Sun Bird

In January 2009 i went to work with Andrew. It was a fantastic day; I collected seashells, and watched the crows surf the currents. This time it was my turn to take Andrew to work, not as a bystander but as a volunteer crew member. I needed to finish up a rare plant survey in the prairie.

After we readied our bags with water and snacks we headed out to the site. We opened the gate and drove in to park on the historic road, and just as I was turning to park I heard a loud noise: a Jet I guess. Then I looked out my window and what I saw was no jet. It was an enormous bug-like helicopter, the kind that lifts giant buckets to put out forest fires, the kind that picks up heavy equipment as if it were weightless, the kind that has giant hydraulic legs and blades more than 20' long. It was headed right towards us, and apparently landing. It was positioning itself, in my rear view mirror, to pick up our truck and take us away.

I turned on the truck and pulled forward. The rational side of my brain kicked in and realized that they had been doing training runs with the air cranes by the river all year and whoever was manning this beast might not have much experience in emergency landings. There is no other reason I can imagine for a metal bug to land on private property less than 60 feet from humans in a vehicle, it must be an emergency, I thought.

The Grasshopper touched down, and we watched, climbing out of the truck for a better look. Then we looked for earplugs, and watched some more. I could see two tiny white helmets in the glass eyeball. Eventually one of the men climbed down and started toward us. There was no need for him to duck, the blades were nearly 2 stories above him.

The scruffy round-faced man in a helmet and flight suit headed towards us in slow motion. I hesitated to meet him half way. I was admittedly afraid of the bug we were just almost swallowed by... and I didn't have a helmet.

Is this your property? He yelled in my direction with a smile.

No, this is a conservation easement and the owners live just down there.

We're probably your favorite people right now he said gesturing at the beast behind him, the rippling grass and the source of the deafening noise. We have a short in our computer monitoring system. We'll be outta here as soon as we get that taken care of. We nodded. Conversations are pleasantly short when talking over the noise of a helicopter. He headed back to the bug.

After 10 more minutes or so, the bug lifted off the ground, and banked hard away from us. The wind hit me and knocked me backwards, the ground turned into waves. Then they were gone, and sound of the bug's wings faded.

This is all very strange and once-in-a-lifetime or less sort of situation. Except that it isn't. This is the second time a helicopter has tried to land on my head. I'm starting to think I have some sort of helicopter homing device implanted in my body. My dad suggested I start keeping one eye to the sky.

Life in the Undergrowth

I went into my first week of work expecting to be held captive in the woods and forced to participate in trust falls and team-building exercises. "There will be no cell service and limited Internet access at camp," they said. Images of 19 year olds positioning themselves to catch me as I fall backwards filter through my thoughts for weeks.

Day one of my captivity:
Our first day was naturally rough. We were 5 returning and 8 new employees joined by our supervisor. We spent the better part of a day jammed into a tiny room with a projector listening to welcome speeches, collecting binders and pieces of paper full of information, sporting nametags and introducing ourselves to each set of staff members that appeared. We learned about the organization and their marketing strategies and policies, computer policies and the names and faces of one happy employee after another. I must be dreaming, I thought. They must be hiding their disgruntled employees in the basement.

After 6 hours of PowerPoint and paperwork, we headed to the woods to begin our stint in captivity. I braced myself for bunk beds, bad food, and early curfews. When we arrived, however, we were granted free time to get settled and mingle with our new coworkers. There was bluegrass and beer... and of course, bad food and bunk beds.

Day two of my captivity:
I woke easily, as I hadn't slept. My top-bunk friend tossed and turned all night above me on the vinyl mattress in her crunchy sleeping bag as I silently questioned the structural stability of the frame from below. After the decent breakfast and more mingling, we headed to the lodge (with fire place and wood floors!) and were each handed a blank map of Oregon, a quiz about Oregon and a blank piece of paper. We busily filled in the maps, and responded to questions about plant and animal species that exist in the state. I was feeling a bit inadequate, realizing I didn't know the answers to several of the questions. What is the state bird, anyway? And what salmonids do we have? Then we took some time to write a letter to ourselves about our goals for the year, to be opened at the end of our year of service. Finally, I was forced to put the floating words to paper.

Day 3-5 of my captivity:
The rest of the week was one big bundle of blur. We hiked and pulled weeds and nerded out on plants. We did yoga by the fire and swam by starlight. We tied splints and resuscitated our dummies in CPR class. We tromped through the woods, and talked of adventures in caves and alkaline lakes, of bike rides across the state, of music festivals and work. We talked and sat by the fire until the wee hours, and fell asleep to mandolin strings.

I thought the fun might be over when I headed home from training. But alas, I've already built fence, captured fairy shrimp, went 4xing through a mucky farm field, played with a hand-held GPS, learned 10 new plants, went to a meeting with ODOT, spotted two endangered plant species, and met more amazing people doing amazing work. I can't wait for more.

This is my new life.

preface to the new life: this is a somewhat sad and overly dramatic post. It is also poorly written (with no remorse)

Yesterday I was listening to This American Life, sitting alone in a camper at my boyfriend's parent's house in Virginia, and feeling lonely and bored. I clicked on the episode called Frenemies, believing that maybe Ira Glass, if no one else, could provide some insight into my life right now. I believe it was the phrase: "this is my new life. You're not in it, are you?" That really put words to what I was feeling. This summer I was invited to four weddings and went to three. During and after the weddings I had an overwhelming feeling of sadness and realized it was because I haven't been a very good friend. I don't call all the time, I don't always answer, even when I know who is calling. I don't always return calls, and I don't always lay it all out on the table. I didn't go out of my way to help plan those weddings. I didn't send links for wedding ideas; I didn't help make tissue paper flowers or cards. And, for good reason, I suppose, I was not invited to bridal showers or bachelorette parties.

So, on this cross country trip, I was determined to say hello, check in, stay with and play with some friends; friends from high school, friends from undergrad, friends from the in-between and some from grad school.

