The Sounds of Cannon Cliff

I rolled into the “trailhead parking” off of the Interstate in Franconia Notch at 5:20am and found an empty parking lot – save Doug’s Tacoma and its foggy windows.  I screeched to a halt next to him – a polite-yet-passive alarm clock for my dormant climbing partner.  I presented him the coffee and sandwich I had promised as I gazed up at our day’s objective.  The Whitney Gilman Ridge rises like a knife blade up the left side of the Cannon Cliff massif.  This would be both of our first time up the route, and we were as jittery as we were excited.  

 

As we pulled gear out of our respective trunks, discussing how many draws, whose cams, how many nuts, etc. to bring up the climb, the sun tickled the top of the ridge.  This was a long-discussed objective, and the time had come.  

 

Over the next several hours what continued to strike me was the myriad sounds of Cannon Cliff.  As we scrambled up the deceivingly-long talus field at the foot of the cliff the traffic began to buzz down on I-93 below us.  The engine brakes of the tractor trailer trucks rumbled up the walls of the notch like the guttural roar of the Balrog echoing up from the depths of Moria.  As we gazed up the ominous walls of the infamous Black Dike with equal parts envy and intimidation, the Balrog was an unnerving backdrop. 

 

We looked up the arete and after exchanging a few comments about the exposure to come we scrambled to the starting ledge.  The climbing on the Whitney Gilman isn’t particularly difficult.  This is fortunate, because if the hollow rock that emits that drum-like sound that all climbers know were on a harder route it would be a cause for more concern and nervous beads of sweat.

 

A few hundred feet off the ground and with confidence riding high, I nestled into a happy place on the belay ledge after the third pitch.  Now, in the sun of midmorning, with Doug safely past the pipe pitch and psychological crux of the route, I took a moment to notice where I was while he built the next anchor somewhere above me on the ridge.  The white-throated sparrow sang that song that loyally rings through the higher elevations of the White Mountains: oh-sweet-Ca-na-da-Ca-na-da.  The calming melody echoed off the walls of the Black Dike, bringing a sentiment of serenity to what otherwise most closely resembled one of the gates of Mordor.  

 

Then, climbing through the crux of the route, stepping over the arete to 400 feet of air beneath your feet, the cold blast of wind rustled the curls on my neck and pulled a tear from my eye.  The exposure here simultaneously demands your attention and ignorance.  It is impossible not to notice and imperative that you don’t grant it too much attention, lest you lose your nerve and become paralyzed.  In this moment all there is is the wind in your ear, the voice in your head, and the rock in front of you. 

 

Now, at the ridge’s terminus, Cannon allows us our first moment of peace to revel in the accomplishment.  Thank you, Cannon.  I’ll be back.  

 

Rivers, Rock, and the Unknown

Franconia, New Hampshire

 

I’m standing at the base of the route.  I’m racked up, warmed up, and raring to go.  I glance at my partner – a lifelong friend to whom I think little of entrusting my life and limb – he’s at the ready, ATC in hand, locked and loaded.  I customarily slap my arms across my chest, shake the chalk off my hands with a clap, and make the first move. The second follows suit, the third en suite.  I’m about 15 feet off the ground when I place my first piece, sliding a green BD stopper into a cozy home in a constriction I feel good about.  It’s bomber – so good it eventually (**SPOILER ALERT**) gets stuck and left for booty – so I make the fourth move. Right about here I’m feeling strong, confident, more than capable, and suddenly I ask myself the entirely-unanticipated question: “Why am I doing this?”  

 

I feel my heart sink a bit.  I haven’t psyched myself out for no good reason in my climbing career yet, but I am well-acquainted with the neural passageways through which my emotions flow and I don’t underestimate my ability to psych myself out in a big way.  I tell myself to shut up and bury the sensation down somewhere in my lower viscera. As a climber I’ve taught myself to quiet my nerves and focus; this time is no different.  

 

I go for the fifth move.  Nope, not feeling it. The move is easy and I could make it 100 times with my eyes closed.  I just don’t want it for some reason. I lunge again, and again retreat. The urgency and impatience my conscious brings to the table demands an answer to the aforementioned question before it will permit me to continue.   I then seal the deal, and I know it, by asking my friend: “Why am I doing this?”  

