val's ventures

Spring / Summer in Pictures

2011-06-27T08:38:00.000-07:00

Red Chair

Rainbow Over the Hood

Birthday Cake Made by Joe

Spring Syncline Shred

Ready to Eat at Anna's

First Farmers' Market of the Year

A Perfect Spring Dinner

Heart, Heart, Heart!

Jody's Birthday Cake, Carrot of Course

Tiny Liquor and Hat Party

Cocktail of the Season

Hood River Super-D -- Go Hermosa Harlots (formerly Hotties...)

Radishes + Butter, oh hell yes

Mojitos!

Nomadic Kitchen

Hermosa Shuttles

Deviled Eggs + Dogs

Post Canyon Ladies Adventure Ride!

Mari-Beth

The Sturdy Bitch Race Team at the Ashland Super-D

Standing Stone Sampler

Race Readying

Love these Ladies

Ashland Finish

Finish of Chuck's Chips, Talent, Oregon -- Take One

Take Two

Fred and Katie, Wolfhound Cycles Headquarters, Talent Oregon

Add caption

Hermosa Tours Sighting at Black Rock!

Socks from our sponsor, Harlot Clothing, gave us Superpowers at Black Rock!

Sweet!

Harlots!

GG

2011-04-30T09:52:00.000-07:00

The latest issue of the Gorge Guide Magazine is on newsstands now! You can also read it online. Three of my articles are published there. My friend Anna is the Art Director for the magazine, and it just keeps getting better every year. Commentary by Kristin: "It looks like Sunset Magazine!"; it kind of does!

This year, I wrote about farmers' markets, beer, and wine. I was kind of in my element. I particularly enjoyed all of the sampling that was required in the name of research.

I'm real proud!

Pacified in Pacific City

2011-04-13T19:56:00.000-07:00

The ocean is so pacifying, it has a way of lulling the soul into contentment. Water in general, yes, but there is something about the waves, the tides, the connection to the ebb and flow and life. It's primordial. It speaks to something way deep in the ancient, intuitive, instinctive part of our brain. We know deep down where we came from; we have a homing device, maybe.

Growing up land-locked, I'm not that comfortable in the waves, I'll be honest. It takes me a good long while to paddle out past even the cleanest, easiest break. I'm not master of the duck dive, clearly. Deep water mortifies me. I love the idea of surfing, but I really stink at it. My fears get the best of me out there; I don't really even like my feet to dangle for very long, so I end up stretching out on my board and watching the pelicans or the frigate birds or whatever is flying around overhead--which is why I stink at surfing. I also like to practice yoga poses out there. Crow -- yeah, that's hard on a surf board.

Someday, though, I'll master this mind, and be able to catch waves. I don't think there's any sport so pure, so beautiful in it's simplicity.

This past weekend, I took a little road trip out to Pacific City. I camped in a tent for the first time in a couple of years; van and camper living sure do spoil a girl. My trusty 15-year old MSR stove leaked fuel like a sieve, so I was doubly thankful that the Stimulus Cafe was a stone's throw from where I camped.

I walked at least 10 miles on the sand with Turbo. I climbed the giant sand dune right near Haystack Rock, on a sunny day that was perfectly warm and not windy--a gift in April in the NW. I laid down on a fresh patch of ripply, velvety sand and just watched the clouds pass overhead.

I watched a bunch of surfers put on very thick wetsuits in the morning. I watched them peel them off, beer in one hand late in the evening, satisfied look on their faces. I admired their dedication to the sport in such harsh conditions. Did I mention I'm also a total wuss when it comes to cold water? Yup. I ate a lot of bread and cheese and salami because that stuff makes a good breakfast, lunch, and dinner. I drank some--ok, maybe more--wine alone by a campfire. Cathedral Ridge's '09 Pinot Gris, now that's a pretty good beach wine.

I wrote and I wrote. I even wrote some fiction (!); man, that Artist's Way is something else. It's working miracles already.

I had cocktails--perhaps the stiffest G&T ever--at the Pelican Brewery. It's right on the beach, so that's just an excellent idea on a sunny afternoon.

It was a lovely weekend. I came away with clarity, pacified and content.

The Artist's Way

2011-04-05T15:08:00.000-07:00

Sometimes out of tragedy and despair comes new growth that wouldn't have otherwise sprouted, simply because the seedbed was never prepared to nurture such new life. This is a thought that is really keeping me going lately, you know, the whole 'silver lining' angle. But it's more than that, I think. Besides just instilling hope and faith, it's helping real change take root, and that, my friends, has been a long time coming.

Before an evening drive and walk, my friend Kristin presented me with a book I've been eyeing for a couple of years now, but likely didn't have the courage to approach, The Artist's Way by Julia Cameron. It's a course on how to discover and recover your creative self, heal that creative child inside of you and follow the path to higher creativity. It's not meant only for those who want to 'be' artists; it's for anyone who has ever dreamt of learning to play the guitar, knit, or cook. Anyone at all who wants to sprout their creative seed, in whatever medium it might be.

It's twelve weeks long, and takes about an hour a day to read the required chapter for each week, and to do the corresponding exercises. I'm on Day Two, and I have an embarrassing confession: my right arm and hand are sore. From writing with a pen. Each morning you fill three 8.5 x 11 pages with whatever words creep on there. It's a brain dump, really. But really, when was the last time any of us wrote that much by hand?

Mechanics of the exercises aside, my Morning Pages, as they're called, have so far been therapeutic. Emotional, sad, frustrated. Lots of stuff comes up, stuff you really don't expect, or that you thought you had dealt with. A lot lives in the far reaches of our cavernous brains, I'm finding out. Childhood memories, happy or sad. Past mistakes, skeletons in the closet. Things we can't so easily forget. That's the nature of the beast, but to nurture and heal, to steal a quote, "...you gotta get rid of the shit that weighs you down." I couldn't agree more, and writing it down helps us do this.

Besides the Morning Pages, you also get to take yourself out on an Artist's Date. Nothing fancy or pretentious, just a time for you to spend with yourself to be creative an do something you enjoy. The point is to make time for you, with we seldom do. It can be going to a thrift store, a museum, even a walk in the woods. Anything you enjoy doing that is FUN.

Each week, there are other exercises that are designed to draw out the creativity-blocking demons once and for all, including affirmations and digging deep inside the memory bank for clues to why you doubt yourself in creativity, and in life really.

I'll try to update my progress here, it's a way for keeping myself accountable and to stick with it. I'm also doing it with Kristen, who did it several years ago and wants to revisit the process. That will help, having a partner to keep me motivated.

It's a big commitment, but one I'm willing to make.

Life After...

2011-04-01T17:32:00.000-07:00

I'm not really sure where to start, so I won't. With self-preservation in mind, all I can divulge is that I, for the first time in awhile, am striking out on my own, flying sola. It's my own undoing, I'm not proud of parts of it, but I can say that the cracks in the fuselage finally burst into a gazillion pieces, not over the sea, but over the small towns of the Gorge, wreaking havoc on more than one family.

I refuse to dwell, and the only way to forward is take the steps toward change. Through this process, I look to past to identify patterns, to the present to relate to feelings, and to the future for a glimmer of hope. I do not know what lies ahead, but at the end of the day, I'm looking for improvement of any kind big or small, on any level or layer of my being. That's all we can do as humans and I refuse to stay trapped in my mistakes and history only to repeat them. I refuse to be the victim of my own abuse any longer, and what does that leave? Truthfully, that's the part that remains unseen, the part I need to really extract and accept for what it is. I'm getting closer. I am.

I'm not running, in fact, I refuse escapism as self-defense. It hasn't worked before, and it's not going to work now either. Perhaps part of growing older is realizing and calling ourselves out on our own bullshit and accepting it, then moving on and trying to fix it. A quote I love from a Kathleen Edwards song:

"You spend half your life trying to turn the other half around." That's my world, that's my reality, and I'll shout it from the rooftops, write it in the sky. I'm ok with it. There is so much I want to accomplish in this world, so much I haven't seen, a small part of me wants to reach in and strangle that girl of the second half of my life. But on the other hand, I love that girl too, because she taught me so much. We did have some good times together, she and I, but I have to let her go.

Here's the video for Kathleen Edwards' "Six O'Clock News". Love her.

The other album that comes to mind that is both haunting and just so real is none other than Bob Dylan's Blood on the Tracks, particularly "You're a Big Girl Now". Maybe now, maybe for real this time, I am finally becoming a Big Girl now. Incidentally, Blood on the Tracks came out the year I was born, 1975 to date myself. This cover is awesome:

So many songs, so little time. A little wine, a lot of music, love and laughter with friends, that's what's getting me through. For everything, I am grateful.

Here's to a Bloggy New Year!

2011-01-21T12:09:00.000-08:00

The Nomadic Office

The thing about writing for a living, I'm discovering, is that by the day's or week's end, I'm out of energy for my own projects, including my own blog. I have an ongoing list of blog posts, short stories, and article ideas for someday, but I sit down to write, and I don't seem to have any bandwidth left.

Maybe it lies in time management skills, in letting go a little at the same time. I've grown accustomed to writing very professional, composed, as perfect as possible blog posts for my clients, that I feel the pressure to do the same on this blog...which often results in the tendency to not post anything because I don't think it's up to par. I think it's high time I leave this fear behind, and just go for it. Write it down, and share, because what's the use of having knowledge and ideas if we don't share them?

Nomad Camp in Cali, November 2009

That said, I'm writing for three different blogs these days, about topics ranging from mountain biking and advocacy, design and weddings, to freelance writing and the nomadic lifestyle. I'm trying to break into the wine industry because I love it so much, and always enjoy writing about sustainability. I feel lucky that I have the luxury of working from anywhere, and can pick and choose what I work on. I recently spent a year living and working on the road, roaming the West in search of singletrack and adventures, which has inspired a number of projects, including this blog. It's still in the works, but what the hell. Might as well share the two posts I've written about freelancing while on the go.

My hopes with Nomad Writes is to inspire others to reconsider the traditional job, the restrictions that come with it, that potentially tie us down. Working out of a Sprinter van for a year shattered the notion that you need an office to get anything done, that you need to be in one place. I can't say enough about how rewarding it is to explore more and work less (but work more efficiently); the freedom to come and go, to pack up and hit the road is something everyone should experience for at least a short time in their lives. It changes you, opens your mind and your heart, and fills you with hope and possibility for what could be, if we just think outside of the box once in awhile.

So, if you're interested in trying out the nomadic way, but still need to pay the bills, check out the blog. I'm planning to share all the tips and tricks I've figured out along the way.

Charge It.

2011-01-02T17:14:00.000-08:00

I don't normally make New Year's resolutions, but typically set intentions instead, to identify the direction I hope to take certain aspects of my life in the coming year. Resolutions tend to be so extreme, unrealistic, and limiting--not to mention short-lived. I don't like that.

For 2011, I'm thinking of making a list of 100 things I want to do before the year is over. That sounds like a lot, doesn't it? Well, some of them are going to be very simple, like cooking certain dishes I've always wanted to make. Like visiting new places in the Gorge or wherever that I've always wanted to, restaurants, waterfalls, and even the Red Carpet. Visit all of the wineries I've never been to, be more of a tourist in my own community.

Things like that, nothing too heavy, but simple things that create good memories. Go back to Toro Bravo in Portland for an awesome meal. Plant an herb garden at the house we're staying at, because we need one and it would be fun.

Take a pottery lesson from my friend Donna, because that's just something I've always wanted to do. Do more yoga because I need it in my life. See more live music, because it makes me happy.

I've come to believe more whole-heartedly in the phrase "Nothing to it but to do it." We are by nature, pensive creatures, which clearly has it's advantages, but sometimes I think we spend a little too much time thinking, planning, worrying about things instead of just doing them.

As my friend Allison says, in reference to being a totally kick-ass mountain biker, "You just have to nut up and charge it." I like the thought of approaching more things in life with that attitude.

So, here goes. Welcome 2011. Charge it!

Layers

2010-10-13T14:26:00.000-07:00

Of an onion, peeled away, one at a time. Cake layers, stacked neatly, iced to perfection. Clothing, thin to thick, piled for warmth.

Of a soul, walls torn down, brick by brick. Denial, years add up, easier to bury. Clutter, mental and physical, removal is necessary.

Of identity, placed strategically, make the man. Compassion, expressed sincerely, shared uninhibitedly.

Sitting in an airport shuttle van in Chile, I saw into my soul and said hello for the first time. The business professional in suit and tie got off at a stop in front of a shack; the well-dressed lady with perfectly coifed hair stepped out onto a dirt street, garbage blowing at her feet. With this glimpse into their reality, I felt that in the short ride we shared, we had all, in some way, bared our souls. I saw their roots, and for a split second, compassion and admiration gave me goosebumps. In a ghetto slum, in the middle of nowhere Chile, the bonds of humanity had been exposed.

Regardless of our outward differences, the people in that van were in no way different from me--race, religion, creed, it doesn't matter in the end. When you get down to it, once all the layers are peeled away, we are all one in the same. For a 25 year old girl, this realization was only the beginning of a long journey of self-discovery.

That first hello—to my own soul, to my fellow human—would certainly not be my last. Ten years later, our meetings are often not frequent enough, and don't last nearly as long as I would like, but I'm getting there.

Here's to another ten, one layer at a time.

I prefer it that way

2010-09-16T22:26:00.000-07:00

Well now. That was fun. Crazy. Head-spinning. At times, gut-splitting, and always entertaining. The past couple of months have been a frenzy of writing, riding bikes, driving, camping, socializing, writing, and more writing. I don't even know what day it is half the time, and you know, that's ok with me. I prefer it that way. Clearly, I could use some structure, like a regular blog posting schedule, but one thing at a time. This freelance writing stuff is taking the majority of my writing bandwidth at the moment, and that's ok with me too.

And we're still going, no end in sight. In my last post, I alluded to the fact that the footloose and fancy free days of van living were numbered, but, it turns out, they're not! At the time, I thought were going to have to settle down and live in a house again, like normal people do, but it looks like we don't have to. I don't have anything against houses or walls or indoor plumbing, but I've grown so used to the freedom of just picking up and leaving, without worrying about anything, without any roots holding me down, I fear there is no turning back now. It's kind of like working for yourself at home, or in your van if you're me, in your pajamas, and reaching a point when you absolutely cannot fathom going to work in an office for eight straight hours a day.

We're coming up on eleven months living in the van. E-LEV-EN months. That's almost a year. It's a pretty big deal, although most of the time, I try to forget that it is. I prefer it that way. For the first six months, I freaked out a little about not knowing where we were going, where we would stay, and for how long. Truth be told, it was stressful with so many unknowns, when all you really wanted was to go home and curl up on the couch and not worry about such logistics.

But, somewhere along the way, I learned that it always seems to work itself out. Things fall into place, and when you don't have a strict plan, random, cool things happen like meeting someone awesome who invites you to park in their driveway and use their shower, and maybe their oven because I like to do that sometimes. These people are the best, and there have been so many, I'm starting to lose track. There aren't enough thank-you cakes in the world to repay them.

So, for now, still rolling, out on the road. We've been back 'home' in the Gorge a couple of times now, but only for a week or two at a time. And that's about how far out we're planning at this point, one to two weeks. I definitely prefer it that way.

Navigation.

2010-06-26T17:13:00.000-07:00

Life's about to undergo a major overhaul. First, van living days are numbered, for better or for worse. Second, I'm diving headfirst into a full-time freelance writing career. No more Bionicon, no more STI--new things on the horizon have got us running in circles once again. Thank goodness for High-Altitude Fridays (no, not skydiving!) to help keep us sane.

The thought of returning to the Northwest and specifically, the Columbia Gorge is bittersweet. I've spent the better part of ten years there, tolerating the wind, staying afloat during the soggy winters, and reveling in the abundance of summer. I've gone to extremes there--countless pursuits, broken dreams, chasing hope, all the while, comforted by some of the best friends I've ever known. There are associations, good and bad, as with anywhere, making me both fear and eagerly anticipate going back.

But, I always do. Even after sunny Mexico, tropical Venezuela, the desert Southwest, somehow, my compass always navigates me back to the banks of wide Columbia, to the shade of the pear trees, and into the homes of beloved friends. When I've sworn I wouldn't, couldn't, shouldn't, there I was. Back in the Gorge.

What does this say about me? About the place? The gravitational pull is clearly impossible to resist, and for all of my misgivings, this place has some sort of hold on me. Could it be the singletrack, so sweet and easily accessible? Is it the locality--close to Portland, in the mountains, rivers, lakes abound? How about the agricultural bounty--all manner of fruit and veggies, and truth be told, the BEST chips and salsa in the world? What about the breweries and wineries, and all of the amazing restaurants? If I were a wind-junkie, I'd say it is the world-class kiteboarding and windsurfing.

At the end of the day, it always boils down to just making sense. It makes sense to go back there, to the mossy creeks, to the snowy volcanoes, and the firs. I can't say it's a perfect place, but it's pretty close (believe me, I've looked!)--at least for part of the year. I'm more than excited to hit the farm stands, go wine tasting, boating on the Columbia, have backyard happy hours and of course, shred all my home trails.

Look out, Gorge! Here we come.

Hamacas.

2010-06-15T09:20:00.000-07:00

Perfecting the art of hammock hanging in a pitchy, messy set of Douglas fir trees. Their shade is what I crave, on this 90-degree day.

Hammocks remind me of other times, other places, and certainly of other people. Much of my stay in Mexico was spent swinging in the comforting weave, held safely in their net. I watched countless sets of waves, played cards, and held hands.

When not in a hammock, I watched the people who made them sell their woven creations to tourists like me on the beach. Angela was the most prolific and most memorable vendor. Balancing an impossibly heavy bundle of hammocks wrapped in a square of fabric on top her head, she worked the beach, scanning for potential customers and calling out her perfected sales pitch: “Hamacaaaaas. Hamacaaaaaaaaaas baratas, como carne de gata. Hamacaaaaas, amiga?”

Angela was everywhere, the colorful fabric of her long skirt swishing side to side as she walked, the load balanced on her head not moving an inch. Long black braids woven with satin ribbon trailed down her back. Two braids signified that she was a member of the Zapotec tribe indigenous to Oaxaca.

Sometimes I slept in hammocks, but that was mostly in the beginning. Twenty-five pesos a night bought me a hammock on the deck of a very loud and obnoxious hostel. I lasted about a week alongside two Canadians and a Brit, with whom I also shared my first tandem skydive. We all signed up together, a few of us rather begrudgingly, but only one of us would get hooked enough to trade the hammock for a bed and mosquito netting, and stay far longer than we intended to.

My rental palapa had a hammock on the patio, but there was no view of the sea. The beach was a short trip down some stone steps and across the street. After learning how to skydive solo, one week after my first tandem, I learned what it was like to work in Mexico. In exchange for my time, I got all of the free skydives, including equipment rental, I wanted.

A day of work meant reporting to the dropzone, stationed under a white tent and some palm trees on the lawn of Hotel Arco Iris, sometime around 10 am at the earliest, to see if any tandems had been booked the night before. If not, it was my duty to comb the beach looking for potential tandem skydive customers, most of whom were foreign tourists. My English came in handy; reassuring the fearfully curious was easier for me than for my Spanish-speaking counterparts.

I went up on every flight we booked, and made it a point to jump out with the tandem customers who were the most afraid, because the nervousness I felt during my first jump was still so fresh it made me weak in the knees. Sharing the freefall toward the beach, over the water and the sand, with a familiar face can transform a memorable experience into a magical one.

Swinging in my red, blue and yellow hammock, trading palm fronds for fir boughs, I can still feel Puerto’s sun, hear the waves crashing, and see parachutes opening thousands of feet above, filling the crystal blue sky. I can’t place a smell anymore, but it would certainly come from one of the many open-air street or beachside cafes, with chairs and tables spilling out onto the sidewalk or shamelessly onto the sand.

His face is clear to me, as though I saw him just yesterday. I feel him guiding me by the hand down the sandy brick sidewalk, leading me to countless dinners, followed by late evenings looking at the stars from Barfly’s open rooftop deck. Or watching the world pass by Casa Babylon, beach culture at its finest, viewed from the windowsill, or the bench on the street, quintessential mojito in hand. His laugh still echoes in my ears, years later, whether for me alone, or for friends. That sound is as much a part of me as the hamacas in Puerto Escondido.

Every week, we commuted by skydiving plane an hour and a half north to our parent dropzone Skydive Cuautla, where we worked for the weekend. Every Saturday at the crack of dawn, we boarded the Twin Otter, bleary-eyed and not yet caffeinated. With no oxygen on board, and virtually no insulation, the thin, cold atmosphere was enough to wake even the sleepiest of passengers.

Our arrival in Cuautla marked the start of the chaotic two days that lie ahead. The dropzone would be buzzing with anticipation of a weekend of skydiving, and there were typically anywhere from 40-100 sport jumpers, and a number of booked tandems arriving throughout the weekend. The majority of the skydivers and tandem students came from Mexico City, nearly two hours to the north.

My job was a bit like herding cats. Getting all of the skydivers, instructors, camera flyers and videographers, and tandem customers in one place, at the same time and ready for the flight was no easy task. I was the subject of many jokes, and often the source of a good laugh, as I orchestrated the process over a microphone. In Spanish.

Every five minutes, I gave the flight number, a countdown until takeoff, and then list every passenger on the plane with respective tandem master. It took numerous proddings to actually get the people on the plane. Vaaaaamaaanossss! Did you come here to eat and socialize, or did you come here to skydive?, I'd say to the sport jumpers lingering at the tables in the shade of the palapa, or lounging in hammocks strung along the edges.

More than once, I commanded the American pilot to leave the stragglers, because if I waited until every person had boarded, we wouldn't have flown more than a couple of flights the entire day. My gringo work ethic and ability to stick to a rigid schedule earned me the nickname “Sargento”, or Sargent, something I abhorred initially but learned to accept once I realized the skydivers were grateful for more flights in the air, which meant more skydiving for them.

Monday mornings, exhausted from twelve-hour work days over the weekend, we boarded the plane, and landed ten minutes away in Cuernavaca, where we filed flight plans to Puerto, and loaded up on fuel. Because this took at least an hour, we would wait at the taqueria adjacent to the airport. On a wood-fired griddle, hand pressed blue corn tortillas were grilled up into perfect quesadillas, gorditas and tacos, an unconventional but satisfying breakfast.

Approaching the beach, our pilot Woody gave the flight call. Fifteen minutes, he'd say, and we would start preparing the plane for our evacuation. If given the choice, a skydiver will never choose to land with the plane; jumping out is regarded as not only safer, but a lot more fun. We tied down everything that could blow out, as the door would remain open until the plane landed.

These jumps were the most memorable, because they were not 'work'. Staff who rarely got to jump for fun would plan elaborate jumps with their friends, and include amateurs like me in their 'hybrid' jumps. Someone would hang from my parachute's chest strap, as I flew on my belly; others would freefly around us, sitting, on their heads, or in any number of other creative flight poses. Another time, in freefall, I sat on someone's back for a 'rodeo jump', while all of my friends freeflew all around me, reaching for my hands and head as they orbited.

Landing on the beach was like breathing a giant sigh of relief. While I loved other parts of Mexico, including Mexico City, it was Puerto Escondido that felt like home. Dropping in over the beach, where the tourists sat, looking perplexed because they had neither seen nor heard our plane, the sight of the waves and surfboards and the feel of the hot white sand on our feet warranted the customary 'woo-hoo' shouted upon landing.

Some days, when the skydiving was slow, we lounged at La Flayita, the Pepto-Bismol pink beachside cafe, or we retreated to Cipriano's, an Italian joint on the sand. Brightly colored hammocks swung from a thatched arbor, seven in a row, with an enveloping view of the sea. After exhausting all efforts to sell tandem skydives to the few tourists left on the beach, we settled into the hammock's relaxing cradle, and waited for something to happen.

These carefree moments solidified my bond with the hammock. They represented a laziness not acceptable in American culture, especially in the context of a work day. In Mexico, however, and even more so on the beach, it is perfectly normal to just relax when you feel like it and watch the world go by.

