me, but my legs and lungs burned and I finally had to resort to a few short periods of hiking. I felt like a weak little brother trying to tag along. <i>Don't be too hard on yourself, remember you haven't been training. You'll be feeling better soon enough</i>. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The trees thinned and the trail became more exposed and rocky just before reaching Angels Rest. I arrived to find Nick quietly sitting there on his craggy perch, enjoying the views west to Portland and the glory all around. I was embarrassed and apologized for my tardy arrival. Of course, being the good person he is, he simply assured me that he was just psyched to be out there and that I shouldn't worry. He graciously let me lead the next section, a rolling descent to the top of Wahkeena Falls, one of the dozens of stunning cascades that tumble thunderously into the Gorge. And then another climb. Not as big as the first but, as Nick put it, it would "get my attention." Right he was. Once more I floundered upward, hiking short bits here and there, feeling the burn, feeling the sting of a wounded ego, as he absolutely motored off into the distance. Then we hit the snow. Our high point was Devils Rest, and there was a good bit of the white stuff on the ground as we neared it, then falling from the sky as we pressed on. Angels Rest and Devils Rest are named for the quality of views from each point; the former being expansive and spectacular and the latter having no real view at all, just a little rocky bulge in the thick forest. I struggled along, spouting excuses when I could get Nick within ear shot: "Man, I haven't run up something like this since last November," and so on. After that it was all down hill, no pun intended, but my hobbled body protested even then, beginning to cramp as I tried to keep up. Normally downhills are one of my specialties, but not that day. <i>Time to let go. Let the ego just dissolve away. There is no me, no I. Just nothingness and a cramping fool out in the woods</i>. We took some pictures at Angels Rest on the way down and I finally managed a decent clip as I lead the way back to the car past literally more than a hundred other hikers and runners, inspiring and humbling to me in their own right. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXFI87kOPNE3jt-V_QPwJttXKPqvho5046Zz2kok8R86a8fOhm2ZiWC5tej7XCmsXguKBbLDEnWqytWx_lPGMq7-eVrJIOyhy6q2rWOrCzxfXe5RAY3Ixhyphenhyphenf1IEmI4t9W0tM1y_Wum7MO/s1600/DSCN2354.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUXFI87kOPNE3jt-V_QPwJttXKPqvho5046Zz2kok8R86a8fOhm2ZiWC5tej7XCmsXguKBbLDEnWqytWx_lPGMq7-eVrJIOyhy6q2rWOrCzxfXe5RAY3Ixhyphenhyphenf1IEmI4t9W0tM1y_Wum7MO/s400/DSCN2354.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nick Triolo and Willie McBride at Angels Rest on the way back down</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Regardless of my physical state I had a great time, thrilled at the proximity of such wonderful landscapes and excited to have met another new friend and savage adventurer. Being humbled, I realized clearly that day, can be a positive thing. Being humbled can in turn inspire, checking our realities, making us more human. It gives us reason to push further and go harder while keeping our egos grounded. Just as in Nature, there is an order, a progression in everything that must be understood and followed. To put it in mechanical terms, you don't skip from first gear to fourth gear in your car, or start in third. You must follow the appropriate progression, the necessary steps. And so it is with training; be patient, do it for the love of it, keep it up and follow those steps, adhere to the thoughtful and logical progression. Soon enough you'll get to where you want to be.</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I corresponded with Yassine after Chuckanut about meeting up for another run. He wrote: "</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dude...that race was ridiculous! I'm completely humbled by the talent that showed up yesterday." Even at the elite levels people can be humbled by the talents and efforts of others and that's a wonderful thing. We can inspire some and be humbled by others at the exact same time. The collective energy put into these activities is infectious, born from a continuum of sorts, free floating energy and inspiration that courses through all our lives. At any level, strong performances inspire more strong performances, going hard and giving it everything make people want to do that same. And so my bruised ego heals and I know I must follow the progression, must look to Nature for that wisdom. The energy is in the air and so I will breath it in. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I am forever a student and I feel fortunate to have many new teachers. </span></span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">And, once again, enjoy this music video!</span></span></i></div>
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<i><br /></i>willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-37227550355120960022011-03-12T15:13:00.000-08:002011-03-12T15:34:32.114-08:00Bald Eagle on Sharpes Creek<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>Portland has been reached and excitement abounds, but memories of the prairie still linger. We arrived just days ago, spent the weekend in the city starting the apartment search, then drove to a small farm in the coastal mountains near Sheridan, Oregon to stay and work for a few weeks until finding a place. Driving in through the Columbia River Gorge for the first time, on the silver cloud streaked, rain and rainbow spattered day, was a grand and stunning entrance to the area. Two bald eagles, their whites gleaming, deep ochre beaks bright with the sun even through the grey drizzle, a golden eagle and many hawk friends gave their warm welcome. Even after hiking with friends in Forrest Park and driving the glorious back roads into the coast range, my mind wandered to the beauty of the inland sea, the flowing, windblown Flint Hills of Kansas. Unlike Mt. Hood or the Gorge it is a landscape much praised for its subtle and slightly less dramatic beauty. Its endless graces are found and truly appreciated only after unhurried and open-hearted appraisal.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> I only managed to get in two longer runs. I wanted to go bigger but there was too much to get done before we left. When I did run it felt good though, beginning to build up the miles again, thrilled with the adventure of seeing new sights, experiencing new vast playgrounds. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> My father's house is on Route 177. About 10 miles north on that road is the very small town of Bazaar, Kansas. There are two other ways, besides directly up 177, to get from my father's to Bazaar, or vice versa. The route to the west (beginning from Bazaar, as I ran it) is via Rock Creek, L, M and lastly Open Range Roads down to the town of Matfield Green, just a 1/2 mile south of the my father's place. Sonya and I drove the route in reverse from the house, setting the odometer to check the mileage, making sure I was clear on the directions. When we reached Bazaar the dashboard read 18 miles. I thought it was going to be longer and I wanted a farther run so we crossed 177 to the east side and headed down Sharpes Creek. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cp-v7zylGyrGrEIJlOWdDQm2exVRwsTIyyWf9ESxtwEzpJXqBpkv8gmuyQt18EcnWdRNLweXjFGpJrKQhkwswqtYpjuNrIs7efFP_7LM7uBDC__n_eKdgihMiN0Lx95lul7wF-X0WgE1/s1600/kansas2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0cp-v7zylGyrGrEIJlOWdDQm2exVRwsTIyyWf9ESxtwEzpJXqBpkv8gmuyQt18EcnWdRNLweXjFGpJrKQhkwswqtYpjuNrIs7efFP_7LM7uBDC__n_eKdgihMiN0Lx95lul7wF-X0WgE1/s400/kansas2.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Setting off...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinP4QncAKZSi7AOSNHAEQNFWFkciAJptClCHCTnb09ORuIoZJIY6Q5I-xWhiUr1e-IcMDkOdwDp1xt168kv4QYwuyvL72sLoVvwww8iyaAveRjKukvR5AEvNiEP8tNCaI8jRVZMwrZQefL/s1600/kansas4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinP4QncAKZSi7AOSNHAEQNFWFkciAJptClCHCTnb09ORuIoZJIY6Q5I-xWhiUr1e-IcMDkOdwDp1xt168kv4QYwuyvL72sLoVvwww8iyaAveRjKukvR5AEvNiEP8tNCaI8jRVZMwrZQefL/s400/kansas4.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Feeling small, adrift in the inland sea</td></tr>
