Olympic National Park(or, "Ambrosia & Wanderlust for Mere Mortals")

Two friends (now married to each other) are taking five weeks this summer to drive, camp and hike up and down the West Coast, even venturing into some of Canada's national parks (Banff, etc.).

They invited me to join them at Banff, and I was about to buy a plane ticket for Alberta when Washington's best friend announced his wedding reception would be the weekend following July 4th — incidentally, about the same time my friends would be exploring Olympic National Park.

So I purchased a ticket for Washington state instead. And while I regret that I won't get to explore Banff just yet (it looks beautiful), I'll be the first to confess that this past hike was among the best I've ever taken (though for the last two hours I think we were all ready for it to be over).

We hiked for about eight hours, covering 10 miles with a 1,500-2,000 foot elevation gain and then a 6,000 foot elevation drop. The hike up certainly got my heart pumping, but the payoff was worth it.*

Beautifully clear skies, the Olympics all around us, and the ocean down below just to the west of us.


At some points we were so far above the clouds, it was difficult to tell the ocean from the sky.





Once we turned to head down the mountain, our narrow path carried us past meadows full of colorful wild flowers


And even patches of snow. For the first time in my life, I hiked through snow in the dead of summer. At some points our trail entirely disappeared under a bed of white, and we'd confer as to where we thought we needed to go.


There should've been two bald eagles in this shot — I spotted six of the them by the weekend's end, but never had my camera at the ready.




I would've expected to see enormous slugs further west in the park (closer to the Hoh Rain Forest), but we were pretty far east in the park, in a dryer climate. Suffice it to say I was pretty much in awe of these guys, which were gigantic in comparison to the Midwestern slugs I'm more accustomed to.


But don't get me wrong. Our trail was packed full of things you'd see elsewhere too. Still, there's nothing quite like stopping to add a little "extra" to the "ordinary."


The second half of our journey took us into a forest of monstrous proportions. When we wandered past some toilet paper knotted in the trees — our lone reminder of outside civilization, since we saw absolutely no one after our initial climb to the peak — I stopped to ask if we should check to see if someone was down in the ravine, possibly lost.

I didn't see anyone, but we did find out the next day that search teams were out looking for a woman who'd gotten lost during a similar hike just a couple days before. She went out for a day hike on Tuesday, but didn't reappear until Saturday, when she wandered out of the woods 20 miles off course. The cause for her state: snow had covered a portion of her trail, and she miscalculated where it picked up.

Luckily, she'd packed enough food to subsist. But her situation does allude to some precautions you should take before any serious hike:

•Don't hike alone
•Always give yourself enough time to get out of tree cover before sunset
•Bring a compass
•Pack a topological (or "green") map of the park
•Bring along GPS, if available

But this is all in addition to the other supplies (energy bars, lots of water, first aid kit, matches, knife, etc.) I bring along which — let's be honest — I go a bit overboard on.


Many of the trees were draped in Spanish moss. And the further down we climbed — and the closer we got to the river below — the more the trees were covered.


I have absolutely no idea what this transformer/transponder was doing in the middle of the forest. Any ideas?


The sound of the river below was sometimes pretty intense. And because we were constantly walking down pretty steep inclines, my knees, ankles and toes (note to self: buy better hiking shoes) were really starting to ache (substantially more than my muscles). But the sound of water was getting intense, so I thought that meant we were near the end of our hike.

Turns out we had about three miles to go. And we were actually just approaching a water fall.


But as I said before, the park wasn't just bears and giant slugs and eagles and the like. It was full of wildlife you'd see elsewhere, too. Even still, it's not everyday you spot an adolescent deer in the foreground of a vista like this.

This was actually taken after our hike — when we picked up our car and headed into town for some grub.


The next day we toured the neighboring towns, visiting lilac farms...



Charming seaside towns...


And Fort Worden, a 19th century military fort designed to ward off naval attacks in the north Pacific.




This is the bunker area, our last stop before parting with my friends.

Shelters hidden in dirt reeked of alcohol and fireworks, with July 4th bottle rockets and the like serving as an ironic reminder of the fort's original intent.




On Day 4, we were off to the wedding reception, where I found these lovelies sprouting up from a sidewalk.


This was "lucky" 7/7/7. And so only three days after Independence Day. For those of you keeping track, this July 4th was the two year anniversary of my brother's return from Afghanistan. He heads to Iraq in January, something that has all of us holding our breath. He returned from Afghanistan with debilitating migraines, a rotator cuff completely torn from his shoulder (he's had surgery to repair it, though he'll never get it back 100%), and an inexplicable case of asthma.


