The emotional difficulties which arose from our hike weren't anything I could have foreseen.  Moreover, the reactions of both the trail community and our local community threw me for a complete loop.  It has taken a full year, but as a family we're over it.  The hike was ours, and somewhere I along the line I forgot that.  I don't know if any other hikes are going to be posted up for the world to see, or if I'm going to take the route The Barracuda has and just don't talk about it.

               I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
              I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
             And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
            And in short, I was afraid.

Alone.  It was a hard word for me to come to terms with.  In fact, I completely buried myself in the act of hiking with the thought that somehow - if I just searched hard enough - it wouldn't be true.  Hundreds of miles later, months back home, I must surrender the fantasy:  it is.  In life, we are all alone.  Our experience is uniquely ours and no one else will ever truly get it.  We cut ourselves open trying to explain - our vulnerabilities strewn out on the table.  We talk and we bleed - grasping at anyone who we think might see our world.  This fact has haunted me for almost a year.  If I didn't let go, it was going to haunt me forever.

               
            And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
           The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
           And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
          When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
         Then how should I begin
         To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                    
        And how should I presume?

All the eyes of the world which try to pigeon hole me, pigeon hole us - those who decide their version of reality is somehow better, more holy, more noble - please expound upon how fabulous your life is and how I somehow must just not get it.  Please, let me see how I've missed the point at how great being you is and how small, crazy, profane, insert-your-favorite-detestible-adjective, I must be.

         I should have been a pair of ragged claws
        Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

I've spent quite a few nights sitting up till 3 am running circles in my head.  I've spent a lot of time as an angry basket case.  However, when I look around, I'm still here with Jules on one side and The Barracuda on the other.  They are here not wanting or asking anything more than for me to return to myself.  They want me to remember and know that my little life, our little family, and the small moments which no one else seems to recognize are what make me, me.  It is enough for them, and once it was enough for me too.

                And would it have been worth it, after all,
               After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
              Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
             Would it have been worth while,                                             

            To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
           To have squeezed the universe into a ball
          To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
         To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
        Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all!"

I'm now learning to be quiet.  I'm learning to not rage against the moon or rail against society.  The Barracuda is my great teacher because knows this already.  Somewhere in him he has already decided to not be boastful, but to strive for his own sake.  Patiently he smiles.  Often he goes along with whatever some one needs to think.  Only later will he inform me that they were wrong, and drop some pearl of wisdom about life.  He has learned how pointless it is to try and please others.  For all too often, they only wish to tear you apart for their own pleasure.
 

          And indeed there will be time
         To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?" 

         Do I dare
        Disturb the universe?
       In a minute there is time
      For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.  

And so I begin again.  The PCT was my giant reset button.  I traveled back to the soul murdering days of early high school quite unexpectedly, but thankfully have once again dropped out of the general population.  Our life allows us to be hermits tucked away in our tiny one room cabin way out in the woods. 

         Let us go then, you and I,
        When the evening is spread out against the sky
        Like a patient etherized upon a table;  

        To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .                              
       Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
       Let us go and make our visit. 

I don't know how many of you are still out there which wish to make a visit to quieter places tucked away in the forest, but for the moment, that is where we are residing.  We're thinking of getting bees, the orchard is going to be coming via FedEx any day now to be planted, stacks of books are being plowed through, bread rises most afternoons in the mid-day heat, blankets are on knitting needles and final stitches are being put in quilts, homeschool is kicking into full swing, and we have mountain summits we are eagerly planning.  Our life is ours again...and that feels far better than I ever could have imagined.

Somewhere around 1800 miles into the PCT, The Barracuda decided that he wanted to triathlon.  Well, okay...

He did 20 mile days on his heavy-as-all-get-out stainless steel little Schwinn Gremlin.  Lord only knows what he will be doing in clipless pedals with his new carbon fiber Felt!  I'm already exhausted.

It has taken months, a whole lot of research, and a bit of help from our tax return, but we finally found a kid's triathlon bike.  After a 3 hour professional fitting, it's now his.  I've called the pediatric sports therapist (whose children I'm putting through Harvard at this point), and training has begun.

We hit the pool for two hour sessions twice a week to work on his freestyle.  We run the other three days. He rides for continuous half hour intervals four times a day to practice form, endurance, and shifting.  We work on breathing technique and meditation for 20 minutes every morning to calm his lungs, his heart rate, and find "flow".  

 At this point I don't think it would be possible for us to stop homeschooling.  There just wouldn't be time.  Luckily, he can peddle while we do English and Latin.  I can speak Spanish to him while we work on swimming form.  We can calculate mileage, heart rate, intervals, and race dynamics for math. 

I remind myself that every day we are training for the summits later this summer, and the Appalachian Trail in a couple years.  I remind myself that top colleges are now focusing on both academics and significant life pursuits.  I remind myself that the primary goal of a parent is to support their children in becoming individuals.  All of these thoughts bombard me as I hear, "Mom?!" and crawl deeper into the warmth of the covers to escape running.  They come back again before I jump into the freezing cold pool water (why can't they just heat that water, I mean seriously!).  On the plus side, my abs are thanking me.

Governor Kitzhaber of Oregon has to make a decision about the Morrow Pacific Coal Terminal on April 1st.  It decides whether coal can be loaded onto giant barges and shipped down the Columbia River.  That means only one thing in our household: A protest.

I'm noticing the choice of wording from my son is becoming increasingly more militant

The Power Past Coal Coalition put together the Sound the Alarm Event.  Where people took to the streets to make a lot of noise with bells, harmonicas, drums and whistles.  We sounded the alarm on climate change in a rather obnoxious way.  It was quite fun, even if a bit over-the-top.

We chanted such nerdy renditions as "Lead, Arsenic, Mer-cur-y; keep your poisons off of me!" and "Pre-si-dent Obama, we don't want no cli-mate drama!"  and the ever popular "Hey, Hey! Ho, Ho! Dirty coal has got to go!"


