Don't Hate, Investigate! Question 1


If you're struggling your way through the rough tunnels of guilt, pain, regret, heartbreak and all those unfortunate things, well....c'est terrible. And you're right, no one envies you. But on the other hand.....welcome to the club! The club of we've all been there. Once you've clawed your way through something truly rotten, you get instant VIP membership.

One of the most potent elements of negative emotions is that they create a facade of isolation, like you're walking around with one of those fish-bowl space helmet on. You are separated, no longer included in the world around you. This exclusion is something only you can perceive, but that makes it all the worse. If no one is aware of your internal isolation, then no one is going to reach on in there and yank you out. You are 100% alone in your heartbreak/anger/depression/guilt/you-name-it.
The tumultuous, lonely rapids of isolated suffering

As it turns out, you are never alone in your experience. Everybody goes through it. That's everybody- no exceptions. You can choose to battle the rapids of suffering all by your lonesome- but be aware, they're be steep, and studded with undercuts. Far better to pull the cork off, open up, and hop on the raft of human connection. It's still going to be a bumpy ride, but you are guaranteed safe arrival to the tranquil shores of resolution. Best of all, at the end of it, you'll find yourself with a gift to take home for keeps- the sweet fruit of empathy.
Arriving victorious at the island of resolution of happiness

The one pitfall is that we're programmed not to talk about it. This is a problem. It prevents people from being able to help you. It prevents you from being able to help yourself. Worst of all it renders all the empathy in the world useless, because you're not making it known that you're in great need of some.

My goal is to chisel through that isolation- not easy in a place as icy-cool as Seattle. If Seattlites had their way, they'd have you thinking they were flawless, tech-savvy, yoga-lated (that's yoga + pilates) subhumans that survive on shade-grown, fair-trade, organic espresso and probiotics and have never had a pit-stain.

This, ladies and gentleman, is a lie. They are liars. Though well dressed (in that casual way) and wealthy enough to have the townhouse and the prius, they are nevertheless confined to their own prison created by years of slight (never admitted) personal failures, social and sexual repression, sun-deficiency and the long ago but still lingering moments of great embarrassment they've never been able to get over because they won't talk about it.

And today, I am going to help bust them out.

I decided to start light. I thought of an issue that has been eating at me since I first went to boarding school at 15.

Then I went to the mother-ship of all the shade grown yoga tech-masters: Zoka cafe in Seattle's ever gentrified Greenlake neighborhood. I asked this question to everyone who walked in the door between the hours of 10 am- 1pm.

Have you ever secretly eaten your roomate's food, and then proceeded to lie about it?

The results: a whole lot of people.

Only a few nos and a few other I've never had a roomate. Then there was the hard-to-tally I've never had a roomate but I've stolen everyone else's food. Loved the answer, I'm going to give it an honorary 'yes' vote.

Best of all, I heard some good stories: office luncheons raped, morning meeting danish pillaged, chinese buffets riding home concealed in plastic bags hidden in the purse or breifcase, entire birthday cakes devoured before the birthday-person was even aware of their own celebration.

The results were so astounding that I felt a palpable throb of connection pulsating through the cafe. And now, of course, I'd like to extend the question to you. Less a question, and more an invitation to join me. To join us.

Have you ever secretly eaten your roomate's food, and then proceeded to lie about it?

Answer. Free yourself.



Ice cream: $4.00
Abercrombie shirt: $42.00 (free for Tino, he was a model)
The Human Connection: Priceless

The week in re-cap

Greenlake at dusk. Photo by the brilliant Matthew Sewell

It kicked off last Saturday night, when I was slithering through the medicinal herb garden at UW. Following that, I spent 15 minutes stealthily stalking the enemy who had infiltrated our side of campus and was now lurking in the bushes. It turned out to be a fire hydrant; minutes later the other team found the flag and the game was over.

The night carried on the Knarr Tavern, which used to be our local watering hole when 80% of the Seattle Ultimate crowd lived side by side in Ravenna. In fact, I used to be on a dodgeball team with bartender, Brad. Our team name was the Knarr Shipwrecked Social Club. Time had dulled my memory however, and I did not remember that the drinks were prepared dynamite-strong.

Three hours later and I was lying in my bed, bouncing off the mattress with each tremendous hiccup. Before I knew it it was morning and I was splayed in the back of Kyle's minivan wearing oversized sunglasses and a large Appalachian State Geology sweatshirt. We were heading towards the Skykomish, my favorite river. My favorite river with some of my favorite people in my favorite season blah blah blah.....I was dying. Surely I was dying. "Plenty of my friends are out partying all night and then wake up hella early to go paddling." I had exuberantly informed my fellow Knarr-goers. "There's no reason I can't do it!" Now I wasn't too sure. I couldn't even lifting my head, much less squeezing into a dry top, much MUCH less navigating Boulder Drop for the first time as had been the plan.

