WA Climbing, Mt. Hood Bike Touring and Appalachian Backpacking: Turning on Summer, 2008

In the past months, there have been many changes in my life and also the lives of people close to me. I am now adventuring with old friends, new friends, and on my own more than ever. I have said good bye to an old love who has shared many challenges, successes, and failures with me. They will be dearly missed, but I have also had occasion to do some valuable moving-on in my own life. I am doing the excellent and rewarding work of turning on summer, 2008.

In May, I was hopeful about that way that my training in the climbing gym and on the bike had been going, and began to think about some of the trips I wanted to take over the summer, and what I want to accomplish. I am thinking for just me now, as opposed to planning mostly joint-trips focused on myself and my long-time partner. I realized that I have the freedom now to make my own goals happen, just because it is what I personally desire. It is an exhilarating feeling, and I have been dancing to lively rhythms late into the evenings when I imagine reaching out for my own dreams.



In early June, I went to the Icicle Canyon to switch leads on some multi-pitch walls to get the season started. It was gorgeous. Beautiful splitter cracks down granite slabs with great friction. My favorite. It couldn't have been better. We climbed several routes, including on the Icicle Buttress, the Bathtub Wall and more. I had an amazing experience climbing with an all-woman group who were all at similar levels as climbers. Instead of relying on anybody else to do rope work, route finding, leading, etc, we did it all ourselves. It was an almost intoxicating feeling, and I was inspired by it. After, I searched out another set of cams for my rack and decided to really go for it this year. I am excited and hopeful about some projects in the works for August and September, including routes in the North Cascades such as Presik Peak or mountains like Mt. Stewart in the Enchantments.


Besides continuing work training by cragging outside of Portland and running 3-5 miles 3-4 times a week, I also have been continuing to do weekly bicycle training rides, and in the middle of June right before I left on a trip to see my family in Tennessee, I decided to guide a weekend 100-mile bike camping trip up to the woods around Mt. Hood. I had great fun instructing my friend Mia on the delicacies of packing for bike camping and then leading her out myself, and I have even decided it would be a good idea for me next summer to try and get associated with a bike tour-guiding group to earn some money. I can't think of anything that I love doing more. I would guide groups of enthusiastic cyclists and climbers across the ranges of the west to get into fun in the mountains cycling, climbing, swimming, backpacking, fishing and more. What could be better?


The route Mia and I did was a very familiar one to me, and to you as my readers, because I have done it solo and in groups often in the past. Taking Hwy 26 up into the Salmon Huckleberry Wilderness affords even beginners great opportunity for long distance cycling on moderate roads with minimal directions, the Salmon River for swimming, great views of Mt. Hood, hiking trails, a free campground, and bolted crags for sport climbing at French's Dome and Salmon River Slab.


During the last week of June, I went home to see my family in the Southeast, and mostly spend quality time with my mom in the gym and running in the 90 degree heat. But, for the weekend of my 24th birthday, my brother and I set out to go backpacking in the Big Frog Wilderness Preserve for black bears. I was taken back to many trips out to the Cherokee National Forest and Ocoee River wilderness areas around there where I grew up. The smell in the Appalachian woods is different. The air is thick and the cicadas sing all throughout the evening. There is a dreaminess in the air which lends itself to letting yourself drift away for a while. It was great fun being with my brother on a mini-adventure (we just hiked about 3 miles into and out of the preserve)for the first time as adults. The feeling sunk in deeply, and suddenly almost, as I held my head up high and trekked through those forests, of just how it is different being grown up. I felt responsible for myself, and it was a good feeling. I breathed in vigorously and dreamed openly.


The black bears must have been curious about the two of us, as well, because encounter them we did! One thinner looking, maybe younger bear on the trail, and then another larger, healthier looking one scampering off in the brush through the trees. It was a beautiful and exciting sight. We felt vulnerable and wonderfully, utterly enmeshed in those woods of our youth. That evening, after my brother collected a handsome store of wood and I built up and sparked a roaring fire, right before a deluge began to fall and thunder clap, we spotted a white bobcat too. Even though we had to spend most of the evening in our tent, we enjoyed sharing thoughts and memories as two independent, strong people, siblings whose relationship somehow seemed both old and new. The next day was my birthday, and we went rafting down to Ocoee River, where the whitewater Olympics were held in 1996, in some of the highest water conditions in years. We had a blast.

Since I've been back in Oregon, I have been plotting my next excursion, possibly backpacking around the Olympic Peninsula in two weeks; but I am up for much. Yesterday, I ran up and down Dog Mountain, gaining 2800 feet of elevation (and then losing it) over about 7.5 miles in about 2.5 hours. I feel strong, and more capable of achieving my dreams all the time. As I bounded up the trail through mature forests of Doug Fir, Cedar and Vine Maple, I recollected the way that Aldo Leopold put it: "Thinking Like a Mountain." I thought I understood that idea, really believed that it was important and meaningful to put oneself in the place of the mountains, of the wilderness, and to act as a member of the environmental community. But never before has it hit me quite like that, the tangible meaning of those words. There is nothing else but the mountain. There was nothing else but the mountain. And even as my heart beats strong and sweeps me, like a friendly wind upward, that thing, the mountain, contains me sweetly and completely.

Spring Break Cyclo-tour: Let it all rain down on us!