After the reception, we drove 10 miles north to the Canadian border, passports in tow. Unfortunately, everyone in the states seemed to be going through the same checkpoint, and our wait to get across the international boundary was just short of two hours.

We didn't have two hours to kill, unfortunately, so that meant we had to turn right back around.

But before we did, this is the one shot I got of Canada: construction of a new customs building.


Pretty ironic when you consider the current Canadian building was already in much better shape than the U.S. side. Not to mention, neither the Canadians nor the Americans like it when you tell them you spent all of your free time sitting in line and so need to turn around to make dinner plans.

The Canadians will look at you funny, make you pull over, and then send you inside their building to have a piece of paper filed before they smile and wish you a nice day.

The Americans, guns on their side, scowl, and then have you pull over so they can search through your belongings with a fine tooth comb (as a side note, we were the only white people inside the building — everyone else was Middle Eastern or Hispanic — racial profiling anyone, anyone?).

Luckily, even with the full search re-entering the U.S., the line on that side was still MUCH shorter. So we turned our car south and visited the newlyweds at their new home, of which I was sinfully envious.


Day 5 was spent back in Seattle, which I enjoy visiting almost as much as Portland and Olympia.

All three cities are extremely eco-friendly. On this particular day, there was a city-wide campaign alerting people to homelessness in the city. I was told that when this campaign was first unveiled, some hooligans destroyed the cutouts by drawing mustaches and the like onto children's faces.

Some people have absolutely no tact.

Here a "real" little girl is sizing herself up against the girl on the cardboard cutout.

"I'm bigger than her!" she exclaimed, her face sobering a bit when her mother read the sign aloud.


And then it was back to my apartment in the Midwest, where recently so much of the grass seems painfully (and metaphorically) brown.


*If interested, you'll find more vacation photos at my Flick'r account.

How Could I Leave This Behind

One post and not too many moons ago, I promised an entry about the inexplicable -- and at times disgusting -- behavior of certain women.

I'm not talking about the women who engage in belching contests with men or anything of the sort. And I'm not even here to tell a story, per se. Rather, I'd like to enlist your help in coming up with answers to questions that have been plaguing me since Saturday evening.

***

Though I hadn't needed to use the nearby "pit" toilet at all by day, as dusk settled in, nature began to call quite clearly. So I asked Washington for directions (he said there were signs) and I made my way to the loo.

[NON SEQUITOR: Times such as this, a certain part of me wishes ill will towards men, for their brazen ability to "go" on a moment's notice -- and not only do they "go," but they do so, rather coldly and matter-of-factly, when their female companions stand nearby in agony. Couldn't you at least share our pain? Is chivalry really so dead?]

But I digress.

I made my way around the bend, paused at a sign indicating "SHOWERS" were to the left, and tried to determine whether or not this was the sign Washington mentioned.

Showers, afterall, are generally near restrooms. Right?

Right?

So I turned left, noticed a small building radiating that familiar stench, and saw another sign pointing towards "SHOWERS," indicating they were up ahead beyond this particular structure.

So this is the pit I thought. The pit of despair.

[You Princess Bride fans know what I'm talking about.]

I heard voices coming from inside the shelter marked "women."

I heard one woman yell "Me first!" as I placed my hand on the door.

And my mistake, dear readers, was in the follow through.

I should not. Should not have opened the door.

What I saw was a hefty women, completely naked. She was only inches from the door with her backside to it, legs spread and back hunched (as though touching her toes).

Suffice it to say I was given quite a view of a rather large -- and rather unattractive -- nether region, made to look all the more unflattering by its position.

"I think someone's coming in," I hear another female say.

Almost coinciding with those words, I picked my jaw up from the pestilence-infested ground, turned my heels, and quickly made for the trail back to my campsite.

***

Later after dinner -- I "held it in" for nearly two more hours -- Washington escorted me to the toilet pit proper, confirming for me that I had indeed gone to the right place (and not some secret campground sex dungeon).

I should add that there were four "pits" inside this structure, all of them offering the privacy of a stall. So anyone doing their "business," ideally, would've been in a stall.

And yet, there was a rather unsettling puddle of water over the floor where the woman had been standing, which caused me to wonder if perhaps she had made the concrete her restroom. Whatever they were doing, I can't for the life of me figure out why it warranted the "Me first!" exclamation.

Washington speculated that perhaps they were searching for ticks.