Sometime in April, a huge storm off the coast of Chile produced a near record-breaking swell. Thunderous surf pounded the beach, pushed by a wall of water 40 feet high. The beach, which doubled as our landing zone, all but disappeared, and the winds shifted from their normal, predictable patterns, leaving the idea of skydiving completely out of the question. On the second day, film crews and cameras showed up; not long after, world-class surf pros came out of the woodwork. Dwarfed by the enormity of the swell, brave souls made gliding through glassy tubes seem effortless. But the look on their faces after a successful exit told a different story; the visible sigh of relief conveyed a real, palpable fear.

When the sand finally showed again, and the surfers and cameras left with the abating surf, a heat turned on like I had never quite experienced. Tourists opted for the mountains, and we knew our weeks at the beach would soon come to an end. In what should have been the most relaxing weeks of all, I pondered life with a heavy heart. A denied work visa meant one would go north, while the other went south. The season was coming to a close; the plane would leave in early May, leaving only a small Cessna to power the dropzone until the late fall return of the Twin Otter.

Years later, I reflect on this decision, held by the comforting embrace of my hammock, swinging beneath the firs in the shadow of Mount Hood, far away from Mexico's sandy shores. I wonder what might have happened should we have chosen to stay. I revel in the memories of an experience that was so extraordinary, I am to this day affected to my very core, by thoughts of Puerto, of him, and the girl I was back then.

A brief interlude.

2010-06-09T16:14:00.001-07:00

My two favorite pastimes are delightfully complementary: Mountain Biking and Food. If either of these are experienced in mutual exclusion, there is likely to be big trouble.

I've definitely tested the limits on either end of the spectrum. Oh, the many winters void of biking, but overflowing with vats of eggnog, stacks of buttery cookies, countless holiday parties, spent languishing over huge breakfasts. Or months spent in Mexico, surviving on the popular tourist diet of guacamole and pina coladas. The waistline suffers, and every year it seems to become a little more elusive.

When spring rolls around, and the bikes are pulled from the dusty reaches of the garage, the burden of winter is felt, literally and figuratively. It's so painful at first, and every year I cuss myself for not keeping up with training, not doing more to stay in shape, and for eating and drinking so much of X, Y, and Z.

But, it just so happens that I love food as much as I love biking, and it's a hard habit to break. I love everything about it. Food is my focus—growing it, preparing it, sharing it, reading about it, taking photos of it, and writing about it. My nerdy side takes over on a regular basis, ranting about farming practices, analyzing food chemistry and preparation techniques, and rambling endlessly about the merits of a good Brie.

I recently learned the dangers of underconsumption and activity level when I completely bonked during a mountain bike race. About halfway through, my blood sugar levels dropped so low that I couldn't recover. I ate, and I ate, but my legs and my brain would have nothing of it. They rejected it. I couldn't walk, and I couldn't ride—an awful predicament to be in, stuck on a ridgetop with no efficient means of getting down. Especially during a race!

All because I hadn't eaten enough calories. In that moment, in the throes of near-delirium, I wanted to go back in time and strangle my post-winter, figure criticizing self for not appreciating the bounty when she had it. For not relishing times of abundance and health when she had them.

Weak and dejected, I made it down, but I learned a good lesson. Food and mountain biking are a natural pairing. A perfect union, their whole is far better than the sum of their parts. Like Brie and a crispy baguette, like a warm spring day and a favorite trail. Chocolate and a fine wine, a cushy bike and a rock garden.

Separate them, and you're just asking for trouble.

Roller coaster.

2010-06-08T10:23:00.000-07:00

The twists and turns of life, the ups and downs - I'm not sure, really, how much more I can take. I can't divulge all the details right now, but my oh my, things have taken a turn.

In the meantime, I have to say that this mountain retreat in Durango, Colorado is making it all a little easier to digest.

Sunny skies, good food, wine, fun drinks, roasted garlic, hot tub, Food Network, yoga mat. Amazing vistas, new friends (Thanks Matt and Lisa, for all the fun rides, and for sharing the McFee Manor with us!) and lots of furry friends.

A day at the lake, with Paddleboards, Scrabble, Extreme Bocce, and lots of laughing.

It was just what I needed.

back to basics.

2010-05-26T14:34:00.000-07:00

This is going to sound funny, but I want to go camping. Sure, I live in a van, and certainly spend a lot of time outside. But, I assure you, the kind of camping we're doing is very different from the camping that many will be doing this Memorial Day weekend. Let me explain.

For one, we are rarely at a picturesque, serene creekside site in the mountains. We do our share of urban camping, and by this I mean we RV Park it. Not romantic and usually not beautiful, but when you don't have a house, you need amenities. Internet, power, laundry, shower: these resorts have everything we need. I used to drive by these types of places and shudder at the thought of 'camping' at one of them, with their concrete pads, hookups and views of neighboring behemoth RVs. Now, I'm a regular, right alongside the Snowbirds, satellite dishes, and Fluffy the lap dog. Even scarier, there are times I want a behemoth of my very own.

We almost always need to be near a town. Bike shops need to be visited, work has to get done. Errands to be run, conference calls to be made. It's real life. As footloose and fancy-free as it seems, the same nitty gritty still applies to what we're doing on the road, arguably to a greater extent than it does for house dwellers.

This is because roaming the West requires a lot of planning. Logistics: where to camp, where to eat, which coffee shop to park myself in for the day. Where to do laundry, grocery shop, make copies, mail something. I'm becoming a specialist at finding good spots to loiter, and Yelp and Google Maps are my most loyal travel buddies.

I'm also becoming a pro-packer. Loading and unloading, constantly organizing. It takes about three seconds for the 'house' to be a mess once you've cleaned--but the upside is that it only takes about 15 minutes to clean everything, including the fridge.

I want to set up a tent and sleep on the ground. Turn off the glowing rectangles and stare only at bright stars and the flicker of campfire flames, without a worry in the world. Wade in a cold creek, sit on a mountaintop and take in the view. To get a good tree fix.

In the beginning, I thought that what I would crave as a respite from van living would be a hotel stay, with plush robes and a spa. A bit of civilization and all of it's comforts. But because we log many hours behind the wheel, hitting the streets, and on the go, go, go, I long for the solitude and simplicity of an old-fashioned camping trip.

It may be time for a vacation!

Words come, words go.

2010-05-24T15:50:00.000-07:00

Sometimes this blank screen is too much to take. Sip of wine, maybe the words will flow. I want to bathe in words, to soak in inspiration long enough to write it down. From adjectives to adverbs, nouns to verbs, there are infinite ways to tell the story. Then, why is it so difficult sometimes?

Because we don't always hear the words as they come and go. The trick is to catch them, mid-flight and put them to work, but recognizing the good, helpful ones isn't always so easy. The wine helps, sometimes. Just as when you're learning a foreign language—a drink or two, and you're suddenly fluent. A matter of perception.

There's always a story, locked up deep inside, or lying in wait on the surface. Stories, stories everywhere—but am I listening? Every moment is a potential plot, every person a character to be developed, every detail important in some way.

I like to think back to other times when I wanted to tell a story, but couldn't find the words. What did I do, how did I handle it? The act of writing whatever comes to mind is sometimes enough. Other times, I write in a poetic format, snippets of thought, related or not. These ramblings are fun to read later because they often make no sense at all, but there's usually a good deal of emotion behind them.

Still other times, I run the other way and do something else--a strategy that is far too easy to employ. I'm working on that, because when I'm running from a blank page, I'm probably running from other things in life.

There. That's better. Write, and you'll feel like writing.

Places, pit stops, and people along the way.

2010-05-15T09:22:00.000-07:00

With all this talk about here and there, you might be wondering where exactly I'm referring to. It's a long list -- so long, in fact, that I can scarcely believe we've been able to cover so much ground.

We've toured a good chunk of California, starting with the Southern Sierra and Kernville, where Bionicon USA is located. The Kern River Valley a spectacular place, and for Southern Cali, way off the beaten path. It's an outdoor mecca, with world-class kayaking, mountain biking, rock climbing, skiing and whatever else you want to do outside. It's like Hood River, but with better winter weather. Highlights: Kern River Brewing Company, Keyesville Classic, and the Cannell Trail. I also love the people there - we've made quite a few good friends there in a short period of time. I like that.

Somehow, and not surprisingly, we've managed to completely avoid LA and stay on the periphery. So far, we've completely circumnavigated the city, to get to other places. Our first event was the CORBA Fat Tire Fest in late October, just north of LA at Castaic Lake. We were travel-lagged and exhausted, but managed to have a good time and spread the Bionicon gospel.

From there, we decided we wanted beach, so we went to Ventura county, and ended up in the Santa Monica mountains, with the beach just across the 101. A beach with internet, mind you. Trails left from our campsite, so we found it difficult to extract ourselves from this ideal setting.

From Ventura, we made our way north to San Luis Obispo. What a place! It's in my top five of the trip so far. The town is ultra cool, has plenty good food, bike-friendly and surrounded by trails. Need I say more?

Back to the Kern, then on to San Diego--specifically, Encinitas. We've been there three times, which should say it all. Highlights: SD Beer Week with KRBC and the Giddens, San Elijo State Beach, Bull Tacos, Seaside Market, and hanging out with the Fonniers for a few days (can you say Bloody Marys?). More highlights: Bike Demos at North of the Border in SD, midnight swim on Christmas Eve, surfing on Christmas.

Boulder City and Bootleg Canyon, oh my. We've been there twice, for races and demos. The riding there is incredible--technical and intimidating, because everything is sharp. Sharp rock with sandpaper grit and unforgiving spiny plants that don't make for soft landings. Highlights: Bart coming for an impromptu visit, Ginger trail (yikes!), skills area near parking lot, and bighorn sheep. Seeing skydivers - that was fun too!

Kernville for New Year's Eve. Kept it real by riding the Whiskey Flat trail at midnight on the Blue Moon NYE. It was freezing cold, but a little vodka and some toffee took care of that. Additional highlights: 'training' rides with Allison on the Boulder Trail - sick!, and cross-fit with the Giddens - brutal!

I can't believe I almost forgot that we went 'home' for 2 weeks. We drove north to Bend to set up a new dealer, then on to Hood River for a week. What I remember most about that trip was a whirlwind of socializing, squeezing in time with just about all of our friends, and a lot of work on the newly acquired Keyesville Classic MTB race. Those race planning weeks are a blur--I don't think I got on the bike more than once per week, and spent more hours than I'd like to admit in front of the computer.

Heading south, we stayed in Corvallis for a night, then onto Sacramento where we found this super funky motel, reno'd to a mid-century modern. We spent a day with WTB in Marin County, and they showed us some of their local trails. We poached their parking lot, and the next day, crossed the Golden Gate and explored San Fran on our Urban bikes, which was amazing! I could have done with a few more days of that, especially checking out all the food.

At some point around this time, we headed East to Sedona, land of red rocks and sweet trails. After several good rides, we made our way to Tempe, land of the best croissants outside of France, and burly South Mountain trails. Highlights: Hangover trail, rainy demo at Bike and Bean, Essence Bakery, and Gabe's scary pool-lapping-pump track.

March brought us three weeks of grueling work and the Keyesville Classic--the details of which I will share in a later post. After the Classic, we made our way to Fontana for my first-ever downhill race. Ryan and I represented on the Bionicons, snagging 3rds in our classes. Then, we went back to Sedona, then Phoenix for the Squealer, and on to Tucson for the Lemon Drop the day after. Highlights: Finishing the Squealer (barely), the Retreat at Helm's house--pool, hot tub, and good food, and Ryan finally seeing the light and buying a Mac.

April was chock-a-block with events like Sea Otter, a demo day in Marin County and the Fruita Fat Tire Festival. We had a few days respite at the Diller property in Santa Cruz (thanks again Dave and Alli!), just in time to celebrate my birthday. The day itself was dreary and gross, but we countered that with an RV beach cruise with Dave and Laurel (fellow road buddies!) of Joshua Tree Products and a drink at every beach. Highlights: Camping with Dee and James at the Otter, Fairfax in Marin County and a kickin' yoga class, GREAT Puerto Rican food in Marin, and Fruita (just in general).

That leads us to now. We spent a few days in Moab last week, and decided to return after a quick trip back to Fruita. Highlights: great riding with Joe, Chris, Mic, Gravity Dropper Wayne, and Avid Wayne, the Hot Tomato in Fruita and our cursedly messy table (many spills, including a whole pizza!), a sunrise ride on Horsethief, and many rides with Jackie and Dante. So many new friends - we've met so many wonderful people along the way, truly the highlight of this journey!

The adventure continues!

The Space Between.

2010-05-09T11:30:00.000-07:00

Here, there and everywhere. To and fro, back and forth. Point A to Point B. Unpack, re-pack...pack, pack, pack. It's not always easy to keep a level head. There's always somewhere to go, somewhere to be and lots of things to see.

It's not always easy to see the forest for the trees. I get so caught up in getting to the destination that I forget to enjoy the journey -- and that's a shame because when you're traveling all over tarnation, that adds up to a lot to miss out on. Like the beauty of the red rock desert, sprinkled with patches of green and splotches of blooming color. Or the snow-capped peaks illuminated by a setting sun. Taking time to talk to a stranger on the street, finding time for myself during a hectic week.

I'm a process person - not just in the sense of creating, but I need time to process what's going on around me, or I start losing my place and how I fit in. Some days, it might mean taking a step back, observing and listening. Others call for time all alone, on a trail, by a river, on a yoga mat, away from people and gadgets. Sometimes, I just need to make a meal in silence, and enjoy the monotony of chopping, slicing and dicing. And still others, I just need to write.

That's where I've been going wrong. I miss writing, and on this adventure, I've kind of lost myself a little along the way. Some days, I hardly know myself, and to be honest, I kind of miss hanging out with me. It's been too easy to get caught up in the travel to enjoy and process my journey. I also need to talk about it, and I've been neglecting this space and the opportunity to share.

This week in Moab, I'm going to geek out with my laptop, my yoga mat and probably the campstove. I need to catch up and check in with myself. I'll be on the bike plenty, but I'll also be paying attention to other things, too.

Learning to Live Without an Oven, and Other Lessons From the Road.

2009-11-28T12:34:00.000-08:00

I'm lucky to have a sink--two, actually. A foot pump makes it possible for running water (!) to flow from the tiny plastic faucet, and when the dishes are done, the waste water drains into a bucket. I don't know if it's because of the scenery, or the novelty of having a sink outside, but doing dishes has never been more enjoyable.

Because we are sharing a sub-20' van, there is no room for the kitchen inside the living quarters. There is a top-entry refrigerator inside, thank goodness, but all other kitchen accoutrements slide into a cabinet, to be used outside. A fold-up rafting kitchen houses two sinks that can be covered up with two plastic cutting boards--genius!--a wire rack for storage, and little side table for the stove. There is also a place to hang utensils, towels, what have you, above the sink area. To be honest, it's not that much of a reduction in counter space from the cabin kitchen--to which I am grateful for all of the lessons in small space cooking.

A two-burner camp stove and a small propane grill is where it all happens. The grill and the lantern share a big propane tank, and we recently put the lantern on a post, making it much more efficient. We despised those evil little green bottles; expensive and wasteful, we were burning through those way too quickly.

I'm no stranger to camp stove cooking, which has made this adventure much easier, and tastier. I have lived out of a backpack in the wilderness for weeks on end, with a dreadful MSR one burner stove that regularly tested the upper limits of my mechanical and culinary skills. Rice and pancakes were a no-no; in those days, it was a lot of Annie's mac and cheese and just-add water dehydrated black beans.

Later, it was weeks of car camping, followed by months of living in a tent and cooking with the very same two-burner Coleman I'm using now. The menu that summer evolved to include a lot of stir-frys and Asian noodle dishes, vegetarian and -non. I also got heavy into bean salads, and when I was cooking for one, quesadillas.

While more or less camping in an Ecuadorian apartment, I found myself using a tiny little gas stove, again with no oven. This was the Lentil Phase--for some reason, when in the jungle, I made a lot of Indian-spiced lentils and vegetables, always with rice and flatbreads. When the right produce was available, I would make salsa fresca, guacamole and tortillas from scratch for tacos, or for a real treat, a green salad with lemon vinaigrette. But what I really lived off of was mangoes, sweet and sticky, right from the tree.

I also spent time living in a fire lookout, which was a big step up from the outdoor kitchen, because I had an oven. What I didn't have, though, was a grocery store to keep the larder full. Everything had to be rationed and carefully portioned, lest I run out of cheese, coffee, or wine. Fresh veggies--besides carrots and other root vegetables were gone in the first two weeks, but I did have a serious huckleberry crop just down the mountain. What was also a half-mile down the mountain was the spring: all water on the lookout had to be hauled uphill, on my back, making doing dishes doubly hard.

I made a lot of cornbread, ate a lot of popcorn (why did it taste so good up there?), and drank loads of chai tea on Sheep Hill. Two very special recipes I still use on a regular basis came from that lookout, thanks to gifted chef Karla who lived there before me and happened to leave the recipe cards: red enchilada sauce and the balsamic vinaigrette I make almost daily.

When I look back on the years spent cooking on the Coleman, I realize that this is somewhat of a learned art, so I can understand why food tends to be simple when camping. With limited space, no oven, and no assortment of fancy appliances, utensils or spice rack, the camp cook tends to shy away from complicated recipes. Besides, camping is supposed to be a bit of a break from domestic chores and everyday routines, so mac and cheese and brats might be a real treat.

But that is where this differs--we aren't camping, we live here. Cooking on a camp stove, boiling water for dishes, and raking leaves off the kitchen floor are all part of this new everyday routine. There are moments when I long for hot water to come out of the tap, to preheat the oven to make a big pan of lasagna, or to put leftovers in the freezer. Despite not having some of the luxuries of the average home cook, it's still possible to craft very fine meals out here, and I try my hardest to keep good food on the table.

What's also different is the menu. Baked wintery dishes are no longer an option, and some of my favorites--roasted cauliflower, squash, enchiladas, and of course, cakes and treats of all kinds--are to be saved for those special occasions when I get to takeover someone's kitchen. But gone too are the days of standard camp fare--simple pastas, burritos, and burgers. While they all have their time and place, when you are a from-scratch kind of cook, there is bound to be plenty of experimentation happening on those tiny little burners.

This time of year, I'm making a lot of soup, and I just brought back the flatbreads last night to go with the yellow split pea Dal I made. I've adapted my garlic bread recipe to work just as well--if not better--on the grill. I'm itching to make grilled pizza, and after the garlic bread success, am very willing to experiment using the table-top grill as an oven. I also just learned how to make Dutch-oven brownies (those raft guides are talented!), so may need to invest in one of those as well.

While I may miss my oven, my food processor, and my stand mixer, and my stomach gets knotty when I think of all of that holiday baking I'm going to miss, in some ways, I'm getting just as much pleasure scheming up new ways to keep us well fed. And I'm so grateful that I at least have a kitchen sink!

Through the Belly of the Beast

2009-11-09T15:07:00.000-08:00

Rolling through the southern Cascades, the horizon enshrouded by a thick gray fog, that lifted just in time to get a peek at snow-capped Mt. Shasta in the distance. We were getting close.

Curve after curve, weaving through saddle after saddle, we crossed the border under deep blue autumn skies and rays of sunlight that warmed body and spirit. Goodbye, Oregon. Goodbye damp old-growth and moss covered logs, gushing mountain streams and fern-lined banks, mushroom pockets and orchid patches.

Hello, California. The inspection station a few miles past the border, a different country indeed. No passports required, but maybe someday.

South of Redding, I-5 straightens out again, just as the Valley begins to widen. Flatland is bordered by mountain ranges on either side, but instead of fog, they are choked by a layer of dust and smog. However undesirable the air quality is, this is prime agricultural land, with all manner of produce and feed cultivated in the temperate, Meditterranean climate.

From olives to almonds, cows to goats, tomatoes to corn, California's Central Valley grows it all. Typically 50-60 miles wide, 450 miles long, this huge valley accounts for 62,000 square miles of California's land mass, and is home to more than five million residents.

Much of the valley is used for growing crops, irrigating crops, transporting crops or processing crops. Productive land requires productive hands: towns and cities, large and small, dot the landscape. The Central Valley supplies fully one-quarter of the food America eats, and is the most dynamic and diverse agricultural region in the world. No one crop dominates California's output, and more than 350 commodities are grown here. Products grown exclusively (99% or more) in California include almonds, artichokes, dates, figs, kiwi, olives, persimmons, pistachios, prunes, raisins and walnuts. The state accounts for 90% or more of all US grown apricots, grapes, and avocados, and grows more than half of the nations fruits, nuts and vegetables, including three-quarters of the lettuce crop—an agricultural cornucopia indeed.

Crop after crop blurs in the periphery as you speed down I-5 (later the 99); sometimes signs tell you what they are, other times, it's anyone's guess—especially with the fruit trees. Equally elated by orange grove sightings and the prospect of getting off the 99 and heading east to the Sierras, Bakersfield loomed in the distance, one of the bigger towns in the Valley. Bakersfield's economy is based on both agriculture and oil (rigs are scattered in fields west of the city), making for an interesting socio-cultural dynamic. Turning off the 99, we cruised through urban sprawl and citrus trees heavy with ripe fruit, and finally got a decent view of the western slopes of the Sierras. Arid, rocky and rugged were the first impressions—turns out we had no idea just how so.

Until we entered the Kern River Canyon. The straight-as-an-arrow highway suddenly hits a wall—right about where the sign alerting you of how many deaths have occurred in the Kern River since 1968 (246, by the way; this photo is dated!), the road funnels traffic into two impossibly narrow lanes, and winds itself between rocky cliffs and a class 5+ river. If there is such a thing as topography shock, this would be it.

Through the belly of the beast, we have entered some of California's most pristine river canyon country—steep hillsides rising above remote drainages, backdrops dotted with granite boulders, blanketed by manzanita and pine forests, giant sequoias and other untold treasures that are loudly calling my name.

Down By the River

2009-11-06T09:56:00.001-08:00

New ventures call for celebrations! New ventures beg for recognition! New ventures deserve shameless self-promotion!

What, you might ask, after such an extended hiatus from this blog, warrants such loud horn-tooting?

Living in a van, down by the river, of course. To be fair, a river and a creek, with ducks, raccoons, skunks and other vermin. With deer and birds. Sometimes it's by a beach, sometimes it's in the mountains, and other times, it might be by a lake.

But before you question my sanity, imagine: a beachfront office, 85 degrees, ocean breeze. Early morning mountain bike rides, right from camp. Making dinner by moonlight, washing dishes by starlight. Rock climbs at dusk a short drive upriver, hiking down in the dark. Creekside yoga, leaves falling on the mat. Fresh air, new scenery and inspiring people and places every day.

There are challenges too, no doubt. Cold mornings, the sun low in the sky. Finding basic utilities when we need them, the same ones we take for granted when living in a house (water, electric, internet). Critter camp raids, food pilfered and eaten on the spot. Tight living quarters, limited storage space. Cabinets left unlocked, before a trip on the twistiest road around, contents strewn about. Only one car for two people means planning ahead and sacrifice on occasion. Sketchy laundromats, dryers that don't work so well. Try as we might, things sometimes never really feel clean.

The trade-off is worth it: a sense freedom I've never known. Sure, I've traveled extensively, lived in a tent, a fire lookout, all liberating experiences that probably helped prepare me for this mother-of-all nomadic adventure. The difference this time, it's indefinite--there is no timeframe, no dwindling bank account that will dictate when we must return home. This is no vacation, no job with a layoff date. This is life--this is living the dream, every day.

Sans white picket fence--or roof over my head for that matter--this isn't your typical American dream. My version doesn't include children playing in the yard, PTA meetings, or sleepovers. It doesn't include a house full of nice furniture, closets stuffed with clothes, or a TV in every room. No two-car garage, no satellite dish, and no daily commute. These are things I've never pictured having, nor that I can ever remember really wanting. Society's voice rang in my ears a time or two, telling me that my life's purpose should be to attain these things, but it seems I am not a very good listener.

And so here I sit, contemplating endless possibilities, lulled by the sound of the creek, and waiting for the sun. I have everything I need. I have time to write, time to ride, and time to dream. Clothes on my back, good food in my belly, and a healthy body to make it all possible. Dogs bathing in the rays of sunlight that finally just peeked through the trees. Simplicity is something that is too often overlooked, but once you strip away the clutter, it turns out we really don't need much to lead a fulfilled and happy life.