 

He looks at me – perplexed – and shrugs with that wide-eyed calm and gorilla-lipped frown that over many years I’ve learned to associate with confusion.  He mutters some befuddled yet encouraging response.

 

Flash forward.  I backed down from the climb, and it took me a long time to really forgive myself and properly consider the reasons why.  Objectively speaking, it was the perfect day for the climb. The weather was cooperative and pleasant, we had gotten an early start, the grade was within my comfort level, and I had been looking forward to climbing this route all season.  I knew all the beta, had talked to friends who had done it, and knew more or less what to expect. 

 

I just couldn’t do it.

 

Or I should say, I could do it, and I know I could, which actually made it all that much worse to back down.  But on that day at that time, I could not and would not do it. I felt like a wimp. Like a loser.  Like a failure.

 

I’ve since forgiven myself for, ultimately, being a human and having one of those not-unheard-of days when a climber’s head just isn’t in the game.  Inevitably, our brains, bodies, and emotions are all connected and I acknowledge the true possibility that if I had decided to push on that day it might have been a much more disastrous circumstance to ultimately turn us around instead.  

 

—–

Medway, Maine.  

 

I gulp chaga tea sweetened with a friend’s maple-syrup as the three of us hover over the middle console contemplating the maps.  Out the windshield, a recently-frosted Katahdin casts a cold late-afternoon shadow over the Penobscot watershed. Canoes are ratcheted snuggly on the roof.   

 

The austere regulatory character of Baxter State Park undermined our Plan A, as BSP closed to camping three days before the scheduled start of our trip.  Plan B was a trip on the lower Allagash. As it turns out, we underestimated the distance between Medway and Allagash (public service announcement: Maine is fucking huge.) and we’ve consequently dubbed the Allagash Waterway way-too-freaking-far for a weekend trip.  So the chaga is an attempt to ameliorate the low-level frustration that has been building for the last 4 cramped hours in the car as we cycle through plans C, D, E and F for what to do for the next three days, now that we’re up here.  

 

As I spill over the Maine River Guide with my two dear friends, one who I am trying to convince to become a Registered Maine Guide because I think he would pass the test in his sleep, and the other making up in personality what he lacks in experience, I get this unsettled feeling in my stomach again.  Together we have more than enough cumulative experience in multi-day canoe river trips to plan and execute a safe, successful river trip in a remote setting like the one in which we presently find ourselves…but nevertheless I feel an inexplicable uneasiness in my gut. I recognize the feeling, a certain hesitancy that I loath in myself but has its roots – I think – in a deep instinct for self-preservation.  I wonder, with the Guide clearly depicting a totally-manageable 25 mile trip on mostly flatwater, and the forecast calling for great weather, why I might be feeling this sense of insecurity. I question our decision. I question parking and the shuttling of cars. I question the route and camping and everything.  

Of course, we did our trip, Plan D, and it was a great success.  3 Days of wild, remote Maine river with friends.  Great paddling, great conversation, great food, great views, great time for reflection.

Why then did I feel so unnecessarily nervous?

 

—

Here, Now.

 

I’ve ruminated extensively on this feeling I get in my gut, both on the rock earlier this season and at the start of some bigger river trips.  With time I’ve traced it back to the unknown. That day back on the wall, or should I say, at the base of it, I couldn’t see where the route went once it rounded a corner some 25ft up.  I think I was nervous about what it looked like around that corner. I think if I had been able to see more of the route, I would have been encouraged, and probably sent that day. Instead I was nervous about what I would find, if it would be obvious, what I would do if something went wrong (I’m not sure what I thought might go wrong), and felt uncomfortable with that unknown, letting it psych me out.  Similarly with the canoe trip…I didn’t know what land management was like outside of BSP, what the camping situation would be like, if we would see anyone, if it would be a fun trip, if we would be able to find our way across the lakes, and other unspoken and largely irrational concerns.

 

I’ve followed this sentiment of uneasiness into states of paralysis and oscillation in my life.  I don’t know what will happen if I commit to something and go all-in on something big. I’m afraid of what I will find.  I wonder if I’ll be successful. What if I can’t do it, and then get stuck and can’t get down? What happens if we get lost on another drainage and we’re already 15 miles downstream?  In all these cases, canoeing, climbing, and life, I KNOW that I have the skills to succeed. I also know that I’ve got the skills to get myself out of a situation if something did go wrong.  So, why then the hesitancy?  