Your hypotheses are welcome. Though please bear in mind this blog is PG-13.*

*I realize this very post may be breaking the PG-13 rating.

A Walk in the Woods (Book Review)Or, "An Open Invitation to Get Lost in the Woods with Me"

By page 15 of Bill Bryson's A Walk in the Woods, I couldn't wait to finish the text, if only so I could rush online, write and post a review, and then demand that someone here join me for a trek along the 2,000+ mile expanse of the Appalachian Trail.

By page 100, I was already plotting out my trip. Thinking of which supplies I'd need to purchase and what — if anything — I already owned. I was ready, honestly, to quit my job and move all of my stuff into storage (I needed to move anyway, right?), if only to sequester five months of time for the sole purpose of walking the trail in its entirety (though, as Bryson notes, you need to start early March to complete the hike before harsh weather intercedes).

But somewhere around the book's midsection, my excitement — which was, by this point, inextricably tied to the author's humorous insights — tapered considerably. I think it was somewhere in the Smoky Mountains that Bryson and his comical hiking comrade, Stephen Katz, were forced, by law, to bunk with strangers in filthy "shelters" along the trail.

And while I'd love to meet new people on such an adventure, when the stars come out, I'd prefer to be alone in my tent. So this was, for me, a considerable turn-off (I'd quote a passage from the book — which I marked with post-its — but the text is now on loan to my father). And it wasn't long after the Smokies that Bryson's hilarious anecdotes met a similar end.

I was still interested in the text, but I was also certainly less into it. And while humor was still present, it was scattered here and there, whereas before it had been omnipresent. I could sense, in a way, that Bryson was much more into planning the hike — that he preferred the idea or even the ideals of the hike more than the hike itself. In short: he lost his mountain man wanderlust about 200 miles in. And it shows.

And this — even though the witticisms did occasionally re-appear — was altogether disheartening. I felt like my excitement was being crushed along with the author's, which is in itself an indication of fine writing. Or else why would I have cared?

That is the beauty of Bryson's style: he's made a much enviable living out of traveling the world and writing humorous narratives to describe his adventures (if any of you know of a publisher willing to pay me to do the same — I'll take it). He even intersperses a bit of knowledge hither and thither: from the history of the Trail on up to its present condition, you could treat A Walk in the Woods not only as an informal travelogue... but also as a travel guide.

Or, to paraphrase the book in 15 words or less: it's funny; it's educational; it's a pleasure to read... but it also loses its fuel.

That being said, I still want to hike the Appalachian Trail: whether I do a significant portion later this summer... or the entire thing (unlikely — I don't have the cash flow) next year.

Anyone with camping, hiking and/or survival experience is welcome to join me.

Bags are My Bag... Baby

As much as I like to come across as the atypical female with a distaste for shopping in all of its sundry forms, the truth is... I do have a few weaknesses.

Books, sure. Camping stores, yep. And I can even be coaxed into shopping at the occasional clothing store, so long as it's not too fancy and we keep it quick.

But no matter where I go — and no matter what type of store I'm at — I always find myself drawn to their bag selection.

And, no, I don't mean those cutesy little handbags or those $1,000 purses that women literally crawl over themselves (and others) to get first pick when specialty boutiques open their doors.

I'm talking about bags. Backpacks, hydration packs, day packs, weekend packs, laptop carriers, Camelbaks, messenger bags... seems no matter how many I have, I could always use at least one more for that niche occasion.

For example: I found a rather nice pack for day hikes at REI a month or so ago. It stored 2,500 cu inches but could be cinched in to avoid looking like a behemoth; had a slot for a hydration pack; plenty of pockets; and was — and this is important — a color I liked. It was originally $110, but was marked down to $35... so I had to have it. But it took me about 30 minutes of "thinking about it" to come to this conclusion.

A week later I was at a different outfitting store when I stumbled upon another beautiful pack. This one was also designed for day hikes but — more specifically — in the winter time. It was much like the one I had just acquired in terms of size, shape, price and savings... but it had another nifty little feature: a pocket on the outside made especially for holding snowshoes. I swear to you, I nearly salivated when I realized its purpose.

It took everything in my power to not purchase that bag, too. And now that two more weeks have passed, I'm still not sure I made the right decision. I think of that bag regularly, and wonder if I'll ever see another piece of such beautiful equipment at such a low price.

And when I was gifted a messenger bag yesterday — an extra-small Timbuk2 that's big enough to hold a book and my camera but is still small enough to qualify as a purse — I was eager to dump everything from my current bag and move everything over. It bothers me even now, typing, that I haven't yet had the time to do so.

