It's about the shoes.

The strangest thing just happened to me. I'm at my favorite coffee shop, eking out my 1 hour of sacred writing time (it's been weeks), when an opportunity just arose to walk the walk. Before you read any further, watch this. Seriously, watch it. It's 4 minutes long, it's funny, kind, and perfect, especially in this season. It's also the impetus for what happened next:

A Firefighter on Bravery

So there I was (or rather, am)... chai latte steaming at my side, frantically working on an essay on step-parenting and bravery that is really trying to be born, when he slinks around the corner. "He" looks like he walked out of Portlandia as an extra. Hipster glasses, greasy shaggy hair, 3 day stubble, green drab jacket, converse sneakers. He's putting away an i-pad mini and a pack of American Spirits falls out of his jacket as he reaches my table. I'm aware of him; I've felt his eyes glance on me occasionally since I walked in here. He's maybe 26 at the most. He mumbles something I can't understand and his hands tremble as he replaces the pack of cigarettes. Nervously, he stands up and makes eye contact, and says in a strangely thin voice, "Hi, are you working? This is one of those working or studying tables, right?"

"Yeah. I'm writing. I come here to write."

He gives an awkward closed-lip smile. "That's cool. Writers are interesting. Would you mind if I visit with you?"

I don't mean the flash of embarrassment and then disdain that must cross my face, but I see it in the tight sadness of his expression. I stammer. "Sorry, I'm here to write. I only have a few hours a week. Sorry." I don't think I even make eye contact when I say the second sorry.

"I apologize for bothering you. Hope your writing goes well."

I can feel the wave of his humiliation, subtle but definite, as his shoulders slump and he walks to the other side of the partition in the coffee shop. He's got the shuffle step of rejection.

I go back to my writing. I'm trying to come up with some amazing metaphor about parenting and battlefields. I'm summoning up the many emotions I repress on a daily basis about step-parenting, and trying to given them a voice. I'm frustrated by the distraction and irritated by the interruption in what was a good flow. I come here to avoid interruption. This is my hiding place in a life full of interruptions and demands.

A feeling of vague unease settles around me. I'm bothered, and then it occurs to me-- it's about the shoes, dummy. (If you didn't watch the video, you'll have no idea what I'm talking about).

Looking around, I don't see him in plain sight, my interrupter. I take a drink of water, hit save on my computer screen, and get up. As I round the corner of the cafe, I can tell where's he's sitting by the insecure rounding of his shoulders. He's folded in on himself, hands around a coffee mug, seeking a safe invisibility. His hair really is greasy, and the mom in me wants to tell him he needs to take a shower and wash his hair if he intends on ever having a real conversation with a girl. I walk right up to the other side of his table, pull the seat out, and sit down with greater force than I intend. He stares for a second, wide-eyed and startled, then casts his eyes down to his mug. I'd like to say that the awkward-fest that followed was smoother than I'm portraying it, but it wasn't.

"Hi. I'm the lady that just told you to go away".

"I can see that. I didn't take it personally, you were busy."

"I was, I mean, I am, but I wanted to tell you I respect you as a person."

Yeah, I actually said that. Like I said.... awkward.

"You see, I'm married, I have four kids, and a full-time job, and I get like one hour, two a week at most to write, and this is where I come to get away and do that. It's my time, and I just want to tell you I wasn't rejecting you personally, I'm just trying to keep my time. I mean, you could be a very nice person, or an axe-murderer, but you deserve someone to tell you that you matter. Because you do."

"Wow. Okay. Uh, thanks. That's really cool that you're able to get away to write."

There's an awkward pause while we sit there across from each other, not making eye contact, and I can feel the heat of foolishness rise in my cheeks. Who do I think I am, Oprah? After 10 seconds of silence, I stand up and start to step away.

"Hey. I'm not a very social person and my counselor says I should try and be more social. And I'm lonely. I wasn't trying to hit on you or anything. Shit, do you really have four kids?"

We finally make eye contact, just for a second. "Really." He smiles widely. He has terrible teeth. He must realize that I am noticing this, and immediately clamps his lips back into a thin grimace. "Well, I only have an hour, so I'm going to get back to my writing. I hope you have a good day, and I hope you find a really good conversation."

"Thank you. I appreciate it. I really do." His hands tremble around his mug, and he's trying to control his smile.

Less than a minute has elapsed. I go back to my writing. (Here I am!) The metaphors don't come, but the desire to capture this moment, however ordinary and random, is there. I'll always be a New Yorker at heart, so eye contact and smiling at total strangers aren't something I practice with a whole lot of regularity. I spent so many years being hyper-vigilant of my space, of always readying myself against an unwanted advance, or worse, attack, that it takes a conscious effort to let my guard down when I'm alone. We put so much effort into creating our relative isolations. My chai is cold now, but I'm acutely aware of subtle spice, of the slight grainy texture of the cinnamon on my tongue as I swallow the last sip.

Out of the corner of my eye, I observe him get shut down two more times; once with a young college-age woman, another time with an elderly gentleman. As I'm half-way through writing this, he slips out the door. As he walks past the big glass windows separating cafe from sidewalk, he stops and pauses and looks in to where I'm sitting. This time I'm very deliberate about my eye contact, and I smile. He smiles back, even showing a little bit of teeth. He fumbles with a cigarette, lights it, and walks up the sidewalk, shoulders hunched protectively forward.