For now, this is enough. My purpose might be different from yours, and what I need to survive and thrive might not be enough for you. Or it may be too much. Either way, it feels good to slow down long enough to listen--really listen--and trust that if we follow our hearts, we'll eventually end up on the right path.

Chimichurri

2008-01-08T08:01:00.000-08:00

Accompanying nearly every meal I've eaten the past few weeks--yes, even breakfast--has been this humble little green sauce known as Chimichurri.

I first experienced it's highly addictive properties at the Flor de Cafe in Puerto Escondido. In Mexico, mind you, not in Argentina where it comes from, served up with a world-class grass fed beef steak, but on the beach in Mexico where there is no fresh beef or parrillas in sight. I was drawn to the cafe in the beginning by its paquetes, or dinner specials that consisted of grilled Mahi-Mahi, rice and a simple salad, AND a beer for 40 pesos: all of that for under $4.00. But after the first dinner there, I returned at least twice a week, not for the fish, which was very delicious, but for the green sauce that sat so unassumingly on the table, served with fresh tortilla chips. Not your average Mexican appetizer, to say the least.

I put it to work with every course, not just with the chips, smearing it on my fish, eating it with my rice. If I went there for breakfast, I would ask for it with my eggs, which the server always thought a little strange. But it wasn't, it was delightful. Refreshing, light, and full of flavor. If they were out of chimichurri--I am serious here--I would not eat there. The meal just wasn't the same without the little condiment that could.

One year later, in a snowstorm, I am making South American style empanadas, trying to replicate a vegetarian version I once ate in Argentina. Since I was going to a potluck with these little beauties, I thought they needed some sort of dipping sauce or something to bathe them in upon serving. Then I remembered it--oh, how could I have ever forgotten you--CHIMICHURRI.

I let out a little squeal, Of course, my dears, it was perfect. I literally ran to the computer, and hail Mary, the first search I did on Epicurious gave me this recipe I am sharing with you today. I couldn't believe it. I didn't have to change a thing, it was so authentic, and brought back so many memories of Puerto and fresh fish and vibrant flavors, salty air and sand between my toes. I was jumping up and down, grinning from ear to ear. This all transpired in 10 short minutes, start to finish, from conception to completion. Ryan watched in amazement.

I still cannot get enough of this green goodness. Picture a pesto made with parsley and cilantro, sans cheese or nuts. It is tart and little salty at first, but the flavors mellow by day two.

This recipe easily doubles, and is so good with just about anything, including tortilla chips, eggs of any kind, chicken, fish, beef, and of course, empanadas. You can ramp up the red pepper flakes for a little more kick, but I encourage you to try it on the mild side so you don't mask the flavors of the parsley and cilantro.

Chimichurri, from Bon Apetit, October 2002

Makes about 1 cup

1 cup (packed) fresh Italian Parsley (flat-leaf, not curly)

1/2 cup olive oil

1/3 cup red wine vinegar

1/4 cup (packed) fresh cilantro

2 garlic cloves, peeled

1/2 teaspoon red pepper flakes

1/2 teaspoon ground cumin

1/2 teaspoon sea salt

Puree all ingredients in a food processor. Transfer to bowl. Will keep for several days covered tightly in the fridge. I like it best at room temp though, so take it out a bit before serving.

I am going to have some right now with a leftover frittata burrito!

Buen Provecho.

Mass Production...and, er, Consumption

2008-01-04T11:58:00.000-08:00

Whew. That was tiring. The year ended with a bang, and left me exhausted. For the past, well, month I guess, my Kitchen-Aid mixer and my oven have been working overtime. Several--countless, actually--pounds of butter and chocolate later, I am pleased to share with you all of my gastronomical endeavors this Holiday Season.

Here is a list--by no means comprehensive--of what was turned out of my humble, yet functional kitchen at the cabin, in no particular order:

Coffee Walnut Toffee: Indeed, "slightly less addictive than crack". A winner!

Gingerbread Truffles
Milk Chocolate-Espresso Truffles
Chocolate Caramel Truffles

Cranberry Noels
Lime Meltaways
Homemade Oreos (very convincing!)
Mexican Wedding Cakes
Chocolate-Covered Coconut Macaroons
Ginger Spice Cookies

Brie Toast with Chardonnay-Soaked Golden Raisins that could pass for dessert

Cheesy Sweet Potato Crisps with Rosemary-Balsamic Cream

Pasta with Hashed Brussels Sprouts and Pine Nuts

Butternut Squash and Hazelnut Lasgna

J.P. Hartt's Egg Nog, Four--yes I mean 4--Gallons worth!

Sour Cream Coffee Cake, Cook's Illustrated, Nov. and Dec., 2002

Country Bread, loaf upon loaf. I haven't bought bread in weeks! Recipe is from my dear friend Talia. Someday I will share the recipe with you!

Some of the delectables above were sent out as gifts, packaged up and shared. Some were just cozy dinners or office party fare. Some were even skied into a Backcountry Hut in the Wallowa Mountains--including 2 whole roast Lemon Chickens!--where we spent four momentous days in glorious powder, each day a marked occasion in it's own right: Winter Solstice, Full Moon, Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day. Delicious, not to mention the fine food we shared.

This year, the baking extravaganza will go on, as dreary winter days persist. I can't think of a better way to spend them, as I peruse food blogs and cookbooks looking for little bits of inspiration. I'll continue to experiment and create, and share the results with you as often as possible.

Cheers to a fun-filled New Year!

Hairpin Curve, Redefined

2007-12-21T07:40:00.000-08:00

La Cordillera de la Costa cuts through the northern part of Venezuela, separating Caracas and other cities from the sea and reaching 2700 meters at its high point. Climbing and descending the Cordillera (considered to be an extension of the Andes) to the sea, you cross at least four different ecological zones: semi-arid deciduous woods, subtropical rainforest, cloudforest, and arid coastal scrub, all in a time of about two hours by car.

The road from Maracay winds north through Henri Pittier National Park. Despite its small size, it is home to 43% of Venezuela´s bird population, and 7% of the world´s bird species, as well as to a host of other animals and countless--many probably uncatalogued--species of plants.

It is a steep ascent on a one-lane road, switchbacking continuously and tightly to the pass, then descending in the same fashion. From the outskirts of Maracay, there are no signs of inhabitation, just dense forest as far as the eye can see, interrupted only by the road that is perched on the steep hillside. And even the road seems barely able to co-exist with the jungle: huge groves of 5" diameter bamboo grow on what shoulder there is, bending under their own weight, creating an archway over the road, stems hacked back here and there to keep it under control. Pavement cracks, giving into the strength of tree roots and the force of water in the drainages. In every drainage of size, there is evidence of previous washout or landslides, successfully carving away at man´s attempt to tame and civilize.

Being on the road to Choroni made me think of a statistic a friend once told me. If civilization as we know it were to end, it would only take about 50 years for nature to reclaim her roadways: plants would re-colonize, tree and shrub roots cracking the pavement, inviting smaller plants to grow in the space. It all seems possible in a place like the rainforest; indeed, there is an abundance of life here, larger than we might ever realize.

Climbing up, up, up in the big baby blue painted Bluebird schoolbus, I was seated in a row of ladies in the very back of the bus. I felt strangely comforted by their presence, a warmth seemed to envelope me, the only foreigner on the bus, and I felt safe. And it turned out to be a good thing: I was completely ignorant to what lie ahead, the guidebook said nothing about the road we were setting out on.

The engine roared and groaned, churning as it pulled the bus up the road, curve after curve, the driver laying on the horn on every corner to warn oncoming traffic of our approach. It was loud and bellowing, like a train´s horn, impossible to ignore. On more than one curve, the driver had to back up and then go forward around the curve: we were just too long to make it on the first go. It was like nothing I have ever seen. Maui´s road to Hana or Glacier Park´s Going to the Sun Highway ain´t got nothing on Venezuela´s Road to Choroni!

It grew dark somwhere near the top of the pass. I could see the lights of Maracay, at the bottom of the steep drainage we had just traveled up. Thinking the worst was over, I let myself relax for a brief moment. Until the back end of the bus swung around yet another hairpin curve. Turns out the road is equally, if not more so, windy on the way down to the coast.

One of the ladies I was sitting next to had lugged an enormous mattress onto the bus, placing it in the aisle pretty much smack in front of me. There was more than one moment when I felt somewhat comforted knowing that I might have a soft landing if the driver overshot one of the gazillion hairpin curves.

Slowly the bus emptied as we descended down the mountain to the coast. I wanted to ask all of these people what they did, here in this seemingly isolated and remote community. Did they farm? I couldn't tell in the dark. I wasn't sure, but if I had to venture a guess, I would say that, like so many I had met here, they eeked out a living in whatever way they could.

It was two weeks until the Election. Signs plastered every vertical surface in Caracas and Maracay, for or against Chavez. But not in Choroni. Choroni, the tranquil beach town seemed far removed from the political--and even the social--quagmire in the rest of the country. Catering to tourists, countless hotels, restaurants, and retail shops seemed to thrive. The mood in Choroni was light and laid back. Laughter could be heard in the streets, the comical Venezuelan sense of humor and way with words reverberating, enveloping and inspiring me to talk to as many locals as possible. Entertained by the slang, I set out to learn as much of it as I could.

When I left for Venezuela, more than one of my level-headed friends questioned my judgement. Knowing Venezuela only for its politics, corruption, crazy President (yes, we all know what he thinks of our own president) and oil, people were pretty certain that as an American I would probably be a prime target for robbery and kidnapping. "And how is that different from being an American in any other country?", I would quip, sarcastically. In the moment, humor deflected the fear, but I have to admit, deep down I really was nervous to go there alone.

But like going anywhere, if you open your mind you won't be alone. If you smile and make an effort to connect with people, you'll almost always feel like you are safe. Sure there are bad apples, you just have to watch your back and use good judgement.

The arepas in Choroni were delightful. I have to admit that upon introduction, arepas were something I could live without. It is a somewhat bland white corn disk that is fried (in butter), split open and filled with a variety of ingredients: ham, cheese, sausage, mushrooms to name a few. Many Venezuelans eat arepas at every meal, making it by far the most popular national food. By the end of my trip, I had found the arepa to be quite agreeable. Cheap, and fast, it makes a perfect traveller's meal.

And they taste pretty good with a beer. Polar, the national brew, is served ice cold. The bottles are small, so they don't have time to get warm. Perfect for a lightweight like me! As much as Venezuelans love their beer, they love whiskey even more. They consume as much whiskey as the Irish per capita. A group of college kids showed up at Skydive Venezuela as part of a class project. Besides interviewing us (me in English so they could practice), they proceeded to imbibe numerous bottles of whiskey that evening, mixed with Coca-Cola (the other national beverage). It was my last night at the drop zone in Higuerote.

Choroni was settled 385 years ago, 2 km inland from the sea, for protection from the pirates that ravaged the coastline. Puerto Columbia lies north of Choroni, the original port serving the area. Now it is a backpacker's mecca, full of hip restaurants, posadas, and young crowds. Playa Grande lies to the east, a 10 minute walk from town.

Playa Grande, big and empty.

One of the many fishing boats in Puerto Colombia

Other more secluded beaches are accessible by boat, which can be hired for $30 or so roundtrip, the fare split among passengers. A few can also be reached by trail from Choroni.

I decided that I wanted to see the Road to Choroni in the daylight this time, so I caught the first bus I could up the mountain. In classical Latin American fashion, both the timetable for the bus, and the clarity of where the bus stop was actually located was sketchy at best. In typical American fashion, I found myself pacing, wondering if I was waiting in the right spot, on the right street. Asking a local for help didn't really help to clarify matters, which was my cue to take the lead of the residents of Choroni and just chill out. Really, could I possibly miss the groaning engine and bellowing horn of that giant blue bus?

I sat in the back, but not amongst the group of ladies this time. Instead, my co-passenger was a nine year old girl who boarded the bus about 3 miles outside of Choroni. She held in her tiny arms an enormous birthday cake with yellow and sky blue icing. It nearly dwarfed her as it balanced precariously on her lap. It was for her brother and she was taking it to school where there would be a fiesta for him. I kept smiling at her, and she hid behind thick, black hair: she was my polar opposite. I couldn't have been more different to her in outward appearance, really to anyone on that bus.

But instead of feeling out of place and uncomfortable and retreating to my iPod, I met the stares with eyes full of curiosity and admiration. In some strange way, I felt connected and like I could see a common tie between us, as people, the human race. That we are not so different; regardless of appearance or heritage, social class or culture, we are all striving for the same things in life, all wanting to fulfill the same basic needs. I felt such energy from everyone on that bus, it was invigorating. I had this strange sense that all the layers that hide our true, loving and kind selves had been peeled away, like the layers of an onion. I felt that I was in a place where I could be open and unaffected by society's pretenses, by pressures and expectations. For the first time ever travelling in Latin America, I was unashamed of where I came from because in that brief moment, the disparities no longer existed. We were all just people, living and breathing humans all here for the same purpose.

The road snaked south up the steep slope, back to Maracay, and my mind was quieted and contented by the amazing rainforest view out of the Bluebird's window. The little girl with the cake has disembarked long ago, and I was left to stare and observe on my own.

Knowing what lie ahead of me, on this adventure, for the winter, and for the rest of my days to come, I felt open to possibility and was instilled with a newfound faith and confidence--both in myself and in the world. Without a doubt in my mind, I would survive this bus journey on this crazy road, and the madness of Caracas. I would be safe skydiving, and I would try to recognize and live by the lessons it could teach me--just as all things in life have the potential to do. If we are open to it, even the smallest things can show us something new. Even this old creaky bus barreling down a backroad in the jungle brought me a level understanding I hadn't previously known.

Indeed, it is often the seemingly insignificant experiences that have the ability to repair, reshape, and ultimately redefine our point of view and freshen our perspective, like this simple trip to the coast did for me. I stepped off the bus in Maracay feeling alive and I reveled in the satisfaction of knowing that, for now, I was definitely travelling down the right road.

All in the Fly-mily

2007-12-08T07:49:00.000-08:00

Thirteen years ago, George Aldana flew to Puerto Escondido on a skydiving plane, and never left: it was a classic case of being “Puerto’ed”. His car sat at the drop zone in Cuautla, some 12 hours north, for four months before his mother came to terms with the fact that her son really wasn’t going to be on the next bus back to Mexico City, and finally went to retrieve the car herself.

With wild dreadlocks almost reaching his lower back, and a content, Buddha-like grin on his face at all times, George could be the poster boy for la vida tranquila at the beach in Mexico. Surf shorts, a t-shirt with the sleeves cut off, and flip-flops--mandatory beach attire--don't do much to set George apart from the local surf scene, but everyone in Puerto knows who George is. He'll make you the best Tamarind Drug in Mexico.

Bar Fly is located at the east end of Zicatela Beach, just where the main street curves slightly toward the beach, right past Carmen’s famous “Cafecito”. Bar Fly has bright red metal doors that open to the stairs; the familiar smiley face logo is painted in white, drawn with a trembling hand, x’s for eyes and a crumpled mouth. You climb the stairs to the open-air and breezy bar that overlooks the ocean; looking up, you will almost always have a good view of the stars. Poured-in-place concrete furniture lines the perimeter, and a row of high tables and stools fills the space between the bar and these comfy benches. On any given night, you can expect to see surfing or skydiving videos projected on the white wall toward the back of the room.

The Bar Fly owners are 3 friends: George, Julio, and Beto.

Recently a new father, Beto spends part of his year in Austria, with his wife Katarina. Beto was the owner of the original Bar Fly, back when it was located in the Adoquin, the brick paved street just west of Playa Principal. In it’s first location, Bar Fly was tremendously successful, but closed 2 years ago when Beto couldn't renew his lease. The building owner's son wanted to open his own bar, the fledgling "Blue Station" that is still there today.

After the 2 years hiatus, Bar Fly is back, and better than ever; in a prominent location on Playa Zicatela, you can expect it to be hopping even during low season.

Julio has been in Puerto for 10 years, also a transplant from Mexico City. He worked for the original Bar Fly in the adoquin, playing music and mixing drinks. When Beto wanted to reopen at the beach, Julio took the opportunity to be part owner. He also jumped--literally--at the chance to learn how to skydive on the beach.

On any given weekday, after last night's business is taken care of, you might find the three loading up into the skydiving truck and heading to the airport to make a jump. One by one, Skydive Cuautla/Puerto Escondido nabbed and trained the three friends how to solo skydive, each one taking the Accelerated Freefall Course and now jumping on their own.

A lawyer by training, Monique was also Puerto’d 3 years ago when she came for the Christmas holiday season. “I was at a point where I knew I didn’t want to be a lawyer, shortly after finishing school I knew it wasn’t for me,” she says. “I came to Puerto to figure out what I really wanted.” It wasn’t her first trip to the Oaxaquenan Coast, but it was the first time she considered staying. She stayed for one month, working for Beto at the original Bar Fly, but then ended up returning to Mexico to work and save some money so she could relocate to Puerto. After one month she came back to Puerto, and hasn’t looked back. She says her life in Puerto is simple, but very happy. “What more could a girl want?” she says. ”I have it all here; it’s beautiful and I am enjoying every moment.”

Many of these moments are spent running La Flayita (pronounced Fly-ita, a Spanglish word translating as "little Fly"), a joint venture between Beto, Katarina and Monique. It is a pink palapa bar, commonly referred to as the “little sister of Bar Fly”, with woven mats and funky floor furniture, including bean bag chairs and inflatable cushions covered in printed canvas, laid out on a brick floor. Wooden platforms sit right in front of the bar on the beach, with u-shaped rocking beds that are shaded by big umbrellas.

Closer to the water, chaise lounges can be rented for the day, with beachside service of food and drink. Serving up smoothies, juices, snacks, beers and cocktails in a chill atmosphere, La Flayita is by far the hippest bar on the sand.

They refer to themselves as the “Fly-mily”, and there really does seem to be a genuine sense of family, both in how they interact with each other, and in general how they intercept and in a way adopt their clientele. The vibe goes well with Puerto, which is described by many as “magical”. There is one thing for sure, while being served your fruity “Ticket to Fly”, or your famous “Tamarind Drug”, made with Tamarind pulp, mescal, and crushed ice, and always 2 for 1, you can expect to feel right at home while away from home. The Fly-mily wouldn’t have it any other way.

Photos, courtesy of Daniel "Pana" Angulo, Top to Bottom: George Aldana; Bar Fly; Beto's Family; Skydive Puerto Escondido; La Flayita, Sepia; La Flayita's Pink Exterior; La Flayita from the beach; The Fly-mily with Bar Fly-esque drawing of Beto and Katarina's baby the day it was born (in Austria).

Turkey Bowl, with Salsa on the Side

2007-12-04T17:10:00.000-08:00

Once or so every month for the past six months, the subject of The Turkey Bowl somehow found its way into the conversation: A Brownsville epic, the long-running tradition (14 years) of a usually muddy and always gnarly football game in the park the day after Thanksgiving.

Ryan's eyes would brighten and come alive, as talk of the game conjured up memories of Turkey Bowls past. He described to me in detail and with great excitement the rules and traditions of the game; perhaps the most important one being that in order to play in the Turkey Bowl, the player-to-be must party at least one night before game day. He would tell me about the MVP prize ball signed by all the players, the half time show, the video that would be made and watched after the game--all details a real football fan would want to know. I, on the other hand, wanted to know about the food and where we would stay. What we would eat and how many people might be there.

Needless to say, our Thanksgiving plans were set (in August, mind you) once Keli and Reeber committed to holding the annual extravaganza at their awesome property and tree nursery in Brownsville, Oregon, a few miles southeast of Corvallis.

And so we made our plans. Ryan started panicking about his football fitness level; I started panicking about what to cook and bake. I was told to bring our favorite dish--gulp, how does one decide that? Not able to narrow it down, nor stop myself from going on a small-scale cooking binge that would make Martha proud, I decided to bring several. With two tarts, one pie, a huge mixed greens salad, and my friend Anna's famous Mediterranean Dip packed into insulated coolers, my nurturing instinct took over, and I asked Ryan at the very last second if he felt like we were bringing enough food. He laughed at me. I took it as a yes.

Thanksgiving Day was incredibly beautiful. Sunny and cold, the air crisp and light: the quintessential fall day was perfect for travelling.

We were some of the last folks to arrive. The majority had shown up Wednesday night and were in fairly rough shape from a big night in the Scar Bar, where it all takes place. The bar is in a huge converted garage, complete with wood stove, pool table, bar, kegerator, couches, and a Musician's corner with virtually every instrument under the sun: it was plain to see that this was a very musically talented crowd.

Dinner for 30 was served at the Scar Bar, lit up by candles and warmed by the crackling fire in the wood stove. Every flat surface was converted into tables, and we all lined up to pass through the amazing smorgasbord of food. And then we ate. And ate. And ate. And drank a few cocktails too. Did I mention that we ate? Then the music started, and the party really got going, until early the next morning.

Talk of the next day's big game was peppered with doubt, with some key players having second thoughts. Without them, there would be no game. NO Turkey Bowl?! Well, wasn't this the reason we all came here (for some, it was)? The actual holiday itself, the Turkey, the pies--they were all an excuse for two football teams' worth of grown men to go chase each other and slide around in the mud.

When it came down to it, the fate of the game lie in Reeber's hands. After several hours of negotiations the next afternoon, lots of begging, and Reeber almost signing the forfeiture document that was drafted in the wee hours of the morning, the pivotal moment came down to when I, little ol' non-football fan me, played the card that wound up sealing the deal.

Before I tell you the outcome, I must digress. I met Reeber and Keli over the summer in Corvallis at Brooks' and Alexis' house. I had made my Fresh Salsa, with heirloom tomatoes, plenty of garlic and other additions from the Corvallis Farmer's market. Having mentioned to Ryan that my salsa was semi-famous in some circles, I was a bit nervous to serve it to a whole crowd of people I barely knew. Keli tasted it, loved it, then told me it would be Reeber who would be the real authority, as he was a bit of a salsa connoissuer. From the first bite onward, it was Reeber who sang praises the loudest, and practically ended up drinking the juice when it was finished. Keli told me the night before, after Thanksgiving dinner, that my salsa is a serious obsession and told me that it even comes up in contexts that are unmentionable on this blog (!).

And so, I knew I had something to bargain with, knowing how much Reeber loves my salsa. In the forfeiture document, we wickedly included, in addition to giving up bragging rights, a "Reeber can never eat Val's Salsa ever again" clause. He gasped in horror. I then sweetened the prospect of playing some football by promising to make a batch of the red gold after the game if he would play.

He caved.

After some frenzied preparations of packing up game attire, the keg (!), referee outfits, and the entire sideline crew, we headed into Brownsville to Pioneer Park. It was perfect weather for a football game, a little chilly but clear and gorgeously sunny.

Kick off was set for 3:05 pm. It was to be a flag football game, but I was assured that it would be rough in spite of this.

And it was. To make a long story short, the Turkey Bowl ended in a tie, 28 all due to a broken nose near the end of the fourth quarter. Luckily we had a doctor on the team who came to Joe's aid. After a trip to the emergency room, and a few beers later, he was doing alright.

After a big batch of salsa, highlights of the game and lots of laughs watching the video, Turkey Bowl 2007 was over. It was a smashing success.

Thanks to Reeber. Without his unfaltering dedication to my Fresh Salsa, the Turkey Bowl 2007 might never have happened, and I would have been left wondering for another whole year what it was really all about.

Photos courtesy of Jon Bell, top to bottom: Scar Bar in festive fashion; Reeber almost forfeiting; The teams, post-game. Check out Jon's Blog for more photos, and plenty of fantastic writing.

Winter is Here. And so am I.

2007-12-03T09:57:00.000-08:00

I've been a little quiet lately.

Actually, I have started several posts, but spread myself too thin and haven't managed to finish any of them. I have decided that Val's Ventures needn't be solely about my adventures in the wild, my travels abroad, or my insatiable wanderlust. It is time, as a testament to my newfound lifestyle, to let this blog be about my everyday life. Which, upon examination is every bit as exciting as skydiving in Mexico or watching for forest fires in the wilderness.