I've been catching a few rays around town lately, here and there, whenever I've been lucky enough to. Then down pours the rain, in great sheets that splatter me before work, during runs, and on the way to the climbing gym. Never-the-less, spring is still coming, and I'm really excited about the newest development in my long-term adventure and ski, in particular, experience: I got some AT alpine downhill skis with adjustable bindings for upslope trekking in the backcountry. I had to get my dynafit screw-pivot lightweight bindings drilled this week, but soon I am so ready to get out to the mountain, especially with the return of cold, sleet, and snow, even here in the valley.
...
Wait wait wait--hold up. Snow at the end of March in Portland? What?
Uh huh. Pretty strange, but Michael and I (and my decked-out with lei flowers bicycle, Bonnie Blue Bell), experienced it all first-hand from front row seats in the Columbia River Gorge last week, during Spring Break 2008.

We had originally planned to spend 5 days biking out to camp near the Deschutes River in north central Oregon at the eastern end of the Columbia River Gorge, where the weather is normally dry and the sun shows itself more often and with more intensity in the spring than further west in the Cascades. It seemed like a pretty simple plan, considering this has become something of a tradition on Spring Break for us; we rode the same trip last year and in 2006 in calm sunny wonderful (and, as we now realize, extremely lucky) conditions. We especially like to cross the Dalles bridge and climb at Horsetheif Butte, a beautiful rock formation and native spiritual place in an area boasting many native petroglyphs which were painted thousands of years ago. (Climbing is only acceptable in certain areas on the rock, away from ceremonial spots and the glyphs.)

But this year, on Wednesday when we had planned to leave, it seemed that our luck had just about run out. Sleet poured in over everything and grey-black skies threatened our departure. Unfortunately, we realized later, we left for the gorge in some of the very wettest and torrential conditions. By the time we got to Troutdale, at the beginning of the gorge and outside of Portland, we both came to the conclusion that the best thing to do would be to go back home, dry off (including down sleeping bags, clothes, and soggy egos), stop our teeth from chattering and turn up the volume in the next days in order to reach our original destination and come right back. We went back home and prepared ourselves again, this time making extra sure that everything was packed tightly into trash bags in our panier-bags on the sides of our bicycles, and set off on Thursday morning under just cloudy skies.

Riding finally completely out of Portland and into the lush green gorge was like a breath of fresh and clean, if damp and dewy, air. By the time we arrived in Cascade Locks, directly north of Mt. Hood, we were being pelted with sleet and high winds...so we picked up a bottle of whiskey at the grocer's and had some lunch, then kept on heading into the hills.

Native American wooden salmon fishing ledge

We turned a bit southward there on our route, veering away from the interstate onto secluded Herman Creek Road. This route took us into Mt. Hood National Forest land near Wyeth, (Native Americans in the area call Mt. Hood "Wy'est") and set up our backpacking tent and tarp in the trees.

It was a cold but pleasant night, and most of our supplies and ourselves were mostly still dry enough to keep warm. We slept, and slept and slept....even into the next morning, when we woke to see snow on the ground and falling from the sky. We waited a bit for a break it the snowfall, but there was none after about half an hour, so we took apart camp and headed for Hood River, a logging-turned wind-surfing adventure town toward the eastern part of the gorge before the Dalles.

The town was only about 12 miles away, and we were planning on getting there quickly and having breakfast, not least because we'd be was riding on the side of 4-lane interstate 84, probably the most intimidating section of our trip. Parts of the highway are narrow and curve around sharp bends which are perched between the steep terrain to the south and the Colombia to the north, and 18-wheel commercial truck traffic is often heavy.There are also often accidents or rock slides this time of year, as snows melt and water drains down the mountain.

Needless to say, we were both anxious to get to Hood River. As we reached a mile-long guard-rail stone wall and uphill inclined curve, I turned on "the engine," adrenaline pumping, and pushed my speed to about 21 mph to get through, hopefully without being pummeled by a drifting truck. As I got to the wider lane on the far side, though, I looked back and realized that Michael had fallen behind. I got to a safe enough spot and waited for him. By this time, nearly whiteout conditions made it difficult for me to see even his bright yellow jacket as he made his way up to me. He was moving more slowly than he should have been, it seemed. Soon, he emerged at the end with his bike and collapsed beside it. Later, I learned that he had hit a piece of tire and been thrown out into the interstate lane, where he had picked up his bike and began immediately running for his life. His derailer was beyond repair, and even though we tried everything we could think of while we froze our fingers on the side of the road, nothing worked to put enough tension on his chain to pedal on. We still had between 5 and 10 miles to Hood River, and only the interstate shoulder and continuing wind and snow. So Michael took one end of a bike cable-lock and hooked the other end to my rack with a carribiner. I towed him the rest of the way, slowly up some fairly steep sections, and carefully down, keeping the cable taught, steady all the way.

Cascade Locks old locks

Carrying our bikes over a landslide

We got to Hood River soaked, and treated ourselves to a motel and a hot meal while Michael had a new derailer installed on his bike. We started back to Portland the next day and, although we were unable to make the distance we originally planned, we still felt that it had been a trying and worthwhile journey, at its end 4 days and 130 miles through a blizzard. The weather certainly put us to the test, and I was afraid on the interstate, thinking each time as I heard the roar of another semi behind me that I might not live to see it pass. But I learned, because I had no other option, that I could push on. The rewards where unimaginably sweet.