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I pulled over when we hit 24 miles. I grabbed my one hand-held water bottle, a Bumble Bar, a few fruit leathers, an Emerge-ncy, some almonds, and my camera, drank some water from an extra bottle in the car, had Sonya take a picture of me, and set off. She ran with me for a ways and then wished me luck and headed back to the car, like a reasonable person. It was a cold grey perfect day and I was soon warm running up and down the undulating dirt road, by the rich grasses that stretched on in generous overlaps into the horizon. I passed a small cluster of houses at Bazaar, when I crossed 177 to the west side. I saw two cars there and a couple a few miles before the end in Matfield Green, but otherwise the roads were silent, deserted save for my two feet. I cruised along Rock Creek Road, heading due west, along the north side of the elegant, low and snaking valley, by cottonwoods and oaks grouped with their naked winter fingers held prominent against the sky. The clouds finally revealed tears in its fabric and the sun poured through, making the charcoal masses of the grouped trees shine black like ash and the orange-red of the prairie bluff above glow like fire. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9IY0azduxZyY7hGqxaUX-W7MA2BayfHch5UX_flM_jui8HK6DYjV5CRNYf5PNT1lSyhQAhCDex1FZB_dyLOokVG7wtA-PJB5ka12L0WqDeDJL6JGveFWJ2nvQHp4J6mmlp3TohyphenhyphenBr2pQ/s1600/kansas11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio9IY0azduxZyY7hGqxaUX-W7MA2BayfHch5UX_flM_jui8HK6DYjV5CRNYf5PNT1lSyhQAhCDex1FZB_dyLOokVG7wtA-PJB5ka12L0WqDeDJL6JGveFWJ2nvQHp4J6mmlp3TohyphenhyphenBr2pQ/s400/kansas11.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Looking west into the Rock Creek Valley</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fellow runners and friends</td></tr>
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I shared a moment with some horses as the glorious new light enriched the tones; the white of the horse before me pierced the air and the three deep auburn ones pulse with a hypnotic vibrance. Whenever I passed cows on my run, they would flee scared, a miniature stampede to get away from me. But horses were different, specially these four, as the sun beamed with rich spirit on their elegant bodies and faces. As I approached on the road they turned and watched with curious gazes, then came toward me, trotting excitedly. They came near the fence then stopped and stared eagerly, saying <i>We want to come running, brother! But this damn fence is in the way</i>. I looked into their bottomless, beautiful eyes, that spoke volumes in the silent winter air. I held my fist up in solidarity, then brought it down to my heart a few times to show the love. <i>Word, my friends. Mad love. Wish you could come along with me for a few miles. Well, maybe in the next life we'll get in a good long run. Peace</i>. I turned and ran on. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> The Flint Hills roll along more than you might think. I began to realize that this run was much different from a flat 24 miles. As I turned left on L Road, way out there with nothing but cottonwoods and birds and the big sky all around, I knew I was going to be pretty dehydrated. There was no where to fill up, the streams undrinkable for the livestock and agriculture around. <br />
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It isn't something I'm proud of, but occasionally this happens: I go too big on way too little food and/or water. In some cases I call it being Consciously Under-Equipped (<i>CUE</i>) and it works just fine, in other cases it doesn't and I'll admit that it's negligence bordering on slight stupidity (needless to say, most of the time I am quite adequately prepared.) I was still feeling good though, stopping to take pictures and enjoy the views often but running strong and keeping a decent time nonetheless. I realized that it was my first run of more than 15 miles since the Rim to Rim to Rim in the Grand Canyon this past November; an unfortunate and unusually long hiatus from big runs. <br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view north on the L Road</td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> The sun was getting lower in the western sky, to my right as I ran south. The land and the views along that section were uniquely pleasing. One of the most amazing things about the Flint Hills, a subtle and soft-spoken landscape often overlooked and generalized, is the infinite little variations that combine to make one mile feel completely unlike the next. Every section of the run was unmistakably Flint Hills, yet each looked and felt differently, like an eclectic group of sculptors forming the landscape in matching clay. As I forged on down the L Road I realized that to my left, as the crow flew, there was nothing and no one, except for a few cows, for the 5 miles between me and my father's house. I felt small and alone, and it was good.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> I ran up what felt like gentle but endless hills, long out of water, my single bottle sucked dry. Evening was coming, the light dying slowly, as I took a left over to M Road, and then south again for a moment to the Open Range Road. I began the final 5 miles that still rollercoastered up and down, emulating the grasses. It was the most open, exposed and uninhabited section of it all, that last section right down into Matfield Green. After a few miles on the Open Range it was almost dark and I was finally feeling my dehydration in earnest. Thankfully I was almost home. I didn't have a headlamp but I had anticipated running into the night, plus I knew my way and it was easy to follow in the dark. Then, for the first time in 3 hours, I heard a car behind me. An older woman in the passenger seat rolled down her window to address me. I kept running but turned to talk as they pulled up along side me. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> "What are you doing?" She asked, looking at me hard like she was interrogating. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Oh just running, having fun!" I smiled. She didn't smile back.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"How far are you going?"<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"24 miles."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"How far do you have left?"<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"4 miles."<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"So you're going to Matfield Green?" She still seemed unamused and the man driving wasn't making it easy either.<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"That's right," I said, getting a little tired of this stone-faced questioning, while continuing to run. <br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"Do you have someone to pick you up?"<br />
