Getting lost

There is something about being lost that makes breakfast taste so good. Maybe it’s just that I am well beyond breakfast by the time that I return so that I have had a good long time to dwell on the idea. My fantasy usually starts with just some nice hot pancakes but depending on just how lost I am, the sides have expanded to eggs, sausage, toast, donut, turkey sandwich, yesterday’s lasagna and a slice of pie.

I do have an unfortunate history of getting lost on a regular basis but I protest that it is all my fault.  It is not because I am always alone or ignored directions.  Quite the contrary.  There is a reason I cringe at group projects.  The gift of persuasion and the gift of insight are rarely packaged together.

I headed out to the trails this morning feeling optimistic.  I was in Deception Pass State Park, which is on Whidbey Island.  How lost could I get? Eventually I would hit the water and know it was time to turn around.  Plus, there was a lovely set of well-marked trails and there would be no bears.  Based on this, I saved myself $2 and didn’t get the map.

I ran to shake out my frustration with North Cascades National Park.  It had the unfortunate position of falling after the endless spectacle of the Tetons, Yellowstone and Glacier.  Feeling shy the Cascades hid behind clouds and spit on me endlessly.  On top of this, based on some misinformation, I ended up in an isolated campground all alone.  This is one of those things that you don’t mention on your phone calls home to mom. Let’s just say I was grateful to be in a camper with a lock and I slept with my newly purchased bear spray.  But the state park would be nothing like this.  Not only was I near civilization, but I had long time friend Cressey Rice coming to camp with me.

Considering this was supposed to be a quick run and I assumed I could not possibly get lost, I didn’t think of sending out my GPS signal.  I ran into the dense forest following a soft, dirt path.  There were a lot more branch points than I expected and the trail kept getting more and more overgrown.  I finally found myself completely disoriented in the middle of a dense cedar forest with no end in sight and only the sound of rain.  I’m on an island, I reassured myself, I can’t possibly be that lost. 

The disturbing part was the scat.  I told myself that there could not possibly be bears because there were no signs everywhere telling me that I was about to be eaten by one.  Well, that and every garbage can wasn’t on lock down.  But I kept finding giant piles of poo on the trail.  It didn’t look like the pellets of deer or elk.  It was much too large for dogs or even a cougar. Horses were not allowed on the trail.  This was compounded by giant hoof prints I found in the mud.  What animal living in Coastal Washington was that big? I considered a dragon but the climate seemed all wrong.  That pretty much left me with Sasquatch or a unicorn.  I can’t believe I left them off Bingo!

After spending a good long while bushwhacking through dense, wet ferns, I eventually found a familiar looking trail, thinking that maybe I would go find that map after all.  Well, maybe after breakfast.    

Homecoming

You’re from Montana? So do you think you will go back?

            This is one of the most common questions I am asked.  Do people from, say, Iowa get this? Or Nevada?  Sometimes it is like being from an exotic foreign country and having people wonder why you would ever leave.  I mean, they went there on a vacation and had a great time.  Why wouldn’t you live there all the time?  Well, because life is not a vacation and Libby is no paradise.

            Libby is where I was born and raised.  Certainly it was unique. I took for granted that dead animals should hang in the yard waiting to be skinned each fall.  Heating the house meant chopping and carting wood to build a fire.  The theater only had one screen.  You either worked for the mine or the lumber mill.  I think we barely tipped the scales at 10,000 people for the entire county. I may not have known everyone in town but they knew my father and, thus, they knew me.  It was hard to get away with much.

            These are not the reasons I left as quickly as I could.  It had more to do with the confused looks I got when I said I wanted to go out of state for college. It had to do with the underhanded remarks that muscles were not appropriate for girls.  It was the doubt that I would ever be much of a real runner. Ambition did not sit well there. To this day nothing riles me more than being told I am not good enough. 

            So I left and didn’t go back.  It had been 14 years since I passed through Libby and more since I really lived there. My own family had long since left the area.  I considered skipping it all together for this trip, still not sure I was ready to prod those memories back to life.  Yes, I had done it all: finished college, become a doctor, run in the Olympic trials.  Yet here I am having quit my job and wandering the country and not really sure what to do next.  I’m not sure that is exactly my triumphant return.

            In the end, morbid curiosity drove me home.  Was anyone still there? With the mill and mine gone, was it taking its last agonal gasps?  In reality it had changed very little other than to shrink a bit.  A few buildings had been painted but otherwise little had been built other than a new hospital. Like me, Libby was trying to cover up the grey with a good dye job but it’s hard to cover up the wrinkles. In spite of this, I wound up lost several times.  Apparently, I had succeeded wildly in forgetting Libby. 