Now I am gearing up and getting excited for warmer weather tests, new heights, and possibly even some extreme all-terrain skiing. I want the sun to come, yes, but I am done waiting. I am ready to take a bite of my slice, for it to nourish me, however bitter or sweet it turns out be.

The Long Approach: springtime 2008 comes creeping in real slow

There have been many instances of late in which I am finding myself realizing that there will be an end to the winter again, that summer will indeed someday come, that I will again bask in the long-lasting and golden light of day. That this will sink into my mind completely. One day before I know it, I will look up--and erased will be the cold crystallization of life at a standstill. I will forget the feel of tundra underfoot that pushes frozen all the way down and reaches up into me, into my own slow calculated movements and makes me know, yet appreciate, the very bite of winter.

But how do I know? I know because we traveled together to the Oregon Coast last month to begin to remember the other side of being ourselves, outside. We went camping and roaming the sunny hillsides of a February holiday. We went to seek the refuge of coming out like waking up from a long hibernation. So hungry, we went seeking the smell of the salt and the sea, and refuge as well from the cold and rain of Portland, the stillness of the mountains, and the search within ourselves for the wealth of heat and lightness that the secret of springtime holds in waiting.



Now that it has been not about a month since we took that first trip, and the promise of a new season first began to peek its face into our lives. Since then, there have been new developments every day. There are blossoms on the sweet-smelling cherry trees that line our streets. There is another hour and 15 minutes of daylight and more every day, and, even though the cold and rain persist (it's only March, after all). Acknowledgment is pretty much universal that springtime has hit the Northwest. My energy level has been on the rise ever since our restful coast trip, and I am increasingly excited about training for the on-season, for living my life on my toes.
I have begun switching my 2-3 run per week
(plus cross-country activities) schedule with more bike rides as the days grow longer, there are more sunnier days, and my desire increases to go further. Standard rides are to the tops of Rocky Butte, Mt. Tabor, and Counsel Crest all in Portland. What can I say, I like climbing up and then flying down. I have also done several longer, less hilly rides as well, in preparation for our 5-day bike touring trip next week out to climb in the eastern Columbia River Gorge. I can't wait! Here are some views from Rocky Butte, a steep hillclimb bike ride and sport climbing crag in Northeast Portland:

When we have been able to get out camping on the weekends, we have also been doing some more spring hiking-type activities. Recently, we backpacked in about 7.5 miles up Eagle Creek in the gorge to camp in our new larger, more rain-appropriate backpacking tent. Still fun and relaxing, but we are gearing up for and discussing a 1/2 month wilderness backpacking trip this summer, so I want to get all of the experience possible this season hiking with a heavy pack. Who would have thought it could be so much fun??




Another twist in events has been my interest in downhill skiing lately. Some friends took me out for my first time ever, then I went a few more times, as my budget has allowed. I have to say that, were it not for my environmental obligation to abstain from supporting too many trips up the mountain ski lift machine (and the chunk each trip takes out of my wallet) I might be able to do this activity much more. I love the feeling of gliding down so fast and, with some coaching, have mastered level 1 black diamond runs at local facilities. My main goal: to save up and buy a pair of A-T all-terrain downhill back country skis, for "skinning up" large inclines and alpine skiing down. The basic difference between these and the downhill skis I have been renting is that the binding allows for switching to a free heel system and attachment of "skins"--frictiony, snow-grabbing scales for uphill travel--for ascents. I am excited about my quick progress towards these goals, and also my authentic enthusiasm for the season to come. I now feel really to jump feet first into the icy waters of spring; this readiness is invigorating and intoxicating. I jumping. I am smiling. I am shifting into a position poised for the heights to which I know can climb if I dare.

Snow in the moonlight that looks like magic: Finding my way in a Blue Mountainscape

Last weekend, Michael and I embarked on our longest cross country ski/backpacking trip to date, although conditions were particularly cush, not just because of blue skies, beautiful snow and no wind, but also because we rented a 1930's civilian conservation core-era guard station cabin 11.4 miles from Mt. Emily Sno Park off hwy 84 in northeastern Oregon. in the Blue Mountains which, once we got to it, made our stay more comfortable than any snow tent imaginable. Even though it wasn't the most trying of circumstances, or the most strenuous or therefore challenging adventure, it offered us several valuable opportunities for learning about ourselves and each other, as well as to take a load off and let our nerves settle away from the city and into the woods for a while.

The plan was to leave on Thursday evening after work, but unfortunately a pair of illnesses made it impossible for us to leave before Friday morning. Stress levels rose as we were eager to get to our cabin, reserved for 21 dollars/night Friday-Sunday on the Forest Service website,

but the over 11-mile largely uphill trip with packs on presented a hard day of skiing, and leaving on Friday morning to get to the Blue Mountains from Portland meant we would arrive at the entry point around 2pm. (We could have woken earlier, but much-needed sleep and recovery time outweighed an earlier departure.)

As a result, we left the Mt. Emily parking lot at 2 with about 6 hours of skiing ahead of us and about 3 hours of daylight left.