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>"I'm staying there." She and the man looked at each other like they didn't know what to make of me. They drove off. <br />
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Not the typical friendly Chase County locals I know.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> The wind was picking up, the temperature dropping, the dark clouds crowding each other and filling the sky. I took shorter runs often on the Open Range Road and knew what landmarks correlated to the mileage. I could count down as I went now, ticking off the miles until I reached home. With only one left my legs began to cramp. I choked down an Emerge-ncy with no water, and it helped a little as I pushed on and gutted it out, but the cramps came back the last few hundred yards to the bunkhouse. I painfully finished the job, burst in the door and sat down. I had felt great otherwise, running solidly, so happy with the distance, but my poor hydration planning really caught up and took it out of me, literally. An hour after getting home my body freaked out and I threw up and was hurting for a bit. Note to self: Don't run a hilly 24 miles with only 16 oz. of water. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> That was an unfortunate ending to a great run and an amazing and perspective changing experience in the Flint Hills. Lesson successfully relearned, now bigger and more, on into the season. What I really wanted to do before leaving Kansas was to complete the full loop, starting and ending in Matfield Green, via Bazaar, on the back roads. I checked it out on the map and it looked to be 36 miles, and I had just run 24 of it. Like always though time ran short, there was too much to do before leaving, projects to finish, packing to do. I just couldn't afford to take the 5-6 hours to do the loop, but a 2-3 hour run, that I could squeeze in. So I had Sonya drop me on the edge of 177 at Bazaar, the day before we left. I was running the eastern route, the 18 miles from Bazaar to Matfield Green via Sharpes Creek. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQam7kempVhasrwRMRFHo0QO66F-u08lbb3HeGUNSqguwNtektieM3sLuFX-fFMYxT8zujTL4_x4iiIhstRMYOrO_ab_mrwvb8ELoUGWi6Wv2cSUCq8zqqVZSMvit2dMLD4LaPU9RYQiO/s1600/kansas17.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAQam7kempVhasrwRMRFHo0QO66F-u08lbb3HeGUNSqguwNtektieM3sLuFX-fFMYxT8zujTL4_x4iiIhstRMYOrO_ab_mrwvb8ELoUGWi6Wv2cSUCq8zqqVZSMvit2dMLD4LaPU9RYQiO/s400/kansas17.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> This day was much colder, there was some snow on the ground and the sky showed signs of a possible "wintry mix" (as the local meteorologists liked to say.) The melt down my body had experienced after the previous run scared me straight; this time I took two hand-held bottles. I said goodbye and Sonya pulled away to drive to Cottonwood Falls and photograph the quaint and picturesque little Kansas town, recording the scenes before departing the prairie. I turned and began running, one foot after another, building momentum down the dirt road. I crossed a bridge over the South Fork of the Cottonwood River by the big orange-hued, grassy hill upon which the name of the town, B-A-Z-A-A-R, was spelled out in rocks at a scale adequate to be seen from a great distance; a tradition for towns in Chase County. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> The road traversed around the eastern edge of the massive hill, taking me farther into the Sharpes Creek Valley proper. For a while the road rolled along on the western slope of the valley, up high enough to give great views across to the east, and to the north and south along the length of it. The grey of the sky made the colors of the earth richer. The cold, sharp retort of the wind demanded my presence as my eyes scanned the landscape. As usual, hawks were everywhere. Red tails and Northern Harriers, and some smaller raptors were ever-present, perching atop poles, gliding, circling high, or soaring and swooping low along the grass, always looking for the kill. I hadn't brought my camera and had no need to stop, so I kept a good pace, save for a few moments here and there to stand in awe of the sights and enjoy being stunned and humbled and filled with love. I felt great, getting into the rhythm of the long run again. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> The Flint Hills will challenge your notions of space. Its dancing grasses drift onwards in great waves to the edges of what we can grasp. Its expanses consume the mind and body when you place yourself in them. The road ran along the bottom of the valley for awhile, along Sharpes Creek itself, past a few small farms and then out deeper into nothing. There was a small lake with cottonwoods around it and a glorious backdrop of rich, endless hills with a mesh of drainages, draws, and valleys carved into them, as if by an ancient artisan who passionately and intimately knew the medium. I watched a large bird flying along at tree level as I ran, then saw a flash of white and knew it was a Bald Eagle. I watched as it lit onto a branch of one of the scraggly cottonwoods, snow-white head beaming iconically as it settled into its proud perch. I stopped and soaked it all in, said hello to my eagle brother/sister, <i>Props and mad love to you my friend</i>, said <i>Peace</i> and continued on my way. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> My route crossed the highway, KS 35, and once more I entered a different world. It was like things just kept getting bigger, the views, the unfathomable distances to the horizon (the <a href="http://ultrasignup.com/register.aspx?did=12106">Heartland 100</a> course shares some of my route in this section. Psyched to do that race sometime!) I ran up the biggest hill of the run and stopped at the top. It can hardly be written what those sights mean to the soul. Cows could be seen at impossible distances, miniscule groups here and there, sprinkled like black pepper on a never-ending casserole dish of piled mashed potatoes. I was alone in the cold and wind and great silence as gentle precipitation came down upon me, lighter than drizzle, barely perceptible. I began to notice the most fascinating ice forms around me. Miniscule spikes of ice had formed on the grasses and on the barbed wire along the edge of the road. But only the top third of the grasses and plants were frozen white, making a sharp contrast to the rest of their slender stalks. Trees far off, adrift in the prairie sea, glowed too with the unearthly icy white. I peered close at the crystals, at the perfect, delicate forms. I grinned wildly and shook my head in disbelief, completely stunned by Nature's breathtaking creations.<br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> I ran down the hill and eventually back across the highway, nearing the end. Getting a little tired but well-hydrated and thrilled, buzzing from the sights, the land, the rhythms of the run. A Red Tail perched in a tall tree and called piercingly as I ran by and the bright white feather-duster tails of three deer appeared ahead on the road, moving nimbly along. <i>Word</i>. I entered Matfield Green from the east by the old school house. A nice man named George and his flock of goats live there now, used books from his bookstores of old filling the classrooms and gymnasium. I took the back way to avoid the half mile of paved road, cutting between the fields where the coyotes sang nightly and we'd watched one hunt by daylight from our door. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> Well, 18 miles wasn't the 36 I'd wanted but it turned out to be a new favorite run. I reached a deeper level in my relationship with the Flint Hills, gained a new appreciation for the land and the landscape and a new understanding of its energy, its personality, its tones and moods. The path from Bazaar to Matfield Green via Sharpes Creek made me feel small and humble and reminded me of the proper order (see <a href="http://williegmcbride.blogspot.com/2011/02/under-giant-sky.html">Under a Giant Sky</a>) and I was fortunate to see many animal friends along the way. It also made me feel connected to the prairie's pulse, made me feel an inseparable part of the wonderfully heart-wrenching continuum of life and death. And I finally realized that you don't always need mountains to be in awe, that truly special land has many faces. <br />
