The kids on earth

I've been listening to a lot of Billy Collins in the past few days. I have a recording of him reading live from a collection called The Best Cigarette. His voice is measured and paced, and his words are so familiar that I can have him playing as background music when I work. He was the National Laureate, one of the most poetic voices ever to come out of the United States, yet his work is so accessible. Effortless and calming. He writes a poem called Morning that I love.

this is the best
throwing off the light covers
feet on the cold floor
and buzzing around the house on espresso

Whenever I read a certain author for a few days, their unique style begins to permeate my thoughts. I begin to see things as I imagine they would see things. When I read Etgar Keret, the sharp and anguished voice of contemporary Israel, I feel compelled to do bizarre things just for the sake of doing them. I want to play tricks on everybody that I see, shrink down and hop into a glass of gin and tonic. I want to walk around with a knife blade. All so I can can live like the cutting, absurd characters inside The Nimrod Flip Out.

Thank goodness Keret's stories are served straight up and short. A few pages at the most. I read a story every now and then, then put the book back into the freezer where it lives.

Lately, I've been listening to The Best Cigarette during the day and reading 1Q84 at night. Between Murakami's wrought-iron impossibilities and Collins simple, eloquent observations, my perspective in the past week has shifted. I am less caught up with how things feel, what they might mean, and absolutely entranced by how they appear on the surface.

I get absorbed in very simple things like texture, contrast, light, weather. I find myself staring at things.

A series of storms hit the city this past week. That night we came home from skiing, the city was asleep, muffled and white. Cars had turned into buried shapes, shapes without angles like strewn boulders. There was half a foot of powder on the ground, glazed in a sheath of ice, shimmering and hard as if the whole town was a sort of baker's fairy tale, covered in meringue.

That night we went touring through the narrow streets of Capitol hill, skis hissing as we skinned past the absurdly sized brick mansions. The snow glowed yellow in the sodium glare of street lights.

For the next few days, sealed into the chilled neighborhood, we were handed this little unexpected vacation. It snowed without pause as we passed the time with the most ordinary and satisfying things- listening to music, writing story outlines in freehand, drinking whole bottles of champagne and orange juice in a single afternoon.

After a few days like this, the temperature inched up a few degrees and another type of storm took the reins. Rain began to pound, hour after hour. The snow crumbled into grey slush, which melted into streams that ran ankle deep in the streets. It was impossible to stay dry. Walking the dog was miserable. Driving was still not recommended. Just stay home, pleaded the man on the radio. So we stayed home. It was the only sane thing to do- seek out friends, pour more drinks, let the vacation continue. We're very safety minded. 

I want to watch the rest of the winter go by like this, water in its many forms throwing the city into chaos as we give in and stay in and hang out with each other. Windows in the packed cafes were fogged up and steam was everywhere. There was literally water everywhere.

And then, the very next day, the sun came out bright and hard, shrinking the last bits of snow. Suddenly there was green grass everywhere, and black shadows. Hardly a trace of winter at all. It felt like when someone yells at you all night long, exploding in anger, throwing dishes into walls. And then that person collapses in a chair, falls asleep, and wakes up the next morning smiling. How are you this morning? They ask. Would you like some coffee? Do you want to go for a walk? You hesitate. You want to believe that this peaceful spell will last, but you're walking on eggshells.

We don't trust sunlight.

The city felt like the rubbery rain planet in the Ray Bradbury story, the one that suggests children are cruel by nature. The rain stops only once every seven years. On that one single day when they can go outside,  they shove the earth-kid into a closet and lock the door.  When I ran into friends around the lake, they were doing the same thing as I was: looking around, blinking, grateful but bewildered. Feeling the almost alien sensation of solar heat on our bare arms.

The light and warmth of that one precious day must have stirred something in the atmosphere. In the deep blue evening that followed, as the last of the rain whistled into the gutters, the third storm began. The wind storm. Crystal and Baker Mountain closed down chairlifts as gusts blew upwards of 90 miles an hour.