At about 7pm, the overabundance of goodies we had packed for our 3 nights in paradise was taking its toll on my back. Like the kind soul that he is, Michael offered to carry both of our packs. He insisted, in fact. So he did carry them both, for about 75feet. Even though it didn't take much physical burden away from me (I then made him give me my pack back so we could keep moving forward), emotionally the gesture really lightened my load. If he could be kind enough to offer to carry my pack when he already has his own load to shoulder, his own aches and pains, his own problems, then surely I could keep going with a positive attitude for just a while longer. After all, this was what I had signed myself up for. Actually, this was what I needed.


After getting to our destination, at about 8:30, exhausted, we had one last scare as we fiddled with the lock on the cabin door attempting to get in. We did, and proceeded to enjoy the propane stove, heater, and lamps, and well as the beds and table. More than anything, the three days and nights of skiing that followed served as a chance for us to get to know those woods, ourselves, and each other better. We didn't see another person during that time, aside for a few passing snowmobilers. I fell in love with those quiet mountains, our cabin, myself in that place and us in that place. It all seemed so simple, even if only for a little while. I started to think: what if I no longer lived in the city at all? What if I could look up into these huge pine trees, overburdened with their own loads of snow and life but still standing tall, and know that we didn't have to leave them at all or carry our burdens alone, but could instead learn to watch ourselves grow by measuring our progress against something so much bigger and taller than ourselves, something real and alive?




After returning, I feel myself itching to be out in the snow daily, even now as I look out of my window onto the evening Portland skyline of warehouses, construction equipment and people hurrying home. Maybe it's partly because I've caught the bug for cross country skiing, the beautiful sliding motion that lets me go and feel the world around me in a way that invites vibrant enthusiasm into my every step. But maybe that's just it--I feel more like myself when I'm sliding along through the forest, or at least more like a self I want to be, a self I like and can relate to. Not as much like the self of the city that hurries along like everyone else. That snaps at loved ones when I've had a rough day. That doesn't have compassion in my heart for all of the people I meet. Is it possible it just takes more space for me to be that person I actually like, more healthy life around me and filling my life with everyday magic?

Because the full moon lit our way, we didn't need to use headlamps or even squint our eyes to see along the winding road leading up through the glittering trees and sparkling snow to our cabin in the woods. I felt for a little while like maybe I could
see more clearly that way even, than I can in the brightly lit urban spaces I frequent where so little magic seems to grow. And I realized it's possible I need to see by the light of the magic outside in order to find my way to the place I want to go within.

2008: Training in quiet country 'til the sun goes down

I have now been back home in Oregon from Ecuador for a month and a half--the same amount of time I spent out of the country. The comparison between the two periods of time, though, is impossible. On the one hand, I remember my time in South America as a kind of othertime, a space that isn't quite congruent or running right up together against this one. On the other hand, utterly at home in the northwest, I think back to my time spent on the equator as if it were yesterday--I could go back at any moment, it feels that close.

Even though it has really been late fall the majority of my time back here, coming straight away from the warmer climes really did throw me into what felt like winter in mid-swing (and I a ripe banana ready to peel or split). But home felt as warm and inviting with friends around the Thanksgiving table as it did frosted around the edges. On one of my frirst weekends back in town, I went with my friend Thomas out hiking in the Columbia River Gorge, a beautiful place to go-a-walking all year round. I ran up to the top and then ran all the way back down, breathing in deeply the intensity of my fall spent climbing and running at over 3,000 meters. This feeling of bursting energy and delight to beathe in the thick air was met with a bittersweet feeling as well, though, as the cold touched my chest and bade me run faster. I thought ahead to months of rain and cold. I had been living in an extended summer that might never end, or so it seemed. In fact, I'd been training with energy and vigor in the warm sunshine since the springtime, since our bicycle ride to Montana, since our ascent of Ingall's peak, and since the top of Volcan Imbabura.

Now the sun seemed to be setting on it all too soon.

Beginning at the end of November though, my attention turned to snow. Cross-country skiing is an activity which I first started doing last year, and fell deeply in love with. With the commencement of ski-season this year, I went ahead and let the sun set on my ambitions for warm-weather hiking, climbing, and bicycle touring for a little while, in order to try my hands (and feet, and ankles, and legs, etc) at another kind of touring: ski touring. The world of quiet winter whiteness has me captivated.

So Michael and I started driving our VW Rabbit out to the mountain--we got the last dusty pair of tiny Rabbit-sized tire chains for the icy conditions, thankfully, and we set out to accomplish the training we will need to eventually try our hands at rondonee skiing, skiing up to summits like Mt. Adams, ski-camping and long-distance overnight touring. Luckily, we have some good friends that are also interested in the great health benefits and adventure of cross-country skiing, so we've been in good company so far, carpooling up to spots on Mt. Hood, Mt. Bachelor, and Wind Mountain to get in lots of experience every weekend. And I'm hooked!

What at first may seem like an inhospoitable yet beautiful landscape of ice and snow, when skiing for long pushes at a good pace, can become an almost intoxicating dance that heats your body and soothes your mind. Each step--slide, hold, slide, hold or downhill poling motion becomes a beat that helps to measure out and synchronize breath, thought, and action. And the still and frozen world around allows for plenty of clean, uncluttered, and inspired thought-space, too.

The weekend of New Year's Eve, I had so many reasons why I felt an overnight camping cross-country ski trip was a choice I wanted to make for bringing in a new year. Symbolically, the white fresh and cold snow, like death or sleep, seemed to be just the thing to wipe the old year out and leave room for a new and vital spring. With all of the cakes and pies I ate over the holidays, as well, I found myself yearning for the opportunity to stretch my body in a clean, austere environment, become a part of the winter landscape of silence, endurance, and strength, and slide along like a streamlined glider on the ice.