Stop #1 was in Portland to visit 1) a new bride and groom again without the chaos of the wedding, 2) a good friend from Santa Rosa days and 3) a best friend from grad school. On my birthday, a few days before we headed north, I got a voicemail from #3: happy birthday, too bad I'll be in Buenos Aires when you're in Portland! I tried calling back. Then I called again. And again. No answer. I got tired of talking to her voicemail. Andrew and I did, however, manage a few moments with #1 and #2: although we were penciled in between voluntary and involuntary work and soccer games and bed times.

Stop #2 to visit a friend I had recently been reunited with at #1's wedding. A friend I hadn't talked to in nearly 3 years. I called when we arrived in Missoula. No answer. I left a message. I missed his call back around 10pm saying: parents are in town, and I would be too busy even if they weren't. I don't know of any places to camp around here, try the burger shack on 1st street for food.

Stop #3 was with a good friend from high school that has been living in South Dakota for about 7 years (with a break for a year or so back to Oregon). Success! We toured the vet clinic where she works, and snuggled with her bloodhound Max. I left wondering whether it would be another 7 years before I saw her again. I hoped not.

Stop #4: Iowa. Iowa told me that #3 was six months pregnant and engaged. She hadn't so much as slipped up in our two conversations over the past 6 months, let alone try to tell me. Iowa insisted that she's been busy. Busy for 6 months?! I thought. Iowa called #3 while I was gone. #3 "felt rotten" for not telling me, and agreed to share her secret baby blog with me. Still, there was no call, no email, and no response to my IM requests.

Stop # 5,6,7 Andrew's friends. Call after call after call. No calls returned. We haven't heard from or seen any of them.

Needless to say, I've been feeling a bit abandoned. Devastated, maybe, by the fact that I haven't in any slight way, been included in many of the biggest moments of my friends' lives. And though I've thought long and hard about how I've not always been the best friend, not always returned calls, not always been there to help plan weddings, I feel I've been completely forgotten. I feel like the person on the wedding invite list that is only there out of obligation.

But I suppose we are all caught up in what's in front of us, and why shouldn't we be? Babies need planning, houses need maintenance, we need time to spend with partners and spouses and friends, and we all have to go to work.

Unfortunately, my stubborn side says (most notably with respect to #3) why bother calling until she decides she wants to include me in her life again? Why make the effort if she isn't going to? It's her turn. And I then think I can just let it go, just forget that we were friends, or write it off as something of the past. But I can't let it go, so the empathetic side of me says: get over it and call, be excited for her, she needs all the support she can get. And so it goes, over and over in my head, making me sad.

a Van Gogh moment

I went upstairs to fix my pigtails, putting my hair up for the beginning of the road trip. I looked in the mirror and noticed a dark spot on my ear. Huh! Too much sun from living in California, I thought, I'll ask mom, see what she says. So, I hopped downstairs and pointed out the mole to mom, thinking she would say sure, whatever, looks fine. But her response was something more like: huh, maybe we should take it off? Do you want me to take it off? My mom made a few calls, and my dad picked up some surgical supplies from the clinic in town. We postponed the trip for a few hours.

Better safe than sorry we all thought. I was annoyed, but thought it should be done, a couple hours wasn't going to make much difference on our month long trip. My ear was numbed, my mole plunked into formaldehyde and sent to pathology: routine for any biopsy.

Off we went to Portland, Montana, Wyoming, Yellowstone and the Tetons, when my mom called with the results. Well, she said, your labs came back, and the pathologist couldn't decide if it was dysplastic (changing rapidly) or a melanoma... they sent it to OHSU (the university medical school in Portland). Not to worry, she said, wear sunscreen, it's probably fine.

We drove on to South Dakota, to Rushmore, Wind Cave National Park and on to Iowa and Wisconsin. Then the second phone call: a melanoma. I think I was a bit numb, I think I said you're kidding. I sat on it for that afternoon and in the morning I actually read my pathology report. "Despite the patient's young age, the findings are consonant with melanoma... Additional treatment to ensure complete removal would be prudent." I started making phone calls. It started to sink in: A melanoma: the deadliest of all skin cancers.

The problem was mainly that I was somewhere in Iowa, we were heading to Virginia and my insurance company is in Oregon. My first call was to UNC Chapel Hill, but they required an initial appointment and they were booked out through to November. I then called University of Virginia Dermatology. By this point I was sobbing and could barely answer questions. The original receptionist was very kind and transferred me to surgery; surgery transferred me to a head and neck specialist. The head and neck specialist was an answering machine. I left a message and continued to call other physicians, my mom, my insurance company, but to no avail. No one wanted to take my insurance, those that would see me without insurance refused to give me an estimate for the procedure. Those that would accept my insurance had no space or time for me. I was beginning to panic.

At one point I seriously considered taking a knife to my own ear, going to the ER and having it stitched up. At least I would get treated, (and quickly!), and it would probably be a lot cheaper. I just wanted the cancer to go away, and no one seemed to care. At 4 pm, just before all offices close, my mom called. I had an appointment in Oregon in two weeks. And following that appointment, I had another to get my entire body checked for additional precancerous or cancerous moles. Why? My chances of getting another melanoma just jumped 14% higher as I've already had one.

The Elusive Moose

Tuesday, sometime in September: we finally headed east, straight for the Tetons. I had visited Yellowstone and the Tetons roughly 8 years ago, although I remember the experience as if it were yesterday. We hiked up cascade canyon, over the pass to Lake solitude and down paintbrush canyon: 26 miles in one day, mostly in the hopes of seeing moose. We lucked out and saw several moose from a safe distance throughout the day; on the hillside meadows grazing in the wildflowers and in the streams munching on some willow.

At one point I walked within 5 feet of one, I only noticed because it looked up at me as I cruised past. My heart raced, I kept walking, I didn't look back. I was excited to have seen a moose so close, but realized also that she could have taken me out in just a few minutes.