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<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span> I can't wait to go back. <br />
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<br />willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-1071442248987526822011-03-02T10:29:00.000-08:002011-03-02T11:52:36.336-08:00The Major Clarification<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> </span></i></div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I am writing this from a coffee shop in Boise, Idaho on a fresh grey day, in the midst of the journey back West. We're in the downtown, amongst cool historic buildings, near the </span><a href="http://www.justeatlocal.com/bittercreek"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Bittercreek Ale House</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">, where we ate locally produced food and swilled marvelously hopped beverages last night. Yesterday we drove up here from Salt Lake City, through the vast plains and low curvaceous mountains of southern Idaho to the edge of the Sawtooth National Forest and that mouth-wateringly large green area on the map. Looks like nothing but National Forest and wilderness from here all the way north to Missoula, Montana as the crow flies. Just looking at it makes my heart beat faster and my legs tremble with desire. My mind wanders: A run from Missoula to Boise, that'd be epic! Sick! I need to start planning, I need maps, maps, maps!</span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Reign it in Willie, reign it in dammit! Get back to the topic at hand. </span></i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span> </i><br />
<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Ok, this is what I wanted to share:</span></i><br />
<i> </i><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjw1c6qogUehbqpyEgQbxmk1lRRvm24JiiWOzpGVmh61GyCvMaVP1psHQAmOp51tkyCpqYelpCdiYSEFS-H0dVsB6sN77GCFJDOPRXx9oPlqLKRh7oTIP9JuFLZB9CbQR9OCo3QGl_yl_T/s1600/tim_barber_bridge_runners_nike_10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjw1c6qogUehbqpyEgQbxmk1lRRvm24JiiWOzpGVmh61GyCvMaVP1psHQAmOp51tkyCpqYelpCdiYSEFS-H0dVsB6sN77GCFJDOPRXx9oPlqLKRh7oTIP9JuFLZB9CbQR9OCo3QGl_yl_T/s400/tim_barber_bridge_runners_nike_10.jpg" width="400" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Just go for it, anything! Now! </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The time's a wastin'</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">!</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> There's something that needs to be clarified here, something of the utmost importance. To truly and fully know Animal Athletics, this point must be understood. </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Of course Animal Athletics comes off as pretty hardcore and a little crazy, potentially even scary to some. To most people who haven't chosen to push themselves in those ways, hearing these harrowing tales may be exciting and possibly somewhat inspiring, but the adventures may generally just seem unaccessible and too extreme to ever sanely consider for themselves. Some may see Animal Athletics as an elitist group, young men taking risks, able to spend the time training and escaping to the outdoors. Fun to read about (clearly!), but only really applicable, and accessible, to those fit enough, crazy enough, and pain-seeking enough, to run 50 miles or more in the mountains.</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><br />
</span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span>This is not the case.</span></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Finishing your first 1 mile run or your first 100, your first 5 or your first 50, would elicit the same response from Animal Athletics: </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">You are a freakin' Badass! F*** yeah, Halleluja, Yeehaw!</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> (High fives all around, poppin' bottles, etc.) 'Cause YOU went for it, did something that was big for YOU. Nothing else matters.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br />
</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: 12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> One of the things that I love most about participating in races is the variety of people you get to run with, men and women, old and young, short and tall, stout and skinny. All out there by choice, battling away, suffering for fun. I love seeing people run in general, around cities or towns, on the streets as you drive by. The variety of gaits, all the unique, quirky, sometimes downright funky personal styles of moving along, step by step. The simplest act, partaken by free will. All different kinds of people, sharing a common instinct, united by the experience.</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica; font-size: small;"><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK0uHnwweo6yInApUIX3Cjxrj906zbBrotPhw_y9rGY3a5nl4EmUh_VmG7PABtu9BIp0MhtcYjUSm49BjQO18xtkzwsDZslCOiJEMtKY35uL0kMTXrDcOFAH62Hk_70znlfMoMDMFVHaRy/s1600/2007_Chicago_Marathon_runners.JPG.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5l_GK9oDd_xtdBhwi33-gCRnvvdXAf5uetkECWvEZtxTax6ONd45HPgrJVH5cMbDmT9jLdw0yLjB0x-6y2kSJghAcpl9_ZYiFuQN_61KEA2rWKgtdrTOos89ENlcLCou54-weRbWJTO7/s1600/2007_Chicago_Marathon_runners.JPG.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgK5l_GK9oDd_xtdBhwi33-gCRnvvdXAf5uetkECWvEZtxTax6ONd45HPgrJVH5cMbDmT9jLdw0yLjB0x-6y2kSJghAcpl9_ZYiFuQN_61KEA2rWKgtdrTOos89ENlcLCou54-weRbWJTO7/s320/2007_Chicago_Marathon_runners.JPG.jpeg" width="240" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Sharing a common instinc</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">t</span></span></td></tr>