Just in a different way. As I sit and watch the pouring rain melt off the 20" of snow that fell over the past week (welcome to winter in the Cascades), and procrastinate going to work, I get downright teary eyed when I think of all that I have done over the past few months. Months of domestic productivity, unprecedented thus far in my seasonal lifestyle. I've cooked and baked, almost frenetically, never tiring of it--surely making up for lost time. Pear tarts, apple pies, Mega Lemon cakes; summer salads with Hippie Dust viniagrette, chile enchiladas, and Thai-grilled chicken breasts. I've gardened and pruned and landscaped. Built porches and fences and outdoor sleeping/yoga platforms. I've painted and redecorated, organized and revamped. In the middle, I've mountain biked like a fiend, taught yoga and practiced yoga religiously. I've even snuck in some dreaded runs in awful weather, just to get out of the house. And, we camped nearly every weekend all summer long. I've written, written, and written, recording it all, in Ride Logs, journals, and stories I would love to publish.

I've cared for pets--2 dogs and a cat--despite allergies and slight aversion to the messes they make. I've nurtured and nourished the boy, my soulmate and dear love of my life, whom is responsible for all of this lovely domestication. Who is the reason I live in the most darling little cabin in the shadow of Mount Hood, and is the man who finally reigned me in enough to settle me down a little. Dear Ryan, you are the love of my life.

And so it is.
Winter is here, and so am I.

I'm cooking and baking, still feverishly. It's walking downstairs to print something, then suddenly finding myself in the kitchen baking a cake instead. Now it's cross-country skiing, epic style. Some mountain biking. Knitting and lots and lots of yoga. It's shoveling snow and making wreaths. And a cranberry popcorn garland for my tiny potted pine tree. It's Spanish coffees with my dear neighbor and best of the best Anna. It's getting stuck in the driveway for several days, with nowhere to go anyway. It's interior design instead of landscaping.

These are the adventures that sustain my soul, kindle my spirit and nurture my mind. Yes, travelling is wonderful and I will never shake the wanderlust that has led me down so many perfect paths. But it is the everyday doings that really speak to me, that inspire and guide me to live each day as fully as I can. Always busy, always inspired. And always creating.

To December, lovely December, with all of it's projects, parties, and delicious food!

Photos, top to bottom: Dinner Party + Lassie; French Onion Soup; Chimney Cleaning; Eggplant Parmesan; Cross Country Skiing; Pork Tenderloin with apples and cornbread stuffing, action shot.

Goodbyes, Homecomings, and One Expensive Glass of Wine

2007-05-24T13:36:00.000-07:00

I wrote this on November 1, 2006 en route to South America. I always meant to post it to my blog, and have finally remembered to do it. Enjoy!

A crowd of family, friends, and lots of excited kids gathered around the TSA Security checkpoint tonight. Holding banners, signs, balloons, it was clear that the welcoming party was waiting for someone very important to arrive. I stood outside of the Wine Bar at the Rose City Cafe, clutching my carry-on, a bit shell-shocked from having just said my own goodbyes but caught up in the infectious excitement of what appeared to be a long awaited homecoming. For someone who loves to come and go, and detests stagnation of any kind, I still find the act of leaving very challenging. It's emotional, to leave loving relationships, safe places, and familiar faces to land somewhere where you might not find any of the above. Or you might find all of the above and more.

Traveling is about taking chances. It's about change and discomfort, new perspectives and customs, different cultures and dangers. But it's also more than that: it's about how you cope with the differences and inconveniences, how you dig deep to find that you are resourceful, capable, and incredibly adaptable. Most importantly though, even if it happens only in hindsight, you learn who you are in the process; growth is inevitable, and each experience that takes place outside of your perceived safety zone affects you more than you could imagine possible.

With my head spinning, full of these thoughts, questioning why it is that I work like a dog for an entire year only to spend it all on seeing the world, I make my way to the tail end of the growing crowd. I can tell by the shreeks and rhythmic clapping that the guest of honor is about to arrive. I see a TV camera person in the crowd, confirming my suspicions that it is someone important. As the thundering applause grows louder, the crowd bursts into song and "America the Beautiful" is sung loudly and flawlessly; I know then that it must be a soldier coming home from Iraq. I can tell not only by the patriotic vibes coming from his receiving party, but by the sense that this is his family, his close friends waiting for him. How long has he been gone I wonder. Then I think what kind of horrors did he witness, did he have to participate in? How many of his compadres won't come home, won't have this tremendous welcome home?

I finally see him. He is very, very young. Stocky and very fit, like a soldier should look. Strong and capable as you would picture a Marine to be. But his eyes, they gave it all away. The innocence was gone, and he looked older than his years. More wise, but also tired. So very tired.

Tears welled up in my own eyes, as so many questions raced through my mind. Juxtaposed with my relatively silly wonderings of to travel or not to travel, the plight of the soldier seemed so much more real, significant. Here I was, standing there, free to go. To go somewhere amazing and exotic to do fun things and meet great people, not to be deployed to the Middle East into combat far away from home and loved ones. That my circumstances, the direct result my own personal choices, allow me to be who I am. Free and happy to travel and live as I wish, where I choose. And then it dawned on me that this was exactly the answer. I am stepping outside of the box, leaving comfort and safety to see new places and hopefully grow as a person along the way; having fun but working hard is sometimes a process that isn't always the easiest way to live in a society full of expectations and pressures and Social norms that can be difficult to ignore.

I do it not just to be crazy and young and irresponsible (although that is sometimes a factor, don't get me wrong), not to avoid or run away from the past or future. I do it for one simple reason: because I CAN. It's a choice I choose to make, and live with, even if it means living in a tent for the summer and driving a $400 car, that faithfully got me to 3 different jobs all season long. For me, it isn't a sacrifice to live this way: it is the key to being able to live how I best know how, and to continue down the path that makes me happiest.

Though not a patriotic person at all, ever, I felt inexplicably grateful to this man. I secretly thanked the young soldier for his personal sacrifices; despite my political beliefs and sentiments over the Iraq war I thanked him for choosing to do what he does, giving up his freedoms, knowing that I still have all of mine. I smiled at the thought that yes, yes I am taking advantage of my freedoms, and living to my own standards. My OWN hopes for a fulfilling life. Then I proceeded to walk into that Wine Bar and order the most expensive glass of wine I have ever enjoyed, even if it was the cheapest one on the menu. Salud! to life, freedom, and Venezuela.

Sheep Hill

2007-04-26T08:53:00.000-07:00

Perched on one of the tallest mountains over the Salmon River in Idaho's Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness, Sheep Hill Lookout made for a cozy little home for 5 weeks at summer's end. Scanning for fires, hauling water, chopping wood, stoking the wood stove: It was life whittled down to its simplest, most basic routines. It was also a humbling experience, being part of the food chain, alone and exposed in a raw environment hours from any town or sign of civilization, one that made me feel vulnerable and at times very small and insignificant; at other times, it was empowering and inspiring beyond words.
The solitude was sometimes frightening. Alone with my thoughts, fears, emotions for weeks on end, venting only to a small white dog, I was surprised by some of the feelings that surfaced. Here I was, being paid to LIVE, to live on a mountaintop where my nearest neighbors were 3 bighorn sheep and Tim on Oregon Butte Lookout, the horizon to my west. A seemingly easy task turned out to be a significant undertaking: the living was easy. Being alone with myself however was the most challenging thing I have ever done.

The first big lesson I learned was that life on the lookout is all about routines. In the beginning I sort of aimlessly wandered through my days, having all the time in the world to accomplish the tasks necessary for survival. Despite the obvious serenity and peace that should have come from being alone in a beautiful place, I felt unsettled and antsy. I started to feel depressed and lonely, like I had no purpose there, and no one to talk to about it. One day while at my wit's end trying to lit a fire in the woodstove with strong wind gusts blowing down the chimney, scattering my pile of tinder, I found a scrap of Karla's paper in a tin of paper's meant to be burned. Upon digging, I found more. They were written on the familiar gridded yellow sheet of the Forest Service's IDEAS pads: To-Do lists. She had written down even the most rudimentary, ordinary tasks, such as eating, going to the spring for water. Writing. Yoga. So this is how she had done it, stayed sane up there all those years. A little direction and the satisfaction of accomplishing something on a daily basis must have been her saving grace.

From that point on, I followed her lead. I wrote myself lists each day, and crossed things off as I did them. I felt much better about being on Sheep Hill and started to get used to being there. Stinky and I fell into a routine, and it started to feel normal to be living at 8500 feet on a mountaintop.

The second big lesson was learning not to feel guilty about not working all of the time--not actually going to work everyday but still getting paid was a new concept. There were tasks that were considered to be work, and occasionally my head would feel like it was spinning 360 degrees—“like the exorcist baby”, to quote my fellow lookout friend and mentor Rusty—trying to get a view of where the lightning was striking around me, near and far. I would turn the radio off when it got too close. Hairs stood up on the back of my neck, and I could feel the buzz in the air. My pencil would fly as I marked down azimuths in the direction of the strike, so that I could monitor it later, even weeks later in the event of a 'holdover' fire. Sometimes a struck tree can smolder for days before flaring up, waiting for the right conditions: low relative humidity, high temperature or a good gust of wind. These are the fires that I feared most. What if I forgot about them and they just raged because I wasn't monitoring the area closely enough? What if I missed one and it got out of control before anyone could get there?

The third big lesson was learning to let go of irrational fear and paranoia. Just because I felt small and vulnerable, didn't necessarily mean that I was. Having confidence when alone in the mountains isn’t easy after the coddling and false sense of security we get from living amongst large groups of people in our cities and towns, but the reality is, most of us are safer in the wilderness than on the streets of America. Logically speaking, bears aren't likely to attack, the lone hunter on horseback probably isn't a rapist or serial killer, and if I take care when hiking I am not going to slip and break my ankle and be stranded out in the Wilderness with no help on the way. Not letting the mind go out of control with such Hollywood influenced thoughts was essential to maintaining whatever shreds of sanity I had. Being alone in the mountains is an indescribable experience: really truly being alone in real and true peace and quiet can be enlightening. I had many, many moments where I felt I could see everything and nothing, when not seeing a lick of civilization made me feel somehow more connected to it, more connected to myself. To life, big and small. Seeing icy trees and snowy mountaintops after the first winter storm (in September!), against a backdrop of the purest blue sky felt like the closest thing to heaven that I could fathom; in fact, it was my own private little heaven that I got to live in every single day.

The second winter storm was like an arctic blizzard. I hadn't even thought to bring any other footwear besides Chacos and running shoes, a testament to my gradual departure from being a woods-wise woman over the years, so getting around in the snow was sketchy at best. Going to the spring was out of the question for a few days; really going anywhere was next to impossible. (I have to thank Karla right here and now for hauling all that extra water over the summer, because the stockpile saved me! I am pretty sure I left a few cubies there for next year). With a radius of about 50 feet, activities were limited, and low, low clouds shrouded the tower like a fluffy down comforter, limiting visibility, and making for some claustrophobic days. A lookout is all windows, so you feel very affected by the weather conditions because you just can’t escape them.

After three days of living in a white out and doing every possible art project under the sun, including sewing a doggie jacket out of a fleece blanket, and being completely amused that it looked hauntingly like an Elfin cloak from Lord of the Rings, both in color and style, the clouds lifted and the world opened up again. It was magical: the visibility was crisp, and I could see mountain ranges I had never been able to make out, all covered in icy white. About 2 feet of snow had fallen, and although no more was in sight with blue skies overhead, I couldn’t help but wonder if I would ever get out of there. It was only the middle of September, and my supervisor Josh had told me on the radio that I would be up there until October 1, that this was just the first snow and that it always melted this early in the season. All I could do was believe him.

As it turned out, Josh was right--like any good Idaho boy, he knew all too well the ways of the weather in the mountains. We were back to clear skies and warmer temps, and ended up staying for almost 2 more weeks. We hiked out in T shirts on a perfect fall day.

It really was an unforgettable experience. I can honestly say it was one of the most amazing things I have ever done--on par with travelling really, and I only had to go out my back door to get there.

Photos, top to bottom: Sheep Hill LO; Karla and Me; Bandit's and Stinky Lakes; Lookout Drying Rack; The spring with 5 gallon "cubies" used to carry water; Icy Lookout; The Bitterroot Mountains, NE of Sheep Hill; Inside the Tower; Sunset

Just Some Photos

2007-04-24T09:37:00.000-07:00

Zicatela Yoga.

Ricardo throwing the drogue.

Oliver, Hans and Me, Christmas Boogie, 2006. Photo by Buzz.

Panita + Surfer, Playa Zicatela

Kelly, Jeanne, and Erdie. Puerto Escondido, November 2006.

Gringas Locas, November 2006. Photo by Pana.

Pana Swoop, Cuautla.

Erdie in the Sky with Diamonds. November, 2006. Photo by Pana.

Stairs to Carrizalillo Beach, Puerto Escondido.

Amen. Photo by Pana.

Birds of a Feather

2007-04-19T10:31:00.000-07:00

He carefully preened his tail feathers, adjusting and smoothing until each one met his standards. Perched on the edge of a white plastic table, squawking and folding his wings into place, he approached the coconut and began to peck at the milky white flesh. He ate with as much care as he groomed.
Tono was grass green, with a bright yellow beak and stunning turquoise tail feathers. For a parrot, he was huge, standing at least a foot tall, not including his 10” tail feathers, and the biggest parrot I had ever seen.
Birds fascinate me; pet birds that live outside of a cage even more. Tonio had full range of Restaurant Cocodrillos, yet he seemed content to stay on the table—a stomping grounds that was a far cry from his native Amazon, in terms of both quality and quantity. Sure he was at the beach, and life was probably pretty good, but I had to wonder why he didn’t try to test those wings and check out some of the tropical foliage that would have been so reminiscent of his native lands.
We were sitting on Playa La Ropa in Zihuatanejo, comfortably nested under an umbrella for about an hour before we noticed Tono in the restaurant near the bar area. His buddies—pint-sized versions of himself—were also free ranging parrots. They stood on a perch strung between two palm trees, their cage hung behind them with the door open so they could come and go as they pleased.
Restaurant staff played with Tonio as they passed by, tickling him as he lie on his back, squawking and clawing at them with enormous and slightly intimidating claws. The squirrel—who didn’t have a name—descended the palm tree and hastily began to eat his half of the coconut, seemingly in a hurry. Somewhere to be, I suppose.
As we were getting ready to leave, just before sunset, I glanced over my shoulder to the open-air bar, only to see a huge pelican standing there, as if he was waiting to order. “Pancho doesn’t like to fish,” said the waiter, “he is waiting to be fed his dinner.” Pancho the pelican was certainly demanding and seemed impatient about being served: every 10 seconds or so, he would let out a great squawk, his huge bill opening wide, flapping his enormous wings, apparently trying to expedite the service. I wanted to tell him, “Guey, you are in Mexico. Tranquilo,” but somehow I didn’t think it would calm his nerves any. Tonio just looked at him, as if he were shaking his head, with a slightly disgusted look on his face. I don’t think they are friends.

Snippets

2007-04-11T14:59:00.000-07:00

I have always been somewhat of a collector of quotes. I scribble them on napkins, in notebooks, on junk mail envelopes, and in my journal when I come across one that inspires me in that moment. They are everywhere, things people say that evoke my imagination, make me think about something in a different way; even yoga class seems to be full of them. Instructors have a way of finding or sensing exactly what it is that I need to hear. Since it would be rude to pull out my notebook and start writing, I am left to exercise my brain trying to remember the quote by saying it 12 times fast, while upside down in headstand. It is a tactic that isn’t always successful as it is very distracting to what is supposed to be a very focused activity.
Friends often come up with the best, whether they are clichés that somehow still manage to ring true, a regional dialect I have never heard, or just heart-warming advice given in the form of a familiar quote.

Here is a mixed bag of current favorites that came from all different kinds of sources:

“Leave the party while you are still having a good time”
(all time fave)

“Friends are More Important than Money”

“Do what you believe in. Believe in what you do. All else is a waste of time and energy” (Yoga Class Classic)

“And finally, did you wait for the end of your life to decide what your life should be about? Did you wait until it was too late?” (another yoga quote)

“Do something everyday that scares you” (unkown)

“An adventure is something that is happening when you wish it wasn’t”

“Just fly and be free” (my friend Buzz)

“Live an ordinary life in an extraordinary way” (my friend Whitney)

“Breathe. Breathe deeply. Exhale.” (Yoga, of course)

"Life is a book; those that don't travel read only a page" (unknown)

"Show your Love" (a pin I saw on someone's hat last week)

I dedicated an entire section of my notebook to my friend Woody, who spews great quotes with ease. The title of his special pages in my tattered Dewey Howard notebook is simply “Woody-isms”.

Here are a few:

“Ass, grass or gas: Nobody rides for free”
(Bear in mind he is a skydiving pilot)

“Plan for the worst, hope for the best”
(while he was teaching me to pack my parachute)

“Puerto Sucks!”
(inside joke, referring to Puerto Escondido, Mexico, which doesn’t suck at all)

“Never draw attention to yourself”
(coming from a man with more than 10,000 skydives, yet many
people here don’t even know he is a skydiver [because he is always flying the plane and never bragging about jumps he’s done])

Words are powerful. Writing is an outlet, an escape, an adventure; stringing together the right sequence of words is often a formidable task that takes a lot of work. I have a lot of respect for a well written one-liner that requires only a few well-chosen words to convey the message.

I would love to hear some of yours! Feel free to comment and leave your own snippet.

Swell City

2007-04-10T11:03:00.000-07:00

A big swell is arriving today, the product of a storm in Chile a few days ago. The timing couldn’t be better, really—a good spring cleaning is what Zicatela Beach needed after a tough week accommodating the hordes that descended upon her during Semana Santa. The powerful, vicious waves are flooding the beach, washing away the filth of a long, hard week of Spring Breakers.

More than 30 feet tall, these waves are serious. And can only be surfed by the serious. Coco Nogales, the local surf hero, cruises behind his Red Bull wave-runner, through the immense foam pile and up and over the next wave before it breaks. We lose him for a second, as the wave peaks, taller than the horizon line, hiding everything behind it. The wall moves toward shore, seemingly in slow motion, a hang time that seems in possible for such a huge quantity of water. A froth builds on top of the wave, signaling it is about to crash. Down, down, down, a thundering roar and it all spreads out as fast as it swelled, rushing inland, pushing all the water in front of it way up onto the beach, almost reaching us. We are sitting on the highest bank around, and the water is pooling 2 feet below us.

Coco reappears. He is there right behind the first wave of the set, being towed into the next monstrosity coming our way. He lets go of the reins and the wave-runner clears out, going behind the wave to shadow the surfer as he makes his way down the tube. Carving graceful but powerful turns up and down the face of the wave, Coco makes it look way too easy. Nicholas and I both have chills watching him: partly out of utter admiration, but also out of slight fear for him. But thankfully he pops up and over the crest, before it breaks, landing safely behind with the wave-runner close-by. Getting worked by one of these waves would not be fun.

Camera and video set-up, Daniel is watching, artistic eye scanning the sea. ESPN is here, right next to us, filming away, huge cameras with even huger lenses. The shots are amazing, but I feel lucky to be here on the Mexican Pipeline seeing it live rather than on TV.
We watch for awhile, now there are three of them out there, in and out they go, sometimes making it out, and sometimes getting thrashed in the pile. I always thought that big wave surfers were hard-core; seeing them in the flesh confirms that notion.

Later in the day, the waves are calmer, but the winds have picked up. White caps dance on the surface, as far out as the eye can see. The water is still far up on the beach, threatening to wipe out the restaurants lining the shore. I love the stark difference between this week and last week: Hundreds of umbrellas and beach loungers crowed the shore, a mess of beer bottles and people lounging beneath them. Today, the beach is completely vacated. Not one umbrella remains, just sand and a clean slate. The emptiness is perfect; it suits feeling in the air, of a strange calm during the storm. I take advantage of the moment to let myself be empty as well, of thoughts, worries and fears. To just be here, observing, in the moment.
I can't wait to see what remains after the Swell. How the beach has changed, what is left if it gets bigger. Daniel said last night as we were watching the beginnings of the swell how small he felt sitting here with all that power out there. I couldn't agree more: it is humbling to realize you are definitely part of the food chain, definitely always at the mercy of Mother Nature. Always knowing that in one second, a huge wave could take us all out--and there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.

I write this looking out over the sea, from a second story terrace. Sitting cross-legged on my yoga mat, a cool breeze steady on my face, I watch our bright orange Performance Designs flag we use as a wind sock flapping in the strong wind--a strong onshore wind. I smile to myself as I look at our landing area. We can't even land our parachutes on the beach today: there is no beach to land on. It's kind of a nice feeling really, knowing that just like that, our 'purpose' for being here is negated by a storm that happened in Chile a few days ago, a real reminder of how dynamic life really is, how interconnected we all really are: processes, people, and places. That for every action there is a reaction. Finding those connections, being malleable with them, like the water I am watching, constantly moving and changing; welcoming them, observing and appreciating the dynamic nature of our world: This is living. Nothing else really matters.

Photos: By Daniel Angulo, top to bottom:
Dangerous Beach: No Swimming!; Vacate the Beach; Through the foam pile; Coco tears it up; Camera Crews galore; Arch View; Hilary and Me; Mamasitas; Great Sunset

Fences

2007-03-22T08:30:00.000-07:00

Broken down, old cedar fences: testament to a will to tame the landscape. Once functional, their purpose was to divide and define a harsh and surely unforgivable place: the high desert in Central Oregon couldn't have been an easy place to live. The fences line the flat and dry swathes of land, separating one property from it's neighbors and creating personal space: a simple solution to the problem of boundaries in such a boundless territory.

The California gold rush of 1849 galvanized America's already in progress westward migration. The west was a frontier so vast and wild, but enticing incentives to inhabit land west of the Mississippi motivated young families and pioneers to leave the comparatively tame environment of the east and venture out into new places: promises to strike it rich were enough for many to pull up the stakes and head west.

I think of these parties traveling west on the Oregon Trail, or any of the overland routes that crossed the Intermountain West, as I drive east along the Columbia River to The Dalles, Oregon, the official End of the Oregon Trail. In 1849 alone, an estimated 30,000 people migrated from east to west; all told, over the course of about 25 years, at least 650,000 pioneers would make the journey, the majority heading to California and Oregon, and the rest to Montana, Colorado and Utah. I pass by the small, dilapidated and unassuming park on Union Street in The Dalles that marks the end of the road for many on their journey nearly everyday on my way to the house where I am landscaping. This historical landmark is signed by a very plain painted brown sign with yellow lettering, simple and functional I suppose, but it seems a bit lackluster for such an important jump-off point for so many who came west.

Once reaching The Dalles, until about 1845, the wagon trains had little choice but to make a raft of pine logs, buy a raft from enterprising Indians, or rent a bateaux from the Hudson's Bay Company for around $80 in order to penetrate the inhospitable Columbia River Gorge. From The Dalles, the parties had huge rapids to navigate, fierce and often relentless winds that frequently overturned their delicate craft, and one stretch of mandatory portages before reaching Fort Vancouver more than 70 miles downstream. Once at the Fort, a busy fur-trading company, the pioneers were persuaded to settle in the Willamette Valley, namely in Oregon City, Oregon’s first capital.

The Barlow Road—a toll road with a charge of $5.00 plus .10 for every head of cattle—was cut into the southern flanks of Mt. Hood in 1846, providing an alternate, if not particularly inviting, route to the Willamette Valley. One out of every four parties elected to risk drowning in the Columbia over battling 150 miles worth of treacherous road conditions and freezing rain, snow and ice while crossing the Cascades to reach Oregon City. It served as the only route from The Dalles to the western Oregon valleys until the early 20th century.

My fifth grade teacher had a computer game on floppy disk called “The Oregon Trail” that we used to play on Apple IIe’s. For 1985, this game was pretty high-tech and innovative. As leader of the wagon train, you had to plan, buy rations and supplies, deal with Indians, having to hunt and gather, or change the random broken axle on the party’s covered wagon for a major expedition, an undertaking that was actually quite challenging for the young mind.