Moose, although they look so cute and awkward you might be tempted to waltz on up, and give one a kiss on the nose and expect it to just stand there and wink at you, they really are fairly grumpy creatures. I've heard rumors that moose kill far more people per year than bears, its just that bears have 2" claws and big pointy teeth to scare us with, whilst moose just look uncoordinated. I went home from my first visit, satisfied with having seen moose, and not having seen and bear.

So on this trip I expected to see many moose. We were, after all, planning on backpacking into the peaks and camping out for two nights in the backcountry. We even inquired about the canyons most likely to have moose when planning our trip. 8 hours and 13 miles of hiking and still no moose. We started making up stories about where the moose might hang out, what they do with their free time, bilingual moose that translate for humans, and of course we even tried speaking moose in hopes of attracting them to our route, but to no avail. We saw not one moose.

On day two we crossed paths with a couple that had been out for a couple days and mentioned off hand "lot of wildlife down there", and proceeded to explain that they had stumbled upon a mama bear and her cub, crossed paths with one moose, and watched several others from afar. With excitement we pushed on, hoping to catch them before the day grew too hot, and the moose retreated into the willows.

After only about a mile, we saw the moose cross the valley below us, and we hurried on. When we reached the valley floor, she was nowhere to be seen. We waited. Still nothing, and so we moved on, slightly satisfied that at least we had seen a glimpse. Several hours and 8 miles later we saw another moose grazing on the willow in the stream. We ventured closer, (but still at least 300-400 feet away, enough distance to run and hide should she decide she didn't like us). We watched, and were thoroughly satisfied.

The next morning, camped by the lake we spotted a moose in the water. We wandered closer. I stopped when her ears turned towards us. Andrew kept walking. When I felt unreasonably uncomfortable, I signaled to Andrew to stop. She watched us. She shook and drank, then started sauntering towards us. I started backwards, all the while facing her. Then she broke into a run towards Andrew, snorting and grunting in warning. I'm pretty sure that the moose encounter guidelines say 1) never get closer than 300 feet to a moose, and 2) should you encounter a moose at closer range, walk backwards away from the moose slowly. We turned and ran. She was running full out, charging us, and we were running with 40-pound packs on our backs; we turned into the woods and heard her pounding hooves growing close.

We ran until we couldn't run anymore, stopping to listen. Nothing. She must have followed us down the beach, and stopped when she couldn't see us anymore. I gave Andrew a look that said: "would you have gotten that close to a bear?". I walked on.

8 miles down the trail and we rounded a corner only to catch a glimpse of a mama moose and her calf in the trail. We startled one another, and they moved away, just down the trail. We waited. She kept one ear on us. "not again" I thought to myself. We waited and waited but she didn't move from her willow munching along the trail. Finally, roughly 20 minutes later, she moved ever so slightly off the trail. "if we just walk past quickly and pay no attention to her, we'll be fine". There was one other thing that instilled a bit of confidence in me. We wouldn't be her target. Another visitor had come from the other direction and was standing not 25 feet from her. Surely, if she was angry, she would charge him first. We went for it, walking quickly by the man and the moose, and with a sigh of relief walked out back into the woods out of sight.

Nearly there, not 2 miles from the end of the trail I spotted a big brown thing with legs, and I stopped in my tracks. "Why would a moose be out here on the plains? Enough with the moose already!" I looked again, and realized it was the national park sign. I walked on, exhausted, and relieved.

liminal

This next couple of blogs come with a disclaimer: they are not well-written as I've been too tired to formulate sentences well. The work is long and hard, although rewarding. Here's to working for yourself.

August 1. Moving out.

Our boxes were piled nearly to the ceiling; furniture dismantled and stacked in the bedroom, my sister on the couch, my parents sleeping in the truck out front. At 7am my sister were given orders: coffee and doughnuts. It only took us 4 hours to load our home onto the trailer.

My sister stayed to help as my parents headed home. We spent the afternoon scrubbing the fridge, shower, stove and walls.

We spent a sleepless night on the living room's hardwood floors. In the morning we rose early, packed up the last of the cleaning supplies, and walked out of California.

August 2. Unpacking, repacking and packing up for stage II.

Our car was packed to the brim. We shoved ourselves in and headed home: the two places I call home, anyway. It was in the nineties when we arrived in Chiloquin, exhausted and tired of sitting. My parents were in the midst of cleaning out the shed; making room for out things.

They unpacked box after box of unused things, useless things, old things, dusty things and some downright cool things (a buoyancy compensator, for example). Some of it went to the garage, some to the Salvation Army and some back into the house to be sorted out later.

We jumped right in, and began sorting, then adding our stuff to my other stuff already stacked in the back of the shed from my move from house to small apartment two years ago. Then the thunder rolled in: the first clouds, the first thunder, the first lightening and real rain I've seen in years. Big fat cold drops in the hot summer afternoon. We abandoned our project for the evening, and watched as the storm filled cistern with runoff from the roof: water for the apple trees.

August 3. Tires and things.

In order to return the favor of moving us yet again, A and I stayed an extra day to reorganize my parents' garage, and weed their garden. Most of the day we spent compiling my dad's multiple stacks of extra tires from various vehicles into one stash to be loaded up and taken down to the barn for storage. While we were at it, we organized the garage, and added some things to the Salvation Army pile.

The afternoon was too hot for work, so we waited out the heat in the cool of the house. The evening was full of weeding and dirt and fresh blueberries.

August 4. Back to work.

We quit our jobs in part to spend a month self-employed; working harder than either of us would work for anyone else. We're fixing up the house. Project #1? Drive to Eugene and clean up after dude tenants. Note to self: charge huge security and cleaning deposit next time.

The entire day was dedicated to gathering up their stuff, scrubbing the fridge, shower, stove and walls, just as we had done in Santa Rosa. Then we moved in with our tools and work clothes.