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</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eiiUWYDzXm6h20ECuRU_G9GQGHYcdLocVXaCCUSpBnkivtFH4ypm1Lf67jeKQcYFuIEZzO_Am0_ZbqMHVxhaKht0VJtZisQcNaH_1Dvb-tcVtX3qnO0lOON57tnW9Pzme-Kqhvj0pJS5/s1600/runners.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3eiiUWYDzXm6h20ECuRU_G9GQGHYcdLocVXaCCUSpBnkivtFH4ypm1Lf67jeKQcYFuIEZzO_Am0_ZbqMHVxhaKht0VJtZisQcNaH_1Dvb-tcVtX3qnO0lOON57tnW9Pzme-Kqhvj0pJS5/s320/runners.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">United by the experience</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Plain and simple, the essence of it is this: it's not about running, or climbing, or any of that at all. Not about how fast or far or high. It is only about pushing yourself, in whatever way that may be for you. It's about taking measures to break up the routine, to continue evolving, to avoid stagnation. It's saving up money for a trip to a place you've never been, never seen, getting up the nerve for a walk at night through the woods, running around the block without stopping for the first time, drawing something even though you think you suck at art, making something by hand, doing it yourself. It's about snapping out of it for a second and reexamining, giving Nature another look, another thought, taking stock with fresh eyes, thinking about what you're eating, feeling how you're feeling. It's about trying, somehow, bit by bit, to get the better of the Fear that runs through our lives and permeates our culture. So do something, make a big goal, plan a trip, just go for it, anything! Now! </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">The time's a wastin</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">'!</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> In summation, when we say </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">All are welcome</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> we mean </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">All are welcome</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. As we've said it's about the love, and love doesn't care if you run 7 minute miles or 10 minute miles, or even if you run at all.</span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicU2wn96jjoBsDCgUHXQ-ceCrNWdc8faa9m63-yeKzSjqUQRgF_ydgMnOX0LY4kgpfFrkZt-FaLNaReNDU7Dos85mFe8CisAkzo-FY_S0jYfwZGX6hueUiu1tiRZsG0nsJ-0C6vI74l_dq/s1600/diy_dinosaur_lamps.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="203" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicU2wn96jjoBsDCgUHXQ-ceCrNWdc8faa9m63-yeKzSjqUQRgF_ydgMnOX0LY4kgpfFrkZt-FaLNaReNDU7Dos85mFe8CisAkzo-FY_S0jYfwZGX6hueUiu1tiRZsG0nsJ-0C6vI74l_dq/s320/diy_dinosaur_lamps.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Make something by hand</span></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsi7BSTDpZ52leUSlnUEB1hsjB3QWXpMTcDm-vx7ob5QdU7KtMuMPL-7ioEYaGmFViTXfBvHM6xyEhmuG4chWJR3J4CiIdNxkQ5iwHTEZSBfZYSAJr5D8q8YfMd030EcTPAqFEYcIej9mT/s1600/580928_32800282.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsi7BSTDpZ52leUSlnUEB1hsjB3QWXpMTcDm-vx7ob5QdU7KtMuMPL-7ioEYaGmFViTXfBvHM6xyEhmuG4chWJR3J4CiIdNxkQ5iwHTEZSBfZYSAJr5D8q8YfMd030EcTPAqFEYcIej9mT/s320/580928_32800282.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Avoid stagnation</span></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJBS9eyX_r-kbhwOu-dUVhMiWe50tAgVmcRuRk8MBFwAsmuQDG-Njk4iE2XbSph8_lnV8Q0OAkA5Q21SyWU-lXFvTYerZii9QsDk7Az-pd7xO8GtCjroIc1408EczJu-eRD02sZCYk7SsD/s1600/runners-from-good-shepherd.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJBS9eyX_r-kbhwOu-dUVhMiWe50tAgVmcRuRk8MBFwAsmuQDG-Njk4iE2XbSph8_lnV8Q0OAkA5Q21SyWU-lXFvTYerZii9QsDk7Az-pd7xO8GtCjroIc1408EczJu-eRD02sZCYk7SsD/s320/runners-from-good-shepherd.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Continue evolving</span></span></td></tr>
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</span> <div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"></span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Please enjoy this week's music video:</span></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/K9vrb27Bdeo?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></span></div><div style="font: 12.0px Helvetica; margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div><br />
</div></span></span>willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-66631549655602528262011-02-23T21:24:00.000-08:002011-02-24T19:08:40.483-08:00Framing the Heart of the Bay<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2ZuyIao00qKrEDD0ND_KNFTIXCHtoZjs-pVaCT7XCXDq5fkD132O-as0EKdb5LRhuNMWEmGpdryEjk66GDZUY5c4der5Byh6lJOgEuZs5rCYfjccbHTKIm4r01YUWhZ-wrk6tQBM79Hw/s1600/83722749_54d9122089.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br />
</a></div>"'Cause I've already suffered much, I want you to know,"<br />
<br />
-Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeroes, <i>Up from Below</i><br />
<br />
<br />
This is how it started, how Animal Athletics came to be. <br />
<br />
I lived on 54th St. in Oakland the summer of 2005, fresh off a painful break up, drowning my post-college confusions and lonely melancholy in prolific art making. The house on 54th St. hummed with creative energy, filled to capacity with the love of and <i>need</i> for creative expression. Sweet music was birthed from the front room nearly round the clock, the air thick with soul and ripe with skill. The room often overflowed with friends and neighbors, free-styles abounding, or funk or jazz or reggae resounding. I roasted raw, green coffee beans in a frying pan on the range top in the morning, bought from the Ethiopian/Eritrean corner store down the block, then sat and drank coffee hour after hour, learning to play the drum set. I relished the streets, the people, skateboarding the black top, broken glass shining like ice in the California sun.<br />
<br />
(<a href="http://www.joechambersart.com/">Joe Chambers</a>, <a href="http://www.luanacoonen.com/">Luana Coonen</a>, <a href="http://www.anthonybianco.com/">Anthony Bianco</a>, <a href="http://www.iamdrewbennett.com/">Drew Bennett</a>, and the founder of 54th St., <a href="http://www.arlenhart.com/">Arlen Ginsburg</a>, are some of the artists and musicians who inspired me greatly that summer and continue to do so today. Check them out!)<br />
<br />
Needless to say, I was unemployed that summer.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">North Oakland</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our old liquor store, 54th and MLK</td></tr>
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That summer was greatly cathartic and renewed my love of artistic endeavors, inspiring me to go further and make more, but something was missing. It has been clear for a long time that I need a physical outlet, an activity to challenge and test both mind and body. I have climbed since I was young and have explored that magnificent thrill over the past 18 years, but I had an accident that changed my relationship with the activity. Priorities were shifted, risk reassessed, and my perspectives changed. I still loved climbing but needed to be able to push hard and go as big as I could possibly go in an arena that was a touch less lethal than the vertical world. So I began running. <br />
<br />
I finally found a job in late August as my money was running out. I moved to the Mission in San Francisco, as my room on 54th St. was only a sublet, and ironically had to start commuting back to the east bay for my new job with the after school program at the Kensington School. The school's location was stunning, situated directly on the ridge top of the east bay hills, with the school yard facing west, looking over Berkeley, Oakland, and San Francisco, and the other towns and cities receding into the distance. The ocean shone and water gleamed all around, with the Bay Bridge, the Richmond Bridge and the Golden Gate, and the smooth silhouetted curves of the Marin Headlands on to Mt. Tamalpias, framing the heart of the Bay. The back, east side of the school's property, directly abutted Wildcat Canyon and Tilden Regional Parks. The park land is local trail running heaven, and reassuringly wild; I was told that a mountain lion once approached the back fence of the school licking its chops and eyeing the small prey, as the kindergarteners played innocently by the sand box and four square. Recess ended immediately.<br />
<br />