 

These ruminations have festered for sometime and I think at their maturity (if they can be said to have reached maturity…will they ever?) they have reaffirmed my desire to live boldly.  To stride forward into the dark and the unknown knowing damn well that I DON’T know what will happen and going anyway, and going with confidence.  Therein lies much of the excitement and, after all, security is an illusion and I don’t know what might happen just standing still either. The unknown is all around us and perfect information is impossible to attain.  No matter how you string it, each day is an unpredictable unknown.  

 

If we want to really live, and to live boldly, we must stride out into the world embracing the unknown and having confidence in ourselves.  Indeed, that’s the only way to be after all.

 

I’ll be back for that climb next year.   

Not Just Running, White Mountain Running

The sound of my feet on the trail transitions periodically between the rustle of last fall’s browned oak and beech leaves, and the scuff of my soles catching on the grainy White Mountain granite.  Heading up, my calves felt that familiar burn and my quads the fatigue of constant pushing up these Point-A-to-Point-B trails. Now, on the descent my quads feel that unique ache of constant eccentric muscle contractions as I plod down the steep paths I love so much.

Heading up, the feeling is animal.  Heaving and breathing heavy, wanting to slow down but feeling incapable as something inexplicable draws you up, up, up towards the heavens.  It is primal, and there is no space for thought. A special brand of meditation. Running down is different. Technical. The brain is the driver now, finesse the key, and body the medium.  It doesn’t take long to slip into flow state.

…………

I spent the last six months in Taos, NM doing much the same that I would have done here.  I did more resort skiing and less backcountry than I would have liked, mostly due to a job on Ski Patrol and a sketchy western snowpack that left us an historic avalanche cycle to remember it by.  I did enough trail running when conditions on the lowland trails would allow, to keep me ready to run come spring time. It was great.

Something felt different running out there, however.  Obviously the flora is a world-apart and the trails were constructed with actual forethought for both erosion and the legs of the people hiking them.  Obviously it was drier and thoughts of mountain lions returned regularly to the back of my mind, disrupting the flow-state mentality. But something else was different too.  Here in the Whites I never needed to motivate myself to run trails; I just wanted to. I love running here in the Whites, but it just wasn’t as fun out west. I spent months racking my brain about why I had to force myself out the door for the first time since I started trail running regularly in 2016. When I came home to NH and got back on the trails, it all made sense.  

Running in the Whites might be the polar opposite of a track, road, or treadmill.  There is of course a spectrum of intensity that every trail falls on, and every one is different enough, but the average trail in the Whites is seriously intense and technical.  There are super steep sections, granite slabs, and water running in the trail. There are roots, rocks, and leaves. There are puddles, birds and critters.  There are acorns, duff and blowdowns.  Running in the Whites inevitably forces the runner to make thousands of micro-analyses every second. Oak leaves are slippery; beech leaves are less-so; both cover up any rocks or roots that may be underneath.  Small color differences in the same root or rock tell you if it is damp, dry, or soaked. That rock is textured enough to grip even when wet; this rock is slippery. That root is grippy, this one is de-barked and slick. This slab is too steep for my shoe to stick, that one is not.  I can put only my toe on that step, or only my heel going down, because it’s too small for my whole foot. The texture of this ice means it is real slick, while that piece of ice has dirt and hemlock needles in it and will stick better. This snow is firm and a stubborn remnant of the winter monorail, so I can stomp on it.  That snow is loose and has been melting, so I will posthole.

Running in this terrain requires undivided focus for every step.  It is unconscious and also requires perfect attention. Everyone who runs in the Whites knows what a momentary lapse in attention can mean.  I’ve tumbled and somersaulted because I trusted a loose rock open-strided and at full-speed. I’ve slipped on oak leaves and sprained an ankle.  I’ve come around a corner too fast and teetered over a six foot drop onto rocks, waving my arms desperately to counter my momentum. I’ve caught a toe on a protruding root and fallen hard.  I’ve kicked a rock so hard I split my toe open and stained my sneaker with blood. Trail running is anything but glorious sometimes.