August 5. Yard day.

Andrew worked on tearing out nails from the walls and floors, prepping for some wall touch-up and floor refinishing while I spent the day outside. I gathered up leaves and garbage. I cut down a tree, I hacked a path through the dense, overgrown garden, and I threw it all in a giant pile.

I filled an entire full-sized pickup with yard debris then called it quits. I was covered in bugs, dirt, leaves, and cut up head to toe by blackberry and rose.

August 6. Getting rid.

We dropped off the car for a tune-up. We looked at new tires. I dropped off the yard waste and priced gravel and boulders. I started digging a trench for a new retaining wall in the front yard. The appliance repairman came to fix the washer and dryer. I set up Internet access. Then I loaded up a truckload of garbage, hazardous waste and recyclables and drove to the dump. Turns out, you have to make an appointment for the hazardous waste. I made an appointment for tomorrow. We reserved a floor sander for tomorrow too.

Then I went back home, loaded up a truckload of Salvation Army stash and headed out again. Meanwhile, Andrew hand-sanded the edges of the floor in the whole of the downstairs.

August 7. Big day.

I dug all day long. Must finish the trench, I thought, must finish the trench and have the rocks delivered before my sister gets here. As a break from digging, I took over the sanding he had been working on all day. We gave each other a break. Then I dug some more, and andrew sanded some more. Then we went and bought boulders. They were delivered an hour later. A driveway full of boulders (two tons) and a parking spot on the street covered in gravel (3 yards).

The digging went well, but the sanding not so much. Off to a rough start, the sander blew the breakers multiple times, then it blew it's own breaker. After two phone calls for suggestions to the rental shop, they delivered us a brand new sander, but to no avail. The sander worked just fine, but it couldn't break through the floor finish or the layers of paint in the front room. 8 hours of sanding and digging, and all we had was an incomplete trench, a big pile of rocks and a slightly sanded floor. Then my sister arrived.

August 8. The Blues.

My parents arrived early along with my grandma and aunt. We were all in for a few hours of blueberry pickin' in the forest of 50-year-old high bush blueberries. After picking, my family jumped right in. My mom and aunt went to buy food, my dad and Andrew took out the rotting windows in the living room, my grandma started weeding, Alex, who is now 7, shoveled gravel and picked bulbs out of the piles of dirt. My sister and I, well we started moving boulders. We quickly realized that there weren't enough big rocks, and though we tried to order more, the hauling fee was higher than we wanted to pay and they couldn't deliver until Monday anyway... not soon enough. So we went to go look at windows instead. They couldn't order the windows soon enough, so we bought lavender and rosemary. Then went to another home improvement store, where they also couldn't get the windows in time.

We reserved and picked up another, bigger sander along the way for tomorrow.

At home again, we nailed tarps over the gaping holes in the wall, cleaned up the kitchen and called it a day.

Oh yeah. And the washing machine is still broken. We found out when we tried to run a load of laundry and it didn't drain, not to mention the terrible grumbling rattle it made when it hit the spin cycle. So our soapy soggy wet clothes are drying on the gutter downspout that was ripped off our house for some reason in the backyard. Classy.

August 9. Cleaning up.

The plan: get more rock. Finish the wall. Finish sanding the floors. Be done with the yard. Order windows. Cross fingers.







And we managed to get it all done...

INTERMISSION

where the river runs upstream

I guess it was our way of saying goodbye to west county.

We woke early and saddled up the car with kayak racks and straps, mounted the boats and headed off for the river. We paddled in silence towards the mouth, osprey and cormorants and creepy aquatic plants. The morning wind and the river currents pushed us downstream, but we were banking on the tides getting us back. We were headed to the mouth of the river: a giant, ever-changing sand bar separating fresh from salt water. The gateway was mesmerizing. We sat in the brackish in-between where the water was murky and brown from the ocean, green from the river and currents flowed in all directions. The swell beyond the bar was above us. We paddled out with the currents, then back in with a push from behind.

garden karma

We planted our garden early. We poked beans and lettuce and broccoli seeds into the rich soil and carefully selected early fruiting tomato varieties. We knew we would have to leave our garden behind. We outlasted our broccoli and lettuce. We pulled the plants and turned the soil, readying the pots for another crop. Our basil and beans are still producing, but the tomatoes didn't quite ripen up. I clipped the extra leaves to allow the light through to the green fruit below. I heaved the barrel into a sunnier spot when the light angles changed. But the tomatoes didn't ripen. Until three days ago when we plucked our first Sweet Million, then second then third.

But we're leaving in three days, and our garden had to go. We contemplated the options all summer long. Dumping the dark soil onto the herbicide dirt patch in the back yard and giving away the barrels hardly seemed like an option. Selling the garden also seemed like an unlikely prospect. Prematurely uprooting the garden seemed to betray the idea of a garden as a representation of life cycles on a micro-scale: seed, seedling, sapling, mature plant, fruit, seed. I just couldn't stand the idea of destroying the bean vines and tomato plants, pulling the basil, Swiss chard, squash and Okra before they were ready to harvest. So I thought about it every day.

Then it dawned on me. The whole garden could be transported with the help of a friend with a big strong truck, three friends with big strong muscles and a family that wanted a bigger garden. And so it was. Today our good friends came with the truck and the strong men and the want of a bigger garden. They loaded up first the squash, then the chard, basil, okra, tomatoes and lastly the beans and drove off down the road, all six barrels in tow.

Leopard lilies, tiger swallowtails and bears

After months of planning and very little preparation, the three of us slipped into the car for a 5 hour drive to the trailhead. It was Andrew's birthday backpacking trip. The same trip I missed 2 years back in order to deliver the totaled magnet Honda to my parents on my birthday. This trip two years ago left Andrew with bruised heels for roughly six months and black toenails then no toenails then flaky toenails until recently. Those toes still aren't quite normal.