I remember The Dalles place name from that game, vividly as if it were yesterday. The fact that I ended up living 20 miles away is slightly ironic; the fact that I know virtually nothing of this aspect of Oregon’s history after living here is slightly disturbing. Growing up in Idaho, I learned of Lewis and Clark everywhere I turned, as the very town I lived in was on the direct route. But thinking of the Oregon’s role in the settling of the West, I realize that it was an important destination back then; to know that there is such a disconnect from that time, such a dramatic departure, I can’t help but feel sad. Could such an important event in such an exciting time in the history of a young nation be forgotten so easily?

In the 4th grade, I won my school’s History Bee. My winning question was related to mining: “In which type of rock was the first gold discovered in Idaho?” The answer: Quartz. E.D. Pierce founded the very town I grew up in 1860 when he discovered the first gold in Idaho.

Traveling southwest on Highway 197 to Central Oregon, I try to imagine what it must have been like to be on one of those wagon trains only 150 years ago. Perhaps seeing the forbidding Cascades stretched out on the horizon, with snowcapped volcanoes, taller than anything around, looming in the distance was enough to want to make one settle in the comparatively mellow flatlands. The fence lines tell their story, and though the settlements have long been abandoned, they have survived.

The fences are rotting, burned in places. Cedar posts—I realize upon further investigation that they are actually juniper—are still in the shape of the tree from which they were cut.
They remind me that life here right now in the West is but one line in a long, long eventful script, that we are not the first characters here, and that our role is not even very important but perhaps falls somewhere in the middle of the dialogue. To separate ourselves into our own act, to focus only on what we are doing in the play, we are missing out on a huge part of the story—one from which we can learn a great deal about who we are, how people interacted with the landscape to make where we live what it is today, and how we might be able to improve upon how it was done the first time around.

Cresting the hill just before 197 intersects with Hwy. 97, I can see down into the Deschutes River Valley. Old homesteads dot the landscape, and I feel an inexplicable nostalgia settle into my bones. Driving on this paved road, in this comfy car to Smith Rock for a hard weekend of climbing—something that two hours ago felt like a big journey, an adventure—seems too easy. I give a nod of thanks to the miles and miles of old fencing, and think that perhaps it’s time to start living with a greater understanding of the bigger picture, learn more about the place I am in. Maybe it is finally time to start tearing down some of my own fences, as stubborn and solid as they are, and try to carve out my space here in a different way—one that is more open and accessible, that will weather the storm and survive the test of time better than these old fences have. Settling here now, now that the living is easy and comfortable might be more about letting the place settle me, letting the place teach me something about who I am and who I am to become.

Signs of Life

2007-01-28T16:02:00.000-08:00

Passionate and inspired: words I once chose to describe myself when asked by a friend. I was supposed to choose only one, but felt that I wasn't either adjective more than the other. Right now I am feeling neither passionate nor inspired. I have nothing to write about even though my life is fairly interesting. Where I am, what I am doing, how I landed here. Even right now I am 17,000 feet over the mountains of Oaxaca state flying in a skydiving plane, going to our home Drop Zone in the mountains. The view is amazing, but I feel stifled and stuck, ready to move on. My instinct tells me to leave. My heart tells me to stay, to make a difference here, and in myself. I listen to which calling?

My passion for skydiving both grows and withers, all in one day. The thrill of leaving the door, huge grin on my face, staring into the eyes of a good friend or a tandem customer who is experiencing skydiving for the first time is indescribable; to watch someone fly through the air, to grab their hands, kiss their cheek, then to see their canopy open, watching them float, spiraling down, down, down and then land next to them on the beach is sheer bliss. To experience all of this in Mexico--at the beach no less--is a bonus, the icing on an already delicious cake.

But all of the emotion, the relief of surviving, the long, glorious exhale when I land safely on the ground is thwarted somewhat by the burden of working with my passion, to be so absorbed by something and allowing it to permeate all aspects of my life. I sometimes feel too obligated, tied down to this place, this job, which sounds ridiculous really. Seeing the written words, I am almost laughing out loud. After all, not a day goes by that I am not reminded of the freedom I have, by an envious soul who wants to escape the confines of society and live like a skydiver, live like the free-spirit the human animal wants to be. To be living, not just alive. A beautiful soul told me last week that she wishes everyone had the sparkle in their eye that I have, eyes full of life and wonder, still impressionable enough to be amazed by everyday miracles.

To keep myself from stagnating, from becoming too complacent, I have to remind myself how beautiful the little things in life really are. This plane I am in. Watching my dear co-workers gear up to jump out of the plane as I, too lazy and comfortable to join them, sit here and write. Not a bad office to work in; the view of Popo the Volcano is stunning. I feel myself start to relax, and despite the onset of a wicked hypoxic headache, I am content.

An extremely wise person gave me some sage advice yesterday: Let it all go in one ear and out the other. All of the stress of cultural differences and work ethics and organizational skills poles apart from my own, I have to just let them go. For my own sanity. And know that if I can't be the head, I can be the neck and hopefully help guide the head in the right direction, supporting it and keeping it on straight. Not an easy task at the beach in Mexico, but I suppose I am up for the challenge.

Red light, two minutes to the Drop Zone. I scurry to tie down valuables, as once the door opens it will stay opened until we land. And then I sit and I watch groups of 2 get in line for the door. Bundled up in hats and sweatshirts, my friends do one last check of each other's gear. Yellow light and the door rolls open, cold air and wind come rushing in--a wake up call like no other. For a moment I long to be jumping with them instead of landing in the plane. But seeing them poised in the doorway when the green light comes on makes it worthwhile to be watching, a scene that has become somewhat commonplace to me, yet I know in the back of my mind that what I am doing here is special. I am lucky, and watching these skydivers leave the plane reminds me that this moment, right now, is worth more than I can even comprehend. That I may not know the value of it much later, when I've had time to reflect and let it all sink in.

All out, I watch the land pass by as Woody dives down, losing altitude. I see the DZ, and the sketchy gravel runway that barely passes as a road, let alone a landing strip for a Twin Otter. We wind down, my friends have landed their parachutes long ago and have probably started packing them by now. It is quiet except for the whine of the engines and the wind blowing in through the open door, and it is beautiful. A silence I needed to hear; alone with my thoughts for 2 minutes, I realize that for a change I am grateful I didn't jump, because removing myself from the scene and being a spectator helped me see that where I am right now is a great place to be. That my inspiration can come not only from the doing, but from seeing what I do from a different perspective.

Powerlines ahead, feels like we are going to take them out. But Woody finds that place just above them, just low enough to come in on final approach. There is not a lot of room for error, but Woody pulls it off beautifully and we glide across the gravel and the washboards as though we were landing on the smoothest tarmac in Mexico. We taxi across the zone, a sun-baked field in the shadow of Popo. Another weekend of work lies ahead, but I don't want to stop writing: I suddenly feel like myself again, plenty to say, feelings on the surface, ready to be exposed and shared.

Woody looks back at me and says in typical Woody fashion, "Wow Val, you look really happy right now. Happy you survived another landing in Cuautla?".

Something like that Woody, something an awful lot like that.

Photos, top to bottom: Leaving the plane; Cuautla runway; Volcano Popocatepetl and sidekick Iztaccihuatl

The Mexican Pipeline

2007-01-23T11:38:00.000-08:00

Waves crashing, beach break. Mexican Pipeline: a powerful, tremendous force. Wave after wave pounds the sand. Receding, strong backwash collides with an incoming wave. One long tube after another, the beach changes: grows, shrinks, new topography everyday. A clean slate between tides.

Wind at my back, an offshore breeze, refreshing and cooling. The rubber sticky mat feels too artificial: I want contact with the earth, want to squish sand between my toes and lose balance in the standing poses. I want the connection, to be the conductor between land and it's inhabitants. Between flesh and earth.

Mountain pose is solid and stable, grounded. Strong legs, straight spine, tuck your tail: the vocal cues I would use while teaching echo in my ears, and I listen to them. Sun Salutations as the morning light peaks over the horizon, casting its orange glow, illuminating surfers braving the gigantic surf. Their boards are white, glowing in the soft, perfect dawn light.

Downward Dog feels good. I imagine I am the namesake dog, stretching out after a long nap, pointing my tail high to the sky, opening my chest, fingers spread wide. Moving to the tempo of the waves, I flow through the salutations, guided by breath. Feeling light but strong, I am warming up to this day, the sun's rays on my back. The movement warms my body. I let the setting envelope me, warm my heart and soothe my soul.

Sweat begins to trickle down my neck. The warrior poses are meant to be strong and focused. I concentrate on the waves. I imagine the surf is pounding me, and I am trying to stay standing in the break, my legs solid and unyielding. Balance comes from the core, strength from the mind, and grace from submitting to the pose: there is a surrender, a conscious relinquishing of control and to an extent effort that must occur, to maintain composure and to fully exist in the moment. The only moment that exists is this pose, this place, this feeling.

Deep, belly breaths. I let the air fill my lungs, slowly, feeling my chest expand until it seems as though my ribs will split apart, rib cage stretched and expanded to it's maximum capacity. Every last cell full of air, life-giving and maintaining air. With every exhale, pushed from the depths of my lungs, I expel tension and stress, aches and pains. Fresh clean air replaces the stale and stagnant.

I think of life in the context of the breath: out with the old, in with the new. But not entirely. The new inspires, the fresh reminds us that change is good, that life without it is both boring and stale. With each breath, I think of how I am cleansing body and mind as I practice yoga on the beach. I consider where I am, how I got here, and how life is so dynamic. Breaking out of the box, my yoga practice here is a metaphor for life: Breaking free from the confines of an indoor studio, practicing yoga here is a parallel to how I am choosing to live my life. Outside of the normal, differently than the rest, walking a path that is both difficult and rewarding.

Triangle pose flows into half moon: a balancing act made more difficult by the shifting sand beneath my feet, watch the waves and you will teeter. Find a fixed point and the pose becomes focused and unwavering. Tentatively I let my fingers float, balancing on one leg, finding the tipping point. I prefer to move, to play in the space of nearly falling, then regressing to the exact middle, the center of gravity, then allowing myself to almost fall, saving it in the last possible second. This is my style, both in life and in yoga: to push the limit, then with strength, style and grace, pull it all together again and carry on. Staying dead center balanced and composed stifles me; being playful reminds me to not take this pose or anything else so seriously.

Transition to seated poses, this is where the work begins. The waves are calmer, so am I. Paschimottanasa, seated forward fold: Legs extend, big toes touch. Fold from your hips, not from the waist. As I double forward, ribcage resting on thighs, I am supposed to gaze at my big toes, but prefer the view of the sea; the ships on the horizon are more captivating than my unmanicured feet. Feeling the release in my hips, I exhale deeper, hoping to unfurl the knots in my hamstrings and calves that have developed from running on the beach.

The beach is my sanctuary, my sanity. I run here, play here, swim here, land my parachute here, and do yoga here. It is my playground away from the mountains, the forest, where I roam the hills in search of serenity. A temporary replacement, a total departure from the Pacific Northwest, the Mexican Pipeline will have to do. It is serving me well, and seems to be having a balancing yin-yang effect on me: Everything here is different, down to my hair. The beach air, salty and humid, is sticky and hot rather than cool and damp. Sand beneath my feet instead of a carpet of humus and moss. Cactus, palm and mango trees instead of rhododenron and Douglas Fir. Sun and blue skies instead of the misty gray Oregon winter.

Pushing into Upward Bow, a full backbend, everything is inverted. If nothing else, going upside down offers a fresh perspective. Head hanging, chest opening, ribs expand, I am on the edge between pleasure and pain, going just far enough to know the pose is doing some good for body and mind. I remind myself to relax, to submit to the arch, let my body move and do what it needs to, down to the muscles in my forhead that are trying to resist giving in.

Returning to the sand, the view is right-side up again and it is time to wind down. The surf has calmed tremendously, seemingly paralleling my yoga practice. I ease into Half Pigeon pose, and for 5 long breaths I just relax, breathing into my hip joint, envisioning melting butter as the muscles soften with each exhale.

Settling into Corpse Pose, flat on my back, arms and legs extended, I welcome the moment I have to myself, sharing it maybe only with the waves. I think of nothing but hear the sound of the Mexican Pipeline, pretending that my own mind is like a seashore, that I hold nothing permanently there, that it all washes away: that things change, come and go, like sand with the tides. That life and all of the things we do, see, experience are temporary; just like footprints in the sand, nothing will stay the same, washed away by the next event, the next wave of opportunity that inevitabley rolls in.

Corpse pose is meant to clear the slate: The 'the death of the practice', it is a reminder that each practice is it's own entity, with it's own life cycle. Birth is given in the Sun Salutations, youth is the standing poses, strong and energizing. Maturity happens in the seated poses, where a wisdom is cultivated in order to let the poses happen, with graceful strength. Inversions and arm balances are the manifestation, the culmination of all the style, grace, strength, composure, focus and wisdom that has develped along the way, expressed together in one single pose, like the building of events to the climax of a good plot. The poses of the Finishing Series do just that: they round out the practice, polish the edges, and balance everything out.

By the end of Corpse Pose, my body feels heavy. My eyes open softly, slits forming between heavy lids. Light creeps in, blue sky above is all I see. I move slowly at first, then stretch out, lengthen my body head to toe. I roll to my right side, fetal position, and like a child am ready to take on the day, somewhat naive to the world, without judgement and with an unquantifiable amount of hope for the unknown. Open to opportunity and change, happy to exist right here, impressionable and young, I sit up and fold my legs under me and bow to the Mexican Pipeline, thanking it for sharing the morning with me.

Feeling Froggy? Jump!

2006-12-19T11:57:00.000-08:00

Crouched in the door of the Twin Otter, waiting for the signal to jump, I see Zicatela Beach 15,000 feet below me, patiently awaiting my return. In just six short minutes, I'll set myself down softly on the hot white sand.

The yellow light comes on: “Door!” a chorus of voices shout in unison. We roll it open, and the rush of air almost sends me backwards. We check our spot, tentatively hanging out the door, fingers clasping the bar running horizontally above the doorway, and looking down at the beach, hearing nothing over the whine of the turbines and screaming wind.

Green light: “Go!” the same choir sings from the front of the plane. An instructor grins and gives us the thumbs up, refraining this time from just pushing us out the door because he knows we are working on exiting together. With very few jumps—around 100 apiece—we are definitely amateurs. I silently thank him for letting us leave at our own pace.

Facing each other, I wait for the signal from Jeanne. My eyes never leaving hers, I read her lips as she screams “Ready, Set, Go”. My timing is critical here: if I don’t leave at the same time as she does, we will separate and probably never see each other again in freefall.

We are out the door on the word go, amazingly in sync. She is holding on to my chest strap, and I am screaming in disbelief that we did not separate while exiting the plane. Grinning from ear to ear, we slowly spin then correct it, flying closely, on our bellies, faces two inches apart. Altimeter check: 12,000 feet above sea level. She lets go of my chest strap, and finds my elbows.

Moving at a speed of 120 mph in freefall, we are flying. The air is our medium, a substance not unlike water: flowing, conforming, and moving. It is alive, and we move through it. Dancing in the air, it can be as graceful as the most beautiful ballet. Movement is choreographed, rehearsed on the ground then performed in the air. There is no time to think, as the seconds fly by. You have to permit your body to move, to react and let muscle memory guide you in your routine. We separate, and then find each other again, working on trying to stay on the same level while trying not to spin, not to slide backwards. It is about control, but also very much about letting go. Relaxing, letting the air do the work. A metaphor for life, skydiving is about maintaining some control in an out of control situation: falling from a plane 2.5 miles above the ground. You have to be in control, and first and foremost, be responsible for yourself, yet aware enough to work with others in the air as the earth rushes toward you.

It is also about living in the moment. Nothing exists when you are in freefall, only you, your partner and the jump you planned to do. It is somewhat like a form of meditation. Your mind is free, because it has to be. Your body knows what it needs to do, because you are following the routine decided upon before you even put the parachute on your back. It is this surrender to muscle memory and a free mind that allows your body to submit and follow the path of least resistance. And it is amazingly easy, uncomplicated and uncluttered by too much mind. Without the worry of trivial, everyday things, like wondering what you’ll have for lunch or fretting over some foot-in-the-mouth moment you recently had. It is a true test of keeping it real.

We didn't practice the kiss on the ground. Around 7,000 feet, Jeanne leans over and gives me a kiss on the cheek. I laughed out loud, but surely she couldn't hear me. Or maybe she did.

At 5,500 feet—just under one minute of freefall—we wave goodbye, and turn in opposite directions to track away. Six seconds of flying like superman, me toward the land, she toward the sea. Fast and flat, straight legs and strong arms, my track was good this time and I covered some distance. I slow down, stabilize, then look around, wave off and then pull my parachute, flinging the pilot chute far and wide. As though my life depended on it: Because it did.

Then I arch, hard, with all my might, feeling like that if it weren’t for the bulky parachute covering my back, I could fold in half and break in two. I wait for the speed to change dramatically; wait to hear the delicious telltale 'swoosh' of the fabric as the cells of the canopy inflated, and then feel myself swing side to side as the parachute opened completely. I wait for 3 seconds, and then look up to see my opening. All clear—no twisted lines, no lines where they shouldn’t be, all nine cells inflated properly—so I reach for my steering toggles, release them and brake, pulling the lines down to my waist. I feel a slight lift; I am in a stall, the result of a full brake. Releasing them, the parachute dives down, the closest thing to falling that I’ll feel the entire skydive.

Full speed ahead, the canopy flies forward. Flying over the water, then over the town, looking down on cars and houses that grow bigger by the second, I can see everything literally from a bird’s eye view, yet somehow I always feel completely alone up there. No one can hear you, and the silence can be deafening. Sometimes I scream, hoot and holler, partly out of sheer exhilaration, and partly because it is a voice no one can hear and I like how it feels.

I am not yet that comfortable flying my parachute; with time and more jumps, a confidence will develop and I will become more adventurous. For now, I observe. I look around. I look at beautiful Mexico, I watch the surfers below me on the Mexican Pipeline, surfboards bright white and glistening in the midday sun. I see the Mexican flag—our larger than life wind sock—flying over Puerto Escondido, waving proudly in the coastal breeze.

I watch my canopy flying above me. The intricacies of a very precise but delicate system fascinate me: How this nearly transparent nylon and these thin strings can hold me up 3500' above the earth astonishes me. I am forever humble and respectful of this equipment. It saves my life every time I jump. Literally.

At 500' I turn and fly along the beach. I am over the rocks on the north end of the beach.. Everything from this altitude looks close, but in reality there is time. A little more precious time in the air to look at the people on the beach, watching us land our parachutes. I choose a spot near the water's edge. The sand here is cooler, wet from the receding tide. I see a group of people nearby, watching me, cameras pointing in my direction. In my periphery, the water blurs past, palapas, beach chairs, tourists follow. But it doesn't feel faster: time has slowed down, and I am focused on one spot right past a red flag stuck in the sand. In this moment, all that exists is that placet: I will get there, right where I want. Dead center.

Ten feet or so from the ground, I start braking, with both hands, starting slowly, then bringing them all the way down to my waist. I touch down, right foot first, soft as a feather in the forgiving sand. The left follows, my canopy falling behind, carried by the breeze. It falls to the beach, and let out my customary 'woo-hoo!’ The jump is over, but the feeling will last for hours, if not a lifetime.

Jeanne is waving at me, and I am jumping up and down, out of excitement for our jump together, and to ease the sting of the scorching sand. I am purely and utterly elated because it was successful, and completely amazed that I had just flung myself out of the door of an airplane three miles above the earth. That I had someone to share it with is the icing on an already delicious cake; someone who is living in exactly the same moment I am, without a doubt understanding it the same way I do.

We meet each other on the beach, canopies in hand, and enormous grins swallowing our faces. A big hug and a knowing glance later, we are planning our next jump, eagerly anticipating the next time we get to roll the door open, leap out of the plane and fly high above the earth, seeing Mexico—and everything else—from a fresh perspective. Knowing that, like every moment of every day, the next jump will be different, and better than the last.

On the Carribbean Side of Things

2006-11-08T16:01:00.000-08:00

Though I´ve only been gone a week, I have a lot of stories to tell and have been taking copious amounts of notes. Venezuela has a lot to offer, including beaches on the Carribbean--my first visit ever to these seas.
Higuerote is about 1.5 hours east of Caracas, Venezuela's capital city and hub of business and just about everything else. For the most part, Caracas seemed nice enough; not too huge and sprawling due to topographic limitations. It lies in a valley in the coastal mountains, the highest peak around 2800 meters. A gondola runs from the city up to a high point on the ridge of green that lies due north of town, separating it from the Carribean. The ride is slow. Hovering over a dense jungle canopy, the suspended cage feels a bit claustrophic, vulnerable. At the high point of the gondola, where we were furthest from the tree tops and the anacondas and whatever else lie beneath, my friend Gustavo (Rifle [Reef-lay], nickname because he looks EXACTLY like an argentinian soccer player named Rifle) couldn't resist sussing out the possibility of jumping out of the gondala with a BASE jumping parachute on his back. Height: high enough. Landing zone: nada. Rescue potential: never. So that idea was out.
The summit of La Avila was beautiful. A bit developed, but what do you expect that close to a huge city. Even so, it was nice to look at the Carribbean to the north, city to the south. I was disappointed for the lack of access to hiking trails; surely there were tons, but we couldn't find anything but a road. I had jetlag anyway, so it wasn't the end of the world. Before going to the gondola, we had stopped by the Skydive Venezuela kiosk at the HUGE shopping center, and the woman staffing the booth, a Puerto Rican women named Maricarmen, had told us it would be cold up there: "te vas a congelar" (you are going to freeze). We were both sweating and laughing our asses off; I don't think she had probably EVER experienced cold.
One day in Caracas probably wasn't enough. Or maybe it was, depending on your point of view. That evening, my second in Venezuela, we left for the Drop Zone at the airport in Higuerote. The drive was long, lots of traffic on a Friday night. I was still recovering from 2 sleepless nights getting here, so I drifted in and out of sleep, waking and preferring not to see the road and huge trucks and cars coming at us so fast, happily closing my eyes in the back seat of Luis' jeep. Nobody drives crazier that Latin Americans: never in a hurry until they get behind the wheel. After all, it took us 5 hours to eat and get ready to go to Higuerote. "Unos minutos" (a few minutes) at Luis' house preparing for the trip turned into 2.5 hours. Not sure exactly what Luis was doing, besides packing a parachute in the living room. Rifle and I were entertained by Luis' mama. The discussion turned political; how could it not in Caracas one month before presidential elections? I felt a)ignorant of the Venezuelan political situation, and b) as always, somewhat ashamed to be an American. I have to say, there was some finger pointing going on because of the US's International, shall I say, 'behavior'. It was interesting to talk to Luis' Mama, a highly educated and affluent woman.
Once in Higuerote, arriving with only one near death incident, I was bowled over by the suffocating heat and humidity. It is situated right on the coast, beautiful. Frogs and toads, birds everywhere. Everything is lush and green; the landing zone soft and grassy, like a big park. And big. I am used to landing a parachute on the beach, having to navigate the obstacle course of Palapas, life guard towers, dogs, kids. Or in Cuautla in a tiny, hard as cement landing area where the soil is so dry, it is cracked, baked and the air is thin due to elevation so you come in fast and hard. Well I did anyway.
It was wonderful to be in the company of skydivers again. It feels somehow like home, even though I am hardly a skydiver. The vibe is just so good, easy and laid back, but there is so much passion for what they do. Everyone who works at the zone lives it, 24/7. It's pretty inspiring. Maybe not necessarily to be a full time enthusiast, or professional, but to find something you love so much you are willing to live in a dorm and own nothing but parachutes and cameras.
We jump out of the plane backwards. It is some kind of Russian thing with the exit in back, always open. As my friend Tris said, "It's a bit like diving into a pool doncha think?". Can't argue that. It was a bit scary, after not having jumped in a year and a half. Rifle was with me though, and it went really well. Freefall was amazing; I smiled the whole time, with him just hanging onto me with a pinky in case something should happen, although wanting to let me fly alone a couple of times, and giving me the thumbs up, saying "De Pinga (venezuelan for "Muy Bien")" more than once.
The weekends here are the busiest, with tandems and students taking the course to go solo. During the week there wasn't much happening so we ended up checking out the Carribean side of things, looking for clean beaches and respite from the oppressive heat. And now, being Friday, I think I could be missing out on jumps right now...don't want to miss the plane, unless it's the Cessna.
Unfortunately I don't have photos yet. I'll add them later.