I have always been a person who finds joy in intensity.  This can be physical, emotional, or intellectual intensity, but it needs to be intense. I guess this is what has come to define White Mountain trail running for me.  Physically, it’s just shy of olympic, the level of focus required is consuming, and for me this is the pinnacle of the flow-state mentality.  It is reliably therapeutic and infallibly rewarding.  I don’t hate running in the desert, but man does it feel nice to climb a mountain every day.  

………….

Another feature of White Mountain trail running that it would be unfair to neglect has to do more with community and my relationship to this place.  Every time I go out on these trails I am gathering information that is culturally relevant. There are a lot of beech nuts this year, for example, or “wow, such-and-such trail is a mess right now”, or “lots of moose sign out in this neck of the woods.” This information could be related to the trails, the ecosystem, the flora or fauna, or it could be just seeing a familiar face out on the trails.  It all makes me feel truly at home in a way that I don’t in other parts of the country.

One situation occurred the other day that encapsulates what I am talking about nicely.  I was running down a trail in the southern Whites, and had come to wonder if that big white birch that had been down across the trail last year had been cleared over the course of last summer.  A half a mile or so later I came to the spot and saw that the birch had indeed been cleared, and that upon inspection it had been chopped with an axe. Knowing which of the dozens of White Mountain trail crews was responsible for the maintenance of this particular trail, I could deduce that one of exactly four individuals could have been the one to clear the blowdown last year.  I conjured their faces and smiled.

This type of familiarity with the intersection of people and place in this small community is what makes the White Mountain National Forest my home.  It might be a small or insignificant detail, but it sure is a big deal to me.

Presidential Traverse

This is a piece I wrote back in July of 2017, almost two years ago, after my first single-day Presidential Traverse.  It’s been a while since my last post and I’ve been tossing around the idea of posting again with some regularity.  In browsing through my files I found this piece and figured it may be a good place to start.  It highlights some of the daily frustrations that White Mountain savants deal with when observing the hordes of recreationalists in the popular areas of the White Mountains (i.e. those that trudge on alpine vegetation, etc.)

Enjoy!

---

My first single-day traverse of the Presidential Range of the White Mountain National Forest took place this last Saturday.  I have to say, despite some bouts with iffy weather, I couldn’t have asked for a better trip.

I set out from Pine Link at 4:15 in the morning.  My only goal was to move steady and not to run into a moose first thing in the morning.  I managed to do that. Rain the day before left me with wet feet and wet clothes pretty early on however, and this left me curious if I would have enough layers once above treeline, and if the blister I’d been nursing the last week would make it through the day.  

By Madison Spring I was soaked and had already fallen and cut my thumb open.  Visibility was next to nothing and the wind was pretty strong. These factors together with the potential for thunderstorms broadcasted the day before influenced my decision to hang out at Madison Spring for 45 minutes or so awaiting the higher summits forecast.  I was soured early on as I had hardly changed my moleskin and pulled out a clifbar before I with a few other early morning travelers were ushered away to cater to the posh hut guests fortunate enough to afford a night in the increasingly luxurious accommodations. The table had to be set for them.  

I held my tongue and sat on the floor airing out my blister and trying to stay out of the way.

The forecast hadn’t changed from the day before, chance of showers and thunderstorms in the afternoon.  I took the hint and kept moving, but not before an impromptu theatrical display from the hut croo reminding guests to fold their blankets, stay on the trail, not to litter and to tip the crew that featured a tele-tubby, a cow suit, and tunes robbed from The Sound of Music and Disney Pixar’s Frozen.  I chuckled and stepped out in my wet clothes to start my chilly ascent to Adams.

I didn’t make it far up the Star Lake Trail before having to bite my tongue again at the negligence of a few Quebecois who decided to set up camp and pitch a tent on a bed of alpine grass for the night.  They didn’t seem to care much that the plants up there took 1,000 years to grow the size of their fist and only exist in a handful of remote alpine locations in the northeast in the WHOLE WORLD. No no, please sleep wherever you like.  Fuckers.

The next few peaks cruised along pretty quickly.  I got a little turned around coming down from Adams at the intersection with the Israel Ridge Trail; it was tough to see even so far away as the next cairn and the world was a blurry, windy moonscape.  Beautiful. A couple below Mount Eisenhower bragged of an awesome ‘campsite’ they found right on the Gulfside trail at the Jefferson Loop intersection. What. the. Fuck. They should test people before allowing them up there.  