But this wasn't like other protests we have been involved in before.  For this one, The Barracuda was asked to speak.  When members of the Sierra Club ask you to do a call to action address directed at the governor, it isn't polite to say no.

Photo Ops are becoming increasingly prevalent in this child's life.  Many organizations know him as the kid who talks about coal.  He keeps showing up; he keeps speaking out; and now he is beginning to get some serious press.  Two more speaking arrangements were booked before we left.

And so we pulled up every historical call-to-action speech I could think of.  We read them with the fervor of John Calvin in the living room quite a few times before Give Me Liberty Or Give Me Death was decided to be the favorite and The Barracuda got to writing.  He'd never spoken to a crowd this size before, nor had he ever been in front of a group quite this exuberant carrying noise-makers.  For the first time, I actually saw him nervous.

When his name was called, he stoically walked up the steps, took the mic, and this is what he said:

We are all gathered here to let the governor know that Climate Change is a problem which must be stopped. It's hard to accept the truth when the lies were exactly what you wanted to hear. But Governor, this is the truth: our world is being destroyed.

If we do not stop it, the world will become a flat, barren island. Our precious river will become a highway for dirty, coal driven money at the expense of your children's quality of life. My quality of life. You have the power to stop this. You are the controller of this state. We have the power to wake you up, to sound the alarm, to let you know that this needs to stop.

They tell us we are weak; and unable to fight the power of the corporate greed. But, when shall we be stronger? Will it be tomorrow? Will it be next week, or in a few years? Will it be when the our sacred river is polluted to the point there are no more salmon? Will it be when the parts per million of carbon in the air is over 400? Will it be when all the coal is ripped off every mountain top and all oil is drug up from every pristine place beneath our feet?

This impacts us now. Not two years from now, not thirty years from now, but now. There is no time for us to wait. For in waiting we will have destroyed our home, our waters, and our Nation. We not really acting for the Gorge alone. We are acting for all of humanity.

We may be weak when separated, but united we are powerful. We may be quiet separated, but united we are forceful. How long are you going to let other people decide the future of your children? Are you not warriors? It is time to stop talking and start doing. Long ago when our ancestors rode into battle, they did not know what the outcome was going to be, but they did it because they knew it was in the best interest of the children and the people. Do not operate from a place of fear. Operate from a place of hope.The beauty of life is, while we cannot undo what is done, we can see it, understand it, learn from it and change.  So that every new moment is spent not in regret, guilt, fear or anger, but in wisdom, understanding, and love.  We cannot undo the damage that has already been done.  The past is gone.  But we an make a new future.

People frequently forget that my son is only just over 4 feet tall and cannot see over a podium or rest his notes on items normally at an adult's height.  He often has to hold a hand mic and try to make it work.  It is awkward, but he is working on it.  He often has to carry around a blue milk crate to put down and then climb up upon so that he can view his audience.  He often gets looks of "oh, isn't he cute" which quickly turn into looks of surprise as he begins his introduction.  This instance was no different.  If you would like to watch the terrible YouTube video I took, here it is.

(YouTube tells me it will be correctly oriented shortly.  If not, just wrench your neck to the side or close your eyes)

In the last two months, we've visited our state capitol and will soon visit others to rally on their front steps.

The Barracuda and I in Olympia advocating for climate change legislation
 and against coal trains.

We've spoken to Senators and Representatives, ridden in carpools to events, and are currently planning our own.

Speaking with Senator King, a die hard republican
and corporate interest supporter.

We've gone to meetings, written letters, and networked with everyone from the Sierra Club, to Power Past Coal, to Earth Ministries, and Peaceful Uprising.

Listening to Governor Inslee and celebrating his
Carbon Action Plan Bill as it hit the floor that morning.

We've watched movies, discussed civil disobedience, and signed up to list serves about radical acts against climate change.

Watching the documentary Bidder 70 and being informed
repeatedly he cannot get arrested for civil disobedience until 16.

We've watched video after video about the science of carbon emissions, coal trains, and strip mining.
We've built models of wind turbines, solar panels, and read up on the damaging affects of hydro power.

Local high schoolers are now writing letters, The Barracuda is planning an upcoming National Environmental Policy Act training, and has become the chair of a local Kids Against Coal Commission. 

Somewhere in all of this, life has gone on.  But I am soon coming to realize as court cases are won, governors and mayors speak out, permits are stalled, and petitions signed that he might actually win.  All this work might not have been in vain.  There are still years left till we know and many more battles to be fought, but it is possible and looking more likely every day.

So we soldier on.   Martin Luther King almost every other day.  Sometimes with The Barracuda, but mostly just for myself.  More often than not I find myself back at A Letter From Birmingham Jail: 

 "So let him march; let him make prayer pilgrimages to the city hall; let him go on freedom rides -and try to understand why he must do so. If his repressed emotions are not released in nonviolent ways, they will seek expression through violence; this is not a threat but a fact of history. So I have not said to my people: "Get rid of your discontent." Rather, I have tried to say that this normal and healthy discontent can be channeled into the creative outlet of nonviolent direct action. And now this approach is being termed extremist. But though I was initially disappointed at being categorized as an extremist, as I continued to think about the matter I gradually gained a measure of satisfaction from the label. Was not Jesus an extremist for love: "Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you." Was not Amos an extremist for justice: "Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever flowing stream." Was not Paul an extremist for the Christian gospel: "I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus." Was not Martin Luther an extremist: "Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise, so help me God." And John Bunyan: "I will stay in jail to the end of my days before I make a butchery of my conscience." And Abraham Lincoln: "This nation cannot survive half slave and half free." And Thomas Jefferson: "We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal . . ." So the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice?"

I can only hope that as we continue I will remember.

 

We have always been a politically active family.  The Barracuda's first camping trip was an old growth logging protest along the PCT.   By 4 he could explain global warming and felt a strong desire for our household to be personally active against it.  We always watch the President speaking and regard it as our responsibility as citizens.  The Daily Show and Colbert Report have been household dinner companions frequently since he was 2.  There aren't many car trips which don't involve NPR before music.  These sorts of things.  So, it should come as no surprise to me when earlier in the week The Barracuda announces a desire to go to one of the Scoping hearings occurring for discussion about the coal trains.

