une carte

One month ago,
I purchased a world map.
Not an engrossing wall mural waiting to be tortured with pins,
but rather a timid foldout
with Europe and Africa placed centrally, Asia to the east leaving the Americas far left.
Whimsical, hand-drawn watercolor pictographs of mountain ranges, cites and countrysides are surrounded by ocean hues of blue. I am reminded of my 6th grade history textbook and smile.

At first, it just sat in in the corner, propped up carelessly,
resting atop less important papers,
I ignored its significance.

Today, I caught myself flirting with its folds, brushing a finger across Cameroon, down into Namibia. How might I traverse such miles of desert? Winter or spring? Would we skip South Africa, continue East searching out a sailboat to crew, direction Madagascar? Vietnam for Christmas?

I'm liable to stumble down Alice's rabbit hole....

playing possum

Another week at the hospital, the clinic- treating patients with numerous aliments, Tuesday smells like Thursday, the days blend. Ticking cowardly, the clock's rotations slowly bring me closer to another anticipated weekend.

The legendary Umpqua River beckoned us forth, a summons for adventure. Cramming the truck with toys- climbing gear, crusty mountain bikes, guitars, books, Moose Drool and wine, we headed down south. It was almost midnight when we pulled into the camping spot, friends were still awake howling at the moon. Throwing my futon atop the dirt, tentless as always, I slept heavy.

Percolating coffee waifed through the woods, entering my senses like a dream luring me into an awakened state. I thumbed through the local guide book, my fingers stopping, lingering over the words, "...sections closed, too narrow, super exposed, must walk..."
I looked around, wondering if anyone could see my perverse smile? Perfect! an 18 mile out and back along the Northern Umpqua River.

4.5 hours later, Jay and I returned no less physically intact, but indeed mentally harangued and teased. This addiction to steep, harrowing rides has got to stop before someone gets injured. But not this weekend, as a brief liaison with The Woman in the Meadow awaits at Smith Rock, and Surveyors Ridge a favorite single track east of Mt. Hood calls.

To be completely exhausted, body worn ragged...
Adrenalin seeking refuge, body jostles under muscle memory of a hard day's ride.
We slept under the darkness of a new moon, stars exposed above us, melting into the snug makeshift quarters of the chilly night.
Our last morning gave way to pure sky azul with sunlight rays warming the air. We played possum, languidly tending to breakfast, guitars and reading while basking under the radiant sun.
Summer is beginning to fall from fashion, calling on its fall and winter wardrobes. Not ready to succumb to the inevitable rain, diminishing daylight hours and vitamin D deficiency, I fight until the end devising an escape route.

sushi, dungeness crab, mountain biking and climbing- these are a few of my favorite things

Saturday finally barged in and pushed me on the highway heading south, away from Portland's dreary weather. Last week's storms moistened our parched earth, ensuring a rare summer weekend free from billows of dust that lodge in the lungs and coat the nares black. Communing with nature was utmost on my list, as if 7 days rafting the Main Salmon (link) had not sufficed.
I had spent the last few years exploring Bend's single track atop an archaic 920 Trek with failing brakes and no suspension, and was eager to dirty my new Fisher on Jay's pick of the day: Shevlin Park and the Mrazek Trail.

The first 4miles meandered along a generous river trail with lush foliage and flat terrain; I began questioning the seriousness of this trail, wondering if I had been mislead for the map's black diamond and difficulty rating, or perhaps lost. With my guard down, the trail suddenly morphed into its true nature, the beast exposed- a narrow, technical path dispersed with jagged lava rocks and prickly desert shrubs, switch back elevation gain and narrow pine tree corridors. Save a swollen left shoulder, a broken chain link and an out of tune gear shifter, we completed our 4hour out and back just in time for dinner and beers at the Bend Brewing Co(link). With salted smiles and sweaty shorts, we found our way to a gaudy rented house on the Deschutes and unable to keep my eyes open or chat with the other Portland contingency, I drifted off to sleep.