The day’s first patch of sun (literally, no more than a patch) came and went as I climbed the last quarter of a mile towards Mount Washington.  While the summit was not as crowded as I expected it to be, I didn’t wait around to mingle with the hordes of tourists that occupy the small patch of Earth even on slow days.  Less than a mile to Lake of the Clouds, where I decided to break again to change my moleskin and eat some more calories.

The southern leg of the Presidentials were welcome after the slippery, jagged, boulders of the northern leg.  Instead of slipping and scrambling, I was able to jog most of the southern Presidentials which helped me for time.  My goal today was never to see how fast I could do it, but a couple on Eisenhower told me ‘100% chance of rain and thunderstorms at 2pm’.  I didn’t think that could be right, but decided not to second-guess them and got on my horse until treeline descending towards the Mizpah hut.

No sooner do I stroll out of the alpine zone on Pierce than does the sun come out in full blast.  Of course, NOW it becomes a beautiful day. I contemplate whether I liked that better or worse, considering how brutal the last miles would have been in the heat of the blaring midday sun.  In the end I decided I was thankful for the fog and wind more than I resented it.

The weather was still beautiful so I decided to add on Jackson and Webster to my traverse, which made a pretty big day for me. The weather was so beautiful that I slowed way down to enjoy the sun on my skin and to harvest some spruce tips to bring home.  These would make a nice snack, spice, or tea later.

On my way down from Webster I spent a few minutes admiring a mossy waterfall cascade down over a large, downed tree that had long been polished smooth by a million falling waves that in turn fell into the brilliant pool of mountain fresh water below.  When I was satisfied I continued on to trudge out the last couple miles of the day before taking a nice long rest and stretch at the Highland Center before a friend of mine picked me up.

 

It’s That Time of Year Again

It’s that time of year again.

As the ice melts once more and the fragrances of mud and fallen boreal debris rise from the forest floor, my feet begin to fall anew to the methodical rhythm of my breath.  As the songbirds announce the arrival of a spring long-awaited, I see minutes turn into miles and miles turn into hours of rock-hopping and root-bounding up, and down, up, and down.

It’s that time of year again.

As the body accelerates, the mind slows and settles into the solace of repetitive motion to rest.  It finds revelry in this quiet space that is mine own.   Spirit finds refuge in the forest sanctuary, in the intrinsic beauty of movement, in this space of mine divorced from time, from space, from pressure, from right and wrong, and most of all should.  This mountainous forest is my only religion.  Inside this vast cathedral of tree and river, of trout and moose, there is only what is.  Nothing more.

It’s that time of year again.

1/17/18

What excites me about the incredulously

ordinary, simple, monotonous

act of placing

one foot beyond another

time

and time

and time

and time again?

It has its roots in the animal

and in the majesty

imbued in the dirt upon which I trod.

Meditatively I meander

magnificent mountains.

And so I will do

time

and time

and time

and time again.

Night Running

I like running back roads at night.  

By day, I’d rather sit still and let my muscles slowly atrophy than be caught on a paved surface logging miles.  The constant drone of vehicles, sun beating down your neck over the sweltering, black sun-magnet, and lack of variety in the running surface all combine to make what is, in my opinion, the worst possible experience you could have on a run.

However, I don’t mind it so much by dark.  There is something altogether different about road running at night, particularly on back roads with no traffic nor lines.  Perhaps the cool air, lack of vision, and relative speed at which you can run makes the expedition infinitely more appealing than the same run during the day.  

To be even more specific, I like running through the pitch-black night without a headlamp, blind to the road ahead; the faster the better.  It is at these moments, sprinting cooly past fireflies and sleeping houses, when you can’t see a thing in front of you, that your other senses sharpen.  Unable to trust your eyesight, you notice the changing pitch of the road beneath your feet more through your ankles and legs themselves, physically rather than visually noting the curvatures and inclinations in the road.  You hear every rain drop or scurrying squirrel off the roadside much more clearly, and the metronome of your breath and heartbeat help you stay more in tune to your body and keep a healthier pace.  You smell the heat or cool of the night and can feel the freshness or the humidity running through your nostrils.

And perhaps most importantly, your brain plays tricks on you.