We were up for 43 miles of hiking with 35 pound packs for 5days and were looking to gain and then loose 6,000 vertical feet to the top of Thompson Peak. We were in for some work.










Much of the Shasta-Trinity national forest has burned recently. Fire was historically a frequent occurrence, and some species of trees as well as herbaceous plants depend on fire. The USFS has done an amazing job of suppressing fire to the extent that should the forest catch fire, there is plenty of fuel to burn. Old growth and older trees withstand frequent low-intensity fires as their bark is fire resistant, leaving charred giants standing amongst the bright green new growth of the forest floor if it burns regularly.

As we hiked up we left summer behind and walked back into springtime in full bloom. Penstemon lined the path, honeysuckle sweet in the air, butterflies everywhere. We forded snow melt streams and swam in the ice cold lake that is fed directly by the snow fields of Thompson peak.

As I sat at the summit butterflies by the hundreds fluttered over my head, around me and down to the alpine meadows below. I could hear their wings moving clumsily in the breeze. Butterflies amongst granite crags at 9,000 feet.

ball is rolling.

like the scene in Temple of Doom.

Yesterday Andrew told his boss he was leaving. not for vacation, for good. Today, I told my boss at one job we were skipping town, and Andrew spent the day calling the owners and all the contractors and subcontractors to tell them he was leaving, wrapping things up, moving on.

After much contemplation and a frenzy of phone calls, emails, job applications and strategizing, no funding has come through for school, ruling out that option for now. There is one possible assistantship left, but I've not heard back, they're three days overdue.

So, in one month's time, we are packing up out things, going backpacking then heading to my house in Eugene for a hard month's work. Then, if no other opportunities present themselves, we'll pack up again and drive across the country scouting out places to live. Places like Vancouver B.C., Portland, Madison. Places with green jobs and nature conservancy projects. I'm excited for new scenery, new opportunities, new landscapes. And I've settled into the idea of having to work another in-between job whilst volunteering for national parks or the nature conservancy or some other rad organization until I talk someone into hiring me for a living wage.

trapeze

Sometimes you just know what kind of day it is going to be from the moment you roll out of bed. This day was one of those. Half asleep and wanting desperately to crawl back under the covers, I dressed myself in the dark so as not to wake Andrew, but he was wide awake. I stumbled through the house, slipped on my helmet and clumsily pushed my bike out the door.

Usually I meet several folks along the way, although it is merely 4:30am: the guy riding an old mountain bike on the sidewalk, probably a bouncer on his way home from work, the garbage truck drivers and the milk men, and the guy filling his yaris with gas at the corner station. Today I crossed paths with all of these familiar faces in their familiar machines, and a few others as well.

Getting to know the homeless population has been an adventure in and of itself.

There was Randy, who would always order a medium coffee and would share with me such intimate information as: what it was like to sleep outside in the city, how you choose your bed at night and what resources were out there for the homeless. He would always call me the "pretty one" and blushing, walk away with his head nodding after a good conversation. He was gone when I came back from Oregon. "went south" someone said. I didn't know whether to think he'd lost it, or he'd literally headed south. I think the latter is actually the case.

Then there is Mary. She is short with a round face and black curly hair. She has a hard time completing thoughts before she jumps into the next, although I'm pretty sure the information is all there, only slightly anachronistic. One day I saw her running and jumping with such enthusiasm you might have thought she won the lottery. She had an aggressive look in her eye, and she was jumping around as if there was an invisible hopscotch sketched onto the sidewalk in front of our store. "don't get in her way today" I thought. Only because she looked determined and focused, not dangerous. She is a sweet soul, always saying please and thank you even if she is just quickly moving through the store, grabbing a cup of water and heading out the other door. She often comes in with stories of how she's been wronged and what she's learned from the experience. One day she marched in and announced to my co-worker, while lifting up her shirt "guess what?!? I'm pregnant!". On another occasion she asked for pen and paper so she could write us a note. That note was an entire 2 page legible letter to us, although not one person could figure out what it said. Word salad, I believe it is called. Thoughts all connected in some way, but only to the person thinking those thoughts.

Toupee guy waltzed in one morning to a friendly crew. "Someone new", I thought. I was leading our crew that morning, and feeling relaxed I handed him the cup of hot water he asked for. He bathed in our bathroom and fell asleep on our bench. At around 8:00 when the shop was getting busy, I asked him to leave so our other customers might have somewhere to sit. All the tables were full, it was warming up outside. He happily agreed and mentioned he was planning on leaving at 8 anyway. The next day he showed up again, asked for a cup and proceeded to fill it with our milk. I asked him to leave. He did. Since that day a couple months ago now, I see him often, on the bench outside, occasionally walking through towards the bathroom, the thin man and his dry, tattered blond toupee, his black duffel bag and gray quick-dry pants. He sometimes shows up at the shop before we do...

Carol is possibly my favorite of our customers. She is roughly 5'6" tall, incredibly fit and extremely strong. The first time I saw her, she was wearing a full-sized statue of liberty costume. The next time I met her she was wearing a viking helmet. After a while I realized that she has an incredible wardrobe that she must keep somewhere, but not in the two giant duffel bags she carries with her everywhere. I've seen her in mini skirts and full length evening gowns, I've seen her wear glittery sparkling shirts and I've seen her barefoot. The wardrobe is not the only spectacular part about this woman, however.

Her creativity is limitless. She was spotted on day painting a pizza box with her piece of pizza. Making brush-stroke, then sitting back to analyze and admire her work. I've spoken with her about religion and philosophy. A friend has seen her throwing a textbook into the air and catching it on her back: over and over again until they stopped watching some 20 minutes later. One day my co-worker handed her the coffee she ordered saying "here you go my friend" and Carol responded quickly "you are not my friend. I've let too many people down in my lifetime, you are not my friend" She is sharp as a tack. It has always been a mystery what her background is, why is she so strong, where does she keep her wardrobe, just WHO is this woman? We found out the other day that she used to be a trapeze artist. Explains everything. Well, maybe not everything.