            I am lucky that they did not forget me.  No, Libby had not grown.  There were no fancy shops.  The city still struggles but the small army that believed in my dreams and understood that Libby could not feed them also welcomed me home.  My stories are consolation that their investment in me had indeed paid off.  These are the meager returns in small town America.  The hard part was learning how many people were gone.  Death had sadly cut down the cast of characters.

            Going home forces me to confront some very small moments that had a very powerful impact on my life.  Perhaps this is something everyone experiences with age.  Perhaps it is only in moments of great humility that it is possible to acknowledge this.  I will not claim that a truce was declared or a peace pipe smoked, but there is something reassuring about knowing there is a place to call home and that maybe I fit better than I ever imagined.

Glacier

I planned Glacier to be short and sweet.  I have many great memories there but they are all from my pre-park obsessed days so I didn’t have a stamp or a magnet to prove it.  I also worried that the park would still be snowed in, which in fact was the case.  The Going to the Sun Road was closed, as the pass had still not been cleared of snow.  I was profoundly disappointed.  Logan Pass provides some of the most dramatic views anywhere from a drivable vantage point.  Unfortunately, the stop was complicated by an ever increasing anxiety over bears.  I really hadn’t gone to Yellowstone expecting to see so many bears whereas I expected bears in Glacier.  30 years ago a family friend was killed by a bear there.  So whatever I may say here, I do not take their danger for granted.

            With this in mind, I once again found myself running on the road both because I felt this less likely to surprise a bear as well as well to have increased traffic to ward them off.  However as I ran, I realized that lining the road, these were the exact sorts of foliage that the bears like to tromp around in.  They could remain well camouflaged and cool down there next to the streams.  Indeed, 12 miles into my run, I had the joy of looking over to find a bear on the other side of the road watching me.  As I ran off, he walked out and continued to stare at me.  It was much closer than I cared to see him without the reassuring glass and steel of my car encasing me.  Paranoid that the bear would suddenly break into a trot and join me for my final miles, I flagged a ride back to my car.

            Later when I was told that Logan Pass was open to those willing to go on foot, I was determined to go.  With the morning’s bear encounter fresh on my mind, the real problem was the 8 bear infested miles to make it happen.  This was one of those moments that I really had to step outside of myself.  I am not one to strike up casual conversations with random strangers.  This trip has forced me at times to engage with people when I would otherwise shy away.  Fortunately, when you are out in the woods, you tend to meet like-minded people that can appreciate your naïve questions and your occasional dependency on each other.  It was with that mind set that I raced to catch up to two cyclists, Dennis and Donna, who graciously allowed me to accompany them to the top and back.  I am incredibly grateful for their generosity in allowing me to crash their party and then inviting me over for drinks, too.  It was much needed conversation and community after what had been a long stretch without any socializing. 

            Logan Pass delivered.  In fact, I would count it as one of my most spectacular experiences of seeing the pass. Normally it is mobbed with people.  With only a few cyclists at the top, it was possible to get a sense of how this place probably felt for thousands of years: silent, solid and stately.  It is heartbreaking to know the glaciers will all be gone in just a few years, but their incredible power has certainly left a stunning legacy.

            So in spite of the very short visit, it was nonetheless, once again, memorable. 

Sledding on a glacier!

No really, I can take a picture of a moose

St. Mary Lake

Life up close

Yellowstone is an odd collection to say the least, an eclectic geology show and safari all rolled into one, overlaid with rich historical accents and a dash of horror show.  I mean what else do you say when you swerve to avoid a branch in the road only to discover it is a partially gnawed leg.  For the nerd in me, it doesn’t get much better than this.  Yes, when your last two book purchases consists of a field guide to birds and Theodore Roosevelt’s biography, you might be a nerd.  I’m embracing it.  I even bought a pair of binoculars.  This consisted of an uniformed visit to a local sporting goods store that went like this.  “Um…yeah…everything looks way closer.  I’ll take these.”

            Over the course of five days I watched water go up and water fall down.  The earth steamed, boiled, burbled and crackled.   I climbed mountains, cruised the valley, and chased rainbows.  Yellowstone has it all.  Except oxygen.  Above 8,000 feet, it could really use a reintroduction of oxygen.