Running down a road that you know to be clear of branches, potholes, gates or other obstacles, you still flinch.  Or you want to flinch.  Your face draws back, ready to receive a branch or a spider web to the eyeball.  Every shadow becomes a root or a log to catch a toe on, every piece of moonlight cast upon the pavement an irregularity to trip you.  Even though you know this is not the case, your brain still falsely alerts you to these perceived dangers.

It is because of these false alarms and insecurities that night running presents the beautiful opportunity that turns it into such a pleasurable experience (for me.)  It presents the opportunity to confront the fictitious obstacles, to trust yourself in face of the unknown, to be confident that you will be safe in spite of these nervous tics.  

In life too, we often run blind to what lies around the bend, down the road, or perhaps even right in front of us.  Tomorrow.  In life, as in running, we must meet the unknown head-on, confidently and fearlessly.  If not, we would never move forward.

And you run.  Once the hurdle is lept, and you are running fearlessly through the night, no headlamp, you become free to look up at the stars and contemplate everything else that has muddied your mind in recent hours, days, or weeks.  Unconcerned with traffic, you run where you please.  In the lanes, on the curb, in zig-zags, or perhaps right down the center line.  Freed from preoccupation with the next three or four steps, you are granted the pleasure of considering the larger picture of your nocturnal surroundings.  It is at these moments that I can taste sweet liberty.

Nobody to tell you how or where or when to run.  No humans or vehicles or other noises that would lead you to suspect that there was anyone else with you in the universe, as far as you can tell.  Just you, the stars, and your thoughts.  

On nights like these, basking in the sensation of boundless liberty and heightened confidence, I feel that I could run forever.  

On Gratitude and Mountains

Gratitude is a sentiment that has often evaded me.

That may sound brash, and perhaps it is, but let me elaborate.  It’s not that I have nothing to be grateful for because I, like everyone else, most certainly do.  It’s not that I ever drew a blank at Thanksgiving dinner and froze with my fork in the air somewhere between the stuffing and the cranberry sauce when asked what I was thankful for that year.  I am not entirely unacquainted with the concept of gratitude.  

I will venture to draw a certain distinction, however, between the intellectual and sensual experiences of gratitude.  That is to say, it is possible to differentiate between what I’ll call understandings and sensations of gratitude.  I’ll call the mental acknowledgment that someone has helped you in some way, or that you have good fortune not available to everyone by some providence divorced from meritocratic sources an understanding of gratitude.  On the other hand, I’ll call the visceral sensation that evokes an emotional response to the same understanding a sensation of gratitude.  I’ll venture so far as to say you can have the understanding without the sensation, but rarely vice versa.   

There are many people to whom I am eternally grateful for innumerable reasons: to my mother for the values she instilled in me as a child, to my grandparents for the never-ending and unparalleled support they’ve given me throughout the years, and to the universe for dropping me into this particular plane of existence on Earth amongst the cosmos, for example, but amongst all these cases of gratitude it is rare when a distinct moment in which gratitude comes crashing over you like a tidal wave.  Instead, I tend to carry more steady, constant understandings of gratitude for these people every day without necessarily feeling overwhelmingly grateful in any particular moment.  

But today I want to cast some attention on those rare instances in which the overwhelming sensation of gratitude surges from the deep spiritual caverns within and overflows with as much warning as your average lightning strike.  I’ll speak to this situation in the context of the mountains.

I have experienced this wave of gratitude on mountain tops on two occasions.  Once on Mount Garfield for sunrise, and once on Mount Carrigain for sunset.  In each of these moments as I crested over the summit and basked in the immense expanse of contoured green, masses of tree and rock and moose and river before me, I experienced a sensation so powerful that the proper words to describe it escape me to this day.  Unknowing of what to do or how to interpret exactly what I was feeling, I simply burst into tears both times.  Resigned to the potency of the moment, I sat at the top of these mountains, by myself, sweat dripping and legs aching, and sobbed and whimpered like a baby.  

Yes.  I actually choked back tears.  In retrospect, I think the only explanation for the sentiment I felt in those moments was gratitude.  I was so immensely grateful.  Grateful that these mountains and forests existed, grateful that I grew up so close to them, grateful that I lived in them today, grateful to be alive, to be there in that place at that time, healthy and fit enough to actually stand at the top of these mountains.  I was grateful for the people who fought for the land, grateful for the people who maintained it, and grateful for its mere existence.  