Awakening to the growls of a hungry belly, we headed straight for a favorite at Smith Rock, The Sun Spot- a guaranteed basic of eggs, bacon, toast, hash browns and hot coffee. We pulled our tired, weary bodies inside and found a 20min wait. The waitress offered outside picnic tables and with the morning warming up, we placed an order and waited for coffee. Without blinking an eye, she pulls out two cheap Styrofoam cups and begins to pour. "Styrofoam! Wait, we want regular coffee mugs," exhasperated, I looked around wondering if anyone else suffered the same fate. Guess they can't serve glass outside and there was no way on this beautiful Sunday morning, I was going to have my first cup of joe in Styrofoam. Bemuttled, I left unsure whether I had already paid, and sought out the only other restaurant in town.

Seeking solace, we drove on to Smith Rock's northern most parking lot, wherein lies a lonely trail leading to some of the shortest, yet arduous climbs out there, all shadowed by east facing columns. Woman in the Meadow was our find, an innocent 5.11 overhangish, killing me until the second to last clip, climb. I just couldn't finish it, unable to fully focus and wrap my head around the goal, I was too scared to jump for that last, "are you sure it's a bomber hold?" hold. High step, lie back, crimp, back step, twist encompass the lower sequence, the day was spent working the wall, avoiding any thoughts of setting up a TR. My new nemesis. Loading up the truck, we headed back for Portland.

Fighting the waning light of Sunday evening, unable to succumb to the thought of Monday, we pulled over one last time just south of Hood River, east of Mt. Hood to attempt Gunsight ridge. For the last two hours of sunlight, we danced in the forest with our bikes.
I ended with a solo performance endo, tumbling poetically over my handle bars. Following suite, Jay flew upward, sending the bike onto its side, both remained unscathed.

It was a graceful end to a sensational weekend.

Yeti Airlines

May 2008, we left for Everest in a cramped jet built for 15, including the crew, and endured a harrowing 35 minutes to Lukla Airport. Built on an incline, the 900ft mountain slope runway decelerates the plane to a screeching halt and within an hour, it is reloaded, circling around for takeoff. The nose lowers toward the abyss, rolling down with the speed of gravity as it first dips and finally begins to climb, delivering its prey back to civilization.

Returning home, legs weary and spent from our rapid descent, 8000 ft. since Everest Base Camp, we arrived in Lukla exhausted and a day early. Expecting to escape on an earlier flight, our ignorance surfaced as we learned the reality of such a request. Only three airlines have rights to this airport and only ideal weather grants access. Yetti Airlines held no promises of an early return to Kathmandu. Nightmare rumors of 7 day waits and planes turning back midway were feeding my fears of an extended stay.

The next morning, we dragged our feet to the airport and awaited the dispatch, had the planes left the city, would they land, could we go home? By midday the airport's dilapidated gates were once again locked and we were diverted back to our overcrowded tea houses. San Miguel beer, the consolation prize, was running low.

Another sleepless night, cheers and songs culminating from a group of successful Taiwanese climbers tossing back bottles of Rum, I awoke restless and anxious. From the window, a heavy layer of morning fog dampened spirits as the growing number of trekkers waiting for pending flights reconciled their fate. We were stuck another day.

At 10:30am word spread- four planes had left Kathmandu. A warm wind pushed at the fog, allowing a small window of opportunity.

Three planes were able to land, ours the auspicious third: Yeti Airlines, embossed with a large green bigfoot bobbled onto the runway, the cargo was emptied along with the new round of virgin trekkers. Moments later they herded our nineteen sweaty bodies, packs and gear into the steel vessel, propellers spinning, we headed down the roadway, cheering.