When we woke to a New Year's Eve under our picnic-shelter roof on the side of Trillium Lake, we opened our eyes to a renewed day of skiing, laughing, and turning our noses toward the sun and what happened to be perhaps the most beautiful, sunny day of the winter so far.







It made me think: What is an old year, or a new year, but time freezing and then flowing, breaking free from solid coldness and dripping down again in thaw after thaw as a part of an endless rotation of renewal and decay. I am not apart from this rotation, I thought, and cannot, nor do I want to, stand aside. Even if it means I will beathe in and breath out, wake and sleep, live and die back again.


This is already the year of renewal and opportunity, I thought, even if 2007 is leaving today, even if my life is changing, I am not in the same training shape that I was at the end of the summer, and I will have to build once again on what I have accomplished. But I am ready for those challenges. I am ready for blue skies revealing mountainslopes and pretty valleys of glistening white and green. I am ready for grey mists, obscuring my vision and spitting rain or snow into my face. I know that some parts of this year will be difficult. I know some will be splendid. I don't know if I will live through it or die in it, if I will gain further bounties of love and material wealth, or if I will lose everything. But I do know that I will remain a part of this world, the quiet one that exists around me right now as I slide on through the trees and the green one of spring which brings the sounds of life into my ears. And I know already that it will all be beautiful to me, if I see it through the eyes of this quiet country I call home.

Last Transmission from Ecuador: Biking Down Volcan Cotopaxi and Attempting to Process the Unimaginable

This is my last night in Ecuador, and I couldn't be happier to have come, or more excited about my reunion with friends and loved ones in Oregon and the United States. Before this trip, I may have thought I had, but, truly, I had never fully realized what a short time six weeks could be. During my last week here, I was lucky enough to take part in some very worthwhile adventures, including my usual runs to the Peguche waterfall, assiting in the grammar school education of amazing Kichwa children,saying goodbye to valued friends, and bicycling down the volcano Cotopaxi starting at 15,000 feet on a rutty and exciting mud road.




Coming down the mountain, we were lucky enough to see some amazing views when the clouds parted, and I had an incredible experience mountain biking, something I had actually never done before, aside from trips down gravel roads on my trusty touring steed. I got mud on my face, on my pants--everywhere--and it was completely worth it. We only had to ride about an hour and a half from Quito to the mountain, where the national park began and my consciousness of the singular opportunity to make lasting memories live up to their fullest potential also took root. I realized on our way up that I would only be there and with this particular opportunity once, and the exhilaration I felt at being able to take part in my own dreams was unmatched by any expectation I could have had of them. I was and am in love with the Andes and my ability to experience their majesty as well as unforgiving and rugged beauty.

Back at school I was allowed a special gift, the ability to see a condor up close. I fumbled with my camera before being able to get a clear shot, but it flew close for a brief moment. Along with the smiling faces of the children I had to reluctantly leave, its image will stay with me as one of the enduring images I take with me from this singular and special place.

Journey by canoe into the Cuyabeno Amazonian Reserve: where the jungle grabs hold of us, wraps us tightly up and teaches us to watch once and for all

This past weekend, some of the other volunteers and I were lucky enough to go for four days into the Amazon jungle to stay in a jungle lodge and travel by canoe into the interior to see many colorful animals and glimpse a beautiful unique environment which is currently under threat from oil companies of rapid deterioration. Our lodge was supposedly ¨ecofriendly,¨ and I can see how that is relatively true, considering we had to take a canoe 2 hours into the jungle to get to it, it was built on wooden stilts with thatched rooves, and had simple rooms with no ceilings to speak of, hot water or electricity. It was humid, hot, and sweaty the whole time we were there, we had to take malaria medication because of danger from mosquitos, and it was extremely worth it. We were able to see numerous species of exotic birds, including mckaws, parrots, tucans, and others, monkeys, alligator-like animals called camens, beautiful butterflies, pihrañas, and even hints of jaguars (remains of a fresh kill). No pink dolphins, but we heard that another group had seen them recently.

It is amazing to imagine that such an amazing place is not only already being drilled for oil and mined for other ¨precious resources,¨ but that exploration for more is underway. If there is any cause which it is urgent and appropriate for the global community on the whole to rally together in order to defend, then surely this hotbed of fantastic and beautiful species fits the bill. Fortunatey, there has been a history of indigenous uprising here in response to the extraction of oil from the region for the purpose of export to international as well as domestic markets, and, recently, protests have succeeded in reportedly impeding the shipment of 26,227 barrels of crude amounting to a loss of 2 million in would-be revenues by way of road blockades.

I felt grateful for and throught deeply about these efforts by the indigenous peoples of the region to protect the rich heritage of the Amazon as I drifted along the rivers, listened to the hum of the jungle, and gazed out upon a wealth of evening stars.

Imbabura: 15,000 ft --Peering over the precipice of brilliance, I find myself materializing in the footprints of the steps that lie ahead.