Up for proposal is the largest coal production in the United States with direct exportation to China and South Korea.  The coal would come from Montana and be trained through our neighboring town and all along the Columbia River Gorge.  This would increase the current coal trains from somewhere between 4 to 10 a day, to one passing for 30 minutes of every hour, 24 hours a day.  We are talking a whole lot of coal.  Actually, very few people are talking about it and that is kind of scary.  To find out more, go here.

As usual, he was the only kid at the press conference.  By now he is used to that and it doesn't bother him.

The Barracuda feels this is irresponsible.  He doesn't think it is very forward thinking.  He doesn't like that such corporate decisions are being made as quickly as possible during the holiday season where people are busy.  Apparently, he has been thinking about it a lot and decided to go and let important people know about it.

"They don't have to listen to me, but I need to speak."

How exactly does one turn down your child when they say things like that?

This found us traveling by bus for over an hour each way to the local college to attend the press conference and then the hearings.  Along the way, The Barracuda asked me if I would take down what he wanted to say.  From watching others, he knows how easily you can forget what you intend to deliver and how quickly 2 minutes can go.  So I took dictation as stoically as I could as the bus slowly got quieter and quieter when they realized what The Barracuda was doing.  No one expected him to speak.  They just thought I was forcing him to go.  When they realized, they began talking to him like an actual person and preparing him for what he might encounter.

Since this was a formal hearing, The Barracuda had to provide a written statement of his testimony, his full name, address, and agree to allow what he said to be added to both the video record and the official transcript being documented by a stenographer.  No one was allowed to clap, the room had to be incredibly quiet, and the microphone was physically shut down at 2 minutes and 5 seconds.  There was a timer directly in your face so you could see where you were on the time limit.  It was much more intense than we had ever been to before. 

It was also a lottery.  That means anyone who wants to speak is given a ticket and only a certain number of tickets are pulled each hour.  Luckily, we got called.  The Barracuda was number 55 of 60.  So we listened to scientists, teachers, grandparents, business owners and citizens all talk about their concerns.  We listened for over 2 and a half hours until it was his turn.

He was undaunted by the formality and spoke as if somehow this happened every day.  I was a total wreck.

His testimony went as follows:

"Hi.  My name is Dae.  I am here to ask you to stop the coal trains. 

I understand that this is a lot of money.  I understand that people want jobs.  I understand that families in China and Asia want to heat their homes. 

I want that too.  I want my future family to have jobs, money, food and warmth.  I want my future children to have a world they can play in that is beautiful. 

In your generation it might not matter.  But, in my generation it might.  In my generation it will affect climate change.  In my generation it will affect the ecosystem. 

I know that people are worried about having a job.  They are scared because they want their kids to be safe and happy.  I want that for my kids. 

I am scared, too. 

I can't fix this.  I have no power.  No one in my generation does.  I am 8.  I can't be a governor.  I can't sit on a board to decide things.  I can't even vote. 

All I can do is trust you to make the right decision.  To think of me.  To think of my generation.  To think about a future from now where we will be trying desperately to fix a broken planet. 

Thank you.  Please be responsible with my future.

Some people clapped, even though they weren't supposed to.  Some people cried a little, even though they tried to look like they weren't.  Some people gave him hugs and some gave him high fives.

We went into the after-room for some snacks and found the mayor of Vancouver there.  He spoke at the press conference, so The Barracuda knew who he was.  The Barracuda thanked the mayor for standing up against the coal trains even though it could get him fired (not re-elected). He told him it was a brave decision and he was glad someone was standing up for the next generation and the future.  The mayor thanked him for the exact same thing.  They shook hands.  It was pretty cool.  The mayor went on to say, "You aren't really powerless you know.  You have the power to influence people just like me.  Judging from what you just did in there, you're pretty good at it."  The Barracuda smiled and thanked him while they both continued to eat snacks as though they were just two guys hanging out on campus.

The first of many potential political encounters.  I'm very glad this one went well.  Thank You, Mr. Mayor.

As the night turned cold and rainy we all boarded our bus once more and headed home.  There was much talk of where to go from here.  Beer was broken out, hummus passed around, political contacts swapped and strategy debated.  The Barracuda is working on a letter to the editor of the local newspapers.  He wants to hold a NEPA (National Environmental Policy Act) training so people better understand how the appeals, scoping, and hearing process works when companies violate or deliberately limit an EIS (Environmental Impact Statements).  He attended NEPA 101 that was held when I worked for an anti-logging organization way back when.  Apparently some of it stuck.

It is an odd feeling to be back on the political lines.  It is even odder to be in a complete role reversal - this time I'm following my child.  Our children are very powerful when we let them be - when we allow them to care about issues, when we support them in their pursuit to be heard, when we provide them the tools to educate themselves and others.  I can only imagine what the next 6 months will look like, but he's pretty fired up.

Watch out world, here comes one kid against climate change!

Today is my exercise deadline.  Do you all do those too?  A moment in time where the exercise must begin.

 No more procrastinating.  No more lounging.  No excuses.  Playtime is over.  

Well, today is my day.  Agility drills and running must commence daily.  So there, Self!

Last year's Wild Women in front of our mountain.  The mountain helped convince me to run. I can run in front of our mountain; it is known, it is comfortable, it makes anything possible.

 On August 10th (tentatively) the Wild Women will race.  The Wild Woman Marathon is a 26.2 mile trail run at the base of Mt. Adams through the local National Forest.  Exclusively run and organized by women, it is designed to push every day limits and release your inner Wild Woman.  The secondary purpose is to unite the women of the community in personal strength and sisterhood.  There is a communal family camp out before the marathon, and the after camp out is set up to watch the Persieds meteor shower. All the food is local, organic, and vegetarian mostly served by the farm folk families of those running.