A Sunrise over River Ganges

Sunrise on the the River Ganges, a romantic wooden boat ride with bamboo oars awaits at the dockless Ghats, 325 now vacant palaces built by kings with narrows stairs descending to the river. Never mind the occasional dead body or cow floating by, as this is the pilgrimage taken by most Hindus. Ceremonial crematoriums line the river, sending smoke signals to the destroyer god Shiva. After a river washing the blazing wood catches the golden wrapped body, 4 hours later the remains are set afloat.
Children under 5, death by snake bites or small pocks, eunuchs and priests I have learned are not allowed to burn.
Rowing down river, the Ghats are filled with morning rituals of bathing, washing, singing, yogi and fishing. Swimmers maneuver around bodies, boat paddles and floating offerings of banana leaf candles wreathed in marigolds.
It is said for clarity, one should dunk in these waters, but I am unable to persuade myself.

Harri Krishna

Leaving Agra, home of the Taj Mahal, in attempt to catch an overnight sleeper train to Varanasi led us on a wild time chase with our Harri Krishna taxi driver. Thinking 12km = 20min we had no worries, until the smell of rain engulfed our senses. The beckoning lightening storm closed the skies just as govt. road work narrowed our passage. Our determined driver whirled us through games of chicken, swerving opposite traffic, and par for the course, no head lights. We were cruising until a grid of cars, cows, rickshaws, trucks and bikes came to a halt and chaos ensued, 5km from the station. He shook his head, prayed to Krishna, I prayed to Krishna.... We would never make the train, not tonight. Rain fell, horns screamed, people coursed, we were all stuck. What seemed hours later, Krishna answered our prayers, parted the streets with his hand of blue and blew the clouds westerly aside. We whirled on, brainstorming the next plan of attack.

Skidding into the back side of a dark alley, our driver jumped out of the car, yelled at some kids who came flying over, grabbing at our luggage and ready to take foot. "Station," he pointed, "Go, Go." With that, I grabbed my porter and we fled, toward the dark station, up the stairs to our track and there we found the delayed train. Smiling in between rapid breaths of relief, we tipped everyone for their gallant efforts.

This is India, Indian time and the train was later than our furtive driver, 4 hours later to be exact. At 1am we finally pulled from the station, jostled through sleeping passengers and found our beds, 10 and 11; of course we had to oust a squatter from my bed, but that's another story.
Namasté Krishna.

Bangkok arrival

Ten hours flying west with the ever rising sun, my body fooled into thinking there was no need for sleep. Layover in Tokyo, my first footing onto the Asian continent. Lingering through the airport, kiosks filled with tentacled squid cellophaned for quick take out, boxes of green tea mochi, cafe sushi and crazy electronic bubble wrap items, a fav with the local girls. Tokyo, another journey for another time.

Little time between stops, we were ushered onto the next jet destined for Bangkok. Finding 18J, I wedged myself near the window and immediately dosed off into a glorious slumber.
Darkness had finally overtaken 18 hours of sunlight as I wondered from customs, 10:15pm Thai time. Tired, my body moved toward the easiest solution a bright, yellow Kiosk offering local taxi and hotel services. I realize I am no longer the young, I can handle anything resilient hippie chick I thought I once was, rather an aged, quasi-resilient hippie chick, weary-eyed traveler seeking trouble-free accommodations.

Bellies rumbling at 1:30am, a venture into the cooled midnight air finds eateries encased only by aluminum roofs, scattered tables and chairs, families sharing meals, local police sipping rum.
Crossing the street is akin to a successful game of Frogger, there I find an elder man standing behind his delicacies beckoning a look, recognizing only fresh fish amongst the gastronomic art display, I smile, anchor to a table and reassure my belly.
King Fisher beer was ordered, anxious to try the local beer I ordered "the same," and instead got a bottle of "Beer Chang."
Satiated yet exhausted, I fell into a slumber.

tenacity

Infected at a young age, the unyielding fever came on slowly. Far from bed ridden, I was unable to remain still or sleep, I found myself preoccupied with hallucinations of traveling, social justice and saving humanity. This fire lurking beneath my bones, I later discovered, was not shared by everyone and often misunderstood. This disease became apparent in high school, I was an apathetic, punk rock sophomore failing the public alternative system of Tucson, Arizona.