Things intensified when we pulled into a coffee shop in Redmond and suddenly everyone around me in the van was eating muffins. I couldn't handle it. I turned to the side of the car and threw up a gallon of the Knarr's worst all over the door. Unfortunate for everybody, admittedly, but I felt a touch better afterwords. I did a run of the sky paddling weekly but benefiting from rolling in the cold water. Of course, I walked boulder drop without a second thought.

The week progressed with record-breaking high temperatures. We made national news for enduring the hottest day ever, EVER in Seattle's recorded history. It was 104. Unaccustomed to the unpleasant burning sensation, the uptight Seattlites curdled. I had a nasty run in with one particularly tight one who ran across the street to me and yelled at me for taking my dog out in the morning. A native East Coaster where people generally get shot for not minding their own business, I unleashed a diatribe on her unfit to publish.

As the mercury climbed in a house with no fan and no air conditioning (both were completely sold out in the State of Washington) the dog and I melted into a puddle on the floor and remained there the majority of the day.

Thank goodness Ammen and Steph called when they did to announce an impromptu Hottest Day of the Week party on their or houseboat. We grilled and swam off their porch and, as if the day needed more festivities, we celebrated the inaugural Big Naked Wednesday by shedding the bathing suits like a group of overheated snakes and paddling around Lake Union. There was a half moon out and the skyline of Seattle glowed like the promise land.

In the late afternoons I go to Hot Yoga in Greenlake, although the temperature inside the studio is about equivalent to the temperature outside. I meet Lisa on the lake afterward to swim and dive at Greenlake. At night I drink marshmallow powder, aloe vera gel, flax seed oil, and half a dozen other medicinal potions to try and rid myself of the maybe-parasites that are haunting me. I read a book until 2 in the morning, when the upstairs neighbors graciously turn off their TV and the first cool flutterings of night begin to creep through the screen-door.

That about wraps it up. Tomorrow is the Skykomish downriver race and the beginning of another typical week in a Seattle Summer for the girl who has run away from reality, if only for the time being.

Tranquilicious


If you're in the Pacific Northwest, check out the Chaco Canyon cafe. Be sure to visit during the month of August, because I designed the featured juice of the month. I entered the customer juice with a juice I came up with that is both tranquil and delicious. I call it "The Tranquilcious." It's a combinatin of cucumber, apple and some other things.

It's a spa in a cup. Go drink yourself to health and enjoy! And tell them I sent you there.

This is not our fault


I have a friend named Cassie who goes to art school in Boston. In the evenings she rides the train beneath the city and decides that she's mediocre. I can see her, there in the rumbling twilight of the subway with the sodium lights flashing by, rolling this idea back and forth through her head like a marble. Deciding how it feels, if this is something she can get used to.

My sister is a musician. She performed in front of 2,500 people just a few days ago. She wrote and sings this song. And yet she still wonders out loud if she'll ever make it. She wonders what will happen to her if she doesn't.



There was a voice that one day fluttered into my skull and stayed there. I was working a job in Seattle and writing a little bit on the side and everything was going well. I had a small apartment and a car and was in only a little bit of debt and was doing pretty good by all accounts. And one day the voice started hissing. Is this all? You certainly are playing it safe. You are heading towards a life of nothingness. You will very soon be nothing. Not a terrible thing to be, it whispered. It's easy after all. But nothing is nothing.

It was unsettling. I listened to it and two weeks later had given away everything I owned and was on a plane to the other coast. It was winter there and so I was alone for a while. The voice kept humming. This is alright for now, but this can't last. We both know this can't last. So I went south. I lived out of a backpack and fell off waterfalls. Life was terribly exciting. My head was quiet and I sung in the shower to fill the silence.

Then one day on a warm, clear river, I got caught and trapped in a cave underwater. I saw black spots and I knew that my number was up. I was a dead girl. But then I went through a long dark rock tunnel and emerged in the current. I climbed up on an island and lay there, bleeding all over and choking up water. Something landed lightly on my shoulder. I turned my head and saw the little wings. Well this is just terrible, it said, how stupid are you? we both know this won't last.