Running isn't my thing.  I never thought I would run a marathon.  Maybe a half, maybe if zombies were chasing me, maybe if there was a BlendTec blender waiting at the end, but never voluntarily.  I'll climb mountains.  I'll walk across the nation.  I'll swim across the Columbia River in a full wetsuit to protect from hypothermia.  Not running.  Running is my Kryptonite.

But then Jules decided he wanted to become an ultramarathoner.  And then The Barracuda decided he wanted to participate in adult triathalons (the kid ones around here are rather cutesy and no where near enough for him).  And then people started talking about the Wild Woman.  And now it is November 23rd and I actually have to start training!  I'm still mildly baffled at how I talked myself into this.

The Barracuda and I do these agility drills twice a day during school days.  They are total butt kickers, but who can't fit in 4 little minutes?

Currently my goal is just to finish.  I know I can finish.  I can hike 26.2 miles in a day, so I know I can finish.  Moving at 3 to 4 miles an hour it will take me 6 and a half to 8 and a third hours.  It would be pretty neat if I could finish in 5 and a half to 6 hours.  That still won't be a competing time (the average female marathon time is just under 5 hours), but I think it would pretty darn good.  We'll see what happens in a couple months.  I might just decide to attempt to compete.

I have just over 8 and a half months to try and get there, and a whole lot of family to run with.  Here's the current running schedule:  Each run is approximately 30 minutes in duration this month and there are 4 runs a week

Week One:

1st Run: 10 minute warm up walk; 1 minute run, 1 minute walk (x 5); 10 minute cool down walk

2nd Run: 10 minute warm up walk; 1 minute run, 1 minute walk (x 7); 5 minute cool down walk

3rd Run: 10 minute warm up walk; 2 minute run, 1 minute walk (x 5); 5 minute cool down walk

4th Run: 5 minute warm up walk; 2 minute run, 1 minute walk (x 7); 4 minute cool down walk

Week Two: 

1st Run: 5 minute warm up walk; 3 minute run, 1 minute walk (x 5); 5 minute cool down walk

2nd Run: 5 minute warm up walk; 5 minute run, 2 minute walk (x 3); 4 minute cool down walk

3rd Run: 4 minute warm up walk; 5 minute run, 1 minute walk (x 4); 2 minute cool down walk

4th Run: 5 minute warm up walk; 8 minute run, 2 minute walk (x 2); 3 minute cool down walk

Week Three: 

1st Run:  5 minute warm up walk; 10 minute run, 5 minute walk, 5 minute run; 5 minute cool down walk

2nd Run: 5 minute warm up walk; 12 minute run, 3 minute walk, 5 minute run; 5 minute cool down walk

3rd Run: 10 minute warm up walk; 15 minute run; 5 minute cool down walk

4th Run: 6 minute warm up walk; 18 minute run; 6 minute cool down walk

Week Four:

1st Run: 5 minute warm up walk; 20 minute run; 5 minute cool down walk

2nd Run: 5 minute warm up walk; 22 minute run; 3 minute cool down walk

3rd Run: 3 minute warm up walk; 25 minute run; 2 minute cool down walk

4th Run: 2 minute warm up walk; 30 minute run; 2 minute cool down walk

The goal of this first month being to sustain a 30 minute run.  Next month I hope to be able to sustain a 30 minute run at least twice a week and work up to an hour sustained run.

Everything we have achieved as a family began from seemingly impossible goals.  Somewhere in me, I always knew they were possible.  This is the first time I'm really having to leap without much faith.  Running seems rather impossible for me.  A 5k, sure, but not 26 miles.  Not over an hour of sustained running at a time.  Not running solid for 4 or 5 hours.  But here is to self-stretching.  Here is to the impossible.  Here is to becoming a Wild Woman!

 Upon this wonderful Thanksgiving day (because it is by far my favorite holiday) may we all learn a bit about sharing from our friend Cookie Monster as he sings to us "Share It Maybe".....

 I am thankful I am still learning from a blue fuzzy monster who loves cookies.

Happy Thanksgiving to you and yours.  May we all share the bounty of our lives with others.

We were up before 5 am this morning and out the door till somewhere just before 4 this afternoon.  There was a turkey slaughter to attend.  Yep, turkey slaughter.  It's pretty exciting and we have been looking forward to mid-November for quite a while.  Due to living on National Forest property we are not legally allowed to have much usage of the land our house sits on.  However, we live in a major agricultural area.  Our family - mainly The Barracuda and I - help a local farm bring in their raw milk, organic produce, slaughtering their free-range birds, mend or put up fences, and general farm work.  More than anything, this is a way for us to afford high quality food, help the local food bank (over half the harvest goes to the food bank), and practice hard work.  We work for food and maintain the local sustainable community of agriculture fostered around here.  From pigs, to raw milk, honey, fowl, beef and veggies, it is all grown within 30 minutes of our house and directly traded to create an off the grid food network.  It keeps our freezer and canning shelves overflowing, it shows The Barracuda exactly where his food comes from and helps him get his hands dirty.  At its core, it places the value directly in work since no money is ever exchanged.  It is one of the many ways we try to practice justice, love kindness, and walk humbly in our everyday existence.

This big boy is in rut and all he wants to do is snuggle!  If only he didn't stink quite so badly...

Often times there are Spanish Immersion lessons as well, since one of the moms (it's a family farm with lots of extended family) is fluent and The Barracuda has a bent for languages.  We harvested thousands of pounds potatoes while listening to multi-cultural stories in Spanish, we learned anatomy while gutting over a hundred chickens, and today we proceeded to turkeys.  When a calf died of bloat, The Barracuda got to hear all about ungulate digestion and various stomachs, as well as the special needle-tube used to piece the distended organ to let the pressure out. It was fascinating!  There is a skin to scrape, brain to smear, and a hide to tan.  He wants to make mittens.  Sometimes he gets to ride in the tractor, sometimes he gets to listen as the men fix the tractor, sometimes he gets to feed the pigs;  he always has fun.