Every afternoon we would take the kids to the yard and play games and run around into the early evening, seeing sun set as Red tailed hawks rode the winds above us, hunted and made short, piercing calls, effortlessly navigating gusts among the tall and blowing pines. The air made music through the needles as I tried, evening after evening, to get the kids to look and appreciate the jaw-dropping vista that lay before them every day. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2ZuyIao00qKrEDD0ND_KNFTIXCHtoZjs-pVaCT7XCXDq5fkD132O-as0EKdb5LRhuNMWEmGpdryEjk66GDZUY5c4der5Byh6lJOgEuZs5rCYfjccbHTKIm4r01YUWhZ-wrk6tQBM79Hw/s1600/83722749_54d9122089.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiN2ZuyIao00qKrEDD0ND_KNFTIXCHtoZjs-pVaCT7XCXDq5fkD132O-as0EKdb5LRhuNMWEmGpdryEjk66GDZUY5c4der5Byh6lJOgEuZs5rCYfjccbHTKIm4r01YUWhZ-wrk6tQBM79Hw/s320/83722749_54d9122089.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view from the ridge top</td></tr>
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Then, one day, Tony returned. I didn't know who he was and I was suspicious, seeing him waltz in like he owned the place. I was still settling in, trying to win the kids over and get on their good sides, trying to seem cool, when in walks this tan muscle-man, long blond hair flowing beneath a crisp SF Giants hat cocked deliberately to the side, and they all go crazy.<br />
<br />
"Tony! Tony!" the kids screamed, circling around him. They were just so thrilled, adults and teachers too. <i>This guy looks lame</i>, I thought, <i>what'd he do to get so popular?</i> I forced a smile and tried to act cordial while holding my territory by the snack trays and juice cups; <i>I'm in charge of snack time now, buddy, so just back off, you've had your day</i>. He had worked there before, I soon learned, and was visiting after returning from a trip to South America. He was back to his hometown of Berkeley and figuring out what to do next. Eventually he came to work at the school again and we soon became close friends. We shared a love of being active, being outside, pushing ourselves, and going hard, and we are both crazy; so, of course, it snowballed from there.<br />
<br />
Our first adventures together were all day, exhausting affairs beginning at my apartment in San Francisco. We would get up early and bike the dark and empty streets from 24th and Capp, cruising sleepily over the remains of the night, past bars recently packed, dance floors recently bumping. Out of the Mission and the murals, we'd roll on through SOMA to the Embarcadero by the Bay Bridge, and along the water, past the Marina and Crissy Field, finally gazing up at the beautiful Golden Gate still set in winter morning darkness. Once we crossed the bridge (~15 miles from my apartment,) we'd lock the bikes and start running. We'd reach the top of Mt. Tamalpais after ~16 miles of trail, boulder around on the rocks on the summit, soaking in the sun and the views of a city now dwarfed by nature, made miniscule by distance. Then, of course, we had to go all the way back to the Mission, now a tiny buoy in the vast ocean of land and water, impossibly far away from our throne-like perch on top. These death marches were our first real endurance running events, although we weren't focused on the running aspect yet and inexperienced at it anyway. We were just thrilled with the idea of going long and pushing ourselves hard, seeing what we could take. Covering land, moving over terrain, being an animal, suffering; the good stuff.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNMdqXuzHqtq0Er2wSgjwdvZz8pJtzpaJUZa2N2EwkFAV4OdT9BjYFegFpU48_oXqzaEAaFsfprsmvLXhsT0rPzaeQwkpgWEg9VJpcZ_eJPha2pdVGUaYbsYgvM0OGh4NIhibEvQZZV6ZH/s1600/Golden%252BGate%252BBridge_%252BMarin%252BHeadlands_%252BSan%252BFrancisco_%252BCalifornia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNMdqXuzHqtq0Er2wSgjwdvZz8pJtzpaJUZa2N2EwkFAV4OdT9BjYFegFpU48_oXqzaEAaFsfprsmvLXhsT0rPzaeQwkpgWEg9VJpcZ_eJPha2pdVGUaYbsYgvM0OGh4NIhibEvQZZV6ZH/s320/Golden%252BGate%252BBridge_%252BMarin%252BHeadlands_%252BSan%252BFrancisco_%252BCalifornia.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Golden Gate with Mt. Tamalpais beyond</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGD8oeE2ZDEBK-xWvRlWboMKXrWpHSe8k3K8bznXCfJesdFf2ZTMk-oj_G9cxhEJi__q16dTTLZTY4ctMcsg8156xxkfgssWSnWO_723MYeDAvH8cQ3dFIgj_yfA3y8wrjihGkWSo7wY7/s1600/Marin-Headlands-3-18-01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHGD8oeE2ZDEBK-xWvRlWboMKXrWpHSe8k3K8bznXCfJesdFf2ZTMk-oj_G9cxhEJi__q16dTTLZTY4ctMcsg8156xxkfgssWSnWO_723MYeDAvH8cQ3dFIgj_yfA3y8wrjihGkWSo7wY7/s320/Marin-Headlands-3-18-01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">San Francisco dwarfed by Nature, made miniscule by distance</td></tr>
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We finally made it to the Mission, exhausted and happy. Back at school, in the evenings as the sun set gracefully in the western sky, we could now point dramatically at the clear route laid out before the kids and say "We biked and ran from there to <i>all the way</i> over there, and back!" They seemed fairly impressed, for about a minute. <br />
<br />
The snowball rolled on and Tony and I went on more and bigger adventures together. I taught him how to climb and, of course, threw him right in the deep end as I tend to do sometimes with less-experienced but highly motivated and bull-headed friends. Luckily Tony handled it, every time. We climbed glaciers and peaks and suffered heartily in the North Cascades, bushwhacking through the Luna Creek Cirque in the Northern Picket Range after climbing Mt. Challenger. We snowshoed in and climbed Mt. Lassen in winter, sleeping huddled beside one another in the snow cave we'd dug. I dragged Tony up the hair-raising North Arete of Mt. Banner (5.7), belaying the wide-eyed Berkeley kid on dead vertical, loose climbing on a nearly 13,000 ft. peak, hundreds of feet above snowy chutes, steep couloirs jetting downward. We chose our own route up Fin Dome in Sequoia/Kings Canyon National Park, one of Tony's first technical climbs, climbing a stout 4-pitch 5.8 to the fang-like summit, buzzing with the altitude and sublimity. I watched with sick satisfaction, belaying from above, as the novice climber grunted and struggled up the awkward wide crack at almost 12,000 ft. We did a 50 mile out and back in the Yosemite back country, relative rookies, testing the distance, not able to run it for real but loving it regardless. We did a 60+ mile day there too (after we aborted an ~80 mile loop in the dark of night and backtracked and rerouted down to Yosemite Valley), rookies still. We ended up in fetal position for warmth, trying wretchedly to get some sleep trail side in the early hours before dawn. A friend of mine dropped us at Point Reyes once, at Bear Valley in the middle of the night, and we ran back to San Francisco from there on trail, 50+ miles worth, the Golden Gate a grand finish to a stunning day. Two days later we got a small group together (an informal Animal Athletics event, complete with the best homemade organic energy food around) and ran the 18 miles from San Francisco, through glorious hills on wonderful trails, to Stinson Beach. There the ocean, friends, food, beer, and a ride were waiting patiently. We started running races, road marathons, then ultras, laughing and making animal calls while other runners gave strange looks. Fine days those were; many more to come.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Fin Dome</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF4lmAoqqIlyqAgS6cMTgs6qJ7vgEqYvnUEt5TJpLAnbYa7JAfajs44b2R57488JYIOY3sxjzcxbPPb-xPN02HXe3r0rdipG54h3GsiaXE6tqQFlel1U1WySP-TvU0EhmntBnLHzL_Wlqt/s1600/MtBanner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="317" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF4lmAoqqIlyqAgS6cMTgs6qJ7vgEqYvnUEt5TJpLAnbYa7JAfajs44b2R57488JYIOY3sxjzcxbPPb-xPN02HXe3r0rdipG54h3GsiaXE6tqQFlel1U1WySP-TvU0EhmntBnLHzL_Wlqt/s320/MtBanner.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt. Banner, the North Arete follows the right skyline</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKpl5EDlkZwlg8m3gp36v9Zn1BlZA_kzwskfRw22vdhSSq2Ty95erIOOZlS4ss6nXv30a1LFKRapZj-gOMcMz3Jn8hmO1k6pYMghmbAyZVGrczdV4eFm4Zjd5-kAkDPUyuMNhJ-M41kUe/s1600/299473076_e33ec02cc1_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="198" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxKpl5EDlkZwlg8m3gp36v9Zn1BlZA_kzwskfRw22vdhSSq2Ty95erIOOZlS4ss6nXv30a1LFKRapZj-gOMcMz3Jn8hmO1k6pYMghmbAyZVGrczdV4eFm4Zjd5-kAkDPUyuMNhJ-M41kUe/s320/299473076_e33ec02cc1_z.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mt. Challenger (left most summit) and the Challenger Glacier</td></tr>