             I have always been a fall girl.  Blame it on the name.  I held a strong bias that the parks should be seen between Labor Day and Thanksgiving. Yellowstone showed me that there is really something to love about spring thanks to Doug McLaughlin. By pure chance and curiosity I met this man who generously shared his high power scope with me and took me on an impromptu tour of the Lamar Valley.  I have not endorsed products or accepted sponsorship for this trip on purpose.  I am not out here to sell myself or anything else.  I do recommend good people and Doug McLaughlin is good people.  If you care to really see details of Yellowstone up close, buy or rent one of his scopes (opics.yellowstone@gmail.com).  His generosity with his lens as well as his intimate knowledge of the park literally opened up a whole new world. There were babies everywhere! Baby moose, baby elk, baby bison, baby owls, baby goats, baby geese, baby bears and even baby wolves!  In a moment in my life when there are nothing but earthquakes, it is good to know that life goes on.

Bear hunting

While Yogi Bear and Boo Boo got famous stealing picnic baskets in Yellowstone Park, my knowledge of Yellowstone history would suggest that there was no actual need to steal as food was frequently and freely given. Even my father has fond memories of walking next to a bear and taunting it with a fishing pole back in the good old days. That was when bears were still considered cute and cuddly.

            They have since changed to Floyd Mayweather's PR firm to toughen up their image.  Now bears are vicious and ready to attack you at a moment’s notice.  Signs are posted on how to avoid bear attacks: Go in groups (challenging, as I am traveling alone), make noise (I would sing but at 8,000ft, I feel like I am doing well to breath), don’t run (failed again), and carry bear spray (easier said than done).  You might as well dress me in huckleberry garland and ring the dinner bell.

            My first bear sighting was such a thrill, a brief passing moment of momma and her cub.  I savored it.  You never know how many you will get.  This was where I was terribly wrong.  What unnerved me about this is that I had been running in that very spot only an hour before.  I tried to keep my anxiety in check.  Bear sightings are rare overall.  Many people come to the park and never see one. The second bear sighting was a pleasant one I got to enjoy in the early morning all to myself.  Again, it was in a spot I considered running but promptly altered my plans.  Then for the third day in a row, I had the pleasure of six bear sightings.  These are easy to spot because of the traffic jams and people mobbing the road way.  The bears are harder to find as they prefer the bushes.  Four of these sightings included adorable playful cubs.  This sounds like such a treat but it makes me nervous.  Momma bears are notoriously grumpy and the last animals you want to meet on the trail.  It’s probably all those late night feedings and sore nipples.  Plus, dad is a slacker and contributes nothing.  By the end of the day, my paranoia had officially grown eightfold.  I had originally avoided the trails thinking that I would be more likely to run into a bear in the woods, but all these bears were taking their act on the road.  So while I had child like enthusiasm for my first bear encounter, by the end of the day I was buttoning down the hatches against the invasion crying, the bastards are everywhere!

            There have been many well meaning suggestions of bear spray, as if you just spray some on and poof, bear be gone.  Let’s think about this.  It really means that you have several hundred pounds of teeth and claw coming your direction and she isn’t even going to get a whiff of the stuff until she is within 30 ft and that’s presuming that you have it pointed in the right direction and haven’t just coated yourself instead.  I did look into buying a can but it runs $50 in the park.  It comes with the most stylish of hip holsters to keep it handy, none of which were going to work on a run and I couldn’t figure out where to put it in my pack.  Apparently it takes a canister the size of a fire extinguisher to stop an angry bear.  The park clearly realized that most people were unwilling to buy $50 of insurance considering that visitors are dangling their children in front of the bear to get that classic Christmas card photo op.   Now Yellowstone has bear spray kiosks where you can rent a bottle for the day, but do you really want to put your faith in a used can of bear spray?  Why not just reuse your condoms?

            In an ironic twist, I am now searching out the busiest places to run.  Come out screeching children.  Hurry along in your sandals and heels.  Bring on the slow and plodding.  When Yogi Bear comes calling, I can out run you all!

Wild Life

The Grand Tetons have to be the most stunning backdrop ever to watch wildlife. The prairie dogs have been left behind but replaced with an abundance of elk. Squirrels were exchanged for the adorable marmot. Each of the last few parks has added an interesting new ungulate to the mix.  This time it is the moose, a really hideous looking mammal honestly.  They are all legs and big lips, the animal kingdom’s version of Mick Jagger. The first moose was viewed from a pleasant distance.  The second was a bit more intimate.  She owned the trail and was not going to share.  I could climb up a rock cliff or jump down into the water to avoid her.  So I did what I do best and ran back down the trail.  The problem is that she insisted on following.  Eventually I hid behind a rock and watched her saunter by 15 feet away.  So I should have incredible up close pictures, right?  Nope.  This is what I have to share of the moment.

The two sets of nesting eagles (**cough**) I saw as I floated down the river also came out the same. I was much to excited watching the momma bear with her cub to even think of my camera.  It seems I need some lessons from the Goatographer who seems to have no problem catching me mid flight. Photography is simply not my gift.