Blue Malibu

2006-11-08T12:45:00.000-08:00

Buses are hard to come by in Higuerote, so we usually travel by taxi. Gas in Venezuela is cheaper than drinking water ($2.00 to fill your tank) which makes the price of driving a car, and thus hiring a taxi, really inexpensive.
Because there was nothing going on at the drop zone today, we decided to try to find a clean beach to escape the oppresive heat. After some inquiries, we found out that there is a nice beach to the west of Higuerote, on the other side of the prominant point outside of town. To get there you have to take a taxi, then get on a little boat because there are no roads into the jungle that surrounds the beach. Sounded perfect, so we called up the Higuerote Taxi service from the DZ and waited for the ride to turn up. It was a big blue car, an old and worn Blue Malibu.
Cruising along, dodging kids, dogs, trucks, we were three: An Argentinian, a frenchman, and a gringa. Interesting combination for sure, the makings of a bad joke, the classic tri-national kind where something stupid is happening and one of the three turns out to be the dumbest of the lot. Puerto Frances, about which our Frances received some razzing, wasn´t a very long drive, even with a stop at the bakery for some breakfast, so before we knew it we were out of Higuerote cruising at breakneck speed along a windy jungle road.

Puerto Frances offered none of the excellent cheese and bread we were hoping for, but it was tranquilo and felt safe. We hoped to hire our boat there to ride to the other cleaner and less populated beach we could see off in the distance. Finding the dueño of the boat company (or the elder of the tribe as Gustavo the Argentinian called him)wasn´t hard. He was seated in the shade in a plastic lawn chair, belly big and full, hanging out of his t-shirt, looking as though he was waiting for something to happen: waiting for something and nothing, not bothered by much and certainly in no hurry to go anywhere at all.
And so the joke starts about now: frenchman, argentinian and a gringa are stuck in a small coastal village with nowhere to go because the boat couldn´t leave for the beach without 10 people on board. Unless we wanted to pay $25 apiece for the ride, which none of us were willing to do. After some time bargaining, we were able to get the price down a bit, but not enough. We decided to walk down the beach and see what it might have to offer. It was dirty, polluted, trash everywhere, nowhere you would like to spend the day.
After some time considering our options, and seeing that there were basically only two, we decided to talk with the elder again and accept his price. It was that or go back to Higuerote...and do what???
Finding the man again was easy, he hadn't moved an inch. We said ok, we would just pay the whole ticket if he could take us now. But he said no, 'el mar se pone mal' (the sea is getting bad)and refused to sail in those conditions; personally I couldn't see what he was talking about, but then again I am not a sea person. And so our minds were made up for us: back to Higuerote, which meant calling the taxi to come for us because no one was coming or going to Puerto Frances. We could wait for hours for a ride, maybe days.
Waiting for the taxi, the frenchman (ok his name is Juan) climbed a tree; I looked at plants growing among the trash alongside the road. Rifle sat on the side of the road swatting mosquitos, hoping they weren't carrying Dengue fever or something worse. We talked with a local man, waiting at the bus stop indefinitely for the colectivo to come. "When?", we asked. "Quien sabe?", he replied. So we offered him a ride in our taxi.
Once in the taxi, we decided to try going to a different beach that we saw along the way. Might as well, we were dying in the heat. Over the blaring music, we could sort of make out what the driver told us about having to take a boat to this other beach from a marina close to Higuerote. We stopped, the venezuelan got out; he would be the only one in this story who would make it where he wanted to be.
Arriving the marina, we were sent on a wild goose chase to find the right dock, with boats headed to Buche, our new goal. Just as we pulled up, a boat was leaving. Seeing us, the captain turned around and came back for us, and we quickly loaded the boat, "una lancha china (pronounced Chee-nuh)" our cabbie called it (a chinese boat, who knows what made it more chinese than any other boat) and sailed off to our new and hopefully cleaner retreat.
The ride was nice. Calm waters, the sea apparently hadn´t become too bad yet. As we rounded the point, we could see La Buche in the distance, and it looked ok. Coming closer, I started to feel like perhaps the joke really was on us, because as Rifle said so eloquently, it was "una mierda (a shithole)". And was it ever. The water was dirty, as a river ran into the sea right next to the beach. There were some beach front businesses, all boarded up apart from one, tired and dingy. It looked like no one ever came to Buche, and I was starting to think maybe I shouldn´t even get out of this Chinese boat.
But we did. Ultimately, we were thirsty. And hot, but honestly there was no way I was going to dip even a toe in that messy water: as Rifle put it, "you put your hand in whole, pull it out and it is just bones". Enough said.
The captain said he´d be back at 4:00. It was 11:30.
So we trundled away from the dock, me looking wistfully at the departing lancha, knowing we were screwed. But, keeping a positive attitude, I thought that there must be something we could do to entertain ourselves. Rifle was probably right when he said after 4 or 5 beers, this place might starting looking pretty nice; I couldn´t disagree, but also couldn´t bring myself to start drinking that early in the day, even out of sheer desperation.
There were other people on the "beach". A few random people, some with kids and grandma joining the joining the party. One family had even brought an inflatable pool with them, filled it with sea water and used it to corral the kids, keeping them out of trouble. In front of the restaurant (and I mean IN FRONT, feet up on the counter where you place your order), an obnoxious couple that had started the beer goggles solution, sucking down beers one after the other. The woman talked loudly on her cell phone, a cigarette in her hand. It was all very entertaining, but I was dying in the heat and needed shade. Away from this slihgtly dysfunctional beach scene.
We headed to a closed restaurant distant from the others. Rifle and Juan tried to take naps. I had heaps of energy, so I annoyingly reported the time every few minutes, which didn´t do much to alleviate the thought that we were stranded on a desert island, just like Gilligan and the gang. Then I started doing yoga on the sand. Juan said we could film it with his camera and maybe we could make a DVD: "Yoga in Paradise with Val", and make millions.
And so there we were, a Frenchman, an Argentinian, and a Gringa, stranded on a desert island. How much time could we waste here, doing nothing? Well, we could eat. A fishing boat had just pulled up, with the catch of the day in a 5 gallon bucket. So we went to the only open restaurant. I wasn´t hungry but I did drink a beer, as it was now 2:00, a more acceptable hour to start drinking. Rifle ordered shrimp, for $25,000 Bolivares (about $11.00 US), hoping they would be big and plentiful at that price. Either way, they were fresh. Juan ordered seafood soup, and I was put on patrol duty to watch for the Lancha china, in case enough people had showed up at the marina to warrant another journey over. There was no way the boat would be leaving without us.
Sure as Murphy´s Law would dictate, right when the eating had begun and we were finally doing something to distract ourselves, I saw a boat rounding the bend. Yep, that´s the China, I reported to the boys. Juan had just started eating a huge bowl of fish soup and Rifle´s wasn´t even done yet. I ran to the dock to hold the boat, while Rifle inquired about to go orders. I had my doubts on that one; either way, I was getting on that boat, without or without my multinational compadres.
The captain asked me if had paid, obviously thinking that I was one of the passengers just arriving. I explained that we wanted to leave early, and asked if he could wait for my friends for 5 minutes. He looked at me like I was crazy, probably wondering why on earth I would want to leave already. I said nothing in defense.
Finally Rifle and Juan came trotting down the beach toward the dock, Rifle carrying a to-go bag, and Juan carrying his bowl of soup on a plate. Apparently the restaurant agreed to let him take the dishes if the captain could bring them back on the next trip, which he reluctantly agreed to do.
And so we set sail. I felt like I was getting out of jail, even though I knew it hadn´t really been that terrible. Not my idea of a tropical paradise on the Carribean, but it could have been worse. We could have been stuck there until 4:00, roasting in the sweltering heat.
Juan and Rifle enjoyed their lunch on the bench of the boat, seated on the floor. As it turns out, Rifle´s shrimp were tiny and few, but delicious. He turned to me and said ¨Me rompio las pelotas (they broke my balls)", meaning he had been cheated. I looked at him amd thought to myself that actually we had all been cheated today, headed back to Higuerote, las pelotas having been busted in a big way. They asked me what we should do next, and I suggested we go to the hotel pool and cool off.
Four taxi rides, and one boat ride later, we were back where we started, enjoying the pure chlorinated waters of the Barlovento Hotel pool...tropical paradise, indeed.

Dad and Colleen's Wedding Bouquet

2006-10-29T13:05:00.000-08:00

Slimy Teeth

2006-04-11T16:54:00.000-07:00

There aren't many photos of me on this blog, but here's what I look like with what I've taken to calling "new teeth".
They took my braces off about a week ago, and I'm still not used to how slimy my teeth feel, after years of having all that texture in my mouth. Still feels weird to be able to bite into an apple, and to eat without having to constantly pick food out of all that texture, to not rip the bristles of my toothbrush to shreds when I brush.

Sneaky Snake

2006-04-11T15:58:00.000-07:00

Thinking we were both excellent navigators, skilled in reading topo maps and driving on forest roads, Andy and I set out to find an elusive pair of waterfalls on Rattlesnake Creek, a few miles upstream from where we live. Feeling perhaps a bit overconfident, I didn't really start looking at the topo map too closely until we "felt" we were in the right place. A more anal navigator would have counted the drainages, and traced the road, following landmarks as we passed them by. Instead, I chatted away like we knew exactly where we were meant to stop the car and start hiking, even though neither of us had ever driven very far up Rattlesnake Road. When we reached the spot, we glanced at the map, made the landscape fit the topographical lines on the map, and started hiking down a road in the direction we thought the falls might be. We thought we even heard the creek roaring in the distance, reinforcing our gut feelings.
After about 10 minutes, we decided that the roar we heard was actually the sound of the wind in the treetops, and that we were just too far away from the creek to possibly be on the right track. And the road was way too steep and windy, contrary to what the map showed the correct road to be like.
Hiking back to the car, we decided that somehow we hadn't gone far enough. We continuted up the same road, which by all appearances seemed to be the right road, again making the spur roads and intersections, and even a freshly sawn out tree in the road, fit the map and Jaco's description of the area. Taking the appropriate right hand road, we stopped the car when the road became undriveable, and walked about a hundred yards or so, only to find ourselves at someone's ranch, which was located on the edge of an open, flat, marshy looking meadow. At that point we realized we had gone way too far and decided to retrace our steps starting from where the road left Rattlesnake Creek and started climbing. This time I would not neglect my duties as Navigator.
Everything worked out to a point, until the roads started not to match the map again. It didn't make sense, we were on the main road as we should have been and hadn't turned off. Jaco's highlighted route seemed pretty straightforward, were we really that incompetent without roadsigns?
Because we so strongly didn't want to give up on our initial road, we decided to drive down the road we first walked down. We came to and passed a few little intersections, then came to some small trees in the road and turned around. Foiled again! Feeling desperate at this point, we thought maybe we were too high and needed to take a lower road nearer to the creek, so we took the next turn off the main rad as we headed back downstream, only to find ourselves stopped by the very same trees in the road, having successfully completed a loop!
Deflated, we drove back to Wet Planet, wondering how 2 experienced outdoorspeople could be so easily confused while driving with a map. I started to think that maybe I have just been spending way too much indoors, doing too much blogging and drinking coffee and not enough exploring. I mean really, the days when I lived out of a backpack and didn't even need a trail to navigate the Bob Marshall Wilderness seem like a lifetime ago; finding a little ol' logging road in the highly populated wilds of the Gifford Pinchot National Forest should have been a bit more doable for someone like me. I couldn't help thinking "Has it really come to this??". Wow, and if so, perhaps it's time to trade the laptop in for some new hiking boots and a compass. And really get back to my roots. After all, as a good friend once put it, I am "from further back in the woods than most people have ever been".
Andy asked Todd, who has actually located and visited the waterfalls, where we had gone wrong. It turns out that our first road and gut instinct was correct, only we approached it from the north the first time and didn't go far enough. We should have taken the lower road, even though Jaco had told us to stay on the "main road", and approached it from the south. The trees were the trees that also stopped Todd and Jaco, and where they started hiking from.
So we were close, very close! Maybe our skills weren't so inexcusably pitiful after all! Maybe I haven't turned into a full-fledged softie who can't find her way around the woods.
Either way, it was an adventure. And has inspired me to seek out some new ones right around here, right in my back yard, getting back to finding unknown paths and places, even if they aren't remote, aren't in a foreign country, or aren't even wild. It's all about working with what you've got.

Photos, top to bottom: Andy putting on Rattlesnake in our back "yard", and much downstream of the falls; Andy gettin' it in Rattlesnake, a sort of sweet revenge perhaps?

Meet Vicky, complete with Jesus Fish (but not Stinky)

2006-03-26T13:13:00.000-08:00

I just found and purchased the ultimate roadtrip kayaking, surfing, climbing vehicle. We found her on the coast being used as a school bus for a church.
Meet Vicky, the van. As the 80's seem to be coming back into fashion (what the...?), I guess, for a change, I am ahead of the curve by driving a car from the era. She's a beauty! Her 1987 Toyota engine is still running strong, and there's enough room to seat at least 7 people. We are excited to get a rack on top, creating perfect shuttle rig. And camper, as the seats fold into a bed. What could be better, really?
The first thing I did to her was pluck off the plastic Jesus fish on the rear gate. My friend Dave said I should have left it so the cops would leave me alone! But, I just couldn't do that. You can still see the outline, so maybe that will be good enough?

Photos, top to bottom: Vicky with me and Stinky the Dog; A cold and sick Andy and one hyper white dog.

The Dirtbag Dream, Revisited

2006-03-09T13:56:00.000-08:00

As I ponder other possibilities, living in a 18' trailer next to Rattlesnake Creek, trading comfort and convenience for simplicity seems bittersweet. No heat, no electricity, no running water are swapped for hearing the meditative trickle of the creek and the pattering of the rain on the tin roof. Coziness replaces spaciousness, and creativity, if not agility, is mandatory when doing just about any activity when more than one person is inside.
It's cheap, it's carefree, and it's non-conforming. It's liberating. From what, you might ask. From society, I suppose. From conformity, maybe. I'm nearly 31 years old, you say. Shouldn't I be buying a house or taking steps to ensure that I have a secure future? Retirement? All the American Dream stuff, you know, white picket fence with the Volvos and the babyjoggers, 2 week vacations like normal people. That's all great, if that is what you want. It's happens to be that right now, it's just not for me.
It's been a while since I've posted. The transitions from travelling to not travelling can be rough. I call into question what I am doing, and where I am going. I am forced to revisit all aspects, and take a good hard look at myself as I try to ease back into daily life. To say I don't want any of what society has to offer would be a complete exaggeration. Better to say that I can exist in society, no problem, but I have to do it my way. Going to Hood River to work in a flower shop downtown, which I happen to love, has to be balanced by something unusual, something out of the ordinary. Something unpredictable and maybe even unfathomable to most people. Living in the trailer adds an element of adventure that I yearn for, that I crave.
Living the dream is hard work, simple tasks become big chores, and getting warm in the morning takes some doing. It's not convenient, and it's not easy, but for now, it's a perfect dream, even if I'm not even a dirtbag.

Photos, top to bottom: Trailer Sweeeeeet Trailer; Optimistically hanging the hammock upon return from Ecuador...maybe a tad prematurely?

Cycles

2006-03-01T07:09:00.000-08:00

I love endings.
And beginnings. You can't have one without the other. I love the cyclical nature of life: circles, connections, 'what goes around, comes around', karma, life cycles, the water cycle, the seasons, tides, the phases of the moon, the menstrual cycle. Nothing stops, and everything changes, is continuous and dynamic; like flowing water, it can't be controlled but must be worked with rather than against.
Another chapter comes to an end, but I am excited to start a new one. Some storylines will continue, others will conclude when the time is right. We are the authors of our own novels, and I have plenty of plot ideas for the the next chapter. It will surely be full of more adventures, new places, familiar faces, and lots of twists and turns to keep things interesting. What happens in between will be the stuff of life, the small things that make living sooo good, our everyday routines that I personally need to learn to relish and cherish: Making dinner, the sound of the creek nearby, time to think, sleeping, talking with a friend, keeping in touch, learning something new, healthy food, pure water, and lots of love. And not taking any of it for granted.
We leave Ecuador this evening, with the excitement of knowing we are going home. The place that even the most nomadic of souls gravitate toward when it is time. Time for one circle to close, one more chapter to end, and another to begin.
See you in the states!

Photos, top to bottom: Ferns; Andy and the Rio Estancia; Andy and friends on Cispus River, Washington State

Ecua-Things

2006-02-22T09:10:00.000-08:00

• Ecua-Beat. The difficult to describe (without an audio example anyway), yet musically simple, ever-present thumping heard day and night. You know it when you hear it, and will come to recognize it after only a short while in Ecuador. The beat is the same, but the lyrics change, an easy fix to the problem of composing new songs. From a distance, it is impossible to know which tune is playing since the music sounds the same. The best, or shall I say most entertaining, goes something like this: “Say, Say, Say, Say, Say, Say….” over and over and over again. The lyrics in this case are as inspired as the beat. After enough time in Ecuador, with gradual numbing of the senses, it becomes something like white noise and you notice it less and less.

• Ecua-Walk. The telltale stride of the Ecuadorian. The feet aren’t quite lifted off the ground, but scuffed along, effectively slowing the pace. I’ve practiced this many times, with failed results, making it seem as though you must be Ecuadorian to really get it down. To further slow down the rest of pedestrian traffic, they’ll just stop randomly in front of you, and look around, or chat with another Ecuadorian. Once, during the high point of our Ecua-walking career, we shuffled along, and inadvertently stopped right in the middle of the sidewalk, continuing to talk, apparently having lost all necessary momentum to sustain the act of walking. The reaction of the Ecuadorians was to actually laugh and stare at us; obviously, gringos Ecua-Walking does not have the same effect.

• Ecua-Volley. “What is this, Jungle Ball?” and “No Monkey Hits!”, the words of my High School Volleyball coach, scolding us for poor form during practice. I never quite understood the whole Jungle Ball comparison; I only knew it implied rule-less play with little or no technique. Until I came to the Jungle, where the men fervently play on open-air courts. It is almost religion in Ecuador. They are fiercely competitive, playing in teams of three. Anything goes, it seems: the ‘bump’ is two hands meeting but never fully clasped, often open-palmed to send the ball upward; the classic volleyball ‘set’ is more of a catch and throw, and is often done from the back row; the ‘spike’ is usually more of a cradle with the full palm, lobbing it, rather than driving it downward, over the net. Great entertainment.

• Ecua-Knot. Perfected by the market ladies, who seem to have it down to a science, but tied by all, the Ecua-Knot is an extremely tight, seemingly inside out and twisted, impossible to undo knot used to close plastic bags. I have spent much time watching them execute the knot, but cannot seem to perfect it myself. You can be sure that nothing is going in or out of your bag to spoil your purchases. The slippery plastic does nothing to aid in the knot’s removal; wanting to reuse bags here is a challenge, as you often end tearing the bag open in frustration.

• Ecua-Cambio. Or more aptly, lack thereof. A shortage of change is something you learn to expect, and fully anticipate, in this country. Even the bank sometimes can’t break a $50 for you, or can only give you 20’s, which doesn’t help your predicament when you want to buy something for .50. But, I have learned, thanks to adequate language skills, that you can call their bluff 99% of the time. They often have the cambio; they just don’t want to give it up, especially to a tourist. The issue of change becomes part of conversation, and even warrants bragging rights when you really score: Not having to wait very long at the bank, and getting twenty 5’s for your $100 takes the cake in the cambio department.

• Ecua-Signage. “Internet? Why would you think we have Internet?”, said with an expression clearly indicating that this Ecuadorian thinks you are just plain crazy. “Why? Because it is PAINTED on the outside of your building, that’s why.” And painted in big letters, nonetheless. Or, getting the same reaction by asking about the Meriendas (set dinner, usually cheap) that are advertised, again the huge letters painted on the wall right behind where the orders are taken in the restaurant, suggesting permanent availability. One does have to wonder though if it’s just that they don’t want to sell you the Merienda when they know they can charge you twice as much for the same meal a la carte.

• Ecua-Presence. Apart from the Quechua, most Ecuadorians seem to want the world to be aware of their presence, at all times. They do this by making as much noise as possible, in any given context. They may even be in competition with each other for who can make the most noise: outdoing the neighboring businesses’ blasting of the Ecua-Beat; who can honk the loudest and most often, from buses to taxis to motorcycles, they all honk incessantly; loudspeakers the roof of a car is a common sight and a well-used noise-making device; the ‘whap’ produced by women smacking their wet laundry on the rocks in the river, which supposedly, albeit questionably, better cleans their clothes; smacking the buildings/structures as they walk by with a bottle, stick, whatever they have; a young boy making the second most annoying noise known to man (after fingernails on a chalkboard): rubbing a balloon with his sticky palm as he walks the entire length of the main drag. With a seemingly bottomless quiver of noise-making tactics to draw from, you can never doubt the presence of an Ecuadorian.

Cup of Tea, Sit in a Comfy Chair

2006-02-20T09:48:00.000-08:00

Pouring rain here in Tena. The socked in, foggy downpour kind that looks like it might be here to stay for a few hours.
It’s not often that I have wanted to make a cup of tea in the jungle, especially at midday. By now the heat is usually oppressive and hard to bear, the last thing you want is a hot beverage. Today is different, and I’m contemplating what to do with myself. To escape the heat, I go to the river, but right now that doesn’t seem quite as appealing to me.
Part of the challenge for me while being away from home is learning to relax, and be at peace with having nothing to do. Nowhere to be, no projects to finish, no work to do or plan, no cleaning to do…it’s freedom in every sense of the word, once you manage break free from yourself, and more importantly, your expectations.
I am, admittedly, not a very good tourist. I prefer to live in a place, find routines, and be a part of what’s going on in one place. Hopping from city to city, country to country, culture to culture is not my cup of tea. I usually find a place I like and settle in, and prefer to make my observations of that place over a longer period of time. It seems ironic, then, that I would have a hard time relaxing when being in one place is my preferred MO; one would think I would really enjoy the everchanging scenery that comes with being more a more nomadic traveler.
For me, traveling isn’t only about seeing other places, but is more about discovering parts of myself while in another place. Parts of me I didn’t know were there, that I may or may not like or accept. The learning comes in truly seeing these sides for what they are, when they show themselves, and deciding whether or not to let them emerge more regularly or often. It involves cultivating a growth that would probably not happen at home, immersed in comforts and excess of modern society, your native tongue, and familiar systems.
So for now, today, I will do my best to relax, hang out, and think. I will look inward a bit and explore myself as I might the Ecuadorian countryside, a journey that is far more arduous than even the gnarliest Andean terrain. It is an adventure that requires more courage and patience, no expectations, just an open mind. And sitting still, in a comfy chair (ok, maybe not, it's a plastic lawn chair), sipping tea in the middle of the day, as I would in NW wintery weather, is a good a place as any to begin.