I never had the opportunity to meet my father-in-law. Fred left this earth years before I had ever dreamed that there was a person out there in the world like Matt. I know a few things of him now; stories shared reverently by his sons, the soft sadness and fierce joy in my mother-in-law's eyes when she speaks of him, the occasional Jack Daniels-- neat, no other way-- my husband on rare occasion lifts in toast, the photos that I've seen. In one of those photos, he stands proud and poised by his wife, both of them dressed sharply, slacks and turtlenecks and trench coats, on a beach somewhere, wind whipped, smart, proud. It's an iconic photo, a portrait of partnership, endurance, and straight-up class. The other photo is of his final day, his body ravaged and gaunt from lung cancer, my heroically stoic mother-in-law equally taken with a quiet grief as she holds the hand of her partner slipping away, and Fred's 3 sons-- one with his brand-new baby, my stepson-- holding the space in love and absolute equanimity. For all that I'll never know of Fred, with full certainty I can say that this man was a giant. The other thing I've been told in the family narrative is that Fred was a died-in-the-wool railroad buff. He loved trains, knew routes and timetables by heart, could name any make and model of engine, and revered the graceful old stations as holy as any chapel.

I thought of Fred this morning as I waited at Union Station in Portland for my train. At first, I was a little ashamed. Fred would never have dreamed about catching a train in an old flannel shirt, jeans and boots, hair all haphazard, slightly ragged suitcase covered in a fine sheen of cat hair.  I imagine Fred in that similar trench coat from the coast picture, and definitely a fedora. I can almost smell the warm worn leather of his briefcase.  As I waited in line to board, I texted my husband: "Every time I board a train, I miss your dad for you."

The route to Seattle from Portland is lovely in so many ways, but the real magic is those first few minutes, leaving downtown. The gritty twisted steel, broken concrete, industrial jungle that the train lurches and crawls through, the pervasive emerald moss so thick it appears to have a pulsating heart beneath the dense cover; this is the landscape of the voyager. I relish that moss, in stark contrast to the oxidized beams and girders. Through those heavy industrialized first few minutes, the train is like a toddler, swaying, unsteady, tentatively waking and exploring. As we approach the Columbia, the tracks steady a bit, the creaking and lurching become a slow, steady roll. The mist is heavy and thick this morning, so thick you almost expect to taste it in your teeth through the window, so it's a bit of a shock when the sun breaks through my window as we gain the trestle.

Then... we are timeless, immortal, and existing in a moment that just feels like freedom. The low rumble of the diesel is like the bass line to a symphony, the blast of the train whistle a trumpet call to the rolling Columbia below. The river answers in shimmering silence, a landscape in the early morning of taupe and grey, dotted by the occasional makeshift camp on it's shores beneath the trestle. A wisp of smoke rises from a campfire, a heron glides prehistoric beneath the steel span. Bliss comes in the soft, insistent minuet of the train bell clanging in rhythm with every heavy girder flying by my window. There is such a methodical rightness to everything, a balance of nature and steel, and I feel my tired body slowly lulled into dreamy, musical sleep, all rumble and roll punctuated by the occasional staccato of the whistle. Momentum, equilibrium, a beautiful rightness to the world. This is for you, Fred.

It's a pretty innocuous thing, a leopard print sweater. The specimen in particular was the suburban jungle kind, cheap cotton cardigan, size M, $15 at Target. I'm not exactly know for my fashion sense, but below the tomboy exterior (usually clothed in jeans/ sweats/ t-shirt/ tank-top/ gore-tex, or any variation), is the bonafide heart of Liberace, sass of Coco Chanel, and sensibility of David Bowie. I have a pinterest account, and I'm not afraid to use it to post $2500 Louboutins and Vintage Versace gowns. I will never in my life own either of those (I have 4 children to put through college), but my heart secretly lusts for bias-cut silk and the blessed red underside of those sexy, sexy shoes. It's my dirty little secret, and even though I will gripe and moan about dressing up, there's a part of me that loves the thrill of something different.

... And then there's a leopard print cardigan, a kind of strange no-man's land somewhere between hoody and sweats and casual dress with cowboy boots (a favorite of mine, no matter how Portland cliche that may be). A 38-year-old woman wearing a leopard print cardigan can be one of several things. Maybe she is a spunky, fun, tragically hip SE Portland-living graphic designer (bangs are a must), not afraid to rock the leopard print, able to casually laugh at how irreverent and spontaneous she is, how she laughs in the face of fashion rules. The leopard print cardigan is a mere tiny little exclamation point to her ensemble, because she is fierce! feisty! and gloriously independent! She may as well be wearing $400 cashmere, because judgement be damned, she'll define her own fashion, thank you.

She could also be a cast member reject from Jersey Shore. The only things her leopard print will be missing are pleather pants and heels, big hair, and jewelry, lots of jewelry. She's the kind of woman you  smell the perfume on 2 grocery aisles over, contemplating the endless subtle variations of canned spaghetti sauce, and suddenly catch a waft-- dear god, my sweet Aunt Ruth has risen from the dead-- only to find a vision of suburban perfection clickity clack around the corner. I secretly admire these women as much as I fear them, all big hair and floral-scented tacky sparkle, not giving a damn what your organic-carrot and kombucha buying, hoody-wearing ass thinks for a second. I'm pretty sure they all drive Escalades and are going to cut me off during left-turns when I'm on my bicycle, but that doesn't mean I can't celebrate their own special brand of femininity.