These are the moments when the raw, unadulterated beauty of the moment are enough to fish understandings of gratitude out of the cavernous depths of the spirit and reel them to the surface with the power and poignancy to bring you to your knees in mercy of the puissant sensation of gratitude.  This is objectively beautiful.  

I think this striking phenomenon of the sensation of gratitude is especially interesting because it is part of the cohort of emotions that we all share as part of the uniquely human experience.  I encourage you to leave stories in the comments of such times when the sensation of gratitude overtook you in the mountains as it did to me on these particular occasions. In an age of division and of differences, intolerance and indignation, nationalism and neglect, racism, misunderstanding and misanthropy, disconnects and derision, war and hate, I think it is more important than ever that we focus on these distinctly human experiences that we ALL share as homo sapiens, each and every one of us.  These experiences make us very much the same, not different.

Indeed if we look closely enough we might find much more than we expected.  

 

Lessons from a Moose

I learned a lesson from a Moose out in the Wild River Wilderness the other day.  (Thanks to Flickr for the photo, I did not take a picture of my moose.)

I had put together this massive run for myself (well, by my standards); an epic loop that served as my plan B due to impending weather and a Subaru derby in the Presidential Range (I still managed to hear the engines echoing through Carter Notch and Perkins Notch, respectively).  East Branch to Wild River to Black Angel, spur off for Mt. Height, bag Carter Dome, down to Carter Notch, grab Wild River back over to Perkins Notch, out on Bog Brook, down Carter Notch Road, over Black Mountain and down the East Pasture, then grabbing Baldlands to scoot behind the Doubleheads and back to the truck on East Branch.  Epic.

If you’ve ever hiked out in the Wild River Wilderness before, then you know that at any given moment moose probably outnumber humans 100 to 1.  The trails aren’t exactly runner friendly.  It is all muck, mud and moose droppings and you spend most of your time bushwhacking down the ‘trail’.  In short, if you are one of those hikers who thinks no hike is complete without mud-caked toes, a mild case of insect-induced insanity, a surprising wildlife encounter, and a little bit of second-guessing as to which path is the trail and which is just a moose path, then you need look no further than here.

Anyways, I was at a canter, ready to log some miles and be out by early afternoon.  On the trail at quarter to six and feeling great.  I was however briefly interrupted in the first half hour.  I frightened a moose cow over to the right side of the trail in the brush, and she galloped off rather quickly.  I waited a moment and, seeing that she had already vacated the area, proceeded down the trail with caution.  

On the other side of the bend she was waiting for me.  Staring me in the eyes down the trail and blocking it with her body broadside.  Not moving.  ‘Okay moose’ I said, ‘you do your thing.’  I turned around, gave her some space, and waited some five or ten minutes before making some noise and continuing down the trail again.

She hadn’t moved a muscle.  The way she eyed me down from down the trail seemed to say ‘Nope.  This is my trail.  I don’t know where you’re going but I’m standing right here.  My ground.’  Consequently, I retreated down the trail once more to examine the situation.  I felt I was pushing my luck with the moose’s patience if I came around again and she was still there.  I resolved to wait it out.

I gave her half an hour or so, during which time I stood still, examined a mushroom on the ground, listened and watched as a ruffed grouse beelined through the brush in front of me, and enjoyed the warmth on my skin as the sun continued to rise and began to penetrate the trees.  

I really enjoyed the half an hour standing still.  I wondered to myself why I haven’t done that more often this summer.  I realized that while I have been doing so much trail running, increasing mileage, going faster and exploring more peaks and trails than ever before, I had begun to lose sight of the fundamental reasons I like to spend time outside on the trail.  True, I find movement to be inherently meditative in its own right, hence all the time I’ve spent doing it.  But I feel that somewhere along the way I had again been absorbed by results and end goals and forgotten about the simple pleasure I derive from listening to birds and trying to guess which they are, looking at mushrooms and taking mental pictures so I can look them up later, and trying to identify all the trees along the way.  I had been so focused on the meditation in movement that I wasn’t giving adequate attention to the meditation in stillness.  