The voice planted itself firmly in my brain. At the slightest tremor of synapse it would launch into a rehearsed monologue. Aren't you too old to be living out of a backpack? Shouldn't you be going back to school? You don't have a novel written yet, how terrible, you never will if you haven't yet. This is games, what you're doing. There is no future in this. Everyone you know is settling down and starting up a life that will last. Do you want to be financially stable? Do you? Do you even know what a 401k is? This continued until I left and went home.



Now I am back in Seattle. I have a long scar on my right leg. In about a month I'll have no money left. "I'm trying! I'll quit the school! I'll find a career!" I tell the voice at night, in the morning, in the car, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, when I'm alone, when I'm out with friends. "I'll put something in my savings account. I'll keep the house cleaner. I'll wear better clothes. I'll be nicer. I'll be a real person."

Good luck, it says. Odds are against you. Are you sure you want to settle down now, at this age? Shouldn't you have a few more adventures before you give in?

"I'll go back to the school then. I'll live in Chile. I'll do big things down there. I'll leave Seattle and everything here behind."

The worst part is, says the voice, no matter what you choose, you'll be wasting your potential for something else. No matter what you do, you'll be a quitter.

I'm not the only one. I know a boy who paddles class 5 rapids every single day, because it is the only way to quell the incessant marching of questions in his mind. Then he takes out and there they are again.

I know a girl who got married a few months ago. She tells me, "every two days, I know that this is the life that I wanted. But the days in between...."she throws her hand and looks off into the distance.

This is not our fault. It's the hallmark of the 20's. It's doubt and guilt and shame and hesitation and indecision. It is the absolute certainty that everyone else has got it figured out, knows something we don't, and will soon be coming into the small fortune they worked so hard to secure. They are making the headlines of the paper we're one day sure to be sleeping under.



I don't think we're supposed to talk about this. We're supposed to put our heads down and push on and put on a facade of confidence that, once it's night and we're alone, we unwrap from around our necks like a scarf: everything is okay. Everything is just fine. Maybe that's why it seems so important to be with someone else, because when they're around we'll keep it up. We'll keep it on. But it's always there.

What does your voice tell you? Mine reminds me all the time that my life is inadequate and I"m in big trouble, just in case I've slipped and ooops! enjoyed myself, or felt content, or excited, or proud, or inspired, or capable, or I've stopped thinking about the future for just one tiny moment.

I think the voice gets more dangerous the more we keep quiet. So, talk about it. Also, this song will help.

How I nearly sabotage a group of pretty little girls as I claw my way to stardom



So there I was, in a room full of pretty blond girls, pretty brunette girls, and pretty curly haired girls, all wearing tight, pastel workout clothes. It was like walking into a jewelry box or a box of lovely candies. Actually, they looked a lot like those pretty, pastel Tampax pearls. We did, I should say, because after all that hair straightening and make up and tight new athletic clothes, I looked just like them. Except for that they were 100 times prettier, they were actresses, and they probably didn't eat anything but a handful of fruit loops a day. I knew that I didn't have a shot.

Until....one of the pretty little tampons piped up. "When they say kayaking, they mean, like, a canoe...right?" She mimicked holding a single-bladed paddle with one hand and oaring on either side of her. A chorus of affirmations followed from the other little pearls.

This was my chance. None of the girls had ever seen a hardshell whitewater kayak. I had them all beat. They were going home. I was going to be the next Tampax pearl girl and make a million dollars and they were going to be broke, starving (not by choice this time) and alone on the streets of Portland. Also, they would be lonely, forever. Quite simply, I was going to live, and they were going to die. All because I know how to hold a dual-blade kayak paddle. Awesome!

"Oh, is that your portfolio?" One of the girls said, pointing to the file of my photos I had placed next to my seat. "Can I see it?"

"Hell no!" I shouted, snapping up the portfolio and thrusting it up my shirt. "Stay away!" What would happen if they were able to study my photos and mimic my perfect, perfect form? Disaster. I'd lose my edge. I'd lose my one shot at stardom.
"But I will give you ladies a hint." I said, addressing the whole room. You hold the paddle with one hand, and you put the other behind you back, like this. Now, every time you paddle, you have to bob your head up and down. Like this." I demonstrated. A whole room of Liz Taylor Eyes and Perfect Bone Structures nodded at me with reverence. "There you go! Just fine. They're sure to take you for a kayaker. And don't forget- serious kayakers cross their eyes. It's just something we do. You do want to seem like a serious kayaker, right?"