Under that balmy, monsoon evening of November 1986, the Iran-Contra Affair spread through suburban living rooms across the nation- the US had been supporting the Contras through Iranian arms sales, a hostage release, Oliver North, Ronald Regan lied to the people and national human rights watch along with catholic organizations were accusing the US backed Contras of human rights abuses. El Salvador, Honduras and Nicaragua were making headlines.

How one transforms into a Sandinistan, FSLN, supporter escapes me- discussions on the high school campus, rallies, protests, media? It's all unclear; but I awoke from my fever tearfully enraged, my country supported brutality and bloody violence against innocent civilians (where has my tenacity fled?). Feverishly engaged, I unearthed my first sense of direction, a paper entitled, A Reconstruction of the Iran-Contra affair. Much to my mother's chagrin, my mission discovered: a high school in EL Salvador had recently been pillaged, students had been injured, several teachers were abducted and those remaining were in need of educational resources, funding and supplies. Rallying for local support, I ended up with more than imagined. The student's supplies came pouring in, a van donated, my crazy leftest teacher agreed to drive us and in May we were to begin the road trip south, 1984 thousand miles to El Salvador.

Ignorant, naive, impressionable, wide-eyed, intentional, humanist...
How would I describe that girl today, should I meet her at my door, pleading for funding or support?

She never made it to El Salvador that month of May 1987, instead she learned she was with child. At 16, she altered her trajectory inward and decided to save herself, her daughter.

Political affairs have altered, but the pillage has not. My daughter, now 20, is ardently claiming her own path. The insatiable yearning for travel never dies, there is no cure. Sometimes there is no purpose or destination, just a raw hunger eating at the soul.

Sweating, tunnel vision, shallow breaths... Two open jaw tickets to India purchased, with less than two Sundays, three nights from the full moon of May, feet will swoon under Indian soil.

slacking into spring

Randonnee bindings clasped tight in preparation for a weekend of spring turns
we 4 decided to take to the road, molest the mountain
tagged with discounted season passes, a dusting of fresh snow and the naked sun
we hit the resort playground of Mt. Bachelor
slush puddles confined the empty lift lines, there was fear of rubber cement runs and ruddy tree lines
only die hards prevail, we carried on to the summit
and oh holy rollers
rapture

Video

curiosity

I don't remember when I first loosened the lid atop the tempered Tupperware container, but I will never forget the murky bath of bobbing teeth.

Before the besiege of seat belt laws, I would lie on my back, legs dangling over the seat of the station wagon, eyes connecting the dots of torn ceiling fabric, while my mind engrossed with the rows of pearly whites in the plastic tub, wondering-
were they real
could they taste

did they stink
could I fit them into my mouth?

Escaping the wagon, I, a pigtailed girl of five, shared in the rituals of our family gatherings: smooches, ear tugs, bottom pats as the kids were shooed outside, allowing adults to catch up over cocktails.

Tossing ants into entangled spider's webs, turning mud into quicksand, bandaging wounded fort prisoners, I would often forget the curious pool of teeth awaiting upstairs. But by evening when I could stand it no longer, I would sneak into my grandmother's bathroom and stare at the white enameled soldiers standing in formation.
Curiosity prevailed and my right hand forced a finger through the frothy water, creating waves, drowning the militia men. I'd raise the curio from the crypt to my nose. The odor redolent of decrepit elderly tickled my gag reflex; but I could stand it. My cousins exaggerated dry heaves and puking sounds before collapsing to the floor. Teasing me, they would race outdoors staying until bedtime, uninterested in my scientific wonder.

That summer of 1976, I learned many things-

the teeth were false

they had no taste

the stank

and they did not fit into my mouth.