Plentiful, Cheap, and Good

2006-02-16T11:43:00.000-08:00

Thoughts of home are peppered with a longing for familiar things, a system I understand, and a feeling of belonging. Being away from home truly makes you cherish what you have, where you live, and the people that make it feel like 'home'; it is always upon returning that I can fully grasp the experience of traveling, and can see how it has affected me. It is this process that makes traveling feel so good: learning about yourself simply by gaining an understanding of a culture and land that is unknown, in an often uncomfortable and stressful context, where some days all you want is some peace and quiet, a respite from the obnoxiously loud bus and truck traffic, honking taxis, and never-ending 'ecua-beat' heard on every block, everyday and night. When you can just walk into a store and buy something without being ignored or pushed out of the way by an Ecuadorian who is uncharacteristically in a hurry. These are the moments when traveling is anything but glamorous.
But I digress. What I wanted to ponder here wasn't the not-so-nice aspects of a developing Latin American country, but the so wonderfully positive things that I can't let myself forget.
The Latin American system of small shops is both mind-boggling and refreshing; there must be at least 2 or 3 on average per block here in Tena. I can't get my mind around either the economics or the business strategies of these shops, mainly because they are so numerous, all sell the same things, and what's more, all seem to charge the same price. I personally love it because if I run out of something while cooking, it is guaranteed that I'll find it within minutes, and I don't have to be concerned with bargain shopping. And speaking of bargains, nearly everything in Ecuador is cheap. It's all relative, of course, but everything is, generally speaking, about 5 times cheaper than in the states. I can eat on about 2.50 per day here, doing my own cooking. Because Ecuadorian cuisine isn't exactly inspiring, I find that it's healthier, safer, and cheaper to cook at home. The produce here, depending on where you are, is amazing. Here in the jungle, some things are hard to find, like spinach, lettuce, etc., crops that like it on the cooler side, but even so, you can't complain when you can buy 3 mangoes or 2-3 avocadoes (big ones!) for a dollar. Today I visited the market and bought the following for about $7.00: 5 tomatoes, 3 onions, 2 heads of garlic, 2 chili peppers, 3 mangoes, 2 avocadoes, 6 granadillas (also called 'snot fruit' or 'frog egg fruit', member of the passionflower family, tastes amazing, much better than the name implies), cilantro, 5 limes, 1 cucumber, 1 bell pepper,1 pound of rice, 1 pound of pasta, laundry/dish soap, and chicken stock. Even when it's not full on market day, the produce is still awesome. The market ladies compete for your business, but I often try to just spread the wealth unless one stand has an irresistible selection. I love the market ladies, and have actually learned a lot about produce and Ecuador by talking with them. They almost always give me free tangerine or something when I buy a lot.
This is going to sound really silly, but I also love the dogs here. They are so truly free. Most have homes, but they really just do what they wish, roaming the streets, often congregating at the meat shop to drool and hopefully catch a scrap or bone. We’ve managed to name many of them: Ramon’s friend (see post titled ‘Ramon’ in my archives) lives kitty-corner from us; Hang-Ten on the roof across the street; Fluffy 1 and 2 live just down the block; Socks lives at the end of the block; Penny lives near the panaderia (bakery); Orejas (ears [2 inches of dog, 6 inches of ears, feared by dogs of all sizes]) lives near the river; and last but not least, 2-face lives directly across the street on the ground floor. He is my favorite, some sort of pit-bull/terrier type mix, huge and white with markings on his face, one side being mostly black with some brown, and the other white, hence our name for him. Turns out his real name is “Pirata”, or Pirate, also fairly descriptive.
It isn’t his looks that win me over, but his personality. This dog has some character. He sits around, looking so serious and pensive, usually inside of his 9’ tall concrete/iron fence with spikes on top. One day, I saw him approach the fence from the outside, and launch himself onto it, clinging onto it halfway up, then climb the rest of the way, up and over the top. He looked like a cat! But he must weigh in at least 70 lbs.! It was impressive. We told our friend Matt, who lives below us about seeing this little feat, and he says “Oh yeah, he does it all the time. You gotta watch out for that dog, he’s strange.” He then proceeded to tell us about the time he saw a bus stop on the corner, the door open, and 2-face get off the bus. ALONE. No owner, just the dog. Somehow that freaked Matt out, but I tell you, I never laughed so hard. Many questions came to mind, the obvious ones, like how in the heck did he end up on the bus in the first place? How did he explain where he was going or know which bus to choose? Furthermore, how did he tell the driver it was his stop coming up? I mean, did he say “Gracias” like everyone else? And how on earth did he pay the fare?! The mental image of this whole scenario is almost too much.
His owner told me that jumping the fence is how he comes and goes; I wonder if she knows about the bus rides?
Anyway, the dogs are an aside, but honestly they have made my stay in Ecuador quite entertaining. They aren’t like American dogs—they’re street smart, independent, and really don’t like your attention. They are in some way more wild, not so domesticated. It’s quite refreshing, really.
I'm off on one tangent after another, my head spinning as I try to process what the past 2 months has meant to me, something that may be impossible to sort out while still living in this culture. My title was meant to refer to the abundance of produce, food, water, and life in Ecuador. The tremendous diversity that seems never-ending, but in reality is threatened all because it is cheap, plentiful, and good. My intent was to dive into the positives so that my mind would be open to the possibilities that exist here for me to thrive. In doing so, however, I can't be so discriminating. For every yummy granadilla that comes off the vine, every fresh banana I eat, there is a price, though minute in monetary terms for the consumer, it tremendously impacts ecuadorian livelihood. Rainforest is cut down at alarming rates; coming from a logging town in Idaho, I am no stranger to large-scale harvesting. The chainsaws they sell here are HUGE, indicative of the size of the native trees being cut down, all to grow bananas and coffee for export, even when it is well-documented that coffee grows much better in it's shady native understory. The precious rivers, a source of life and sustenance for so many Ecuadorians, are being damned and mined, we see it happening in front of our apartment. Digging for sand and gravel to build roads, in the name of development and modernization. The oil pipeline between here and Quito bursts and leaks, polluting the rivers and streams, all so we, in the US can drive, drive, drive...to where and why, I'm not even really sure.
It's all easy to see from an outsider's perspective, the red flags that mark their "progress", because my own country, as well as other developed nations, has gone through the same process. I can hardly compare Latin America with the states, but economically and culturally speaking, many countries here are trying to attain a way of life that seems superior to their own. They want what they see on american TV, at the cost of their environment, health, integrity, and rich cultural history. It is a complex web of peer pressure, driven by the ever intensifying global economy, and steadily increasing greed and materialism that is spreading like no virus ever could. And unlike other viruses, isn't being fought, but perpetuated, marketed to the point that I believe no culture is unaffected.
Who am I to say what is right and wrong about how different societies choose to operate? It would be terribly judgmental of me to think that there is a right way or a wrong way, or to say that Latin America shouldn't try to achieve economic success, when they are every bit as entitled as any other country in the world. I suppose the difficulty comes in having to sit back and watch it happen, when you feel you can see that the path they are headed down will probably only lead to more disparity, inequality and lower quality of life, once they export all of their 'assets', meaning their natural resources, away.
What started as a light-hearted commentary on the great things about Ecuador has turned into much more than that. Funny how simply thinking of abundance and life led me to consider the cost of enjoying it. But, even so, I still feel better about buying my food here straight from the Quechua growers, the market ladies, knowing that there is no middle man involved, that I am supporting their community and contributing in some way to a lifestyle I will always respect more than anything else in this world. A lifestyle where there is fresh food on the table, where the farmer grows more than one crop, honoring and modeling nature's ways with diverse farms that aren't too sprawling and never corporate. A life that can be simple, where kids still play outside, where the even the dogs enjoy a sense of freedom, and one knows where their food comes from. A life where the things that really matter--culture, family, living in the moment--are, and hopefully will remain, plentiful, cheap, and good.
Photos, top to bottom: Granadillas on the vine; Market Lady; Abundance in Baeza; 2-Face; River Gravel Mining; Young girl at Market; Ecuadorian Daycare

Carla the Stripper

2006-02-13T16:36:00.001-08:00

I’ve been called out on not having anything about climbing on my blog yet, so I thought I would share a story of one of my first-ever climbing experiences at Smith Rock State Park in Central Oregon.
It was a spectacular March day, more than 70 degrees with sunny skies. I think it was Walter and I’s third weekend in a row. We left late on Saturday night, and slept out under the stars (it was frickin freezing, frost on the bags). Walter wanted to drive to the end of the road to camp, so we ended up sleeping pretty much in the middle of the road. We woke up super early, and drove to the park, the first ones to arrive at 7 am.
Per usual, we warmed up on 5 gallon buckets, a huecoed out, beautiful 5.8 that Walter normally climbed barefoot. Spreading out the old windsurfing sail Walter employed as a rope bag/tarp/emergency shelter in a pinch, we climbed Buckets and the 5.9 next to it. In typical Walter fashion, he gathered up the flaked out rope in the sail (which is, I might add, full on 80’s colors, white with pink and turquoise…and who knows what other colors. But I have no room to talk with my anodized turquoise/magenta quickdraws, aptly nicknamed the Duran Duran draws), hobo style, over his shoulder and proceeded to practically run to the next routes while I’d barely begun to unlace my shoes.
Eventually we made it to the Phoenix Wall, where I had never climbed. The texture of the rock is different here than in much of the park, my fingertips were trashed after only 3 routes, the hardest of which was a 5.11 something, the crux a nasty bulge to pull over near the top. Having nearly killed (an exaggeration, but scary nonetheless) Walter the weekend before in Cocaine Gully because I was not anchored down while belaying him, and was dumb enough to sit about 20 feet from the wall while lowering him on TR, I decided to anchor into a tree for this route, as Walter had never led it before and well, it just looked heinous. He pulled it off without incident though, which meant I had to lug my butt up it to clean it.
At this point it was about 1:30, and the park was a zoo, filled with all the weekend warriors from Bend and Portland. We had already climbed about 7 routes, more than most people do in a full day of climbing, but Walter thought we should hike over to the Marsupials on the eastern edge of the park, a couple of miles away from where we were. I was tired, but couldn’t resist the challenge.
Once in the Marsups, we climbed a newer route, grade 5.10 something called “The Edge of the World.” Because it had this heinously exposed traverse that was awkward, and just plain nauseating, we re-named it “Edge of the Hurl”, and demoted it from a 3 star route to a 0 star route in the guidebook. From here, we hiked up the hill to climb the 3 beautiful, but juicy, routes on the backside of Brogan Spire. By the end of the third, an overhanging 5.11b, I was totally wasted. But, since it was still daylight, we weren’t finished quite yet. Hiking down the hill, and doing a little class 4 scrambling, we ended up on the north side of the Spire, where Walter proceeded to do a one-move wonder short pumpy, boulder problem-esque little route that I don’t remember the name of, next to Tuff Shit. Thinking we were surely done, as we had about a 45 minute hike out, and it was growing dusky, I started to take my shoes off, completely exhausted but satisfied with a great day of climbing. Walter had other ideas. Just down the trail from us, there was a multi-pitch 5.7 called Carla the Stripper. I started to object, but Walter argued before I could utter a peep, “Val it’s only 5.7!”. I later learned to just say no to Walter, as advised by all of his friends, but at the time I was still naïve, and easily persuaded due to my enthusiasm for climbing.
Walter set off, and I wearily belayed him, thinking about how insane this was. When he got to the top, he pulled the rope, I tied in and started climbing, knowing full well we would be rappelling in the dark. This little 5.7 felt like a 5.10 to me, or worse, and it took a lot of effort to make it up, even on top rope. Once I got to the top, as the last vestiges of daylight dwindled, and Walter said “Ok Val, now, here’s what we’re going to do so we don’t have to set up 2 rappels. You are going to traverse over to the Tuff shit anchors, I’ll keep you on belay, and when you get there, you can just clip in, pull the rope and belay me over.” “Why me first?” I asked. “Because, you are already tied in”, he answered. So, I was going to traverse this exposed ridge, having no idea where the hell I was going, completely dehydrated and exhausted, practically in the dark? At that moment, I was pretty sure I was going to die. But I felt that I had no other choice, so I timidly starting walking. Luckily, I found a bolt to clip into about halfway over, so that if I fell while downclimbing to get to the Tuff Shit anchors, the swing wouldn’t be quite as bad. By the time I found the chains, it was pretty much dark. Walter headed toward me, and I wondered if he had his headlamp with him. Once he arrived, we set rappel and I went first. It was interesting, in the dark. I never would have admitted it at the time, but it was actually quite fun. And no, Walter did not have his headlamp for the rappel, but did have it in is pack. I did not have mine, but ever since Carla the Stripper and the midnight rappel, I have always carried one with me.
Hiking back in the dark would have been straightforward, but Walter wanted to take a short cut, so we ended up cross-countrying it to get to the Burma Road, walking straight downhill and crossing a huge dry irrigation ditch. The rest of the hike is easy, and you think it’s gravy…until you get to the part where you have to climb out of the river canyon to reach the parking lot. The trail switchbacks its way up the hillside, not normally difficult really, but after an epic day like ours, it was brutalizing.
My car was the last one left in the parking lot. Walter climbed 13 routes that day, and I climbed 12. Because Walter is an engineer, and German, he actually calculated our average grade for the day. I can’t remember it now, but it was high, 5.9 or 5.10a maybe. I was more amused by the fact that he actually spent time finding the average. I’ve never been so tired, and the next day, I couldn’t actually open my hands at all!
That would be my last trip with Walter until late fall. He was off to Everest Base Camp in April for 6 weeks, and I would have other things going on. He did point out to me that in three days that March, we climbed about 33 routes, which provided me with an excellent base for the season. I look back on that now, and I miss those days. I really did live for climbing, and had an undying enthusiasm that would be quelled only by injury; I developed severe tendonitis in both elbows the following November, and haven’t been able to climb that hard since. Most people say I did too much, too soon, but I have a tendency to disagree. I was passionate, and I loved every minute of it. Had I just dabbled, kept my climbing on a schedule, it might not have been so fulfilling and rewarding. Throwing myself into the sport saved me from other things going on in my life, and being a reasonably capable beginner motivated me to continue pushing hard. It also gave me a confidence and belief in myself that I needed at the time to figure myself out, and get to the point where I could accept myself for who I was.
I still climb, but last year’s season paled in comparison to my first. I was forced to take it slow, be patient, allow myself to rest in order to ward off bouts of tendon flare-ups. I started climbing with the BOPS (Bitches on Pitches) all women climbing group based out of Redmond. I have better learned to relax, to laugh, and that it is ok to be a part-time climber if that is what I need to be. Carol Simpson, co-owner of Redpoint Climbers supply and First Ascent Climbing Guide Services, is a real inspiration to all of us girls out there. She has been climbing for 20 plus (??) years, is as enthusiastic and motivated about climbing as I was my first season, and is amazing to watch as she floats up the rock. Most of all, she has fun out there, enjoys a beer afterward, and is always psyched to be out there. In a male dominated sport, it is refreshing to see a gaggle of gals queuing up on some heinous crack in the Lower Gorge, cracking up over some dirty joke that Carol or Steph has just told. It is a reminder that, ultimately, this is why we climb. Because we love it, no matter how difficult or easy it seems at the time, or how hard we are pushing ourselves, we love feeling the rock at our fingertips, seeing the ground below, and the feeling of accomplishment that comes with reaching the anchors. Even in the dark.
Photos, top to bottom: Smith Rock State Park, Walter and me at the base of 5 gallon buckets (Nov. '04), Walter carrying the sail hobo style, Me, on Blue Light Special, The Shipwrecks (Nov. 04), and Walter, Trout Creek Cracks (June '04).

A Perfectly Good Airplane: Part III

2006-02-10T15:50:00.000-08:00

It was sooner rather than later that I found myself back on a plane to Mexico City, then on to Puerto with a one-way ticket, having spent 2 weeks in the states. Most thought I had lost my marbles somewhere on the beach in Mexico. Well, to their credit, I had. But I had found myself along the way, and I felt free, completely alive, and exceedingly happy to be who I was. So much so that I sold a few possesions, moved my things into storage, busted out a painting job, and off I went to live in Mexico for an undetermined amount of time. My life in the states had to wait; returning to Mexico to work was something I could not pass up.
I arrived in Puerto on an AireCaribe jet. As we landed, I could see the skydivers loading up the Otter in the far corner of the tarmac. I waved frantically, and considered the possibility of running over and going up with the load just to be in the plane again (turns out my friend Tris tried to come over to give me her parachute so I could really have a proper homecoming, but they wouldn't let her cross the tarmac to do so). But, airline procedures wouldn't allow this, so I had to refrain and go through customs, where they promptly confiscated a banana that I had puchased in Mexico City but had not yet eaten. They almost fined me for it; luckily my spanish skills could argue otherwise, and I was spared.
I did feel like I was coming home. All of the divers from Cuautla were in Puerto for Semana Santa, as were plenty of tourists. I went right to work the next day, organizing flights, logistics, rousting tandem instructors to get out of bed in the morning. My job was a little like herding cats (said the gringo pilot Kirk); here was a little gringa telling these guys what to do. I have to admit, I enjoyed it! Deep down, they did as well, although I think they found me annoying at times, having waaay too much energy for the beach in Mexico, where "ahorita" technically means "right now", but can mean anywhere from 5 minutes to 2 hours from now. I also heard it used to refer to 10 minutes ago. The concept of time just really doesn't exist, so my boundless energy and american effiiciency and work ethic drove them nuts at first; in the end, however, they were grateful to have so many plane loads going up. My first day, we had 12 flights, a new record for Skydive Cuautla in Puerto. Money talks. They really couldn't resist calling me "Sargento" (sargeant) though.
After Semana Santa, the tourists and the skydivers left. Flights were to a minimum, and tandems had to be worked for. Head salesperson Fernando recruited most of them from the beach, mainly women. I did my job, but it was really casual now and I had plenty of time to jump as well. I rented a cabana near the beach from a darling couple named Tacho and Pati. It was cheap, private, and safe.
The skydiver lifestyle is very carefree. The guys live in the moment; they eat, breathe, and sleep skydiving. They live at the drop zone in a trailer, and most have no debts, just spend their money on cameras and parachute rigs. And chelas. Lots of chelas. When a person does something stupid, they buy chelas for all. When you do something for the first time, it's "chelas" again. When something is done well--ah, "chelas". You really can't win! And you learn to stop sharing new experiences, knowing you'll certainly owe chelas. Most of the time its a joke, but they don't complain when you oblige.
Favorite skydiver expressions: "My drinking partner has a skydiving problem"; "When skydiving interferes with your work, it's time to quit your job"; and Tris and I's qualifier for "how you know you've been hanging around Skydive Cuautla for too long": When you are standing on a tall bridge and you say to yourself 'Nope, too low'. Another classic was the guys telling a 6 year girl (jokingly of course) that SHE had to buy chelas after her first tandem jump! (The funny part was, her parents actually bought chelas).
The party oriented lifestyle was new to me, having always been outdoorsy and relatively fit. I enjoyed it for awhile, and managed to maintain a balance by running on the beach nearly every day to La Punta and back, doing yoga, and trying not to drink too many yummy Pina Coladas. The guys went to Cuautla on the weekends; I chose to hang in Puerto with my friend Whitney. Admittedly, I enjoyed the time off, not that my job was really "work" in any sense of the word, but skydiving did seem to monopolize my time a bit. 12 hours of the day were spent in skydiving mode, so the weekends let me go surfing (ie, get my butt worked over on a surfboard) and do other things. I think that the time spent on the beach waiting for the skydivers to return was the first time I really let myself relax. I was still fairly spastic, but I did mange to loaf around more than I ever had before.
By mid-April, it was hot--Africa hot--and we slowed down. The following week, the week of my 30th birthday, the guys didn't come to Puerto, and I was crushed because we had a huge group jump planned with me riding horsey style on someone's back. They had to switch pilots from Skydive Chicago, so had no choice but to wait in Cuautla. There were always mixed feelings about coming to Puerto when the tandem potential was low. They spent a lot of money there, so sometimes it wasn't worth it. But they loved the beach, the girls, and of course, jumping over the ocean. Sea level affords going to higher altitude than they can in Cuautla, which sits at nearly 6000'. The difference is more than 3000' higher, and about 20 seconds more of freefall.
I made my 50th jump near the end of April, and of course, had to buy chelas. I learned to pack a parachute, my friend Pana's (because it was a small canopy, easier to deal with), and I always stood on the ground looking up, waiting to see the green, black, and white canopy to open properly. Pana was always saying "oh,it'll open, relax. You have to tie it in a knot for it not to open"; it was more the issue of HOW it opened, not that it wouldn't. My 20th jump was from a helicopter in Cuautla (yep--chelas again), my most personally satisfying, and terrifying, jump. I love helicopters, and have spent lots of time riding in them fighting fire in Idaho. Jumping from one was amazing. You had to stand out on the struts, and just sort of fall off. So quiet and peaceful, and the closest to feeling like you are falling (not much forward speed from a moving helicopter so less initial resistance). The freefall was short, and you could see other people in freefall relatively closeby (again, less forward speed, jumpers end up closer together). Tonio gave up his spot so I could go, saying to Tris and I that it was an amazing opportunity, as he knew people who had 1000 jumps, and hadn't gotten to do it from a helicopter.
We jumped with Tonio a lot, doing Relative Work (flying with other people, approaching them, hanging onto one another--the basis of multi-diver formations). On our own, Tris and I jumped together and practiced approaching each other in the air. It was challenging, as we were both at the same level at the time. Flying in the air with another person in indescribable. Seeing their face up close and waving goodbye, turning and tracking away from them so you can pull your parachute at the agreed upon altitude (one person a bit higher than the other), then landing near each other on the beach.
As the time neared for the plane to return to Skydive Chicago to begin their season, I began to consider my options. The season in Mexico was winding down; with the loss of the Otter, there would be no more jumping at the beach, and therefore, not a lot of work for me. Tonio said I could help out in Cuautla, but that meant only weekends, and an occasional stint in Cuernavaca recruiting tourists, and in Mexico City helping Hector in the office.
It was a tough decision, as May would be the start of potential work for me at home. I also had an offer from Skydive Chicago to work manifest there for the season. I was really torn, and oscillated between the three options, not wanting to miss out on climbing season back at home, my friends in Mexico, or the opportunity to make tons of jumps in Chicago. I really wanted to do all three.
In the end, after 12, nearly 13, weeks in Mexico, I found myself on another plane. This time, I would be flying home in the Twin Otter, back to Skydive Chicago, where I would potentially work manifest. My friend Whitney and I loaded up in the plane, a road trip of sorts, with Woody the pilot and set off for a two day flight (this is all an entry of it's own) to the US, at 18000' and below.
I spent a few days in Chicago, checking the place out. Completely broke, I had to return to the Gorge and figure out what to do. I had mixed feelings about living in the midwest. The job was only part time, and I wouldn't be able to save a dime for the next year's traveling adventures. I would get to jump to my heart's content, which tempted me. But the thought didn't thrill me; I think that part of the romance lie in where I was jumping: the beach, in Mexico. The spontenaeity and carefree lifestyle, in lawless Mexico where you CAN ride in the back of a truck and walk down the street with a beer in your hand. Somehow, though I knew it could potentially be amazing, jumping over cornfields and living so far away from the west coast just didn't appeal to me. Maybe I wasn't ready to commit to skydiving to that extent ?
Once in the gorge, I pondered my options. I love the mountains, summer, and being active. This is a part of me that I just am not willing to compromise for anything. The reality was, I was ready for a break I think, from the Mexican diet of Pina Coladas and guacamole (holy schmoley!), and from drinking so many chelas. It was fun for awhile, but, like anything else, it lost it's novelty when it became too ordinary.
I can't say there is an end to this story, not yet anyway. I haven't skydived since Mexico. It just hasn't felt right, without the beach, the camaraderie, and the concept of "ahorita".
To say that I'm a skydiver feels wrong to me. I don't do it as a lifestyle, and I don't live it like the real skydivers I know. I can say, however, that there is a skydiver somewhere inside of me, waiting for the right time to emerge, perch herself in the door of a Twin Otter, and jump once again from a perfectly good airplane.