Or she's somebody's mom, or several somebody's mom. She will not just buy the Leopard print cardigan at Target, she will also buy the navy blue and black one because they are on sale for cheap, and this will be probably the only time she buys clothes for herself for months, and she's practical, if a little bored with it all. The leopard print cardigan will be almost an after thought after aisles in search of appropriate underwear for a 9-year-old girl, t-shirts that her middle-schooler will actually deem cool enough to wear, and flea treatment for the dog. The leopard print will catch her eye, a small beacon of subtle "wild child" in a sea of modesty and clothes for "the professional woman". (She is always secretly relieved she wears a uniform after seeing those). She will stuff it under the buzz-lightyear replacement sheets and the Halloween decorations, all while scowling and scoffing at the "50 Shades of Grey" paperbacks prominently displayed at the end of the book aisle, thinking "how lame and pedestrian"... because despite the outward aura of subdued and a little too tired, she knows kinky, she knows good sex and erotica, she has a leopard print cardigan that, bonus, she will wear with cowboy boots. She will ignore the side-eye from the 22-year-old checkout girl with the collarbone tat and pink streaks when she rings it up.

She'll be so impressed with herself for such a small act of domesticated subversion that she'll snap off the tag in the parking lot, and slide it over her very plain black tank top, and drive home in it. She may look in the mirror and note yes, how definitely cool it is, paired with her knock-off $10 aviator shades, all the more so with the booster seats also reflecting in that same mirror. The smell of somebody's day-old soccer socks threatens to offend her nostrils, but gives her a sense of peace, of place. She will pull up to the house, 4 sets of soccer cleats on the muddy porch, haphazard fort made out of pruned branches a created obstacle, and forget she is wearing it when she strides in the house.

This will be short lived, as she will be met with a tinny, loud, "WHAT is that you're wearing?" by her 7-year-old, shortly followed up with a "I love your Halloween costume, Mom!" by her 10-year-old. Her well-intentioned but filterless husband will poke his head around the corner and laugh... "you look like some 'Real Housewives' of New Jersey extra!" A small finger gesture from her will elicit a quick placation. "But I, uh, love it! Go leopard print! Yeah baby!" This over-enthusiasm will give her pause about two things: a) that he noticed actual clothing, and more surprisingly, b) that he knows what "Real Housewives of New Jersey" is.

None of this will matter, because she knows rock and roll is sometimes what you make of it. The leopard print cardigan has come home.

Evolution of Adventure

An old friend of mine and his staggeringly talented collective released a new film recently with a tremendous collaboration of athletes, adventurers, and photographers, titled Into the Mind. It's a breathtaking meditation on what it is that drives humans to experience that ultimate edge of adventure, the thin and wavering line between glory and death. Full of achingly beautiful scenery, feats of athleticism and grace that defy description, and set to an incredible score, it's an absolute triumph of a film. I have angst about plopping down $1.29 for a song on itunes, but the day it was released, I gleefully threw down the $9.99 for the film.

It's a strange experience to watch a film like this, but even more so as a mother. Up until the birth of my son in 2003, my life was defined by adventure and exploration. At the height of my climbing ambitions, I was part of a group of women formulating plans to climb Ama Dablam, even though that never came to fruition. I've expeditioned at the roof of the world over 19,000 ft in the Himalaya, climbed numerous high alpine routes in the Western US, been pinned on a glacier in an epic snowstorm in Patagonia... I've been THAT smiling woman, the one with the high-altitude tan and tangled sun-bleached hair in pictures, grinning as wide as the sky, raising a victorious bloody-knuckled fist into the air. There was a point in my twenties when I had reached a level where it was time to take my adventures seriously and run with incredible athletes like my friend Jimmy (one of the "Into the Mind" collaborators), gain further sponsorship, and go the distance... or not.

I ended up taking a very different direction when I fell in love with my son's dad. Where a few of my cohorts turned right, I went left. Nothing will slow your roll towards alpine glory like the realization that if you continue on that path, you won't see your love for 6 weeks at a time, and that feels far more horrible than gasping for breath in thinned air, because that love becomes the oxygen to your 26-year-old self, and even worse... you may not come back. The list of friends and climbing acquaintances that have died in the mountains is a long one, and I shudder every time I hear of another death far afield. I sometimes picture a group of us standing almost 2 decades ago shoulder to shoulder in a circle, and then I see that same picture now, and the sparsity is startling. I will tell you that they died doing what they loved, that their deaths were akin to taking flight, but inside I'm questioning what it all really means, or even what it was for. I spend a large part of my career now walking with death, and while it is many things, I'm not sure it's what my friends ever set out of for, seeking some sort of glory in the finality. No one climbs to die, but there is a potent draw to edge closer in the dance, to taste and touch the very edge of the void that literally and figuratively is with you with every crampon step, every swing of the axe, every steep turn.

After a stint in the Himalayas, I found myself unemployed, in love, and then island bound for the remainder of my twenties. There were the occasional shorter trips, but nothing touching that far edge of exploration and reason, just longing for more. I worked a variety of jobs, and built a life with my then-husband. We dreamed of starting an adventure company in Nepal, of travels, climbs, and odesseys, but the reality was making a living on that small island and figuring out who we were in this new life. Just when I thought I had it figured out, something entirely unexpected happened-- pirate fetus boarded the mothership, and 10 months later, I embarked on what has been the most incredible, terrifying, joyous, grand adventure of my life.