I came to the conclusion that I would not run the whole loop.  Sure, I would run pieces to make sure I finished before dark, but I would also slow down and take time to look at mushrooms, listen to birds, and think about trees.  This was my Saturday, after all, and I didn’t have any legitimate reason to be rushing along.  Indeed, that is besides the point.  I would sit in the sun on a rock on the Wild River, and on a boulder in the Ramparts in Carter Notch to enjoy some of the snacks I had packed for myself.  I harvested some chaga from the side of a birch tree I found, and now I’ll be able to make some tea later.  I connected a common bird call I recognized to the Blue Jay.  In summary, it was a very beautiful day in the woods.

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After about thirty minutes standing still farther down the trail, I continued on down the path once more.  My friend the moose had finally moved on.  I trodded forward with a smile, a newfound walking stick in hand, feeling thankful that this moose had so firmly stood its ground, given me this time to reflect, and reminded me to slow down every now and again.  

Thanks Moose.  

The Pants’ Last Wear: A Dirtbag’s Eulogy

Here’s to pants.  

The pants you never wanted to let go.  The one’s you wore dirty even in the presence of others clean.  

Sewn, sewn, and sewn again.  Ripped, torn, sew and repeat.  Holes in the butt, holes in the knees, holes in the crotch, holes no-one ever sees.  Here’s to pants with holes with three levels of priority: sew sooner, sew later, and not. worth. sewing.

To pants that hiked me to the top of Machu Picchu, and know just as well as I do that it’s not worth the crowds and tourists that trivialize a place that is supposed to be sacred.

Pants that have gazed down into the valley of Huazcarán, high in the Andes, and consistent with local Quechua legend, could almost feel the Shakespearian anguish in the proverbial tears falling from the glacier above.  

Pants that in the same summer (and without a wash in between) stumbled serendipitously onto the boat that would shuttle me and 150 peruvian comrades down the Ucayali River, to the headwaters of the Amazon, and watched pink river dolphins leap across the oceanic expanse of the world’s largest river as the sun cast rays of goldenrod across the ripples they left.   

Here’s to a pair of pants that knows the heart-wrenching symphony that is the rainforest at night time.  Here’s to a pair of pants that knows neither Beethoven nor Bach, Tchaikovsky nor Chopin could ever compete.  

I harvested yucca, aji, and coconut in these pants.  I dug burdock out of holes 4 feet deep, for each root.  I herded goats and tested an electric fence in these pants.  The fence worked.  I fished my own sabalo with my own fishing rod on our own raft, all built by hand, prepped the fish, cooked it and ate it in these pants.

Here’s to pants in which I clambered to the top of 14,000 foot coloradan peaks, ten steps at a time.  Pants that I rolled to ¾ length so as not to trip as I climbed massive Flatiron, Bastille, and Cathedral rock faces.  They trekked me faithfully across the Presidential Range of the White Mountains, and they fought their way up the fierce splitter cracks of the Utah desert.

Here’s to pants in which I stood on 4 different continents.  They maneuvered the marketplaces at Marrakech with me, they scrambled the overhung walls of La Foixarda, and strolled the beaches of Barceloneta with me.  These pants roamed the Red Light District of Amsterdam, got plastered at Oktoberfest in Munich, and got soaked in torrential rain on the side of an Andorran mountain in the Pyranees with me.  They got sunburned in Brazilian sand dunes, and super saturated with sweat in Manaus and Teresina.  They were wine-stained with the French on the banks of the River Garonne.   

These pants taught me how to sew.  They sat still for hours patiently as I stitched them up by headlamp in the dark cloudy rainforest, while I swatted mosquitos and struggled to push the thread through the eyehole with my stubby sausage fingers.  In this way, these pants also taught me patience.  

When times were good or times were sour, these pants pulled onto my legs just the same.  They never quit when they were tired.  

And believe me, they were tired.

These pants are patched with the fabric of other pants that quit sooner.  Sometimes I wonder how much of the original material is even left.  These pants taught me perseverance.  

Here is to this valient piece of fabric, buttons and a zipper that most people just will never understand.  A pair of pants with more stories to tell than the average wardrobe.  A pair of pants that holds a book with so much more depth than its cover.  

You may call me a dirtbag, but in these pants I carry the record of a million adventures never to be forgotten.