We have seen these birdies since they were small and fuzzy.  Now they live in the freezer.  There is nothing more intimate than watching your food grow and feeding it as it will feed you.

I'm learning as well.  Today it was the signs used to communicate with a tractor/fork-lift driver and how to anticipate the movements of a machine weighing in just over 11 tons.  We hauled fencing off a semi and will later use a power auger to string high power electrical fencing.  I get to learn electrical work from an engineer and taxonomical anatomy from people who raise and breed animals.  The continual reinforcement of learning outside a classroom is always a major perk.

That tractor scares the crap out of me.  The wheels are bigger than I am and I've seen my son crawl under it to pull out jammed debris that only he could reach.  Today I ran back and forth around said tires and under the forklift to help negotiate the moving of hundreds of pounds of fencing.  Conquering fears can be immensely empowering! 

In the shadow of our mountain, the farm grows on. This is their life and they live it out loud.  We go up and get our hands dirty in freshly tilled loam or the guts of freshly grown fowl.  It is an authentic existence with death, and birth, and dirt, and guts spoken of matter-of-factually as we gather around the slaughter table and dump goopy innards into 5 gallon buckets. 

As much as they think we are crazy for getting up at 3 am to eek out one last climb of the season or meticulously teach The Barracuda knots so he can deftly preform crevasse rescue if necessary, they have a tube-needle to allow excess gas out of their cattle's stomach if necessary.  Both lives are equally crazy.

Neither is seen as odd though. We are both safe in our extreme existences.  They slowly talk to him about how to make the proper cuts to a bird's jugular or the proper psi for the wheel barrings of the tractor.  They describe all the different potatoes, where in the world they come from, what the different varieties taste like, their growing seasons, the adaptations evolved for different elevations and vast amounts of knowledge both The Barracuda and I soak up like sponges it is so interesting.  We can talk about hikes in all different ecosystems; they can talk about food and life.

The Barracuda is checking the temperature of the dunking water and warming his hands.  By the end of the 40 turkeys all our hands were numb and having trouble working.  Today was wet and cold, but he held on manning is duties to the dunking water and the feather plucker.  He is working his way up to the initial jugular slicing and has frequently helped with guttings.

 


The more I look around, the more I realize we are not isolated in our desire to live out loud.  Authentic lives are all around us.  These people aren't playing; they aren't dabbling; they mean it.  It isn't something they do on the weekends or do just for fun.  They live it 24/7 three hundred and sixty five days a year.  If we were playing at life, they wouldn't have us come and help.

As an on-call farm hand, I often only get a couple days notice for harvesting.  Usually I'm given the time to show up a day or less in advance, and it is an all day long affair - or sometimes multiple days back to back.  When the birds are ready, we slaughter.  When the frost is coming, we dig.  When the weather is good, we work.  They need to know we will be there in the cold, the muck, the dark, whatever.  They need to know The Barracuda will put in 6 to 8 hours of solid hard work right along with the adults, learning as needed, paying attention and keeping his mouth shut.  They need to know that we really mean it.  It works because both families are all in with whatever they decide to do.

The farm is named Sunnybrook and that is Rebecca - Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm.  She and Micheal got married this past summer on the farm as we walked across the country.

These are our people.

We aren't so alone after all.

As a homeschooling parent anytime I can find educational Internet gold that isn't annoying, obnoxious, contains bathroom/potty humor, and my child thinks is rad, I'm excited.  Here is just a bit of the awesomeness discovered this week.


Conjunctions song to the tune of Firework by Kati Perry....

And just to make your life a little more complete, here's prepositions to the tune Paparazzi by Lady Gaga...

Enjoy your week and have fun getting your learn on!

Coming home from a thru-hike hurts.  It is often masked by eating mountains of ubiquitous food, luxuriating in melt-your-skin-off hot showers, and sleeping in just because there is a bed covered in blankets.  But, once that initial joy has worn off , it hurts.  You have experienced something you cannot explain to others, but so desperately want to convey yourself.  The ineffable struggles, triumph, and insignificance that only someone how has lived out of a backpack for months can feel places you closer to most homeless people than your family.  In our society, most homeless people are viewed as crazy and you begin to wonder about yourself.  You are stuck in the position of being type cast as a person by an experience you cannot reiterate.

The isolation haunts you.

Clouds make you cry.  Birds cause you awe.  Everything moves so fast. Food begins to taste beyond divine, only then to nauseate you as your stomach stretches back to normal size.  People you once found comfort in now seem trivial.  The practices that once caused relaxation now feel vapid.  You are left re-defining everything in your life - relationships, occupations, basic choices.  You're a freak, and only you know it, for no one else has changed.

Watching my child go through this has been both heart-breaking and frustrating.  I can not ease his pain; no one can.  The lasting effects will exist within him forever. At first he toggled wildly between extreme isolation - taking 5 mile walks during the day to sketch or "just be alone" - and extreme clinging - not wanting Jules or I out of his sight even to sleep or use the bathroom.  This has slowed down now that we have been home for over a month, but he still has difficulty sleeping and struggles with fitting in with friends he once played with so happily.  He does not wish to talk about the hike with anyone except Jules and I, and even then it is only in passing or as a descriptor.  Quite often his reason is simple, "I don't want to be the weird kid."
 

I would love to claim that I have fared better, but my response was similar.  Unable to explain myself to others, I retreated dramatically, cried a lot, found our meager life gluttonous, and felt unworthy of most everything around me.  Jules and I bickered almost constantly about matters so trivial they could only be masking much larger emotional insecurity.  Divorce was mentioned, frequently.  So, The Barracuda and I play "the weird kid" together, and I try to steady the rocking boat that is our family.