In the middle of the night I woke up suddenly, sleeping like a star in my bed with my arms thrown out, every door and window banging loudly in the misaligned fixtures of the old wooden house.

Heavy wind is my favorite spectacle. In the morning I took the dog to the beach, where it was almost impossible to walk upright. She ran around like mad, her fur blowing straight up. She was howling like a wild dog. I thought she was going to be blown out to sea, out where the wind was churning white caps out of the normally placid sound. I thought again of the lyrics I'd once shared with Stephen-

trust, devotion 
lust is like the sand where the beach meets the ocean

In a little protected spot between the water and the train track where the rocks had been spray painted pink, we found this. I'm not sure exactly what it was- someone's alter to somebody else- but it looked important.

There was blue glass on top of the alter. Blue glass is a symbol for good luck in love. I read that in a book somewhere. I once wrote a short story that ended with a scene on the beach, two people smashing blue vodka bottles and throwing the pieces into the ocean for somebody else to find. I could never think of a proper beginning for that story.

That morning, I'd been collecting pieces of sea glass to put in the glass jar that lights up, a lantern Will made me for my 25th birthday. He'd given it to me halfway filled with Watauga river glass. I put the pieces I'd found on top of that pile of rocks instead. Good luck to somebody, somewhere. I hope it finds you, and you do good things with it. Try not to fuck it up. It's so easy to fuck it up.

 My mother says I need to swear less but I can't seem to quit- just one more, mom: Holy Fuck, what a week. 

Life Uncommon

I was in the passenger seat. We were all playing songs for each other.  Rum melted easily into hot chocolate which melted quickly into my bloodstream. We were driving away from the mountain in the evening, one of those warm car rides where every muscle is tired and every bone is tired and your brain stops humming long enough for you to realize that every dream you had as a kid is happening.

You can't feel this good unless you earn it. Unless you wake up so early it hurts.

You must have the proper tires, so you can disappear from the city in the storm before the real chaos ensues. When the morning light is still blue.

To every worthwhile adventure, there is some degree of fear. That blissful drive home is earned only by the moment when you drop into a trail and realize you shouldn't be on it. On this day in the snow, I felt that familiar feeling of being on the river, confronted with a rapid I don't think I should run. I shouldn't be here. This is dangerous. This was a mistake. Whoever brought me here is going to die.

But then...

But then, when I look around and realize that the powder will protect your fall, and Chris is smiling at me, saying "We apologize!" and then floating away, especially when I remove my ego and my neurosis and realize it's not actually that bad, I'm not under water, after all.

Every day I spend paddling, incidently the happiest days of my life, had this one crystalized moment of fear. Where I close my eyes in panic, think  how did I get here. How did I end up here, again? What did I do wrong?

Only now am I beginning to understand myself. I work hard to be here. I work hard to find these moments when every tissue is engaged and every synapse is focused and I'm alert with adrenaline and anger. When it's too deep, too steep, there are too many fucking trees, my skis are buried and lost and everyone is waiting for me.

I swear to God it's the only way I can learn anything.

But here's the difference between skiing and paddling. In skiing, you can breathe. As long as you remember to, you can breathe. Just try and keep warm.

And yeah, the pain in my feet from the last adventure made every movement a trial. I skied miserably. But who gives a shit? I mean that. Who gives a shit. Not them:

Which is exactly why I am the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. 

(Except not that lucky, because the menu at Steven's does not include Chicken in a Basket. No mother fucking Chicken in a Basket. That's the only reason I skied from years 8-16 was to eat chicken strips at the lodge. Come on, North West, with all your vertical grade, with all your "pow", what is going on here? Why are you missing this most important thing. Thank God I'm old enough to drink beer.  Even if most of the service industry in Washington State doesn't believe me.) 

That day at Stephens, while Seattle buckled and broke under three inches of snow, Chris, Andrew, Daniil and I froze and thawed, froze and thawed. Froze under the winds of the lift and thawed as the turns brought us back down. 

And it got a little easier, when I realized halfway through the day that I didn't have to follow anybody. Unlike every other sport, I could just go go it alone. Inbounds, it all ends at the same place.