The moment I held my son for the first time, everything I thought I knew dissolved. What blossomed was a love like I'd never even imagined, a feeling a thousand times more powerful than standing on a high pass between Nepal and Tibet. Other things changed, too, things I never would have expected. My ambition for "adventure achievement", if you will, took a new form. The glory was no longer in being one of the few to climb something new or difficult, it was simply in the act itself. I didn't want to  bloody my knuckles trying to climb 5.12.  I became content-- euphoric even-- to cruise a 5.6, to feel the simple joy of muscle and tendon moving over rock. I would read about a friend's first ascent of some Karakoram peak, all while nursing my baby. I couldn't help but wonder at the staggering duality of the lives we were living.

Life evolved again, but this time, it was survival, not adventure. By all accounts Zane's dad and I had a "good" divorce. There were moments in my high-octance climbing days that I was truly terrified, and none approached the new world, the utter consumption that is a marriage crumbling. Maybe it's an avalanche. You think you can ski the line, run it out, a little worse for the wear, a little frightened, but okay. The surprise is in thinking you're in a steady gentle slough, and then it's a wall of concrete, and you're fighting for breath, for movement, and for hope. You are survivors, skis broken, hopes shattered, disheveled and unsure, but somehow-- you have to start back up the mountain.

The "mountain" has been good to me. Always full of lessons, challenging, achingly beautiful, and never ending. In another unexpected turn, I find myself on an adventure of family and motherhood far vaster than I ever could have imagine. Like an experienced mountaineer, I've learned so much from the tragedy of the past.

There's a tenacity in me that I suspect I share with my friends on the likes of Nanga Parbat, albeit in radically different forms. Mine is the sheer will of choosing joy when the road is tumultuous, of consciously cultivating each day and appreciating the small victories. There's the joyous fierceness of watching my step-daughter figure out multiplication after weeks of tears and frustration, of hearing her brag to her father how smart she is. I get the bloody-knuckled victory of watching my sweet boy skillfully confront a schoolyard bully with kindness and an emotional depth far beyond his years. Instead of a bomber cam into a splitter granite crack, I have the warm tight squeeze of my youngest step-son's hand as he jets into his classroom, an inherent gesture of love and fortitude.  I don't get to watch the sunlight break on a 6000 meter glacier, but the glow that alights over my step-son's face as he ever-so-furtively alludes to his first crush-- that, that is magic. These beautiful little people, watching them kick the steps into their own ascent, helpless at times as they fall, and marveling at the resilience as they stand back up, shake it off, and climb on. At night, there is no tent, no shivering under an icy still moon awaiting the 2AM start, but there is the sweet cadence of my husband's breath as he drifts off to sleep, as hushed and reverent as the rhythmic turn of skis. These are the moments of grace and triumph that I never could have imagined at 19,000ft, that I never saw in those pictures of the wild-haired girl on top of the world.

Funny, I started writing this blog post with every intention of painting the picture of watching "Into the Mind" with my husband and children. Their gasping amazement when I told them that yes, I had climbed mountains just like that, and the looks exchanged between my husband and I of "yes, we once were", the knowing that he, too, could feel the curve of the ice-axe in his hand as we watched the climbers on-screen. Our kids watched the film in awe and astonishment. In a truly chilling moment, they all, to a kid, said "I want to do something like that some day", and I knew on a cellular level the terror and angst my mother and father must have felt in my blooming and growing, in the absolute wild uncertainty of life. Finishing this post, something different has emerged.

Our adventuring days are far from over, but we will never be featured in a big-screen ski flick. We'll be the harried couple on the local hill with the 4 kids alternately bickering, laughing, and hucking themselves off home-made jumps. You may have seen us at Smith Rocks, our monkey children on top rope, shouting wild encouragement, high-fiving each other at how "rad" they all were. We didn't climb a vertical inch that day-- it was about passing the torch of experience, of tasting the sheer joy of feeling your body and mind work together to scale rock-- but we were the parents sneaking a shared "victory" beer behind the minivan while they all climbed into their respective booster seats, everyone intact, smiling, and stoked. Some day, you might see us in retirement, all our dog-eared mountain and ocean toys packed into a 4WD explorer van, planning the next adventure, sending postcards to our children and their children. I might not be hang-dogging a 12b, but I'll for damn sure be climbing, ascending, celebrating.

What is good love? A trail epic. A marriage is a really good epic hike.

Today Matt and I celebrate the second year of making official what we already knew the moment we met back in August of 2010. Today we will also, if we're lucky, see each other for a few waking hours tonight. 4 kids, 2 full-time jobs, 3 different after-school sports, 1 school open house, and some other personal and professional obligations thrown in... we've learned, and continue to learn, a few things. Patience. Kindness. Clarity. Persistence. The ability to put one foot in front of the other and never lose sight of the beauty of your surroundings; the wilderness of a relationship. 