We read a lot more now, if that was even possible.  Our discussions of classical literature have jumped a few more octaves as The Barracuda now has so much more suffering to relate to.  So much of the heroes epic, the plight of the human condition, the experience of the outcast, have now been felt first hand.  We read Ozymandias and after extracting its description, The Barracuda will come at me with "Human life is so fragile.  Why do we hold onto it so tightly?....It's like we go Lennie on it and never give it a chance." (Lennie is a reference to a very simple-minded character from Of Mice and Men who loves things so much he doesn't realize his own strength and crushes them with misplaced affections.)  These are questions that have no answers from me.  Do they have any answers anywhere?  These are the reasons classical literature will remain enduring the times.  Now he gets it in a way I could never teach, and he's not letting go anytime soon.

It requires a whole new level of emotional honesty from me and character education.  I'll admit, as of late I'm falling a bit short.  In so many ways, that is the brutally tough part of the whole lesson: we can work, and strive, and get infinitely close, but in the end we all fall short somewhere.  We have never coddled our son, or sheltering him from the world in some misguided attempt at innocence.  Innocence is a way of approaching the world when you know all there is; naive is being ignorant to the darkness.  If there is one thing we never want it is an ignorant child.  So we talk, and we read, and we forge into the unknown of where we are going.

All of this might seem remarkably bleak or at least a very distressing outlook to come home to.  However this topsy-turvey life re-evaluation and personal soul searching is what any great pilgrimage requires.  Religion must be worked at...If you truly take religion seriously it has to transform you.  We are transcendentalists.  To hike is to live our faith, not merely out-of-the-box as Thoreau did, but more in the fashion of John Muir.  We wish to get our hands, lives, and souls dirty, not just play at kitchy, counter-cultural references.  We wish to stretch ourselves: to grow into the uncomfortable places and to be chanted by what we find there.

"And the world cannot be discovered by a journey of miles, no matter how long, but only by a spiritual journey of miles, a journey of one inch, very arduous, and humble and joyful, by which we arrive at the ground at our feet and learn to be at home."

~Wendell Barry; "Unforeseen Wilderness"

Our very arduous, humble and joyful journey has brought us back to look at our own feet and rediscover home.

I haven't been writing; I know.  It isn't that there isn't much to say as much as my lack of desire to say it.  The trail changes you.  It is so very cliche, but true.  I don't have a pretty way to sum up our thru hike, so have been avoiding it.

At 4:30pm on September 13th, The Barracuda crossed over into Manning Park, Canada.  The Barracuda ended a totally different person than he began.  His maturity was so very apparent when he wrote his final remarks in the register, "From the cursed saints and cold-blooded rattlesnakes of the desert to the hallowed and beautiful North Cascades, it has been an incredible journey, but I'm ready to be done."

  The reality is any thru hike is a personal battle with yourself. Your demons come out if you really mean to hike and not merely play.  It is as though you are personally embodying Naturalism every day for four to five months.  Ultimately, you have even less of an idea about your own issues than you do how to solve them.  A few hundred miles in, they begin to take shape and you begin to rage against them.  Whether you are even aware of it is hard to say, but hindsight is always 20/20 if you want to  look.  At around a  thousand miles, you begin to realize you are stuck out in the middle of nowhere with yourself so you'd better listen.  The next thousand miles are the listening, denying, feeling and coming to terms with yourself.  These are the hard ones.  You either walk out the other side a better person, or you bury your head in the sand and remain vapid forever.

The hike has helped me to see myself differently.  It forced me to cut all the crap out of my life that I gave value to, that muddled the waters of emotion, that seemed to matter so much.  Once that is gone, all you are left with is yourself.

The Barracuda and I fought our battles together because we had to.  Whomever is by your side day in and day out will inevitably play a large emotional roll in the outcome.  They will feel the wrath, fear, glory and triumph of it all, and you will feel theirs.  But quietly, in the hours upon hours of walking, you battle personally as well.

Watching the Mohave fall behind us was the largest relief of the trail.  It meant we had successfully crossed the driest place in the United States and we were winning the battles.

I could post a stack of cutesy pictures and flowery verbiage, but if you are really doing it long distance backpacking is raw. It rips your guts out and then throws up in the cavity left behind. It turns you into someone you never were before and couldn't have envisioned.  You come back, and though everything is the same, you are not.

How could you be?  The fear is raw, the beauty is raw, the knowledge you are tiny and insignificant is raw.  Brutality is what happens when nature is in control.  One-hundred-and-eight degrees and no water for 30 miles isn't cute. Fourteen thousand feet up with 25 pounds on your back, altitude sickness, and dropping 5,000 feet in less than three miles isn't cute.  Poison oak, poodle dog bush, rattlesnakes, fire ants and razor sharp yuccas weren't messing around.  No sleep for over 4 days due to gale force wind in the desert sands - stakes won't work and neither will rocks until you learn to read the sand - and having to keep a tent up for your child isn't cute.  Losing 20 lbs you didn't really have, but still carrying 45 lbs for a 7 day resupply so you and your child don't starve, isn't cute.  Tying yourself into trees and laying on your child so the 85 to 90 mile an hour winds don't throw you both off the side of a mountain is nature in serious mode. (The wind was so strong it ripped the bite valve off my Camelbak).  That was just California.

You won't find much of any of that written here, because we discovered it wasn't about that.  All the stories, all the entertainments, seem to belittle the experience.  It wasn't some epic story; it was the reality that humans are so very unimportant.  Our over-ramped and inflated self value is our way of over-compensating.  We dramatize our existence because we aren't really living at all.  We have now seen things so beautiful it is hard to leave, so wild it creeps under your skin, so much joy in the tiniest things, so much triumph in the smallest moments, and so little of it really mattered in the grand scheme of things.

There is no way to really be present and miss the fact you are pathetic compared to the earth.  We can inflate ourselves all we want behind a screen, in our offices, or snuggled in bed, but Nature will prevail and ultimately remind you that you don't really matter at all. 

The Barracuda announced to one curious day hiker "I'm not a monkey; I don't dance!" after being asked the same question  for the fourth time that day. He was called a legend, a hero, and a stack of other flowery names for what he was doing and finally began telling people, "I don't want to be your hero.  You need to become your own hero."

Anyone can conquer the unconquerable.  He truly believes it and lives it every day.