There are others, oh yes. There are customers with stories coming out our ears. But these are some of my favorites. And this morning, I got to see all of them. Except Randy.

I saw a flash of red out of the corner of my eye and looked over. In the doorway to one of the stores on our street was Carol, spinning around in a red mini-skirt holding a blanket out like a cape. I kept riding. Just as I pulled up to the shop, parking my bike, toupee guy wandered by with his duffel bag in hand, blank stare. All was normal until after opening, when Carol burst into the store, her face twitching and her hands moving like lighting. I dropped what I was doing and turned around to help her. "I'm moving really fast, I didn't mean anything, fast, moving fast, I mean, the usual just the usual." she said. I asked her what the usual was and she motioned with her hands and said "the usual". "a cup of water, I'll come back, just a cup of water for now". I got her water, and she filled it the rest of the way with milk. I went on with my work. Until I noticed that she had her hand in the tip jar, an empty tip jar. I looked over at my coworker, and we exchanged confused glances, but left her alone. She left.

Five minutes later, after examining and re-examining the parking meter, miming the putting-in of money and trying to understand the machine beyond its worth, she came back into the store, repeating "the usual, return, return", put something into each of our three tip jars, and walked back out the door swiftly. I was in the middle of helping a customer, so I ignored it. Until I looked down and realized that she had put a tampon in each of the three jars.

An hour or so later, Mary walked in looking bright-eyed. She ordered a medium coffee. Then she said something that sounded like the following "Penny from mental health she has a crab right here [pointing to her cheek] but Robert, also from mental health he said no, and his brother hit him, and they accused me of doing it, but penny has a crab on her face, you know, chlamydia, the clap, penny has crabs but not me, I'm clean, okay thank you bye!" Then she walked out the door.

And that was my morning in a nutshell.

potato sleeps

I had never noticed. I grew up growing potatoes. We would plant our garden late and harvest early in hopes that the frost would not settle on the starts or the crops near harvest. Only hardy crops: broccoli and beans, potatoes, cabbage, carrots, chard and kale. All these held our attention throughout the season, except the potatoes, those were for later. We generally ignored them, covering them with dirt periodically, tucking them back under.

As the summer days drew long, we would water and weed, harvest and munch on our hard work. The first frost would kiss the crops usually in late September, and the greens would wither and fade. Protected by the soil, the potatoes were the last to be plucked from the ground.

Potato time was simultaneously saddening and satisfying. It signaled the end of summer, the frost and snow soon to come. Yet it was the best kind of treasure hunt: a legitimate excuse to draw your fingers through the soil, to kneel down and spend the day in the dirt. And for what? Wheelbarrows full of spuds: big fat ones, skinny ones, lumpy ones, purple and brown and yellow ones, and isty-bitsy perfectly round ones.

But I missed something BIG. I never noticed them sleeping at night. I never had the chance to watch as they pointed their leaves towards the sky, drawing in their limbs, closing up shop after a long day's work storing away energy. But that's what they do. They stretch out in the morning as the sun hits them, spreading their limbs, flattening their leaves, soaking it up. And as the shadows grow long this evening, they're setting aside their work for another day.

Plan Z.

Yesterday I found out that I did not get into Wisconsin which has caused a total rework of my plan. I'm probably working on plan Z at this point. What now? in Grade school it was marine biology, in high school it was jungle research scientist. In College: Botanist. Grad school: Landscape architect and restoration ecologist. Now: restoration ecologist for the National Park Service, and more specifically a job that allows me to get outside and work with the land, a job that challenges me, a job that allows me to work with amazing people. I'm having a hard time finding all of those things in one place. I suppose I just have high standards.


I'm feeling a pressing need to figure out what I'm doing with my life right now. I don't know if it is the impending 30th birthday, or just a desire to get out of here and settle down enough to see my garden through an entire season, watch my fruit trees grow, get to know some ground. Where will we be (geographically) in 5 years?

Should I start as a volunteer with the national park service? But how does one justify moving all over the country for work that doesn't pay, when I already can't afford my bills? How do you get in with the federal government if at first you have to volunteer? How do you decide to move somewhere when what I want to do has to do with working outside in the wilderness and what Andrew wants to do requires living in or near a city? So many questions bogging down my mind that I am unable to do anything more than search the Peace Corps website and USA Jobs for possibilities. How do we make this work? How can we get out of this place? How do I buy my dream farm with chickens and a jersey milk cow and my dog and a garden? Bog bog bog.

cheese-to-be

As I was laying in bed this lazy drizzly morning reading my book, I stumbled across something exciting: how to make cheese.

I suppose it has crossed my mind, as I'm always excited for a chance to immerse myself in the making of my food; apple and pear cider in the fall, berry picking and canning in the spring, growing and harvesting my own vegetables, making beer. But I've been reading Pollan and Kingsolver and learning about our corporate food machine, triggering in me a more urgent search for ways in which to eat local, eat well.

The idea of living on a farm or farm-like place has always appealed to me. In fact, I did everything I could in Eugene to make my small 1/3 acre lot into a farm, though I could have found some chickens to keep as well. I love the idea of growing, collecting, cooking and preserving food locally. In fact, the idea of eating a piece of fruit I had to struggle to reach is so much more appealing to me than buying fruit in the grocery or even in a farmers market, that I rarely even think of buying fruit.

I can recall one of the tastiest meals I've ever had with vivid detail. It wasn't my grandmother's Christmas dinner, my mom's delicious sherry artichoke chicken, it was a meal cooked entirely from a friend's property in Utah, amidst a peach orchard near a spring. We ate turkey that roamed freely about the ranch, and salad collected from their amazing garden, tucked into the sandy soil against a rock outcrop. It was the most flavorful turkey and salad I have ever eaten. I wondered at the time why it was so good. I think I understand it now.