  And you know what, boys, we'll always have the chairlift.

Riding lifts is decadent. It's cold and it's all play.

And then the ride home.

You remember what it feels like because you've been there before. You sink deeper into the warm seat, blood returning to your fingertips, forehead against the cold glass of the window. Andrew is playing me Dylan songs and I'm playing Andrew The Weary Kind. You think, I have absolutely no interest in the world except for things that make me feel exactly like this. We stopped somewhere for what- coffee, milkshakes, water.  I leaned towards the mirror in the bathroom and studied my wind-burned reflection.

Back on the road, I closed my eyes and let the whole day wash over me like a pleasant memory, but one that keeps on recording as soon as I open my eyes. The car is this bubble of music and safety from the harsh cold and the snow and the road, and I'm so tired I might be hallucinating, unless I'm really lucky and it's all real. 

"then he hears you speak

And says, "How does it feel

To be such a freak ?"

And you say, "Impossible"

- Bob Dylan

A Rousing Round of Pain Comparison

Last Saturday saw my complete transformation from a cool, composed, avalanche-savvy, skiing back country no-big-deal kind of hot shot to a crying, convulsing mass of wimp, writhing in the middle of a snow crusted parking lot as day trippers and their dogs gingerly stepped over me. In just under five hours!

A personal best.

****

You may be wondering, at this moment, about my use of hyperbole. "What she really such a hot shot at the beginning of the day? Was she actually convulsing? Could it be that she is just exaggerating to make me want to read this?"

Honorable questions. 

I will say this. As we were gearing up at the trail head, I felt like a million bucks. My general pre-adventure excitement was laced with the clear-eyed, stoic certainty that comes with beginning a long journey. On this morning, I was finally becoming a backcountry skier, a process that began a year ago when I first started to aggregate the expensive and elaborate set up. 

To everyone else, I looked like a normal girl with unusually thick hair putting on skis with maybe not so great balance. But sometimes I write about how things feel inside of my own head instead of how they are in reality. It's much more fun that way.

To answer the second question, yes, I was actually convulsing at the end of the day. Just my legs. But still. 

You ready to hear the story now or what?

I've been downhill skiing since I was 8 and I love it. But the one bad thing about skiing is it requires you to wake up early. I have a really hard time with this. I'm so bad at it that even setting an alarm makes me  anxious, and I have to distance myself from the reality of the situation. I'm like, 6:00? Yes, I recognize that those are numbers. I'm going to program this onto my phone and at some point it will make a noise, and I will rise from bed and I'll be awake, just like I am now. This will go fine. 

Then 6:00 am rolls around and it's terrible. It feels like I'm deep under a pond of pain. I'm always surprised by just how bad it actually is. I've nearly pulled the plug on my life's best adventures because of how miserable I felt in the morning. I always toy with the idea of calling my friends and trying to explain the gravity of the situation-"you don't understand, I think there is actually something wrong with me. I feel very heavy. I can't move. I was having a dream and now I'm very disoriented. Go on without me." 

But eventually I do get up, pull it together a little and slump my way to the shower. After the shower I sit on the bathroom floor with my head in my hands wondering what life is all about and why it has to hurt like it does. What kind of God are you? Then I put my clothes on. I load the car, turn on the radio, crank on the heater full blast, listen to a few good songs on low volume, sip some water and steer the vehicle towards somewhere that sells coffee.

If I can get to this point, I think -maybe. Maybe I can keep this up. 

This is how Saturday morning begins. By the time I meet Erika and Chris at the park and ride, I'm just beginning to side with the the Let's stay awake and give this day a try side of my brain.  

It's snowing heavily on the drive out to the Cascades. My extreme highway-in-snow anxiety is a nice perk up, and I'm wide awake by the time we get to the trail head. Awake and feelin good. As I pull my gear out of the car I have this really smug feeling because I'm on my new AT set up. I've got an avalanche beacon strapped to my chest and a shovel in my pack in case I have to dig out a comrade. And I'm going to be good at this, I can just feel it. I am one hell of an athlete, aren't I. 