The truth of the matter is, when you discover your insignificance at 7 years old, it is hard to ever be normal again.  The truth of the matter is it was otherworldly and no words can ever portray to you the ineffable.  The truth of the matter is that your house is safe and warm.  Your job is good, your spouse dependable, your life well scripted.  The truth of the matter is, you know deep down what lurks along the trail out in those woods.  Things get real when you leave society for a week-long stretches and resupply in only 18 hours chunks, when you sleep in a tent instead of a wooden shelter, when your clothes begin to literally rot off your body, when the simple act of food becomes a luxury forcing you into tears.  All of your society armor is gone and you are left with your dirty, smelly, starving, tired self and only one looming question, "Am I good enough?"

Then you realize the scariest part of all - no one even cares about the answer but you.

Regardless of the frigid temperatures, we would huddle together in our quilt and watch the scenery.  There are a few things in the world you should never take for granted.  Reverence for beauty is one of them.

Dad is another one.

There was a one section in Washington State where we had 14 days without much of a real resupply and plummeting temperatures.  For 3 days we didn't shed a single layer and hiked in everything we owned, including multiple pairs of socks.  In the same stretch there was a 13 mile bushwhack where The Barracuda would literally disappear feet in front of me due to the overgrowth and your body was ripped up with Devil's club.  In temperatures that low, with that significant a level of energy output, you can never eat enough.  Your stomach hurts constantly as you carefully ration your food and have to dutifully fight the impulse to eat.  In the same stretch the scenery was incredible.  We walked past Glacier Peak which is one of the few mountains (10,514 feet) which cannot be seen by any highway and must be walked into.  We hiked in what is considered some of the most remote and wild lands in the United States.  The days and nights were so crisp it was as if C.S. Lewis himself was writing your life in Narnia.  As The Barracuda and I huddled on a ridgeline trying to avoid the spitting ice, slicing wind, and regain feeling in our fingers and feet, he looked at me and said:

"You know what God is, Mom?"

"What do you think?"

"God is the voice that lives inside you that screams, and cries, and can't breathe all at once.  God reminds you that you are alive because He is here, but at any second you could die."

 There are no better words than that.

And so, that was our summer.  It was a summer to experience God.

When we came home from climbing Mt. Adams, Jules called The Barracuda outside for something and I paid no attention. I went inside to use the bathroom.  That is what moms do when they come home.  It is a rule.

Apparently, there was quite the adorable Siamese cat just milling around the woodpile and Jules wanted to show it to The Barracuda.

Now, is there a single mother in the entire world that doesn't know how this story is going to end?!?  

Meet Kitty Kitty.

Kitty Kitty doesn't have a formal name yet.  She just has a 7 year old boy's complete adoration.  He made a "house" for the cat.  He insisted food be purchased for the cat.  When Jules and I went to the store, he stayed outside, in the dark, just to talk to the cat. He didn't sleep much worrying the cat might be eaten or run away.  What is more, he has the undivided attention of this feline and she tends to have chosen him as her person.

Jules appears to be a bit hooked as well, since Kitty Kitty bears striking resemblance to a long lost pet from years previous.

....Remember that whole long distance backpacking thing?


...Pacific Crest Trail?


...Vicious Doberman named Guadalupe?


...Obviously loved cat whom someone lost and might miss?


Yes, Barracuda, we can teach Kitty Kitty to climb the ladder so she can sleep with you.  How can I say no to this face?

Some people react quite extremely to poison oak while others get only mild irritation.  I'm a mild irritation person when it comes to poison ivy and sumac.  They are annoying, but no biggie.  Apparently, not so much when it comes to poison oak.  Somewhere around 1500 miles, I came into contact with this dreaded plant.  I didn't know it until approximately one week later when I awoke with over half my leg blistered and continuously weeping.  It went down hill from there.

Don't worry, no nasty pictures.  Just a pretty Mt. St. Helens shot.

We decided to take a train home from the California/Oregon border and go directly to Urgent Care.  The lady at the hospital was very nice.  She grimaced at my description of the problem, flagged my chart, and told me she would put me on "fast track."  This is the nice way of saying 'stand aside and wait patiently without sitting on, touching, breathing near, or in any way potentially infesting anything so we can get you out of here as quickly as possible.'  I was also periodically informed to stop scratching and to wash my hands.

The doctor was also very professional.  He only recoiled once.  He did a very good job of concealing his disturbed shock when he asked how long it had been this way, and I responded, "Only about 4 days."

I was put on 2 oral steroids, one hardcore topical nerve suppressant, and oatmeal baths.  The doctor then began the directions:

I'm not allowed to get hot, sweaty, or irritate my skin.  No scratching. Regular bathing with special soap and a return visit if it doesn't begin to seriously clear up in 4 days. Anymore blisters aren't okay.  Any full coverage spreading (not tiny little bumps) isn't okay.  Any facial breakouts or crotch issues, aren't okay.  Wash everything you own. If it isn't important or it can be replaced, just throw it away. Most importantly, NO HIKING.

My face must have foretold my dislike of this last edict. I asked about short, 3 or 4 day hikes.  

 "No." 

 I asked about day hiking. 

"No." 

Weekend Warrior style? 

"No." 

Car camping? 

"No." 

I was not pleased.  I tried to explain about the closing of the season, about the snow in the Cascades.  I tried to talk about The Barracuda, 1700 miles in.  The problem of losing momentum.  The issue of each day lost being almost 30 miles, how that really tends to add up.  

"No."

 He was a very nice man, but wasn't having any of it.  In a quite authoritative voice he began to explain:

When infections begin to cover 80% or more of your body they reach a point of no return and must be treated like an invasive Staph infection.  I was at 75%.  Though only one leg, my butt, and my lower back were completely blistered and weeping now, in less than 2 days my entire torso was likely to become infected. Soon after my other leg would have symptoms.  The symptoms take about 3 days or so to appear and the reaction was too extreme not to have spread.  I was hiking in 100 degree temperatures, sweating, not bathing, using the same infected clothes and gear for days and generally doing everything possible to spread the poison.  NO HIKING!