At 3am this past Saturday morning, a few friends and I woke to climb the volcano nearest to Otavalo, Imbabura. It was dark when we first set out, and, unfortunately, I was the only person equipped with a headlight on our entire crew. Altogether, we were five: myself, Alyssa of Colorado, Julie of Pennsylvania, Ben of New Zealand, and Cesar, our guide from Otavalo. With Cesar´s help, we weren´t worried, luckily, about route finding in the sometimes thick layers of clouds that accumulate around the volcano (none of us has brought even a compas to the country), but instead we were focused on the difficulty of the climb based on its elevation. To others, this mountain is known as a practice or acclimitazation route, but to us in definately presented a formidable challenge. Before leaving, I was confident in all of our abilities, but, as we approached the base, heavy breathing and near-pitch dark conditions caused me to question myself a bit.

As we rose higher throughout the morning, and the sunlight began to rise amidst the clouds on a horizon that seemed to be at eye-level with us, a fever of excitement and adventure came over me, and each step seemed lighter than the last, as the realization hit that each one carried me to the summit that we could all now nearly see beyond the next ridge. The site of neighboring peaks such as Cayembe, Cotopaxi and Cotocachi that would accompany us up much the rest of the climb stood as luminous and reassuring reminders that we were all now approaching the heavens themselves.

















Alyssa and I reached our lunch destination first, a saddle from which all directions became visible--Mountains to the South, and West, hills and valleys to the east, and Colombia to the North. Julie and Ben followed behind us, but, unfortunately, Julie seemed to be having difficulties with the cold conditions, and both she and Ben turned back after we ate. The rest of us went on up as they descended.

Nearing the top, our steps became more measured and are breath more audible, as we began the scramble up to the 4630m (over 15,000 ft) summit. We had started at 3,000 meters. At about 4,5 hours, though, the climb seemed to me, amazingly, to grow shorter as we inched our way upward to the magnificent volcanic formation perched on top step by step. That is to say, before as I had gazed up at the towers above us, I had almost imagined that we weould never reach the. But now, as we did, each stride or move upward seemed to carry me farther than I had dreamed in could.
















Gazing out over the vast fields of clouds, earth, and sky, I felt as if I might burst with the pressure of my own happiness and the sense of fulfillment pushing out from within me. Coming to Ecuador, this climb was definately something that I had set out to acheive from the beginning, but I wasn´t sure if it would be possible. And there I finally was!









On our way down, we got the chance to stop and view some of the amazing and unique plant species in the region, which were unbelieveable, and almost seemed extraterrestrial to the likes of us. Hard and brittle yet utterly beautiful, these equatorial alpine flowers reminded me that there is still so much in the world to discover, and the many different kinds of complexity that are yet out there unbeknownst to me represent the richness of potential which life every day can grow to embody.















We hitched a lift on the back of a pickup truck back to the city of Ibarra not long after we reached the cobblestone road leading to the small town of Esperanza. Like a tide of images and emotions cresting at their breaking point in my mind, I sat back and allowed the flood of my own experience to wash over and then sink down into me.

Being wholly here, with my eyes open and ears listening attentively to the word around me as I make my way through it, as I change it and as it changes me continually, I now realize, is indeed one of the greatest tasks I can possible set out to accomplish in this or any land.

Elation Abounds: Over the Mountains and Through the Woods From Ecuador Once More

Another week has passed, and I am doing everything in my power, I believe, to soak in this amazing and beautiful place and time, and to be everything I expect myself to be for the children whom I came here to meet. The puffy white clouds which often waft through the otherwise clear blue morning skies remind me of lofty dreams upon which rays of sunlight and rainbows sleep and dance. On special occasion, they break for long enough to reveal their deepest and most beautiful secrets, those of the high and mighty Andean peaks which rise to greet us all and knocks our socks off. By mid afternoon, though, they always cover up again in misty shrouds of whiteness, and you might almost forget there was ever anything out there--until the brilliant sun rises again.

This past weekend, I and some other volunteers were lucky enough to head up twice into the mountains, on Saturday and on Sunday. We first went up to the infamous ´´heart of Imbabura,´´ the volcano which lies to the northeast of and is closest to Otavalo. It is a heart-shaped formation located on the south or southwest face of the mountain. At the base of this formation, we climbed an outcropping of volcanic rock which in years past has fallen off the top. It was great fun to be climbing again, and I enjoyed in immensely. We then headed off in a caravan for lunch in town and the, afterward, up to the 4,000 meter Mohanda Lakes area. The weather had turned into a torrential downpour by this point in the afternoon, so we could´nt venture on the dirt track road farther than the first lake, but it was still an amazing site to see. We heard that it is am ideal place to see condors, especially in the mornings, when the weather is clear.

The next day, we headed up into the mountains near Otavalo for some horseback riding and amazing views of the valley. I didnt ride, because I decided I needed the exercise myself, and besides didnt feel the need to burden another animal with my weight, but meeting the horses was still a special experience which I enjoyed very much. It was about 7 miles to a ¨sacred waterfall¨ where it is said that indigenous peoples have come for centuries to bathe and also to search for medicinal herbs. I´d say I got my exercise sufficient for training for next weekend. I will continue to train this week by running. I´m especially excited, because I and two other female volunteers are planning an ascent to the top of Imbabura. Wish us luck! Until them, here are some photos!




Isabell and Louis at Casa de Frutas!
Volunteers near Imbabura in front of a 6,000 year old leechee tree.
Climbing near Imbabura.
Near the heart of Imbabura.
Mohanda Lakes.