Photos, top to bottom: AFF course graduees; Zicatela Beach from altitude (Photo Daniel "Pana" Angulo); Pana landing on the beach; My 30th birthday in Mexico; 3-way (Photo Pana); Tracking Dive, out the door (Photo Pana); Val and Rifle (Photo Pana)

A Perfectly Good Airplane: Part II

2006-02-09T12:22:00.000-08:00

He was right. I was screwed. I couldn't help myself, and despite the cost and an excruciatingly painful ear infection, I did another tandem the next day. Tonio gave me a fat discount, which made it a bit easier to justify. The second tandem was also with Fernando, and this time, he let me pull the parachute! It was even more exhilerating than the first jump.
Thinking it couldn't getting any worse was a premature assumption. Right before the last load, the sunset jump, Tonio offered me a price I couldn't refuse, and I did a third tandem with Fernando! The bad news was, they just kept getting better, impossible to resist. This time we exited the plane doing a forward flip, and he let me steer the parachute. Tonio jumped with us and I experienced flying in the air with another person for the first time. Amazing!
Well, Tonio knew he had me at that point. I mean, 3 tandems?? He actually cut me off, and said, no more. If you want to keep jumping, you have to learn to do it by yourself. Now that seemed crazy to me, but even so I was secretly glad the divers were returning to Cuautla (the principal drop zone south of Mexico City) for the weekend, as I feared I would not be able to stop myself and end up taking the course.
The following Wednesday, the guys arrived, falling from the sky once again. I was shocked to see Rifle (Gustavo) wearing a cast (a soccer injury), but still able to skydive with a broken foot. I happened to be on the beach and one of them landed right in front of me. It was Pana (Daniel), and the first words out of his mouth were "When are you starting the course?".
To my surprise, as if possessed by another being, I answered "Right now."
It really was the beginning of the end for me. I finished the Accelerated Freefall (AFF) course in 2 days, starting in Puerto and finishing in Cuautla. It consists of 7 jumps with an instructor after some classroom instruction and lots of dirt dives. You have to pass each level before moving onto the next. To assist with landing, you wear a radio and your instructor guides you in from the ground. As you progress, you become more responsible for yourself, and by the last jump, you leave the door diving out with no instructor hanging onto you, and you land by yourself.
Jumping solo can't even compare to doing a tandem. It is incredible. The first time you open the chute by yourself, and then realize you are all alone up there is both exciting and terrifying. My first jump went well, but I hadn't turned my radio on in the plane, and as I lost altitude, I could see Pana on the ground, wondering why he wasn't telling me what to do. I started to panic, thinking I was going to have to land this thing by myself, but then realized the radio was off, turned it on and could hear him a bit frantic trying to talk to me. I landed on my feet, much to my great surprise, and stood there, shocked by what I had achieved. It was sunset, and there really aren't words to describe how I felt, there on the beach, in Mexico, parachute in hand.
The zone in Cuautla was busy, so I ended up finishing the course with Tonio. As is the Mexican skydiving tradition, new graduates of the AFF program are honored by a graduation ceremony. I was told I had to buy 2 cases of WARM chelas (beers) before we could start, and I instantly smelled a rat. All of the skydivers, no fewer than 40, gathered around me in a circle, and I was told they would give me a piece of advice; what I wasn't told is that they would kick me as hard as I could in the butt so I wouldn't forget their words! It was the most amusing thing I have ever endured, something I will never forget. Of all the 40 some odd kicks in the butt I received, the ones from the other girls hurt the most! As if that wasn't enough, they told me to sit down on the ground, and then proceeded to pour the warm chelas all over my head. It was hilarious, and so very mexican!

By this point, I was supposed to be leaving on Tuesday to go back to the states. On Monday morning, I loaded myself into the Twin Otter and flew back to Puerto with the guys, and my friend Tristan (another traveler who got sucked into the vortex). I promptly changed my ticket to stay an extra week and skydive. Over the course of the week, I did about 10 or so solo jumps, my first 2-way with Tonio, and had the time of my life. I wound up going back to Cuautla for the weekend, at which point Tonio asked me if I wanted to come back to Puerto to work for the week, doing the flight manifest in exchange for jumps. Completely unable to say no (it was becoming a bit like Groundhog Day), I loaded myself once again into the Otter and went back to Puerto, changing my plane ticket yet again. I stayed and worked the week, and it was awesome. I got to jump whenever I wanted, and on Friday I jumped with Pana and Rifle (photos above). It was amazing to fly with friends, and then see it on film later.
I wasn't able to afford staying another week; this time I had to drag myself away from Skydive Cuautla and my newfound family. But it wouldn't be forever. Tonio kept asking me to stay and work manifest in Puerto on the weekdays. I was tempted, but knew it would be a tough one to pull off. I had a life in the states, responsibilities. A yoga class to teach, painting jobs to be done. I was going to turn 30 soon, and felt a pressure to pursue the 'American Dream' and get a career or something going. Despite the voice coming from the angel (or maybe it was a parrot ?) on my shoulder, I barely said my goodbyes, because I would be back, sooner rather than later.
Photos, Top to bottom: Rifle and me, Puerto airport (Photo Daniel "Pana" Angulo); Tonio and Rifle, sit-flying (Photo Pana); Hilary's Mexican skydiving graduation; Rifle and me in freefall (Photo Pana).

A Perfectly Good Airplane

2006-02-09T08:02:00.000-08:00

Thinking about what I was doing last year at this time, I realized that today is the one year anniversary of my first tandem skydive. Had this been a one time deal, I might not remember it so clearly, so vividly, nor would the nostalgia be so powerful and consuming. The story goes like this (get comfortable, it isn't a short one, and I am verbose!):
I went to Mexico last year for a 3 week vacation in February. Wanting to learn to surf, I made my way from Mexico City to Puerto Escondido via the Pacific Coast. I immediately fell in love with Puerto Escondido, a surf town with a gigantic beach and a great vibe. Staying in one of the beach hostels, I met a couple of Canadians, Simon and Lylas, and enjoyed spending some time with the two of them, learning to surf and slurping coco locos on the beach. The third day I was there, the skydivers showed up, literally falling from the sky, landing on the hot sand, then setting up their tent in front of the biggest hotel on the beach, The Arcoiris. From here, they recruited travelers to join them for a tandem dive from 15000', over the beach and ocean. Simon was a diver himself, with some 30 jumps under his belt, so he was more than keen to go on his own, and was also intent on recruiting everyone in our hostel to do a tandem. My immediate response was "No way in hell am I jumping from a perfectly good airplane!", and I stuck to my guns. Eventually, most of the hostel had gone and raved about it. After 2 days of watching the divers land on the beach, at sunset, there were only 3 holdouts, Lylas, and British girl called Bella, and me. I was still pretty adament about my position, and the cost of going, but Simon kept at it...and finally, I cracked. My logic was that I was in Mexico, at the beach, and if there ever were a time to do it, it was now. I also thought about my brother, a smokejumper for the US Forest Service, and how he jumps out of the same type of plane, a twin otter. Maybe I would gain some insight into his motivation for doing such a crazy job.
The ride to the airport was completely insane! There were about 15 of us piled into the back of the truck, which raced through town at breakneck speeds, weaving in and out of cars and buses. In hindsight, that was way scarier than jumping out of the door of a plane! Once at the airport, I teamed up with Fernando, a loco Argentinian with wild hair, spanish I could barely understand, and an incredibly warm heart. I suited up in my harness, and we did a 'dirt dive' for practice, with me attached to his harness. He explained the procedure of leaving the plane, and told me what to do with my legs and arms, as well as what to expect once in freefall, and when landing. Honestly, I was terrified! I was sure that I was going to feel like I was falling, my stomache up in my throat, like falling off of something in a dream--that feeling.
Once in the plane, we all cheered at the take-off and enjoyed the view of Puerto Escondido from the air. Feeling nervous, I told myself 'hey, chill out. This dude doesn't want to die, it's going to be fine'. Of course, I was still a wreck, but it was consoling nonetheless.
Unfortunately, we were the last ones out the door, which meant I had to watch everyone else jump out of the plane ahead of me. When we took our position in the door, wind so loud I could barely hear him say 'ready, set, go', I instantly closed my eyes and hoped for the best. As we left the plane, expecting to fall, I opened my eyes in astonishment, realizing that it wasn't falling at all--it was flying! The resistance from the wind of the plane, and reaching terminal velocity, created a feeling of drag, like the air was thick, and movements of your body could cut through it, causing you to turn, and move about like I never imagined possible. My stomach was not in my throat, and there had to have been a ridiculous grin on my face, even though looking at the ground from 15000' feet in the air, over the ocean. Fernando had us spinning in circles so fast I was almost dizzy! The thought of playing around like that moving at about 100 mph or so seemed impossible to me, but we were doing it, and it was awesome!
Once Fernando pulled the chute, around 6000' or one minute of freefall, it was quiet again, and I am pretty sure I let out a big 'woo-hoo'. It was so peaceful to just loaf around up there in this huge lofty parachute, which was controlled by pulling right or left toggle to go right or left respectively. It took about 5 minutes to descend to the landing area on the beach. I wasn't scared anymore, and was pretty devastated that it was over already. Once Fernando put us effortlessly on the ground, I was all smiles, and we posed for the photo above. Tonio, the owner and passionate diver, came over, looked me in the eye and knew I was, for lack of a better word, screwed. He said to me in perfect english: "You are going again, aren't you?"; I'm pretty sure he could see it in my eyes, a glint that not everyone has after jumping from a perfectly good airplane.

Friendly Reminder

2006-02-08T12:44:00.000-08:00

Luck was on our side, and we woke up to a clear and sunny day in Banos. After breakfast, we hiked up the south side of the Rio Pastaza canyon, hoping for a glimpse of Tungarahua, the active volcano that looms over Banos. At just over 5000 meters (That's 18,500 or so feet), her presence is not to be taken lightly.
After walking a few hundred feet up the road, we saw the summit, covered in snow. I estatically took a few photos, and as I was putting my camera away, a small puff of ash appeared above the cone, then grew into a bigger cloud of ash right before our eyes (see photos above). It was exciting to see, yet left me feeling quite small and vulnerable as I stood and watched the volcano do her thing. Was this normal?, I asked some locals who trundled by. They hadn't even noticed the ash cloud, and answered us with a poliite "Si", when "Por supuesto [of course], stupid gringos" was what the really wanted to say.
Once the mini-eruption appeared to be over, we switch backed our way up the steep road, admiring the scenery. Dotted with small farms, the slopes of the Andes are steep and green, growing much of the produce for the region in the ideal temperate climate of the Pastaza Valley. The Market in Banos is simply rockin'; in my mind, it can't be beat!
Having gained some elevation, we were able to see what a beheamoth Tungarahua really is, as she towers over the surrounding peaks. No small feat in the Andes, where all of the mountains seem ridiculously huge. Seeing Banos in her shadow, one couldn't help but think that Tungarahua could blow her top someday and obliterate the town. The complacency of the locals reminded me of the "Cry wolf" stories we all heard as children: should her warnings be shrugged off as they are? Will the day come that her occasional spewing of harmless ash will be more than just a friendly reminder? We can never know, but I'll bet that she does.

Lucky #13

2006-02-01T08:39:00.001-08:00

Thirteen kayakers on Friday the thirteenth!

Topo Duo

2006-02-01T08:25:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, Andy took me down the Upper Rio Tena in a Topo Duo. Experiencing class 4 rapids from the front seat of a two person whitewater kayak was nothing short of exhilerating, if not a bit scary at times. To have a successful run, I had to trust him completely to shout commands at me (no time to ask nicely!) as necessary, as well as trust his judgement as he guided the huge craft downstream, weaving through boulders, snaking around tight turns. It was awesome! I think he pulled it off with more finesse than most people would think possible in a boat of its size, on such a technical little river.
Overall, besides being beautiful and peaceful, the experience greatly influenced my solo kayaking abilities, as I got to experience firsthand what class 4 rapids feel like in the seat of a kayak. I think it could have gone either way, either scaring the crap out of me or making me more keen to run rivers just like that one. Thankfully, it did the latter, and I am now more confident and excited when I am in my own boat, and more eager to be a better kayaker.

Have Kayak(s), Will Travel

2006-01-24T13:02:00.000-08:00

As Much As Possible

2006-01-24T07:26:00.000-08:00

The experience of traveling is almost always bittersweet. I am a firm believer that it is really only glamorous in hindsight; so often just simply existing in a foreign place is anything but easy or fun--and rarely is it as relaxing as you had anticipated it to be.
During my travels I go through various phases: The initial elation and sense of freedom, followed by the onset of sheer exhaustion due to constant overstimulation (noise, travel by bus, language, etc), a somewhat "stable" period reveling in the novelty of being acclimatised, followed by a panicky self-doubting phase (the why the hell am I here period), and then finally into the well-adjusted phase where I have usually stopped being bothered by petty annoyances and have accepted what I am doing. Unfortunately, depending on the length of the trip, the last phase usually happens not long before I leave.
The most difficult phase for me is usually the panicky self-doubting phase, when I call into question nearly every aspect of my life, lifestyle, motivations, even my own set of ideals. Lately I have been putting a lot of time into trying to figure out why this happens when I travel; maybe it is completely normal, I can't say. Part of it comes from meeting other travelers, who inevitabley ask you lots of questions, and always wanting to know "What do you do?". Having to answer this enough times, I begin to question myself about what it is I do.
In some ways, this bothers me. In others, it is a good process to go through: questioning myself allows me to really think about the paths I have chosen, the whys and hows of my current lifestyle. While it potentially sends me into a fit of self-doubt, in the end I usually appreciate that I can seriously question my motivations, and still feel good about what I do. Because I really don't have a solid profession, but an eclectic mix of random jobs, I always feel a bit out of place when surrounded by people who do have a title, a defining thing in their life that they work hard to maintain. Recently though, as a product of being more mature, I have come to the conclusion that I can't operate that way, and that for me, a narrow focus just isn't satisfying. I need to have my fingers in as many projects as I can, trying new things on a regular basis, and always exploring different, usually unorthodox approaches. Otherwise, I am simply bored.
So, with that in mind, the next time I am asked "What do you do?", I will finally have a reply that suits me, that is as broad as my preferences when it comes to occupations, and that I feel aptly describes my approach to life in general: "As much as possible."

In the Shadow of Tunga-ray-ha

2006-01-11T21:15:00.000-08:00

We recently traveled to the not so remarkable, very touristy town of Banios, located in the Central Highlands, about 4 hours southwest of Tena by bus. What the town lacks in character is completely redeemed by it's fantastic location: it is nestled in the Rio Pastaza Valley, surrounded by the Andes. It lurks in the shadow of Tunga-ray-ha, the not-so-dormant beheamoth of a volcano that stands at 5 thousand some odd meters, dwarfing St. Helens, and even Rainier [I should mention that the true name of the volcano is actually Tungurahua, but somehow the butchered spanish pronounciation "Tunga-ray-ha" seems to have a nicer ring to it, and well, it stuck].
Tunga-ray-ha sends out puffs of steams and ash now and then to remind those living in her shadows who is really in charge. A few years ago, Banios was evacuated because it was certain the volcano would erupt. Instead, it sounds like the police and military had a bit of fun looting people's houses while they "guarded" the town; the locals then went back into town, and in the end, the volcano didn't erupt as predicted.
Because of its location in the river valley, there are many drainages to explore right from town. Both days we were there we hiked up a different drainage and were the only gringos on the trail each time; in town we just blended in with all of the other tourists, and felt oddly out of place. The Rio Ulba, south of town, was a spectacular walk, even if it was mostly by road. Most people traveling the road took a right turn where the road did a hairpin turn about 3 km up; we opted for the left to get off the main road, following the river upstream as far as we could. Exploring kayaking possibilties, we found a path through some very dense bamboo and tropical vegetation leading to a nice surprise of a slightly rickety footbridge spanning the river just upstream of a beautiful gorge, and just below a waterfall (the site of the top photo). On the other side of the river we found an abandoned building, and I pondered the many possibilities of what it could have been used for--animals, did someone live there? We didn't notice that the trail continued anywhere from the building, which was a bit perplexing because the trail to the river looked fairly well used.
Once back on the road, we had to see where it would lead us. Cornfields, cows, and a house here and there dotted the hillsides. Finally we came to the end of the road, where two drainages came together. A footbridge crossed the stream that drains Tunga-ray-ha, and a small hamlet of houses sat just above. Having come this far, we had to see this community, that was technically just inside or bordering the boundary of Sangay National Park. We walked up the path, marvelling at the variety of produce being grown, here, in the mountains, and how peaceful it felt to be there. The farthest house away from the river had a stunning view of the Ulba valley, the Andes and the Rio Chico Verde valley to the north (bottom photo).
Finally able to tear ourselves away from this place, proclaiming that we wanted to someday live there, we made our way back down the road, feeling alive and so rejuvenated by our adventurous discoveries. Nearing the bottom of the canyon, closer to town, we stopped at a bend in the road to look at waterfalls and the place we had just been, tucked back behind a ridge in the shadow of Tunga-ray-ha. Just then, the clouds thinned and we caught a glimpse of her elusive summit, which dwarfed the other peaks (which are in no way small themselves) and provided a sense of scale: the Andes are huge!
The next day we headed back to Tena, sad to leave the mountains, but happy to get out of tourist-ville. The middle shot here is of Andy carrying his kakak to the bus station; the Andes and numerous small farms provide a dramatic backdrop.

Ramon

2006-01-05T06:33:00.000-08:00

My neighbors here in Tena have a pet monkey named Ramon. Sometimes he is out front playing with a neighborhood dog, in which case he usually has the upper hand...or should I say, tail! He uses his tail to grab the dog's hind legs, then proceeds to slap the poor pooch in the face, play with his ears, groom him, whatever. It's quite entertaining to see them go at it.
The other day, we approached our doorway and Ramon was out front, having just stolen this woman's pen, and wouldn't give it back! Luckily, we were enough of a distraction to prompt him to drop the pen. He then ran over to me and grabbed onto my leg. His owner meandered over, and eventually picked him up. They are so amazingly like human babies, he was reaching for me as a baby would, grabbing my finger, trying to bite it (playfully).
Andy even saw him swinging on a loose cable hanging from a telephone pole. He swung around, then climbed up the cable, as if it were a vine.
Here he is, above, hanging out on the porch railing. He used to be shy around us, but I think he is getting used to seeing our white skin and pale eyes.

Rainwater

2006-01-03T01:28:00.000-08:00

In Tena it normally rains nearly every day. Since my arrival, however, it has only tried to sprinkle a few times, the days being sunny and hot--so hot, you have to go to the river to cool off. The sun at the equator is intense, and with no cloud cover, it bears down on you so much that you seek out shade--any shade--even walking around town.
But now as I listen the rain finally pummelling the uninsulated tin roof, I finally understand why they call this place a rainforest, and see now that it really can rain so hard it hurts the top of your head. Everything thirsy is getting a drink, and it cools our sweaty bodies, even though it is the warmest rain I have ever felt. It isn't just about the forest and making it more comfortable to live here though. We use the rainwater to wash our clothes; it runs down the gutters, right into a large sink in our covered patio area our roof. It fills the sink with clean water that you scoop into a shallow, textured concrete basin you can scrub your clothes with, much like a washboard. It feels a little like baking bread by hand. It takes a little more work, but feels so rewarding.
Of course, the rivers will all rise if it keeps up this way. My group of friends are paddling in this right now. I almost went with them to do an easy section of the Rio Misaualli. It would have been interesting to paddle in a deluge, but I am content to hear its clatter on this old tin roof.

Rollin' On a River

2005-12-31T14:02:00.000-08:00

In case I haven't mentioned it, part of why I am in Ecuador is to learn how to whitewater kayak. I went in the states a few times with my friends Dave and Talia (who first took me and taught me some basics), and a few others who were kind enough to escort me down the lower White Salmon in Washington. But, because the water on the WS is freezing cold year round, it isn't the ideal place to learn. So here I am, in a place with so many rivers, of all kinds, warm and wonderful, hoping to learn all I can during my all to short of a stay.
Yesterday I learned how to roll, which I always thought would be very difficult to learn. Andy is such an excellent instructor, breaking it down into various phases and then linking it all together into one fluid process. I found it to be a little tricky at first, but thanks to his patience and effective teaching techniques, I ended up getting it 6 times in my first lesson! I was very happy.
After the roll session, we ran the Rio Tena all the way back to our apartment in Tena. It was fantastic! Along the way, families did their thing in the river, and some of the kids hopped on Andy's kayak (thankfully not mine, as I would have capsized for sure) and he gave 2 of them a ride quite a ways down the river, towing them on his stern. It was great to watch, they loved it. Ecuadorians live in the rivers, they really are a source of life for them; there is evidence everywhere that along with the forest, the rivers are definitely their lifeline.
Above are some photos of me in a kayak, and of me awestricken by the sights of Loopy River before it joins the Tena. At their confluence is where I learned to roll.

The View From Here

2005-12-30T14:32:00.000-08:00

Some experiences influence you in more ways than you could have ever imagined; my short stay in Ecuador seems like it has already changed my life. Though it might be hasty to say it, I feel so at home here, so alive and so free, because everything here is teeming with life. The rainforest almost seems to quiver when you look at it, when you hear it because there is so much going on. The energy is contagious; it’s difficult not to feel rejuvenated just looking out of my apartment window, which frames a stunning composition of shades of green, from bright to dark, soft to bold. With so many textures, it is impossible for the eye to grow tired of looking at so much green! It is a plant person’s dream, and a birdwatcher’s fantasy. And I can say that from a distance; actually entering the forest itself would prove to be a mecca for just about anyone, with all that it has to offer in terms of solitude and serenity. I cannot think of a more awe-inspiring place to live.

Last but not Least

2005-12-25T06:37:00.000-08:00

Last yoga class. Last day of work. Last latte I'll have in a few months. Last time for wearing jeans, and the last time I'll count the days until leaving. I love this part of travelling: knowing that your routine will change, and actually savoring moments and exeriences you know you'll miss.
My brother says that one of the best feelings is how you feel during the 'shoulder' period, the time when you get to the airport and there is NOTHING else you have to do, or can do for that matter. I've never given that space of time any thought. It could be the most relaxing time of the entire trip, between planning and anticipation to arriving in a foreign city you don't know and having to get yourself somewhere (ideally out of it), all of which is pretty stressful at times. And flying itself is never exactly relaxing, although I am flying on Christmas Day, so maybe it will be mellow. But the very idea of being on a plane that is hurling through the atmosphere at unnatural speeds isn't really very comforting, but we won't think about that right now.
With that in mind, the departure hour is approaching, and I'm sure there is somthing I'm forgetting to do or bring, some last item or experience I should have before I leave for 2 months. Part of staying sane though before travelling is to realize that whatever you forget you can live without, and that the last thing you wanted to do or say can probably wait; letting go of all such last items and needs is the only way you can truly enjoy all of the firsts that are about to happen.

Leaving, cont'd.

2005-12-01T15:16:00.000-08:00

But before I go, I will swim through the stacks, sorting, downsizing and deciding what I can and cannot live without. I feel as though I am sounding very materialistic, like I have loads of possessions, but I suppose, relatively speaking, I don't own much at all. But we can always, always, always own less! After all, we can live out of a backpack, without all of the shoes and clothes and still feel happy and content. I for one am happiest the less I have.
When I start feeling burdened and conscientious of my possessions, I know it is time to leave. I suppose this is the part of leaving I both love and hate: being forced to deal with the nature of the beast, both accepting it and trying to control my possessive ways, re-training my brain and convincing it that I can live with only one pair of pants. It is challenging, but very rewarding at the same time. It is also motivation to continue to downsize and simplify upon returning from Ecuador.

Leaving

2005-12-01T15:12:00.000-08:00

Leaving isn't always easy. If it were, everyone would be more inclined to just pack up and go, free to explore the world and themselves. But daily life, responsibilities, and so-called necessities make it difficult to do, even when you consider yourself to be a non-participatory "member" of society.
Living for even a few months in a house or other such dwelling requires commitment, and facilitates the accumulation of personal property and belongings, both of which make leaving difficult in the end. As you long for the days of living out of a backpack in your simple, obligation-free cabana on the beach, you also cherish the thought of having a place to be and feel settled. It's this quandry that gets my head spinning: How do I live freely and be true to myself in a world that I feel is becoming a place ruled by the very things that complicate life when they are supposed to be making it easier, simpler, more convenient? I question the priorities of society, and my own, on a daily basis, and as a result, often feel conflicted, torn, and sometimes just downright guilty.
How does this have anything to do with leaving? I suppose it's those creature comforts that I have the love-hate relationship with, the necessity of having a place to house them, and having to deal with them before I can leave, and live, and feel free. So why do I have them if its this upsetting? Well, I like my down jacket! I like having a pillow on a comfy bed, and I even like being able to watch a movie now and then. But they just seem to accumulate, endlessly, out of control: stacks of books, magazines, clothes, shoes (!), cookbooks and kitchen gadgets. Don't even get me started on art supplies and assorted papers. Only when forced to move said objects do we start to wonder why in the hell we have so many, and when on earth we ever find the time to use them all.
Which is where I am at right now. In a short 6 months, post-Mexico cabania, I have acquired the stacks and piles and feel buried. In order to feel free and alive again, I am planning my next trip. I think part of the appeal of travelling and living out of a backpack is that you remind yourself once again how little you actually do need to survive in this materialistic, misguided society.