That's where we get to the story of the hike. We're both fairly decent mountaineers and climbers, so in the summer of 2012, when Matt casually suggested that we do a 2-day hike of the Timberline Trail around Mt. Hood, I didn't even bat an eye. True, it's usually done in 4 days, but we're the kind of sickos that think running 50k in the snow is a great way to spend a Sunday morning. Out came Matt's trusty old (this is key here: the word old) map and an old (there's that word again) Sullivan book with a 2-page description of the awe and wonder of the Timberline Trail. Normally-- and this is something I've learned to admit may be a problem at times-- I'm a bit of a control freak and would google the ever-loving shit out of it, research current topos and reports, and maybe read a few forums on current trail conditions, but in the spirit of marital bliss and letting go, I investigated no further. Well... almost. I looked at the Forest Service website, where it clearly stated that a portion of the trail was closed due to a washout, but it didn't give me much pause. Matt and I have in our seperate lives climbed to some of the highest passes in the Himalayas, entire valleys from any discernable trail, so we didn't give it much thought. What's a little washout on the friendly local volcano?

We set out for Lolo pass and our entry point at 3:30 AM, driving from the lights of Portland into a shimmer of stars over head, silent, coffee steaming in our hands. We reached the trailhead just as the sun was starting to break rays over the low hills, and the gentle buzz of forest insects was beginning to pick up, but only to a friendly lull easily managed with DEET; not the noisy desperation of a bona-fide mosquito bloom. The only sound was our breath as we hit the first hill, and the click-click of my trekking poles on the occasional rock. Despite our acquired fondness of what we call the "supine start", we were actually having an almost-alpine start, and we had only about 18 miles to go to our destination. In a move of sheer genius and love of beer, fondue, and a soft bed we had booked a room at Timberline Lodge. Don't judge-- we camp a lot. This was about the close-to-home Euro experience. As we rounded the first crest of views, and morning rays splashed the high glaciers of Wy'East, it seemed as if we had indeed embarked on the perfect adventure.

The first 8 miles flew by. We were giddy with the speed we were making, and the landscape changed every 1/2 mile. From meadows of alpine flowers looking like something out of the Lorax, dotted with elk droppings and dappled in morning dew, to the gnarled and twisted almost-moonscape of last year's devestating wildland fire, it was hiking magic. Our packs were light, our systems well-caffeinated, spirits high. We laughed and joked that at this rate, we'd make it to Timberline well before our intended time of 5PM. There were some fairly suspect snow bridges still on the trail over rivers and streams of glacial melt, but we worked, as we always do, as a team-- careful, deliberate, joyful. Anytime my husband and I are outside, propelled under the power of our strong capable bodies, we are joyful. No matter what is going on in the external world, we both know and recognize that "OUT" is a place of recharge and bliss. This is something we've implicitly understood about each other from day 1. I know in my heart of hearts that should some catastrophe happen and I lose the ability to get out into the wild under my own power, my husband will be there for me no matter what. If he has to carry me miles under his own power, he will do it. What's disturbing is the fact that he'd probably enjoy it. Feats of ridiculous and often ostentation strength and willpower are an embarrassing specialty of his. 

The parts of the forest that were burned over were particularly poignant. The trees looked as if they had been frozen in a horrific agony, prisoners to the searing heat, all claw and curve to the sky. Devoid of green, they were grey and black sculptures, all subject to some primal dance ritual to the bluest of skies. The longer we hiked in it, the more beautiful I began to see it. Each step created a poof of dust at our ankles, a fine coating of ash on our skin. The deeper we hiked, the more we began to appreciate the startling grace of the devastation, and then see beyond to the hints of new life. An occasional tendril of green tentatively poking from volcanic ground, or the tenacity of lichen clinging and renewing to a burned trunk. Here in the midst of death and decay was a monument to natural power and the inherent law of regeneration.

At one point in the mangled forest, I pointed out how a wildfire is like a divorce. All heat and searing tragedy, all seeming inevitability and despair, and as the flames grow and consume, they feed upon themselves. All you're left with is charred landspace. The remains, the sense of agony, the starkness of what was once green and lush dried up and wasted. My husband and I are remarried, our lives, character, and children the survivors of different fires. We are living the forest regeneration now, the tentative green tendril of a new life being celebrated, nurtured, and occasionally unintentionally trampled before we both realized how much more resilient we all are than we think. 

But I digress. We continued on, hiking into the greener and lusher forest, making our way towards the Eliot washout "detour". We ignored the signs saying "trail closed", and pushed in further. I started to think maybe the small scar we had crossed a 1/2 mile back had been the danger zone, and then... we arrived to this:

Technically speaking, this is from the other side of the gaping maw, over an hour and a lifetime later (spolier alert? Ha). Now "gaping maw" is a term that is entirely over used in adventure writing, and I've been guilty of speaking of delicate snow bridges over "gaping maws" on various mountains, but this... THIS was a gaping maw. An entire side of the mountain had washed out, leaving a gash a mile wide, with precariously stacked boulders on steep flanks several hundred feet high. Later we would learn that the "only" way to continue was down, where a shuttle could be met and would transport you 3 miles up trail, clean and intact with no flesh wounds or mental scarring. Intrepid explorers that we are (I believe the phrase "how bad can it be?" may have come up a few times), we pushed up one side of the maw's ridge, looking for a gentler slope to descend or a place to cross up high. Matt, never a man of inaction, decided quickly that the slope was doable, and that he'd head down first and see "how it went". I had serious doubts, but quieted that voice in my head that said "this is a bad idea" (see: not being a control freak!) and said "be careful, love" as he lurched over the edge. Within a few feet he had dislodged a volkswagon sized boulder that missed him by a few feet, and skid/ slid out of view. For 30 long seconds, I couldn't see him, and then, there he was, at the bottom. What we had estimated to be only a few hundred feet was easily 400-500, and all I could see were arms waving. The wind carried our voices, and we had no communication. I edged down the hill in a similar fashion, when the entire thing began to slide. I must have looked like the Wily Coyote from an old Road Runner cartoon, as I desperately scrambled back up the way I had come, cognizant of what was serious injury or death if I had been caught. 