            Let’s focus on other people’s flaws, shall we?  The most intriguing species by far is the homo sapien.  It brings a whole new meaning to “wild life.”  The recent buffalo-napping is only the beginning.  This was repeated with a baby pronghorn as well.  It makes me ill to speak of the graffiti decorating Arches National Park.  Or how about the men prancing through the hot springs at Yellowstone?  Such things just seem so obviously wrong, you have to wonder what motivated them.  Perhaps they saw a reward sign for a lost dog and thought, close enough.  Or maybe they thought the graffiti was a new interactive display provided by the park service.  The guys in the hot spring were probably just too cheap to buy a shower.  You wouldn’t think I would have such high expectations when I’m accustomed to people coming to the ER for hangnails.  I keep thinking that perhaps with a good night’s sleep and strong cup of coffee the American IQ will suddenly rise.  I might as well by lottery tickets.

            Even if I have never witnessed outright atrocities myself, the shallow bottom is easy to see. I have come across women carrying giant purses through the Badlands.  They require an assistant on the other side just to balance out the 20 lb bag they are carrying. I realize there are warnings to go to prepared but how much can really happen on a ½ mile trip down the boardwalk.  I doubt that Vera Bradley is full of first aide, splints, and rescue harness in case of emergency. There was the guy wearing flip flops walking up Guadalupe.  I can only imagine the toe jam after that expedition.  His poor pedicurist. On second thought, perhaps I should give him credit.  There is no way I would have made it that far in flip flops.

            Today’s sighting was by far the best.   A young woman showed up to the trailhead doing her best Taylor Swift imitation.  In fact the woman looked like the early version of Taylor with her long blonde hair and long skinny legs.  She was dressed in a thin long sleeve shirt and high waist shorts, the type that the gluteal fold falls out of with the slightest provocation.  To complement this, she had on knee high socks with leather ankle boots that had a 2-inch heel.  It was accessorized with a classy leather satchel hanging low and loose across her shoulders.  I am sure this is the absolute latest high school fashion however those of us in long pants, hiking boots and down jackets to protect us from the freezing temps were openly incredulous.  We might as well have stumbled upon a peacock strutting among the buffalo and elk.  I simply lack the imagination to empathize with what she was thinking when she put it on that morning but I am sure the wildlife were very impressed.

Huckleberry wild

I was raised on the huckleberry.  I had no idea for many years that this was unusual until I discovered that there were people in the world that didn’t even know what a huckleberry was.  Like a blueberry, they would insist after I described the small purplish berry to them.  Nothing like a blueberry, I insist.  It is on a whole other cosmic level.  It has a tart sweetness that I have never had a blueberry come close to.  You are never going to find the huckleberry languishing in a plastic bin in the grocery store like some commoner.  It insists on being elusive. The huckleberry is a wild berry that largely seems to reside in the Northwest, preferably at the end of a bumpy dirt road and several miles of hiking.  Much like myself, it resists domestication.

            As a community we took pride in being friendly and helping one another but all that stopped when it came to huckleberry picking sites and elk hunting grounds.  These were sacred family secrets.  This is because the huckleberry is incredibly tedious to pick, like the worst Easter egg hunt ever. This was learned one summer when my grandfather forbade my grandmother from paying $25 per gallon for the huckleberries dutifully picked by the elderly couple that clearly had a cash crop somewhere. Being a good student of the Depression, he thought this was a ridiculous price for what a little hard work couldn’t produce for free.  So we made the long trek to the woods and spent several hours picking. Although my brother and I in theory provided extra sets of hands, our contribution was small.  Our mouths on the other hand had a distinct purple hue suggesting our productivity was artificially low. By the time we were done we were covered in dirt, sweat and scratches from digging through brush.  We were all exhausted and we had barely scratched together a gallon or so of berries.  From then on my grandmother was given permission to buy as many huckleberries as she desired.

            The other challenge of huckleberry picking is the bears.  They, too, have a fondness for the berries.  They will happily sit in a patch and gorge without any intention of sharing.  It makes the whole berry picking process a little nerve racking when you aren’t sure if it is your brother rustling in the bushes or something a bit fuzzier.  It gives a whole new meaning to organic when you have to pry them from the jaws of a grizzly. 

            For years now I have settled for the blueberry, a second rate substitute for the finer things in life.  As if injected with steroids, they seem to be grown for size over flavor.  They are either mushy or tart.  My taste buds have grown nostalgic.  So when the woman checking me in at the campground encouraged me to try the huckleberry ice cream, there was no question that I would do just that, over and over.  Bear claws not included.