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Along the way we've slowly defined what Animal Athletics is and what drives us to do what we do. Honoring nature and humbling ourselves to it is a integral part of our philosophy (see <a href="http://williegmcbride.blogspot.com/2011/02/under-giant-sky.html">Under a Giant Sky</a>). Wanting to be an animal, to be animal-like in the outdoors, also lies at the heart of it. And so, one day, wanting to find a fitting title for our 2 person freak show, the name Animal Athletics was thought up and its ring resonated with our primitive desires, like feet striking trail without thought. We can be a bit unorthodox, seemingly reckless in the scale of our undertakings, peculiar in training style and so on, but these things matter not. It is the love that is paramount and, let there be no mistake, Animal Athletics has the love. The joy. The child-like wonder. The giddy and disturbing need to do something like run 50 or 100 miles, dropping Biggie Smalls lyrics between hawk calls, dancing down single track in the mountains.<br />
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Life has been taking Tony and I in different directions lately but Animal Athletics remains, like the wind, gusting through our lives. It is a devotion to passionate action, a drive for truth and beauty, and re-unity with the ties we've broken; it is a commitment to love. <br />
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So please, join us. All are welcome.<br />
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<br />
Please enjoy this week's music video:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><object class="BLOGGER-youtube-video" classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" codebase="http://download.macromedia.com/pub/shockwave/cabs/flash/swflash.cab#version=6,0,40,0" data-thumbnail-src="http://3.gvt0.com/vi/xb_GxmoppD8/0.jpg" height="266" width="320"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/xb_GxmoppD8&fs=1&source=uds" /><param name="bgcolor" value="#FFFFFF" /><embed width="320" height="266" src="http://www.youtube.com/v/xb_GxmoppD8&fs=1&source=uds" type="application/x-shockwave-flash"></embed></object></div>willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1373988574976399347.post-68539799023116120252011-02-16T19:37:00.000-08:002011-02-23T21:36:14.043-08:00Under the Giant Sky<div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></b></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">...While the world waits for an explosion</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That instant of light that wipes the slate clean...</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">...While the world waits for an explosion</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">That moment in time when we are set free.</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px; min-height: 17px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> -Bright Eyes, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Train Under Water, I'm Wide Awake It's Morning</span></span></i></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</span> </div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">In these lines, Conor Oberst is alluding to the events of 9/11 and the impact that such catastrophes can have on our lives. He implies that we actually crave those times of re-examination, those moments when our self-centered, often petty concerns are immediately put into perspective. We are forced to reassess and simplify, and in the process find ourselves present, focused, and aware. For most people, although the event itself may cause considerable emotional and/or physical pain, this presence in the moment and respite from the ego-based burdens they carry feels like being set free, and thus is a positive and grounding thing. In 2004, in January of my senior year of college, I slipped while ice climbing without a rope and fell 50 ft. face first to the snowy earth. I survived (clearly) and for many months as I recovered and went on with life I felt exceedingly calm and content, thankful for the simplest of things and present at every moment. I was free from rethinking the past and anticipating the future, stressing about classes to be finished and graduation and what lay beyond. Unfortunately that feeling didn't last, and that's precisely the point, we </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">need</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> those events to check our reality, to remember what's actually important, and to be happy and feel truly alive. </span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Catastrophes of the natural kind hold a very special importance. I am writing this lying in bed in a renovated railroad bunkhouse in Matfield Green, Kansas, glad to be in a warm place and out of the bitter elements. Sonya, my girlfriend, and I arrived two nights ago to my father's home in the Flint Hills and awoke the next morning to a raging blizzard on the prairie. The wind burned any exposed flesh on our handful of trips back and forth from the bunkhouse to the main house over the day, our tracks buried every time by the incessant storm. The snow blew hard against the grasses and on the rolling hills and valleys and grew waist deep in sculpted drifts, driving into our squinted eyes as we trudged along. We worked in the 0 degree, -20 wind chill day, removing large amounts of bird shit from the second floor deck of the barn; honest work for pay. The good projects were soon to come.</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">We'd come from Chicago where we'd been home for a few months, working freelance and visiting family, in the midst of relocating from Berkeley, California to Portland, Oregon. We decided to stop and work for three weeks at my father's in Kansas on our way back west. Days before leaving Chicago, the city was crippled by some hard winter weather of its own. I ran down the lake front to the Lincoln Park Boat Club on the stinging night it was supposed to hit, worked out with my sister, pulling hard on the rowing machines in the little Rocky-esque, one-room facility, then ran back as the snow began to swirl about, the temperatures dropped and the sky to the west grew thick. When it finally arrived in earnest, midday the next day, it did so with great gusto. The frozen sky shed upon the city in unending volumes, stranding people and their cars for 12 hours on Lake Shore Drive as the snow piled up around their windows. A total game changer as always: businesses closed, schools out, people immobilized. If you've lived in such climates you know how it can go. </span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaAHTMuWaT3nikChHx3VczP8wyMI-qGazN5XdlmT4NBovyS7nTkp5huJuEgl5b1ut3FC4l4X_DzA-aO2E3njfaEpSJTw3ZIgibCyyeQm2_UsfXT_LbDLFicb647XhCDJl4MprIIUhJDckd/s1600/234877816-thumb-572xauto-312849.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiaAHTMuWaT3nikChHx3VczP8wyMI-qGazN5XdlmT4NBovyS7nTkp5huJuEgl5b1ut3FC4l4X_DzA-aO2E3njfaEpSJTw3ZIgibCyyeQm2_UsfXT_LbDLFicb647XhCDJl4MprIIUhJDckd/s320/234877816-thumb-572xauto-312849.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCNOBDuhyphenhyphenjERZeU4Qhe7ciqm281m9lQ8ny6m_U7ruEzEASsHgWitue82rv43VPWySbZPUWSxTO7p7FK1pRzhh1tnD1k4NSN8y3JkWtE4jg52JBRCDIJwEaY7eTpRdgWXqT4OQfswkhpwK/s1600/2011-chicago-blizzard.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWCNOBDuhyphenhyphenjERZeU4Qhe7ciqm281m9lQ8ny6m_U7ruEzEASsHgWitue82rv43VPWySbZPUWSxTO7p7FK1pRzhh1tnD1k4NSN8y3JkWtE4jg52JBRCDIJwEaY7eTpRdgWXqT4OQfswkhpwK/s320/2011-chicago-blizzard.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Chicago winters, now and then</td></tr>