And there we were... Matt at the bottom of the ravine, a slow moving river of mud and boulders, and as I would learn later, riddled with crevasses, moulins, and other banes of the mountaineer, let alone casual hiker. I was at the top, now making my way further up towards the toe of the Eliot glacier on a ridge becoming narrower, steeper, and more jumbled. I trusted the instinct and experience of each of us to carry forward, as communication was entirely cut out. But as I lost sight of my husband moving through what I could now see as incredibly dangerous, I became scared for the first time in our marriage. I would learn later he had the same feeling, watching me move to increasingly precarious territory. We both knew that we had to reach the toe of the glacier to hopefully meet, and it seemed the most solid place to cross. Minutes grew into an hour under a full noon blazing sun as we picked our seperate paths, each of us trying to carefully focus while gripped with the fear that we might actually not see one another again. Our friendly local volcano was teaching us an incredible lesson.

As I climbed higher on the ridge towards the toe of the glacier, it became apparent that I just needed to commit to getting down. I tested maybe 10 different places, each as wobbly and loose as the last one; the volcanic blocks bigger. I found what I felt to be a fairly solid stack (solid being an entirely relative term), and made my way down the unstable slope. The last block rolled as I stepped on it, and pitched me headfirst onto the edge of a glacier. The impact of my body gave a soft "whomp" to the snow, revealing a crevasse not 2 feet to my right. I couldn't stay under the loose rocks, and here I was, unroped, on a glacier full of finely bridged open crevasses in the mid-day sun. Lovely. In all my years of climbing, I've read stories like this, and wondered how someone could be so stupid as to end up in such a situation... and there I was. I yelled into the blue sky for Matt, feeling terribly alone as the words hung listlessly in the now very still air. The only motion was the buzzing of flies. Slowly, tentatively, I picked my way across towards the other side. 

Then, just as suddenly as he had disappeared down the initial slop, there was Matt, standing atop a small headwall directly above me, that beautiful, wide, welcoming grin. "Hey!" he yelped. ""Wait right there!" I yelled back to him that it was a minefield of barely-bridged crevasses, which he had already found out. A few minutes later, we were spread out, working together with our one remaining ski pole (the other had bent and broken while I was descending the jumbled blocks). We were elated, sunburned, relieved, and massively humbled. Finally reaching the other side of the maw, we clambered up a goat trail to the top of the ridge. In the picture below, you can see the point of our crossing. I came below the ice fall, down through the crevasse field, and met up with Matt on the other side of the short blocky headwall. 

"oops". 

By this time, it was almost 2PM, and we still had 8 miles to go... or so we thought. We continued on through spectacular terrain, slightly worse for the wear, but elated and almost tasting the beer waiting on the end of this section tonight. It seemed like things were taking a little longer than we expected, and my hip dysplasia was acting up a bit, but a couple packs of Gu and some Vitamin i(buprofen) propelled us forward. Sometime around 4 or so we stopped at a river to refill our water and eat some real food. A warm apple has never tasted so good.

From this point, Matt's map showed us winding into the Hood Meadows area after crossing another drainage, and from there, a short few miles to Timberline. The meadows were in full bloom, and as the sun sank and started to bathe everything in that gold alpine light where time stands still, that's when I noticed that something wasn't right. We had been walking at a good clip for hours. Back at the river, the phrase was "it's just 5 more miles". Roughly 5 miles later, we had barely scratched the North entry of the ski boundary, and it seemed endless. Matt looked at his map, and confidently stated, "just after we cross the 3rd lift we'll be headed into the final drainage". About the time we cross the path of the 5th life-- several miles in-- I grabbed the map and plopped on the ground. 

I'd like to state 100% that the words "What. The. Fuck!" were not uttered in anger, or even at all, but I'd be lying. The tattered map did indeed show 3 lifts, which was indeed the case when it was published-- 15 years ago. What ensued was what I like to call a "marital discussion". My husband is a gloriously frugal man, but as I pointed out, frugality does not a good map make. Actually, I think the words I used were "this is total bullshit", but it's kind of the same, right? Getting mad wasn't going to get us where we needed to go, and we did something that I cherish as a couple-- we each said our pieces, vented if we needed, apologized, and moved on. My husband has an incredible ability to do this, and has taught me a lot. Even more, he knows when he's wrong, and when to apologize. He doesn't always grasp the importance of timing when using humor around said vent, but hey, we can't all be perfect. With that big, gorgeous grin, he gleefully announced, "Hey! It's just 5 more miles!"

5 miles later, we reached the last draining, albeit a big one. The White Salmon can be a serious challenge to cross, but it was blissfully calm and manageable. Twilight was falling, the lengthening shadows blending into the ash as the sun completely faded from view. This time, when Matt announced in a more subdued gleeful voice "5 more miles," he did it out of striking range, although I may have been too tired to make the effort. It wasn't a full 5 miles, but the last several were a 1500ft push straight up. The fields were cast of lupine in lavender hues, and the moon started a slow rising crawl on the horizon. One foot in front of the other, slowly, surely, feeling the weary strength and magical pull of beer! fondue! soft pillow! coursing through my veins, we proceeded through the meadows, our only company the occasional startled mule deer bounding away. 