I'm wholly aware that I have a "problem," if you will. But in trying to determine the cause (as a means for a solution), I also can't help but note how I generally avoid most other material possessions. Sure, I have a lot of books, CDs and DVDs... but I've even stopped adding new ones to my collection with any voracity. And I can't wait to give away a heaping pile of clothes when I move — I'm tired of taking them with me. I turn my mother down every time she tries to "give me something" to decorate my home with (doesn't help that our tastes are so different), and I wish I weren't such a sentimentalist — it'd mean I'd have fewer photo albums to cart around, too.

In which case, I've determined my "problem" to be multi-faceted:

• Between work and school, it's been over a decade since I've lived at the same place for more than two years. This constant moving creates a sort of distaste for unnecessary possessions.
• This penchant for asceticism is a direct contrast for my love of literature, music, movies, art, novelty items, etc.
• There have been times when I've been traveling or hiking when I've found myself in dire need of supplies (like water) when none was available. I now suffer from a compulsion to take every possible "necessity" with me everywhere I go.
  
• Likewise, my ascetic longings are contrasted by my need to preserve things: my family's past (scrapbooks); my present (newspaper clippings, etc); mementos; sentimental gifts and so on.
  

When I consider these four "problems" as a whole, I can't help but note that a "bag," in contrast, has a very functional purpose. It's meant to hold things — to make them easier to move, in bulk, from Point A to Point B.

And for someone like me who takes a book, a camera, paper, a pen, a small first aid kit and all of those usual girly supplies (Kleenex, chapstick, etc.) everywhere she goes... and a bag of some proportion (which co-workers and friends always make fun of — until they need some Excedrin or a finger nail file or whatever) is an absolute necessity.

Couple that with the simple fact that I always seem to be moving... and my neurosis is starting to make sense.

But I may be rationalizing a senseless addiction. Who knows. However you look at, at least one thing is certain:

I need help. And by that I mean: cold, hard cash. Or how else will I ever afford this basic human indulgence?

Day 4 (Faux Toes)

Our day began earlier than we would have liked, thanks entirely to our neighbors. They left food out on their picnic table (despite warnings that bears were lurking about)... and while we were lucky enough that no black bears made a live appearance, the food did attract the attention of camp robbers... a sort of bird with a high-pitched squeal that will fight to the death for bread crumbs.

I tried my darndest to sleep despite the birds screaming over the tent, but probably only managed another five minutes of actual rest in the 90 minutes I lay there trying. By the time I crawled out of the tent and headed to the (flushable!) restroom, I had a whopping three hours of sleep under my belt.

After Washington likewise gave up on rest, we began the task of tearing down our campsite while our neighbors did the same while nursing hangovers (proof in and of itself that they were there only to party... they were at Rocky Mountain National Park for less than 10 hours). We were so eager to leave RMNP by this point that we bailed on making breakfast. We headed out — by this point already later than expected — but were stopped by a herd of elk along the way.


Once I was done taking pictures, we stopped at Estes Park, a nearby resort town that was quite charming (aren't they all?). If you're ever in the area, grab some flapjacks at Molly B's — Washington and I have been mourning the fact that we'll likely never have them again.



Also be sure to take a detour past the Stanley House, Stephen King's inspiration for The Shining (I believe part of the Stanley Kubrick film was shot there as well). You'll understand why when you see it.



And from there, it was off to Golden where we were to visit with my cousin and his wife. We passed through Boulder along the way after passing countless mountain bikers with massive leg muscles and tremendous determination (photos to come on Day 5). We parked in Golden about three or four hours later than we had planned.

I hadn't seen my cousin in five years, and I'd not yet had the opportunity to meet his wife. I was a bit anxious about the fact that we'd be staying with them for a night, primarily because I don't like to inconvenience people. But when I told them I'd be in the area and I recommended we meet for dinner, they were pretty insistent about us staying there and using their place as a base for trips to Denver.

And, ultimately, I was glad of it. Not only was it nice to catch up with them, but they really helped to make Colorado feel a little like home... not to mention, I think Washington was enjoying himself enough that he was hesitant to leave by day 5. Mountains, mountain biking, hiking, taking the dog for a walk on a path made specifically for that purpose... charming medium-sized cities with a small-town charm... a 20-hour road trip back to the big city just didn't appeal to either of us.


But back to Day Four: after showering and chatting, we took a quick trip to a nearby town Washington lived in for a few years as a kid (before and after completing most of his rearing in — you guessed it — Washington state)...