With my new perspective on food, I've been searching for opportunities to make some of the things we normally buy: bread, beans, preserves, and buying things from local sources when we can afford them.

After my discovery this morning, I searched out our local farmers' market, hoping there would be one up and running on a Wednesday morning, looking for a source of local milk. I was in luck. I stumbled around the house collecting warm waterproof clothes, then I bungied a wooden box to the back of my bike and headed to the market in search of milk.

I didn't find any, but I did find some local cheese, beets, tomatoes, cilantro, garlic, onions and Swiss chard. yum yum. With my collection in the makeshift wooden bike basket, I headed home to plan a meal, find a local milk farm, and learn how to make cheese.

leaves of three, leave it be

In 2005 I embarked on an adventure with several other brave souls to study the historic oak savanna of the Willamette Valley. Although we were there to study the age of the trees and their distribution, I am sure I learned more about another species, one that just so happens to thrive in oak savanna: Toxicodendron diversilobum.

Toxicodendron, more commonly known as Poison-oak, can climb trees or hug the ground, it can don green or red or orange leaves of varying shapes and sizes. The branches glow orange in the spring, giving the earth a warm halo. Its summer berry yields are plentiful, providing a good source of food for local birds. And its toxic oil, Urushiol, has convinced most humans to leave it alone. The oil can remain active and toxic for 1-5 years, even with exposure to UV. The toxin is potent enough for 1 nanogram to cause a rash.

I grew up on the east side of the cascades, a location my parents had chosen, at least in part, because Toxicodendron doesn't grow there. My exposure was minimal if not altogether lacking during my early rolling-in-the-forest days.

I had been warned about poison-oak. My parents dutifully pointed it out as they walked out of their way to put a 10' space between them and the plants at rest areas on the way to my grandparent's house, as if the plant would suddenly leap towards them and rub itself all over their bare skin.

Just looking at it makes me itch, my mom would say. My dad would nod in agreement. I ignored both the plant and my parents.

See that? Don't touch it. You'll be sorry. Then my mom would break into song:

Gonna need an ocean duh dah-duh dah-duh of calamine-a-lotion duh dah-duh dah-duh and laugh a slightly hysterical laugh you could tell was inspired by her experience with Calamine lotion.

She would then ask:

have I ever told you about my 7th grade graduation? Panty-hose were brand new back then, and grandma bought me my first pair. I wore them to graduation. My oozy poison-oak blisters glued the nylons to my legs and I spent the night in the bath tub soaking them off.

I suppose if you've ever had poison oak, you have your own horror story to tell. And if you haven't, you think we're all crazy. Well, believe me when I tell you, the oak CAN make you crazy. I suppose that is why I'm writing this now. My current oak situation has me thinking about my first oak adventure.

During the height of my poison oak-induced mania (caused primarily by wading through groves of poison-oak vines), I would drive to the store, and grind my teeth (so as not to tear my skin off). I waited in line, ready to push anyone out of the way that threatened to take too long. I bought rubbing alcohol and Mary's poison Oak Soap, I bought Technu and Citrus degreaser. I bought Aveeno oatmeal baths and Fels Naptha (laundry soap in bar form), bleach and naturpathic anti-oak-itch spray, I looked through the isles searching for anything that would remove layers of my skin, or dry the oils poisoning it, anything that would make me stop itching. Then I would race home and take an icy cold shower, then a super hot shower: itch relief in two forms. Relief and pain and madness all in rolled into some hot water running over my bubbly, deformed skin.

In all about 60% of my body was covered with oozy red blisters. I was blistered from ankle to ass. I had rashes on my belly, arms, back and neck. I was miserable. Because we figured that much of our back-end exposure was due to pulling our pants down in the woods, we convinced our boss to buy us contraptions, so we could pee like guys. Although awkward, it prevented quite a bit of butt rash, but posed another more frightening possibility. I invested in rubber gloves.

After a day of work we would carefully and systematically drop off our toxic gear and head home in haste. At home, I would remove my toxic clothing (complete with gloves, duct taped at the wrists to my long-sleeved shirt), as if I was a doctor removing a rubber glove, rolling the toxic sides into themselves, and dumping it straight into the washer, careful not to let the clothes touch the floor or my body. Hot wash with lots of soap.

The shower was comprised of a strict protocol: very cold water and Fels Naptha, followed by approximately 15 gallons of cold rinse water. Another soap and rinse cycle, then the excruciatingly hot water to scratch the itch I couldn't touch, followed by icy cold water to reduce swelling and keep me sane for at least 20 minutes. Repeat as needed.

During our van rides to the field sites we would exchange pre- and post exposure protocol and treatment of blisters, anything we could find online and things that were or were not working for us. We spent hours online searching for something that could fix us, but to little avail.

I fell into an insane paranoia of poison-oak the plant, and the invisible oil that could be anywhere. My work boots lived in a plastic bag on the porch, only to be touched with gloved hands. My truck, I considered toxic, though I still placed a towel on the seat before I would sit down. The van that transported our team and our toxic equipment, we treated like hot lava.

I did eventually recover from my oak field season, with only a few physical scars and an amazing skill for recognizing Toxicodendron in all its seasonal glory. After a bucket (almost literally) of steroid cream and two rounds of oral steroids, my body recovered and sanity replaced the itchy madness of the summer. Perhaps it was because of this experience, that I decided to study something else for my thesis. No more oak for me.

So, here I am again, searching for information about poison oak. It seems to be the same old story, no one really has a good, safe remedy or prevention technique. But I did find these advertisements that may be helpful:

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Just in case you wanted to buy some after reading this.

As for my current oak situation: I didn't even get it from romping in the woods. Nope, Andrew brought it home on his clothes, he smeared it in my car, on the floor of our room and who knows where else. As for my body? I have blisters on my legs and arms, on my face and lips, on my breast and nipple. Another round of steroids to stay sane. I should join the Olympics.

salameandering

Lately, after a newt-filled hike, I've been obsessing over salamanders. I've been looking them up online and searching under the rocks and wood piles in the backyard. And, much to my enjoyment, I found a couple fun ones:

the California Slender Salamander (a worm with legs?)