The waterfall.
Twirling!
Me and Carolina.
The classroom.
Lining up for fruit after school.
The Ecuadorian coast near Esmereldas. Party Time!
A rainbow near our house in Imbaya neighborhood of Otavalo.
Otavalo

The Equator

Cold and high and utterly amazing: constantly watching the dematerialization of the unknown

Today was my first day going up to the indigenous village school of Irquasiki. I feared perhaps the journey wouldn´t materialize for today, because of the incredible amount of heaving and barfing I was doing yesterday, but, luckily, I recovered in the nick of time.

It was amazing to actually see the children and the community which I had so often thought of before as actual and physical today. High up in the Andes mountains, it is hot in the sun and suddenly strikingly cold every afternoon, as the clouds drift in, making it impossible to see anything, and the mothers begin to dole out hot meals to the bouncing children. I can see that I am at risk of getting my heart broken here--6 weeks is seeming less and less like the long time I thought it would, and there are so many smiling faces to get to know better. Before I could introduce myself, children hopped into my arms, asking me to play. They are fearless, climbing tresses and bounding down the dirt roads without regard, becuase it is all they know every day. Most looked at least 3-4 years younger than they said they were, and I am told that this is due to malnourishment. Once, the indigenous mountain people here are said to have been prosperous. Now, it seems that the encroachment of global market economies have left most high and dry.

I feel so lucky to be here meeting everyone and learning invaluable lessons already. Tomorrow morning, I and a few other volunteers leave early to spend the weekend at the coast, where we will be able to swim and enjoy ourselves before returning for one more week of Spanish lessons.

The unknown seems suddenly and irresistably comforting here, where my isloation is quickly distintegrating into joy.

La Cuidad de Otavalo...Que Montañas Bonitas!

From inside an internet cafe on Avenida Sucre, the main drag of Otavalo, I keep out of the seasonal afternoon rain that is characeristic of this 3,000+ meter Northern Ecuadorian Andean town.
Today I started my Spanish classes, very necessary for sommunicating with my host family, but all is going well so far. The family is extremely nice and accomodating, and exceptionally forgiving of my poor grammar. I have been spening the past two days walking around town and trying to get acquainted with is as well as with the other volunteers, with whom I´ll be working in an inigenoous primary school up further in the mountains.

Already, though, I an itching nearly uncontrollably to get out and start up some of the mounatisn that loom around me. Imbabura is nearest to Otavalo, but others are close at foot. I hope to make a trip very soon.


This weekend, I´ll be venturing to the coast for swimming and doing some climbing at a crag somewhere in between.

The smells. colors, and sights of this place all seem to be super-vivid and almost overripe, like the strange extotic fruits that seep juice and burst open in the square of the village mercado. "Hill people" in bright reds, blues, and golds ferry their crops and wares here and there everywhere rushing past me, often knocking me into the cobbled street in which taxis fly past narrowly missing me and honking wildly. "Ten Cuidado" I tell myself. But I can´t help becoming intoxicated by the thin air and heavy culture as it seeps in through the whole of me.

Ahhh, the rain is ending. Farewell!

On Top of Ingall's Peak (7,700ft) : Way up close and personal with that queasy feeling that comes from realizing I want to be alive

Last weekend, Michael and I backpacked in to the Esmerelda Trailhead in Central Washington to first climb the easier south face of Ingall's peak. Then , on the next day, we woke to traverse the ridge starting at the Eastern Face. It was challenging for me, most of all mentally. Here are some photos of the trip:

First, we hiked up to Ingall's pass (about four miles, about 2, 400 ft in gain) where we set up our camp for the evening. The air was crisp and delicious. So we ate it up. Then we decided to go ahead and go for the west face that afternoon. Some nice goats came to greet us on our way up.

The view couldn't have been any better of Cascade peaks like Ranier and even Baker, in our opinion. After climbing up to the top of the peak lit by an alpenglow, we rejoiced. There seems to be a feeling unmatched by any other while at high elevation in clear skies rising above majestic forests and deserts. And clarity of mind, too.
The next day, we tried for the east-starting traverse. It was one of the most difficult alpine (or any attempts of my life so far. Tame by the standards of most seasoned mountaineers, it was a large accomplishment for me. We started the day optimistically by bounding over chossy blocks above Ingall's lake. And trying to take in all in stride, so to speak. I was daunted by the sight of the north face snowfields below us as we crossed each gendarme, descended to the next pass and rose back up again. At times we straddled the knife-edge ridge like a mechanical bull. But it was no time to be cocky, from what I could muster. I was going through some personal anguish, for sure. And, at the time, I was in utter disbelief of the beauty and power emanating from the expanse below. On top, I felt that the arms of the sky encircled me with wonder, threatened to send me plummeting to my death, promised me the world and deafeningly resounded thee fact of their indifference all in the same breathtaking instant.
Then, finally we were on top together. (And all we had to do then was get back down again.)