At 9:00 at night, we finally stumbled through the massive front doors of Timberline Lodge. We had just enough time to grab eats off the bar menu. There is possibly nothing more sublime than being dusty-filthy-sweaty, the cool bitter-smooth taste of an NW IPA sliding down your throat on a summer night, and that night was no exception. Sitting in that mammoth log chamber, my incredible, optimistic, incorrigible husband across from me, the 28 miles we had ended up hiking became insignificant. We barely stayed awake through the effort of scarfing down 2 giant loaded baked potatoes, and the showers we finally took were challenging to remain vertical in. It's surreal to spend 28 miles out on the trail, and then fall into bliss in cool white sheets. In the 30 seconds to unconsciousness, I couldn't help but reflect on how lucky and blessed we are. 

The next morning, we started off in true glamping fashion-- with a Timberline buffet breakfast. By the time we had finished gorging ourselves, it was getting close to noon, and we were going to have to start at more of a waddle than a trot. Today would only be 12-14 miles (I confirmed on an updated map at the lodge). Other than my hips feeling like they were made of sandpaper, it was a perfect day. I managed the pain with a steady stream 200mg of ibuprofen every hour. We laughed, cajoled, and talked about the endless variety of beauty and challenge that life offers us as a blended family and a second marriage. We hiked for miles at a time in near silence, just feeling the bliss of mountain and sky, together in our solitude, respectful of each other's space and zen. That's another thing I adore about my husband-- he's good company in conversation, but more importantly, in silence. 

With no particular fanfare, we were back at the trailhead-- a full circumnavigation of Mt. Hood in 36 hours, a little worse for the wear, but elated and jubilant. The celebratory beer (warm from the truck, but who cares?) cracked open, we laughed, rubbed our feet, and absorbed the late afternoon light on slightly sun-burned skin, tasting the salt on each other's lips as we kissed, and almost immediately started talking about "next time".

Which brings us to now. I started this post weeks ago, on our anniversary. We spent our actual anniversary shuttling 4 different kids to 3 different activities at 3 different times, managed to throw down some late dinner at 7:30, get everyone showered and homework caught up, and tucked in at a reasonable hour. After the dog was fed, the dishes done, a few bills paid, the endless tidal wave of laundry shifted, and the dust cloud of a typical week-day at our house had cleared, we managed to share a drink on the couch before I had to get to bed-- I get up for work at 5:15. Twice a week, if I'm not on shift, in the little sliver of time while the boys are sailing, I frantically sip a cup of chai in a local coffee house and try to write... or at least, that's the plan. Today I sit here, frustrated and frankly pissed off with the effort of the back and forth, the ups and downs, the sheer hectic pace that is our September and October. My husband and I see each other like 2 ships in the night for weeks at a time. We deal with the emotions of a blended and growing family, the hustle of giving the kids the experiences we never had but want for them, and the sheer enormity of logistics. My friends and family ask me how we handle this, how we can make it?

Because of this: one foot in front of the other, the ash kicking up at your feet and trailing down your socks. Learning to appreciate the beauty of perfect blue sky mid-day sun over a glacier, and the exquisite pain of the devastation and regrowth of a ravaged forest. Trusting in the other person as whole, complete, and competent, and yet allowing for the mistakes and the humanity that define us. Loving the adventure, carrying the heart of what binds us, and intimately knowing the fear of loss. We've come a long way to get here, and we're not going back. Part grace, part tenacity, and part ridiculous optimism, we hold all of it as sacred and profound-- the chaos, the space, the silence. 

It's never a bad move to update the maps, either. 

Goodbye, Harry Potter

Somewhere in the middle of the vast Pacific, 38,000 feet above the sea and pointed towards Kauai, I finally have the time to write abut saying goodbye to Harry Potter, our beloved gigantic penguin kitty. We said our final goodbye to Harry after only 2 and a half short years, which were simultaneously not nearly enough and perfectly needed to learn that love comes in all forms; that energy and time don't necessarily correlate, and sometimes the deeper lessons come in the form of grief, letting go, and trying to remember that the second law of thermodynamics truly does exist.

We had a month from the time HP was diagnosed with FIP, a horrible wasting disease that no cat and their human(s) should ever have to experience. Our gorgeous, sleek, mahogany-coated, lightning bolt adorned (on his forehead, thus the name) big beautiful boy precipitously dropped from almost 25 leggy, large, but not fat pounds, to the scant 9 lbs he weighed the day of his death. In those 30 days, he never once expressed pain, desperation, or even fear, other than the 2 trips made to the vet for diagnosis and futile treatment. I believe in many ways he understood that the process was heartbreaking for the humans, and in an odd role reversal was comforting us. It's also very possible that I'm anthropomorphizing the entire experience, and he just was staying true to his loving and sweet nature until that final day.

In his last month, we snuggled a bit more, coaxed and cajoled and begged our normally voracious food thief to eat even a 1/2 teaspoon at a time of intensive-care wet food. (Our other cat gained several pounds in the process, stealthily polishing off any remainders not guarded). We made snuggle nests for his newly chill-intolerant body, counted respirations, played piano for him, and hoped for miracles, but mostly, we just held this very odd space for death to move into our lives with tears, inquisition, fear, and a hope for some glimpse that it somehow meant something. I can't quite articulate what I mean, but I can feel it in my body, and in the process we all grieved together and separately.