So I'm acting all confident, cracking a few jokes, attaching my skins, giving out nods to the people schlepping by in their snow shoes (slow shoes!) and cross country skis. Hang with me now, guys, but we're gonna blow past you and go places you can only dream about. Because I'm not sure if you've noticed, but these are AT skis I have here. All Terrain.

No wait- that's not right. Alpine Touring is what I meant to say. Damn it I do that every time. These are Alpine Touring skis. As in backcountry. As in, I ski backcountry all the time. As in 'I might not make your birthday party, depending on snow conditions in the backcountry.' It's just much cooler than anything else ever. Yeah, I earn my turns. Yeah, my cheeks are always this windblown. Is that my boyfriend on the cover of that magazine about snow? No, but it could be. He does look just like that. 

I am one solid tour away from being that girl. It's all I've ever wanted. 

Then I try and put on my boot, and this is when when things start to go wrongity wrong. 

***

Getting your AT boots fitted is a relatively involved process. The dude at Second Ascent covers your feet in gel packs, heats the liners in a special oven and then presses your feet into different positions inside the shells for half an hour. In the end, the interior of the boots are perfectly molded to your feet and obviously very comfortable.  

The one important thing to remember is that you, as the owner of your feet, have to do a little bit of communicating with the dude. As in, "That's too tight." Or, "I think my toes are jammed." Or, "Why don't we try a larger size? These don't feel right."

This is especially important for someone with severe frostbite scarring and needs extra room in the boots for warmers and three pairs of socks. I'm referring to myself here. 

And I had a difficult time with it, the communicating part. Not because I have any problem stating my opinion or asking for what I want. Far from it. It's just that my self assertiveness goes up in smoke when someone touches me. I love being touched. I become the most agreeable and easy to get along with person on the planet. My best friends know this, and whenever I'm being overly excited or difficult about something (which never happens) they'll just reach out and stroke my arm and I'll become immediately quiet and docile.

One year ago,  I went into my neighborhood gear store with the intention of buying a perfectly sized and extremely expensive ski set up. What ended up happening was that I got a kind-of foot massage for an hour and walked away with some boots perfectly fit for a twelve year old. 

Also, the dude doing the fitting was a little suspect. He kept calling me 'Man.' He kept saying, "I only do this job so I can ski, man. Just so I can get out skiing. Man, I hate working retail." He'd push my foot down into the shell and it would hurt, but then the warmth of the boot lining would start to relax me. "I just hate working with people, man. I think I just hate working." 

And I'm sorry to say it, but him squeezing around on my ankles was probably the most physical contact I'd had in months, so I probably started to connect with him and by the end of the conversation I was just like, you're right. This isn't about me and these boots I'm about to buy. That was rude of me to even think like that. Let's talk about you and how terrible it is that you have to have a job. 

Then I gave him four hundred dollars and took the boots home. I did one quick tour with them, up and down at Hyak mountain, and was so busy congratulating myself for being such an adventurous jack of all trades that I didn't notice the blue and yellow bruising in my feet the next day. And then a year passed.  

So here we are, it's this beautiful winter day, and I'm feeling like a total champ. Except I can't fit my foot into my boot. I shove my foot down, then raise the whole thing and whack the boot on the ground with all my might. My foot is being compressed in every direction- pushed in from above, up from below, in from both sides. It feels like something is trying to squeeze my toes to touch the bottom of my heal, making my foot into a loop. Foot loops.

After I squeeze both feet somewhat down there, then I have to fasten all the buckles, which is  excruciating. There is no way I can leave the parking lot with my feet and shins in that much pain. But, if I leave the boots completely unfastened and pulled open at the top, I can sort of shuffle around. We start skinning up, and I immediately drop behind. I'm dragging my feet, not getting any distance into my strides. 

I'd always thought that when I finally made it out touring I'd look really pretty doing it, but also unusual and mysterious, like Taylor Swift on skis. But I don't. I look like an old person trying to walk on the beach.