The Arboreal Salamander

shovel sledding and snowshoes

for a week of winter wonderland fun, we went to Utah. Northern Utah this time. It was my old stomping grounds back in the day. The post-college conundrum seasonal ski bum job sort of stomping grounds. The lodge where I worked cleaning toilets and stocking spa towels brings back memories every time I start towards little cottonwood canyon. I could ski out the back door down to the lifts and be on the mountain in less than 10.

This time, like many others before my toilet-cleaning, bed-making days, my family was there to visit my aunt and uncle: long time locals. Andrew was the new edition ( or addition, depending on how you want to look at it).

It was his first time skiing and, I have to say he did an amazing job picking up the moves right off. So we started down the blues. Then we went up a mountain on snowshoes. all the way up. It was gorgeous up there, clear skies and views for miles. Allyn and Jerry left us to our mountain summit, heading back for food and rest.

The way down may have been the highlight, though. The running and crashing in pillows of piles of powder. Then the shovel-sledding down the cat track: my favorite sport.

rifle gap

Once upon a mountain I found myself traveling once again through Colorado, on my way home, I suppose, from Denver or Boulder, or perhaps on my way back to Boulder from Glenwood Canyon. I was with a group of friends, It was late and we were tired. We found a dirt road and pulled off the interstate, following the rutted tracks a ways towards the hills, through the brush. It was a strange place, you could just sense it.

The night was dark, and we could see very little save the ground just in front the car. We pulled into a make-shift turn around, the kind you find all over the desert, all over BLM land, and parked the car to camp.

As we unpacked our tents we examined the ground, embedded with shot gun shells, bones and brown glass: the remnants of what were likely whole beer bottles at some point, until they were used for target practice. The ground was a frightening mosaic of death. Whose bones were they, anyway?

I slept only lightly, fading in and out of disturbing dreams about unidentified animals and hunters and, well, being hunted. The morning was welcome, the light washing away the shadows of the night, but the sight wasn't much more pleasant than it had been in my dreams.

It wasn't just the road that painted a picture of the goings-on on this land, it was everything. There were fire pits and beer bottles and shells and bullets, decaying carcasses and bones. Curious, and feeling safe now that the darkness had gone, and with it the fear of predators ( mostly of the Homo sapien type) lurking in the shadows, I went to explore.

The bones were not just deer and elk, no, I found the unmistakable remains of a very large dog. This was no coyote, it was no fox. It was a domestic dog with a head the size of a basketball, okay, probably more like a large ugly-fruit. The find catalyzed an entire series of questions in my head: why would you kill a dog? why here? Whose dog was it? what did it do? who did it eat before it met its end?

inspiration

this is a blog i found in my archives, saved as a draft from this summer (including the title):

I wish I felt inspired to write right now, but somehow this inhumane 8-5 work day thing has

that is it, all i wrote almost the entire summer.
note to self: let's not do that again.

Instead I work at strange times of the day, 4:30 in the morning for example, or closing a store at 9:30 pm and sometimes I do both of these on the same day. Some weeks I have very little work, and my paycheck is slim. In some weeks I do 2 weeks' worth of work. I remind myself regularly (usually around 4:07 a.m.) that I should be happy for three reasons:

1) I have a job (well, 2 actually)
2) I don't sit at either job, in front of a computer or otherwise
3) I don't work 8-5 and I can generally take as much time off as I like

Then I bundle up and hop on my bike in the starlight to open the coffee shop. You would think I might have some writing inspiration from that, but I guess I'm all out for the moment.

national take your girlfriend to work day

yesterday marked the second annual take-your-girlfriend-to-work-day. Last year I was working on my thesis and spent the day in the corner of a tiny trailer on Andrew's boss's property. There was no heat and very little light. I froze and my brain shut down. Then we went home.

But this year, I got to tag along on a site visit. We hopped in the car and spent the better part of the morning driving through the mountains to the rugged Sonoma coast. We headed north for nearly an hour more before I dropped Andrew at the site and headed a few miles in the direction we had just come from: south to salt point.



I plunked around through the trees and down to the rocky shore, where time, salt and water has eroded the surface of the rocks. I watched the turkey vultures soar on the currents, the gulls resting. Abalone shells everywhere, deep blue water, mussels on the rocks.



It seemed like only minutes had passed since I left Andrew to his work, but as I looked at my watch, I realized I might be late in getting back for lunch. I clamored up the cliff side, camera and new found treasures in hand, back towards the car. I would be on time after all if I hurried.

I turned on some Otis Redding and started back northwards. Until I hit a dear. I saw it fast enough to slam on the breaks, hitting it at a fairly slow speed dead-on. I sent it flying into the trees like a cartoon character, legs splayed out. There was no place to stop, and I was well into a blind curve, so I drove away slowly, listening for scraping, dragging, general malfunction, but heard nothing. I pulled off at the next turnout and inspected the damage. No flat tires, no broken lights, deer hair caught under the crunched hood.

Nothing I could do. The deer was gone, the car's nose slightly smaller and bumpier than it was seconds before. I was going to be late.

But, fortunately, Andrew was late in getting out of his meeting as well. I waited and stewed and tried to read. Then I met the contractor and toured the project site.

For some reason I felt fortunate for the luck of having had enough time to brake. fortunate the car was still drivable, that the airbags didn't go off, and happy I was safe.

The rest of the day was fairly uneventful: lunch on the rocks, curvy drive back to the office, and calls into the insurance company. Then it hit me, $500 deductible. surely more than $500 worth of damage. Trucky wouldn't have bat an eye at that deer, but little Ollie couldn't take the impact. Back to the shop for hood #3.