Oh, if only. Actually, when Dewey-eyes-and-perfect-bone structure asked to take a look at my portfolio, I forked it over. And then I gave the whole room a little tutorial on how to correctly hold a paddle, with the 90 degree angle in the elbows and everything. And to my dismay and disappointment (I was hoping for a room of cold, sun glassed, over-sized Starbucks cup carrying Hollywood types, like Mary Kate, or Ashley) all the girls were perfectly friendly, and very grateful for the lesson. I liked them quite a bit, actually. When the talent agent came into the room and called my name, I almost felt a little guilty that all of them would suffer deep disappointment -possibly depression- on account of me. After all, only one of us- me - would be chosen.

And then I stepped into the room of surrounded 360 degrees by video cameras.


(To be continued)

I'm *The New Tampax Girl!


This is an example of the commercial I auditioned for. My commercial will have a kayaker going down rapids instead of hanging out on a yacht. Truth me told I'd rather hang out on a yacht.

So the other day I got a message from a local boater about a talent scout looking for girls who whitewater kayaked. The message included the name of an Agent named Gordon Adams at BigFish Talent Northwest. I sent him a few photos and some of my acting and kayaking background (which could be summed up as limited, fairly limited, but that's not how I worded it.) The next day, Gordon called me and informed me that I'd been selected to audition for a commercial for Tampax that would be broadcast internationally. They needed a young, female actress who could kayak. Preference was given to girls with higher boating skills. "This will be big money," said Gordon as I walked down Phinney Ridge, having just crossed the street to avoid Herkimer Cafe because I can't really afford to buy coffee. "Big money."

Holy smokes! One minute I'm walking down the street with the dog, a normal Wednesday, wondering what to do with my life, and the next moment I'm walking down the street with the dog, a normal Wednesday, wondering what to do with my life, and BAM! I have an AGENT! I would have called everyone I know just to say "Oh, well, I just got off the phone with my agent, what's up with you?" But I couldn't, because my phone was broken (bath tub, slip of the hand) the keys didn't work, and I no longer had the ability to make outgoing calls. Something I could easily remedy once I made a fortune being the new Tampax girl.

The only catch was that the audition was the very next day. The fact that I wasn't an actress, skinny, sleek, tan, or anything like the boppy teens who frequent tampon commercials didn't phase me. All that could be faked. An example of me not being a sleek, tan, boppy, commercial-worthy teen. I am stuck in my dry top and drinking a beer. My right arm, as you can see, is stuck. This photo did not make it into my portfolio, although it should have.

The challenge was to memorize the scripts, apply to two talent agencies (one union, one non-union) print out head shots, put together a portfolio of kayaking shots, get directions, print out a resume, buy the necessary clothes, get my hair and makeup done and get to my 4:00PM audition in Portland Oregon the next day.

Somehow I threw it all together. A handful of high school plays and a few instances posing in a sea kayak for a photographer friend expanded on my resume to a lifetime of theatrics and modeling. Three and half hours in a car with no AC, unable to touch my tricked out hair or my made-up face which was almost melting off in the 96 degree heat, and I made it to Lana Veeknar Talent Agency with an hour to spare.

It was to be my last trip in a rusty 1995 Subaru. After I got the commercial, I planned to switch to chartering a private plane.

What happens next?! To be continued!

*not

Seattle Searchlight presents the Best of Seattle Everything, Part 1

What would you nominate as Best of Seattle, in terms of bakeries, pastries and places to play outside? Leave a comment and I'll check it and and see how it compares...
I'm in search of the best of Seattle. The best of Seattle Everything, that is. So far the search has included the best bakeries, pastries, iced tea shops (formerly known as coffee shops but I can't drink coffee anymore, which is so sad) and the best outdoor activities. These are all good things to test. Infact, I think the search will continue to focus on these things throughout the summer, although it may expand to include bookstores.
Today was a test day. In the morning I tested Honore, the bakery on 70th and 8th. Macaroon #1 was passion fruit with dark chocolate filling, macaroon #2 was lavender with milk chocolate filling. The result? Definitely makes the shortlist. Could be a winner. But we have half of summer left to eat so let's not be hasty with our adulation.

It was a foggy day and Juno and I decided to test the North Bend area. On our search for the trailhead of Mailbox Peak, we found the middle branch of the Snoqualmie running dry (usually a good run to paddle).Then we hiked around for a while. On our way out we stopped and ran up Mt. Sai for good measure. The result? Every one's a winner! Great wilderness only 34 exits outside of the city. We left in the morning and came back at night, and we barely had enough energy to go to Whole Foods and look at unidentifiable animals atop mini cupcakes at Whole Foods. (Frogs?)

Question o' the day: who would you support?


If you had enough money that you could live well but also give well....which charity would donate to? Assume you could only choose one. Why?