Chris waits for me around the first turn. "How do they feel?" He asks. My response is something confused and indefinite, like "....I feel.....ahhhh....?" I don't want to turn around, but I don't want him thinking that this is how I always look when I ski. 

He frowns. "If your boots don't fit, we can just go into North Bend and get sauced. It's not worth suffering for." Erika nods in agreement. And I know they're both sincere about turning around and giving up a whole day of skiing. I've managed to sift through the masses of self involved assholes in this outdoor world and find the most un-selfish people in the whole tribe. 

But there's no way I'm going to admit defeat this early. I've been so stuck in the city lately, feeling irritable and antsy, working in front of the computer convinced that this is it, my life is no longer fun, just put me on an ice flow for chrissake. I have to get out and ski.  The thought of sitting around all day, then getting home before dark to sit around some more is far more excruciating then the pain in my feet.

Three hours later, when we're still skinning up, nothing is more excruciating than the pain in my feet. To keep my mind from shutting down, I play a little game. I call it the pain comparison game, and it's a lot of fun. "Is this more painful than...frostbite? Is this worse than migraines? Kidney Failure? That time I broke off the top of my pinkie in the door? Tonsillitis? What's worse- this, or that one time my foot caught on fire?" 

You know when you start to fall in love with somebody new, and you are just out of control into them, and it dwarfs every feeling you've ever felt in the past? You say to yourself, This thing I feel for Luke is the real deal. The stuff before this was just child's play. And while most of you is in wholehearted agreement with this conviction, there's a little part of your brain going, 'But that's what you said about Cam two years ago' and you're like SHUT UP. YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. THAT WAS NOTHING. 

That's what severe pain is like. It's immediate amnesia. The bone-crushing steps of right now trump any flaming foot of back then.   

And that's how I come to the decision that this is the worst pain I've ever felt, ever. The scenery, however, really is beautiful. Top notch.

But eventually, I give up. "I don't think I can go any further," I say, looking down at the ground. "I know we've just skinned up for three and a half hours and we haven't gotten to the skiing yet. I'll just sit here while you guys go up." Which is essentially saying, I'll just lie down here, remove my boots, and take a nap. When you come back, I will have died. But go- you deserve it.

 Because Erika and Chris are not assholes, they refuse my offer and kindly suggest we ski back down on the track we skinned up on and call it a day.

To have any control whatsoever on the descent, I have to lean forward into the boot, which feels like driving a screw driver into shin splints. So I give up control. Fuck turns, I'm going straight down, gasping loudly the whole way. Not crying exactly, but crying out with every exhale, which makes it a lot better. I actually use some of the techniques I used in my doula class. And you know what? They don't work. Sorry ladies. Fuck the breathing. Take the epidural. 

And this is how my backcountry career ends, at least for the day- all whimper, no bang. I keel over sideways besides the car, writhing and trying to rip my boots straight off. I want the jaws of life. I want to cut them open with a hack saw and then bash them to pieces with a monkey wrench because these boots have literally ruined my life. 

Chris takes my boots off for me. My feet come out all bruised and alabaster and numb. I climb into the car, finish the rum, wrap a down jacket around my head and pass out, awash with self pity. 

But! It only lasts for about twenty minutes, and then someone has propped me up at a table at the North Bend Bar and Grill in front of a plate of Super Nachos. I drink two beers, get immediately drunk, and start planning a multi day touring trip with Chris and Erika and all our friends. All of the friends! Because I did so very well on this tour.  

The very next day, I limp into Second Ascent ready for war.  But, you know, I'm polite about it. I'm re-fitted into new boots two whole sizes bigger than the first pair. "How did this happen the first time?" Asks  the very nice guy who is helping me. I shrug. "I don't know, man. No idea."

By the very end of the day, I have new boots, new linings, inserts, and adjusted bindings. And just in time. A huge snow storm is whirling its way into Seattle, so Chris and Andrew and I are planning an early escape before the whole city falls apart. I set my alarm for 6 in the morning. This is going to go great.