</tbody></table><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="white-space: pre;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Extreme weather and natural disasters, like the events to which Conor Oberst is refering, have the ability to reset our thinking, to instantly ground and humble us. The difference is that natural disasters display the fury of nature while 9/11 displayed the fury of man, the latter being far more frightening in my opinion (but that's another topic.) The outcome, the reality check, is the same: you seek comfort and community with friends and loved ones. You help and show concern for others, and forget some of yourself, your baggage and self image, and about the deadline next week or the date that could have gone better. You finally realize (again) what's essential and what's filler, and are content with less. </span></span><br />
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</div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> The most valuable lesson to be learned when Mother Nature is teaching (which is always) is about the proper order of things. Living in cities and suburbs and not venturing into the unmanufactured outdoors, as is the case for so many, makes it easy to think that we have things neatly under control, with manicured landscapes and lawns, sterile and ordered parks, cars and pavement, and all the amenities you could want. In places with no large scale natural presence (mountain range, desert, ocean/major lake) the grandest sights are the buildings, the man made edifices, which are sometimes intelligent and beautiful but regardless have a somewhat ill-effect. The result is a skewed sense of order in those living there since we are not the biggest and most significant. Our greatest achievements, inescapably flawed as born from human hands, can never compare to the perfection of the natural world. </span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> In other words, walking down the center of a normally busy street in Chicago in sub zero temps, knee deep in snow in a graveyard of entombed autos, with stores closed and people bundled miserably against the bitterness, shows you who's boss again.</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwGl96F4St38F9i7Sx97dmogBp5b_YSuHZ7w4n_PLTl39fhyphenhyphenNhmqMz3ETh9rN3pxki7ASRWXnOAfpTqX1_suCg7oMjxtVAjbemW2w86CrE4F4N0y7GtUtm8cUFOZgg0Ktn7c4TpEzkK1fd/s1600/ChicagoSnow_1967-731667.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="245" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwGl96F4St38F9i7Sx97dmogBp5b_YSuHZ7w4n_PLTl39fhyphenhyphenNhmqMz3ETh9rN3pxki7ASRWXnOAfpTqX1_suCg7oMjxtVAjbemW2w86CrE4F4N0y7GtUtm8cUFOZgg0Ktn7c4TpEzkK1fd/s320/ChicagoSnow_1967-731667.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Remembering the proper order</td></tr>
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</span> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> It is one of my greatest pleasures, and a founding principle upon which Animal Athletics is based, to make a habit (dare I say </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">addiction</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">) of humbling myself to the forces of Nature. I willingly suffer at the hands of it over and over again like a deranged penitent trying to show his undying love, commitment, and devotion. We (at Animal Athletics) love to be cold and hungry, sleep-deprived and starting to hear falling water speaking words through the forest. We want to be seasoned by the seasons and taught lessons by their raw power; Nature's forces lashing us as we run, showing us the way of things. We want to stare back at the eyes in the woods at night, under the moon, then see animals up early with the sun as we run into the day. Only by loving Nature fully, by bowing before it and showing deep and true reverence, and finally and most importantly by </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">trusting</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> in it, can we develop a strong bond with it. It is because of this slightly insane yet deeply loving approach (and, of course, a great deal of experience and training) that Nature has responded favorably, harboring us safely, and allowed us to share moments with real animal friends as well. We must approach with open hands and open heart, waving white flags, willing to challenge popular notions of "comfort" and "safety" in order to get to know it. </span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_GW5gu6L261GpsBLC5uzMRiq2hy7f88srPAEjamwUyS6uxabbEdLiu0aVHI0YwQkpbcfHtARG6NwoQJ-nLP0uHLw2qeFwGWBEXRTrWpYhLyM8CvtMMKq-TFxdz0dhI-rl-M9dlqj_yWC/s1600/IMG_3377.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia_GW5gu6L261GpsBLC5uzMRiq2hy7f88srPAEjamwUyS6uxabbEdLiu0aVHI0YwQkpbcfHtARG6NwoQJ-nLP0uHLw2qeFwGWBEXRTrWpYhLyM8CvtMMKq-TFxdz0dhI-rl-M9dlqj_yWC/s320/IMG_3377.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Appropriately small, running in the Flint Hills of Kansas</td></tr>
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</span> </span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> The storm passed a few days ago and the sun has been stronger and melting things quickly. We've been doing good work and working hard; finish carpentry, designing and building (photos and more to come later.) I've started running the back roads, trying get my spring training underway, but I'm way overdue a </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">long</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> run. So I've been scheming and have a few plans in the works. I've mapped routes through the blue stem, over the rolling land under the giant sky, to remind me of the proper order, to surround me by views guaranteed to make me feel small. </span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> Running through the prairie, on my way back West...</span></span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</span> </span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span> </span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Please enjoy this week's music video:</span></span><br />
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</span> </span></div><div style="font: 14px Helvetica; margin: 0px;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/aZO1nMuZSnI?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia,'Times New Roman',serif;"><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aZO1nMuZSnI"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br />
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</span></div>willie mcbridehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10569988719734029999noreply@blogger.com1