When my ship comes in, a substantial portion will go to Planned Parenthood. They are a remarkable organization that does good work to people in every walk of life. They put into practice nearly everything I stand for. I don't know how they survived the bush years, but things are probably looking up for them now that Obama is in the Whitehouse. They have a lot of crazy (and powerful) enemies, so everyone who works there is pretty damn heroic.

I want to know your choice, leave me a message.

Toast



I last wrote in Asheville, North Carolina, still one of my favorite places on the planet. Thank goodness Yonton gave me the aforementioned place to keep my marbles, because a few days later I was thrown into a tumultuous existence where most people would have lost it. Somehow, I managed to keep it (mostly) together.

I drove from WV back to Asheville, to the Talulah Gorge in Georgia, to Rock Island TN, back to West Virginia, to Ottawa city, to Vermont, to the Ottawa River, back to West Virginia. During that time I experienced storms of all kinds including freak southern snow storms, was imprisoned in a Cleveland, TN hospital, lived out of my car, burned up with a fever, was facebook de-friended more than once, lost 15 pounds in three quick days, paddled the Ottawa river at 22 feet, had a few screaming arguments, spent my entire paycheck on gas money, ran the New River Dries and the New River Gorge successfully, consulted an energy healer who told me I was 'covered in death' and swam above the strainer at Middle Keeners while my friend Gilad shouted "KEEP FIGHTING!" in Hebrew. I learned how to hate, which may after all be a necessary tool in life. I learned that sometimes the boldest act of defiance is to stay, other times it is to run away. The key is to determine which is necessary.

Like a long trashing on the river, knowing if I pulled my skirt I would be toast, I kept fighting and managed to roll up in the safety of Seattle, and then I let go.

Now I'm back in Seattle, and the thought of leaving makes me itch.

I finally have a place to keep my marbles

So I woke up 5am in the wintry New England Dark sleeping under its crust of old snow. I drove down to Asheville where it's rainy, but it's spring, and it's young. It was the most enjoyable drive, I relished every minute of music on the radio and all the pretty land streaming by the window, these Northern States blending into Mid Atlantic becoming south land as the sun fell and finally disappeared. I'm starting to wake up and realize how much I missed this country when I was in Chile. In Pennsylvania you drive through Amish country and you can look up and see their horse drawn carts passing overhead. And on the radio I had Adrienne Rich live at the Y on 92nd with her ethereal voice and sublime poetry, and real coffee in a climb high travel mug and everything was alright.

Now I'm here in Asheville staying with Yonton who, like Adrienne Rich, is both sublime and ethereal, and a million other good things. Last night we went climbing and then he took me out to The Bistro for my (belated) birthday. We ordered every appetizer on the menu and I drank my fill of blueberry martinis and lemon drops. He gave me two birthday presents, one from Israel and one from China, both of which will come in handy for my current lifestyle. I told him a story that lasted for 2 1/2 hours and holy smokes, he listened intently the entire time. (That's rare quality in a person.) We finished the evening by reading aloud from Etgar Keret.

I love Asheville.

Today I slept in and then went out to eat with Astral at this barbeque place. It was covered with outdoor stickers so I found premium wall real estate and tagged it with a handful of Go Huge stickers. Then I hung out for a while at the Astral warehouse and checked out color swatches for new Ladies PFDs, can't wait for those to come out. What a cool as shit company! Can't wait to work for them at OR this summer.

So now it's one more night in Aville, then on to Boone! I'm going to tag Boone, climb a bunch of mountains with Will, run around town, maybe run a river (but maybe not, I like this 2 week kayaking hiatus) and then on to Fayetteville and 4th quarter with Huge.

When I settle down and all that, it's going to be in North Carolina.

Wing Walking

Well with college behind me and the radio telling my future is in a shlump, I decided to become a wing walker. Why not? It was a crazy thing to do, seemed like a good move, and the glory! (There was some money to be had, too, if you played your cards right. But I have not played my cards right for years, not since a single Go Fish victory with my cousins during the summer when I was eight.)

I was pretty good at it, a natural they said. And while I was never entirely sold on wing walking, I liked it okay. I was probably the only half-hearted wing walker to ever exist. I had five good friends who I met on the wing. They were flying fanatics and good, solid characters. But they all went in one season.