July: We followed a glacier dripping into the sea and pedaled eastward through the north countries of Washington, Idaho, and Montana

From Mt. Vernon, Washington to Glacier National Park, Montana and to Missoula, MT, nearly 1000 miles, July, 2007
Average daily mileage: 65

This summer we had originally planned to go to Alaska. We thought we'd ferry up and bike to Denali, climb and hike and stay a long time. But ferry tickets, we realized were are not cheap. We had bicycled south along the Oregon and California coasts to San Francisco, south along the spine of the Sierras in California and Nevada to Yosemite National Park, and north and east in a loop last year that nearly spanned Washington State and took us back through the Columbia River Gorge, among our bike trips to that point. I wanted to do something befitting this, my first summer as a college graduate and also as the fourth summer of adventure bicycle and climbing tours. If not Alaska, it would have to be somewhere special. We had also been on a one-week ride in June to North Cascades National Park, northern Washington's little-visited wilderness of spires, gorges, and glaciated peaks. This vast land of granite slabs, grizzlies, and a few scattered small towns sparked our imaginations and made us eager to return to its heights. If not Alaska, if not British Columbia this year, then there was certainly a ride that presented itself to us immediately: to Montana. Glaciers and Rocky Mountains. Wilderness. After some thought, my partner Michael and I, as well as a longtime time friend of ours, Thomas, decided that north and east, to the late sunsets, blue lakes, and dusty hillsides from the Pacific to the Rockies would be the next leg of our explorations of the Northwest by bicycle.

Getting off the Cascade line train up from Portland in Mt. Vernon, Washington at sunset, we quickly unhooked out touring bicycles from the back car, stepped off and watched our ride disappear along the shoreline. Wasting no time, we started off toward pink skies past Burlington and to Sedro Wooley, WA about 15 miles away. We flipped on our lights on some dangerous roads and worried that we had taken a wrong turn, but made it into town in the dark and set up camp at a city park on the outskirts. Unable to sleep well that night, adrenaline and anxiety coursed through me: this was it, the trip that had been weeks, months, even years in the making. It was really happening. Would I be able to stand up to the task? Or would my legs fail me while struggling to keep up with the two athletic men that were my riding partners? But I couldn't know yet, so I attempted to quiet my ming and get the rest I was sure I'd need.

The next day, after an early breakfast at a local cafe and one flat tire already for Michael, we set off on highway 20, the North Cascades Highway, which would take us over five Washington passes and toward Idaho. That day we got our start by pacing ourselves, but ended our ride triumphantly at Colonial Creek Campground, past the last general store that we would see until Mazama, WA, after we had crested and descended Rainy and Washington passes, in three days. Because both Thomas and I were recovering from colds acquired at home, we chose to spend the next day doing light hiking and smimming in bone-chilling Diablo Lake, a glacial-fed blue-colored lake at the foot of North Cascades peaks. We rested and drank tea and dreamt of adventures-to-be.

On day four, we rode hard uphill to Rainy and Washington (5,477) Passes from after breakfast until dusk. It was difficult, but we stopped to see amazing glaciers dripping into lakes and forming rivers before, and were revived. I constatly stared at the road before me and the mountains around me, wondering both in awe of them and also when the next bit on flat road would come, the next short downhill stretch of rest, and finally the top of the pass. It did come, in twilight, and we were happy to stop and find a place to rest for the night. When we did stop, though, the musquitos began. The hoards that lingered near the swampy lands created by the metling summer glaciers were ravenous and ready to bite any swath of exposed skin in an instant. We used strong, fowl smelling repelents and ran around in circles, yet still the returned for more of our salty sweat and blood. We ate dinner in the restrooms and lept into out tents afterward. Luckily, it was nice and cool and relatively insect-free there until the morning.


I was woken up early (around 6am) as Michael and Thomas were heading off to climb South Early Winters Spire, a route which I would have liked to have climbed very much in different circumstances, but the mosquito infestation which seemed to have gotten worse overnight, along with my anxiety over my fatigue and not wanting to leave all of our bikes and gear alone led me to resolve to wait a few hours more and sleep during the ascent they estimated would take until near 11. Unfortunately, though I was unable to return to sleep and kept a constant vigil in our tiny tent against the mosquitoes, and by noon I was roasting in 95 degree heat. At 2pm the temperature rose above 100 degrees F and I finally could no longer take the heat in the tent and started off the hiking trail in order to keep moving and fend them off. I believe I probably suffered a mild case of heat stroke, as I had severe headaches and was dehydrated for the next day and a half. I met up with Michael and Thomas on their descent, and they said they had had an amazing time, excluding being bitten by hoards of mosquitoes. Despite all my efforts to avoid them, a bite I got on my arm that morning developed an infection which I feared would threaten the trip for me. Luckily, though, constant antibacterial ointment applications and some antibiotics I had in my medicine pack cleared it up eventually.

It was mid to late afternoon when we set off down Washington Pass and into the hot valleys of central Washington State. The first town that we had come across in three days was a "one horse town" called Mazama. Beautiful and not quite arid, nothing was opened but a gas station sized general store, at which we promptly overdid it on refrigerated beverages, each person buying gatorades, iced coffees, and a beer to make up for the past few days. The ice cream tasted delicious. Stocked up on snacks, we then headed in the late afternoon for the town of Winthrop. Perhaps because these were our first days in a new hot, arid climate, they seemed harder to endure than others on which the temperatures were the same or rose even higher. I couldn't seem to produce enough sweat to keep cool, even with the blow-dryer-like breeze constantly on me. Stopping was worse than riding, though, and we reached Winthrop and immediately ordered a good meal.

Although extremely removed in its climate, and as we saw it from our perspectives as bicyc