...And then headed back to Golden for a home-cooked meal and good conversation.

[Post backdated according to actual date of travel. Photos of Stanley House, Chuckwagon Diner and pink building were taken by Washington.]

Day 3 1/2 (Camping Etiquette Revisited)

I went to the mountains because I wished to live [somewhat] deliberately for a couple days, to front only the essential facts of life [with the aid of a propane stove], and see if I could not learn what [the great outdoors] had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not slept within a reasonable proximity of bears, elk and other sundry creatures. I did not wish to live what was not life (living is so dear!); nor did I wish to camp near ingrates, unless it was quite necessary.

I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, not battle for sleep while my drunken neighbors tore limbs from trees to build their fire; played drinking games; and spoke at hideous decibels until a park ranger resigned them to three hours of quiet.

My desperation grew while you chatted against the clock: first 10 p.m. and then 11. And then midnight, one, two... your 500 watt Coleman illuminated for us the contents of my tent; so much so, in fact, that I fancied you were that proverbial train whistle, interrupting Henry's morning swim.

And just as that sound cracked through the quiet — as if to further validate that infamous (and semi-hypocritical) hoeing of beans — you grew to symbolize the very reason I had gone to the woods in the first place.

But there was no escaping the uncivilized life now typical of modern society. For our final 10 hours at Rocky Mountain National Park, you were no Emersons. Rather, you were a mass of two men and three women huddled just 10 feet from our tent, sharing personal facts (and stripping articles of clothing) to the tune of "Truth or Dare" while children tried to sleep nearby.

Your lack of consideration infected us with a sort of desperation that was anything but quiet.

And though I have since returned to (un) civilized life, the lesson learned from my great experiment rings nevertheless true:

It is nearly impossible, these days, to simplify.

[Post backdated according to actual date of travel]

Day 2 (Camping Etiquette)

To Those Who Take Infants Camping
Infants and camping do not mix — particularly at high altitudes, when children are prone to earaches. Until your child is old enough to roast his/her own marshmallows, leave them at home. The rest of the campers will thank you.

To Those So Scared to Walk to the Bathroom, They Drive
(And Take a Friend)
If 20 steps in the dark causes that much consternation, you've chosen the wrong place to go camping. Your carlight and rumbling engine are not appreciated after "quiet hours."

To Those with a Hyperactive 9-Year-Old Son
My concern wasn't so much that your boy asked us (complete strangers to him) if he could "get into" our "tent" — or even that he was obnoxiously loud, or that he used our campsite as a shortcut to the bathroom — but that you stood by and said nothing to him. Your parenting skills amaze me.

Most of the people here didn't drive from miles around to deal with inconsiderate city-folk who are interested solely in putting a notch in their car's fan belt. And so: if you must camp, choose your campground wisely. Find a babysitter for your infant and coach your son on impulse control.



[post backdated according to actual date of travel]

Haiku/Gesundheit (Volume XXVI)

i love flush toilets

more rvs than tents
means there's no running water
hope you brought wet-ones

---

darling, you smell marvelous!

summer sun bike ride
with no real way to shower
that smell you or me?

---

that doesn't feel good at all

lighted match head breaks
and flicks back onto my arm
human flesh melts fast

---

this is one of my favorite sounds
(or "why camping is in tents")

rain drops keep falling
on my tent, they keep falling
hope there's no mildew

---

on finding a four-leaf clover
(or "trying to break the spell")

i have awful luck
and yet i find these often
that's why i left it

---

you're better than emeril

between eating out
and eating this food outside
i'll take the latter

---

you can take the boy out of washington, but you can't take the washington out of the boy (or, "i noticed you didn't take any pictures")


no booze is allowed
and there aren't any mountains
you having fun yet?

---

one year // two weeks vacation
(or "what are employers trying to prove?!")

wish there was more time
for hiking biking and sleep
nothing ever lasts

Haiku/Gesundheit (Volume IV)

on being the only white person in a packed, inner city mcdonald's

people turn and stare
at the bathroom break white girl
i check my zipper

---

on purchasing a large backpack for camping trips
(a lesson in poor planning)

i can walk easy
with 20 pounds of sundries
or nine pairs of shoes

---

on matt ridley's red queen
(a summary of the text)

men want to conquer
women don't know what they want
everyone is screwed

---

on having matt ridley's red queen taken away with 20 pages left

it's not that i found
the book to be rivoting —
i just wasn't done