Jamie said that there was nothing like the rush of the wind beating at your face and your ears popping like fireworks, or a marching band. He was a wing walking lifer. But I watched him tumble off for some reason I'll never know, there was no turbulence or anything. It was like something invisible hit him hard in the knees and he buckled, swooped his arms once like an epileptic ballerina and then he disapeared. We hosted him a small vigil later that week, mostly other wing walkers. His family, it was reported, had long ago given up on him. (They say when you start wing walking, you are doing up there doing a tango with death and one day the music will stop. That's gauranteed.)

I once heard Evan, drunk on limed Corona light, going on and on about the relationship that develops between the wing and the sole of the foot, how any relationship with any woman on the planet was incomparable. (How we woman love to be compared to foot and aluminum! And lose!) He fell on his mother's birthday. Landed and split open as most of them do, opening up like the colors of an exotic flag. Or a smashed birthday cake, if you were to really stretch it.

Anyway, I shouldn't need to go on. I do not wing walk anymore.

The Yesso


I am in the back of the truck driving with the boys up the craziest road on the planet. To our left is a cliff and below that the Yesso creek. The road is narrow and crumbling gravel, pot holes the size of play holes. We are stopping every few minutes for our Chilean truck ritual. The truck overheats and we have to unscrew the top off the boiling radiator, dodge a shower of frothing brown scalding water and then pour in more water to cool it. It's so hot out in the desert that the truck is blowing up every mile or so and we eventually run out of water.
Good thing we were born at the right time and things generally work out in Chile, we turn a corner and find a roadside waterfall cascading down some real power. We powerwash the truck, fill all our water bottles, fill the radiator bottles, jump in and lower our body temperatures by a collective 68 degrees or so.



In the back of the car with me is Nelson, Jason, Jackson, Stephen and Lorenzo. Lorenzo and his brother Pangal, riding in the truck, are our guides for the Yesso. They are a brilliant section of the brilliant family who owns the brilliant land on the Maipo. Lorenzo at 22 once played soccer for the Chilean national team (juniors) and is now on the Chilean national rafting team. He also adventure races, speed climbs, kayaks, and boxes. Everything he does, at one point or another he did it professionally. Including smile:
His brother, Pangal is also guiding us. And by us I mean the boys, because I don't paddle creeks like the upper Yesso. Pangal and Lorenzo are two stars in this crazy constellation of a family that owns land on the Maipo, Trancura and Futa, carves mansions out of mountainsides and fights against power companies hell bent on damns with bow and arrows. I am speaking in pure literal terms right now. Here is Pangal:
We drive and drive and drive....if you haven't noticed I don't know how to write any more but I will give you some visuals. It is hot but not unbearably so because of the wind going by in the back of the truck.


So then we get there, after all the explosions and the waterfalls and the redhead smile meteor showers. We unload the trailer and the boys get ready to meet the Upper Yesso.





And then they headed down the cliff:

and then David and I drove the truck down the desert mountain with the mangy goats chewing irrigated grass all over the place, but this time the truck didn't just explode every mile or so, but this time the whole rig broke in two and the trailer flew off the truck and drove itself into the hillside. We had to dig it out. It was hot under the sun and there was a group of students who had paddled the lower Maipo who were waiting for us to pick them up on the banks of that brown river, many miles away. So while the Yesso boys are pounding down miles and miles of continuous class 4/5 rapids:


David and I are back to the same old routine:


only this time, it's more interesting:


Thankfully there were no boats on the trailer, only a bunch of random gear and paddles, which we transferred into the truck. And then we had not choice but to lock up the trailer the best we could and leave it behind, for now. By the way, the trailer was built by master woodsman builder and blacksmither Serjio, also the father of Pangal and Lorenzo. This trailer will be rescued and will be with New River forever.


But for now, we've got one group of students with boats baking on the banks of the Maipo 15 miles away, and in three hours, a dozen very exhausted creek warriors and all their gear and boats will be waiting at the take out of the Yesso. And tomorrow, 19 of us and all our gear and all our boats have to get to Santiago to catch a flight back to the US.

And for all this, we've gone one pick up truck. Life is never boring.









Birthday part 1


we celebrated my birthday yesterday because I made them. I'm sick of losing my birthday to the international date line. one time i was in Aukland and someone broke into the van and stole everything and i had to sit and watch everyone cry and my birthday cake was ignored in the hostel fridge. that could have been a sad birthday except that it wasn't, because I was a very very lucky person and I still am. i do wonder, however, if that birthday cake is a six year old piece of blackforest ice in the back of that freezer.

anyway, Tracy gave me a dreamcatcher, which is funny because the reason I am here is because of a dream....