 I did everything I was supposed to for 4 whole days.  Do you know how hard it is to go from moving all day long, to sitting your itchy butt all day long?!  We picked a gallon of blackberries.  We sorted through all the clothes The Barracuda had outgrown.  We sorted through all the clothes that we should give to the needy box at church. We did a trip into the city for a Goodwill run to find gear for eBaying.  We tried being lazy, getting coffee, and reading magazines.  Jules watched an entire season of Breaking Bad on Netflix.  The Barracuda read an entire chapter book in less than half a day.  We were going crazy.  There had to be something I could do that wouldn't irritate my skin, cause me to sweat or be overheated, but still meant we could do something.

Plus, I need to do a trial run to see if I could realistically hike anytime soon.  Things seemed to really be getting better. The infection was clearing up dramatically (though the doctor was right about the spreading).  I had been through almost all of my major steroid and gauze pads weren't necessary any more.

 So we went mountaineering!

Yes, the dog goes too.  She has a sweater, boots, and I'm working on fitting some microspikes.

Mountaineering met every qualification.  The air is cold, no overheating.  With adequate layering, you don't really sweat.  It was close enough to our house (less than an hour drive) meaning we didn't really need to go camping. I could take my required shower and regularly bathe since it was only a one day thing.  You are covering so much elevation that the pace is so slow you definitely couldn't be considered hiking.  Even better, you get up at 3 am, work all day long, and don't get home till after 7pm.

There is something quite wonderful about getting up before the sun and watching it slowly crest the top of the mountain.  The contrast between the snow, the sky, and the rock is always so striking.

The Barracuda is developing quite a thing for mountains.  After summitting Whitney, he is rather determined to take on more than a couple 14ers.  Mt. Adams has been a frequent playground of ours and his skill level is high enough now that we don't worry much.  This was mostlikely the last trip we will bring the harness and ropes for, and the pickets were left at home completely.

See, this is not hiking.  This is walking in the snow.  We were merely walking in the cold, cold snow.  No overheating. Totally acceptable.

People don't exactly know what to do when they meet a small 7 year old clad in mountaineering pants, steel 12 point front spike crampons, and wielding a very flashy ice-axe.  They are even more baffled when the see the dog.  So much of the time people tend to think of these sorts of activities being out of reach when you have a family or a pet.  Kids and dogs can climb 6,700 in less than 6 miles - think about it, that's only about a thousand feet per mile.  It is steep, and it takes determination, but it isn't un-doable.  Don't underestimate yourselves!

The boy has some unfinished business with that mountain.  Rainier is calling him. 

This next year's homeschooling curriculum is going to be dealing a lot with rope work, protection, and the math/physics/geological issues which come into place when mountaineering.  He has enough technique down the crampons no longer worry me, and his ability to Prusik out of a cravass far surpasses mine.  At this point he merely needs enough knowledge of alpine environments to work on his judgement calls and knee-jerk reactions in dangerous situations.

Yes, I climb mountains in a bikini.  It helps with that whole no-sweating thing.  Plus, the giant disgusting rash concealed by The Barracuda's head and my mountaineering pants make it far less attractive.  Generally, though, it is the most comfortable thing I've found to wear with all the sun exposure.

Mt. Adams stands at 12,326 feet and is the second highest peak in Washington, the third highest in the Cascades (Rainier and Shasta stand taller).  Sporting 11 glaciers it qualifies our family to join the Mazamas and makes The Barracuda one of the youngest official members to not be grandfathered in by a parent.  He was very specific that this whole "family membership" thing wasn't going to cut it.  He wants to take Intermediate and Advanced Climbers Education classes and Jules wants to learn ski mountaineering.  The Mazamas are sort of the top of the line for learning that sort of thing.  I kinda like the idea of weekends at the private, alpine lodge and the rescue/body recovery/life-flight insurance, but maybe that is just me.

Oh it is terrifying, completely insane, and really does feel like you are going to throw yourself off into the abyss.  Our family LOVES it!

The best part of the climb is definitely the glissade.  A glissade is the controlled slide down the mountain.  You remove your crampons (very important!), put on a coat and gloves, sit down, and proceed to slide hundreds of linear feet down the ice and snow using your ice axe to slow yourself.  On popular climbing days a rather deep trough is plowed into the slope by the previous glissaders.  When we went, the trough was over two and a half feet high on either side making the glissade much like a very extreme waterslide. You'd find yourself beginning to slide up the sides, swirling around the turns, and reaching some fairly terrifying speeds.  It was rad!  There was giggling, squealing, and cheers.

To most parents, putting you small person into a rather extreme snow chute and helping scoot/shove them off the side of a mountain without any form of protection might seem slightly negligent.  But it is seriously thrilling.  The Barracuda has only been sledding once, and at this point has no desire to go again.  Glissading just can't compare.  He is bouncy, laughing, and so hyped up at just the idea of the glissade, that saying no would be ridiculous.  Plus, forcing my child to slog down over 5,000 feet (you slide down darn near all the elevation gain) in crampons seems a bit more dangerous and cruel. 

Our son is a climber.  He has been a climber since he could barely walk.  I know I'm never going to stop him; he is far too determined.  Better to strap on a harness, rope up, and show him the appropriate way to self arrest.  It is a fairly awesome way to do some serious family bonding.

We were home by around 7ish and eating taco salad for dinner as it got dark.  I took my required shower, with my special soap, doped up on anti-histamines, and slathered myself in nerve suppressant.  I'm definitely not ready to hike.  Anytime I got even remotely damp from sweat or body heat my torso began to itch and tingle.  It was definitely a sure sign I'm still a few days off the trail.  However, I'm almost done with my extreme steroids (thank goodness because they make me crazy irritable and just plain angry for no reason) and only have to take the anti-histamines when I go to sleep.  All in all, it was a fantastic day. 

Even better, I only look like I have a moderate case of leperacy, instead of rolling in toxic waste.