Finally, the night came when his breathing quickened and didn't slow, and he simply curled into my side and didn't move, all night. He purred as best as he could, and slept with a paw on my arm. In the morning, when the was no change, I knew it was time. He turned away from any food and water, and sat with his head on his paws, staring out the window. I made the call, and our wonderful, amazing vet-- knowing how he would tremble and shake at her office-- offered to come to our house. The kids stoically went to school, and the minute everyone was out the door, I sobbed for an hour straight. I am not a "collapser". I've had my moments sobbing on the floor (divorce, family tragedy), but this feeling was new. It was grief, catharsis, the slow inevitability of the process, and I allowed it, and maybe even welcomed it, hoping that I would "have it together" for that evening.

The day unfolded as they all do, only for the hours at home with Harry (I did not work that day), there was a painstaking methodical casualness to it. The kids came home and began quietly folding origami hearts and doves. Now, for anyone that's stepped foot in my home, quiet moments are an endangered species, which added to this reverence we were creating without consciously being aware. All the origami was put in Harry's favorite cat bed, and love letters were written by little faces now intermittently wet with tears. Meanwhile, Harry was curled up on a bed with his brother Luke. There they intertwined like a yin yang, with one of Harry's giant emaciated skinny legs thrown over Luke's paw. You can read a million things into that sight, that gesture, and maybe all of them would be right.

Harry loved the Christmas tree. Every year, for the month it was up, you could find him in any down moment contentedly sitting like a gentlemen, or sleeping with one of his favorite low-hanging ornaments confiscated, possibly eviscerated, and held in those giant cat paws. As a family we had made a decision that we would leave the tree up as long as Harry lived. My husband was fairly sure that cat might see June. We decided that night that Harry should make his exit in his favorite place, right at the foot of his tree. Hadley played piano while I lit candles in the living room.

When the vet and her tech arrived, Harry did not run or hide. He put his head in my hands while the vet started the IV line where the barbiturate cocktail that would stop his heart would be administered. He did not struggle or meow, he just held firm. After, they gave him a gentle sedative, and he curled his head into the nook of my arm while I carried him upstairs for the kids to say their final goodbyes. Even though he only weighed 9 pounds, that big long body still took two arms to contain.

I sat with him on the ground next to the tree, candles flickering, Hawaiian slack key guitar playing on the radio in the other room. (If only we allowed all people this same dignity!) I could feel his heart beating against my forearm, and his breath grow raggedy with the sedative. I buried my face in his forehead, and tears flowing, just said the only thing I could think of, over and over, like a mantra. "Good boy....good boy...good boy". As I stroked his bony head, Dr. Libby gave the propofol, then the barbiturate injection, and I felt his heart against my arm very rapidly slow...Soon, nothing. He was gone. As I have done countless time before with other people's loved ones-- their mothers, fathers,children, siblings- she very gently listened for heart tones, and with the look in her eyes, affirmed what I already new.

I thought I would be such a cool customer. I thought I was seasoned to death, wisened as an old soul to witnessing the transition when the time comes to pass from life to death. That night, holding my dead cat in my arms, the tears poured with total loss of control down my face. I sobbed. I felt shattered, but full of love as I had ever been, and definitely as raw. After Matt and the kids had come down, had rubbed their hands together and given Harry "energy and love", after the vet and tech (their own faces tear-streaked, to my awe and gratitude) had so gently carried his body out with them for cremation, after the burgers and shakes and fries my husband ran out to get as a rare junk-food temporary panacea, after the kids had started smiling and telling favorite HP stories... I still felt hollow and completely at odds with the peace and closure I had expected I would feel.

We had a sweet and simple ceremony that night for Harry. We lit 10 candles, intending to write down 10 good things about Harry. One of the books we had read to ready ourself for his passing was "The Tenth Good Thing About Barney", which, incidentally, I don't ever recommend reading in public for the first time when your cat is dying :) We laughed and cried, and at #21, called it a night. To my surprise, all the kids were able to fall asleep gently, sad about our loss, but grasping that he was free now. One of them even proclaimed that our beloved "stomp stomp" kitty was at that very moment making plans to come back as an elephant.

After the kids were asleep, I came back to that same spot where hours before I had held my sweet kitty boy as his short life ended. I dissolved. I lay down on the floor, and just as I could almost tangibly feel that sensation of his heart stopping, an awareness came over me: this was not my relationship with death. I had never before invited death into my home, made a space for it, welcomed it, even. A huge part of my career is engaging in an active fight against it, working hard to stop the very process I had welcomed as a honored guest. Even in final moments, where I knew a patient's death was inevitable, I still had this small island of "other" to hold to, even as I may have held their hand in final moments, or closed their eyelids when all was said and done. To just simply hold my cat and invite death to take him was as much a profound transition of raw and open rebirth for me as it was finality in this body for him. As I lay there on the floor, I thought, "so this is grace".

The next morning, as we walked up to school, a particularly wonderful and rare Portland occurrence happened. Snow started falling, but unlike any I had seen before. The flakes were huge and almost awkward in their fall, landing in gigantic near-plops on heads and faces. The kids were ecstatic, and the snowfall was so thick and insistent on your eyelids it was hard to see through.

Zane grabbed my hand, and squinting though snowy eyelashes, smiled up at me and said "You see that mom? That's Harry saying he loves us".


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Location:38,000 ft