Jason and Nelson just arived at my table. So I am going to stop blogging and talk to them. Goodbye.

exploding, erupting and 32 sleepless hours and counting

12 hours in a van with an exploding radiator. The began in the false, giddy energy of late night driving- david at the wheel and me in the passenger seat. We alternated between riotous laughter (the kind that hurts, the kind where you actually want to stop laughing, the kind that makes the two would-be sleepers in the backseat glare) and incredibly strained silence (the kind I'm not so good at) as we listened to the truck hiccup and watched the temperature gauge go from 0 to 60 in under 5 seconds. Yes we were trying to drive the spine of Chile, at 1:30 in the morning, in a truck that was responsible for the evaporation of 65% of dave's sanity. The first time the truck died, we coaxed it back to life and limped back onto the road, we figured our chances of actually making it to Pichelamu were nil. This posed some serious logistical head-scratchers, considering all the kids were up ahead cruising along happily into night, their precious little eyes closed, dreaming of the 20 foot breaking waves they had been promised. Snuggled in cozily, warm and content in their comfortable camaraderie, built by 6 months together on the road.

Actually, the van ride wasn't like that at all, it was in fact so apparently hellacious that when we finally did pull up to Pichelamu many many hours later, the boys weren't talking to the girls and the girls were barely speaking to each other. But what of it. I have fond memories of many a squished night time van ride with the kids at AQ. Of course, I don't speak to any of them anymore. But what of it.

So there we are, David and I, speaking pure nonsense, reading road signs aloud (what could be more hilarious!) telling jokes involving elaborate dialogs that never reach their conclusion, and trying to freestyle rap. We find a temporary fix for the busted radiator and are able to continue to pull on, underneath a scattering of stars that looks strangely different from under the equator than above it, less pure, more dusty. Every hour or so, the truck starts to smoke and we pull over, unscrew the radiator cap using my striped bath towel with utmost trepidation until it blows, a guiser of frothing water. We pour more water into the radiator and then search for the radiator cap with a weak headlamp, down on our hands and knees on the roadside. Trucks roar past us so close I could reach out and tap them as they go past.

Leaving Pucon has so far been no easy task. First the volcano upchucked all over the futa valley and now the truck, which, in the grand and geological scale is really comparable, but it sure does have an effect on us, heck yes it does.

At 2:30 I hop out at a pay toll and take the wheel. All are asleep. I ignore the radio and the strange bouquet of unreleased American 90's music and Mexican Merechee. Instead, for 5 hours straight, I sing every song I've ever known, all the sea shanties, all the folk, straight down to the Jesus sledding camp songs that I learned (unbeknowist to my parents) Boymers' kitchen table. I think my three compatriates would have preffered the unreleased American 90s and the Mexican Merechee but what of it.

And every hour or so....the little radiator ritual.

I gave the wheel back to David at 7:30 but couldn't fall asleep....we stopped, kids and all, for breakfast and a few minutes into it I found myself sitting inexplicably before a Collasal hamburger. What was I supposed to do with this? Then I did the Robot with Palmer and Julia in the parking lot for a little bit, and then back in the truck and I tried to sleep.

Only David had just purchased this CD at the roadside breakfast place that could have been used by tortureres inducing sleep deprivation. UNDER PRESSURE!! ICE ICE BABY!! DUN DUN DUN DUDUDUD DUN! SWEET DREAMS ARE MADE OF THESE!!!" and this was blasted and followed by rounds of riddles and finally 1t 12:30 in the afternoon we turn into the dusty, carnival-y, beach town of Pichelamu.

So no sleep yet and the kids are storming around. I am very confused now about everything. We are staying in fantastic two story cabins, but the staff cabin isn't ready yet. So the kids gear up and hit the beach with their boats and I fall into a pile on one of their beds.

It's nice, and it would be nice to sleep. So nice. But then. Just as I'm starting to sink down into a delicious dark rest, one student comes back early. Sits on her bed adjacent to the one I am curled up in. Opens up a box of cereal. And starts to eat it. Dry. Handfuls.

It must go on forever. This poor girl, she doesn't know that the one trigger for my inner maniac is the sound of chewing. I don't remember much of what happened next, only that I avoided an ugly situation by bolting out of bed and scrambling fore the staircase. She tries to say something sweet to me and I just keep running, down the stairs, into the bathroom, under the shower. No where to go. No where to sleep. Must not wring any necks. So I shake off the water (can't use my towel, if you will remember it is soaked in water and radiator fluid. I walk into town. Everywhere is signs for completos, papas fritas and empanadas. I harbor my first dark thought about Chile: do they have anything else to eat??? and then feel immediately bad. I'm just tired, right? NO. my thoughts swing bag. no, the truth is I'm sick of this country's pride in their overloaded hot dogs!! yes, and while we're at it, NESCAFE should NEVER pose as COFFEE.

These are terrible thoughts. I must calm down, I must find sleep. I sit down at a restaurant and slug down three juices to take the edge off. Two papaya and one peach and tuna melon beauty. I feel a little better. I wonder if I'm supposed to be anywhere. Perhaps I will pay off and head back to the cabins, see if my bed isn't ready for me yet. Ciao.

10 hours to Pichelamu


about to say goodbye to Pucon and all the rivers and hydrangeas of Pucon, and drive through the night, 10 hours in a crowded Pick up truck. We'll roll in in the morning to a surf town, ocean waves, the Maipo river and God knows what else. Can't wait to get on it. My only worry is that there will be no roadside coffee places like the ones that string the highways connecting NC to VT.

Speaking of, I'll be home in Vermont in about 2 weeks, turning 24, and then driving to NC for spring break before the second quarter starts up in West Virginia and then progresses to Canada and the Ottawa.

night of sickness, language

I hitchhiked to town today in the slender lunch hour. I don't speak much spanish. The driver who picked me up was going on and on. I could tell he was asking me a question. So I turned to him and told him the truest phrase that I can say in Spanish:

"I like melon juice."

And then he let me off at the corner in Pucon.


Last night was a blur, kids sick, crying in their rooms (sickness in foreign countries brings out the homesick), sleeping on the floors of their bathrooms, asking for Sprite, for Gatorade, turning away from water in disgust. Trop in his room rocking a fever and glowing with sweat, people stumbling about. I bleached the bathrooms, scraped girls off the floor and depositted them in their sleeping bags outside under the stars (fresh air the best remedy.) Sat at the foot of beds and told stories, wiped away tears, doled out Sipro, chilled Sprite. I boil potatoes with butter and salt for Palmer, Tracy and poor Trop. David was so so smart, giving us an armory of liquids and medicines and soup. I've never seen a stomach virus hit so virulently and all at once in a group! Usually it's more of a domino effect thing. Well when it hits all at once there is sort of a festive feel in the air. I walked into the boy's cabin and found a group of them sitting around the table, it was past curfew but they were up just trying to feel better. Making runs for the bathroom. I cleaned up another bathroom, sat on the edge of a bed and put my hand on a forehead, wondering How long till this hits me?? And then as I'm walking away Keegan calls from his room...patheticly....."meellinaaa?" Yes? I walk back to the cabin. "Oh, Keegan's just trying to get a sprite from you" says Isaac, who is hovering near the bathroom. Keegan who is healthy as a horse. "OHH!! MAN! MY STOMACH! SOMEONE HAND ME A TRASSSSHHH CANNN!!!!" I peer in his window. He's lying in bed cracking up. "I REALLY REALLY THINK I NEED A SPRITE....." I fall down laughing, exhausted. We're outa sprite, buddy. And I do not advise you to share with the others.

I walk back to my tent amongst the refugees...my term for the healthy kids who sleep outside to avoid the germs, and then the sick kids sleeping outside just to get some fresh air. They are talking to each other back and forth. Having a funny little sleep over. Then Jason, one of the healthy ones, sprints past us to the bathroom. "Jason, how are you?" I call. He answers, "NO BUENO!" And starts to throw up. The others lift their heads. "It's true. The plauge hath laid a dreary palm upon Jason."

In the morning, Jason is still in the throes of it, and two of the other healthy kids are sick, but the others are much better. They march up to the staff cabin and I dole out Sipro into their open hands. Trop is up and making breakfast. Everyone has bright eyes. It's Tracy's Birthday. And another day is upon us.

The plauge!


I wish I had the time for complete sentences. Last night I felt something tugging at my throat, as I was sitting on a bed inside one of the cabins, listening to Emery read me a poem she wrote. Then I walked outside and sat down in front of the fire where David and Palmer were sitting on white plastic lawn chairs, having a conversation about which tools they identify with. (David: Paintbrush. Palmer: Screwdriver.) "Stud finder!" I chime in and crack up laughing. Now, Palmer is the best laugher I've ever met and I've met some laughers. She nearly topples over in the chair, she hits my knee and practically screams 'oh Melina, you're so ENGLISHY!!" As I laugh I realize I can't breathe through my nose. Uh oh. So I go lie down in the tent for the night, and thus begins the night of misery. The barometer in my head plummeted and I thought it would explode. I was coughing and spitting out the tent door all night and slept just enough to have an anxiety dream about having to miss my world lit class.

Went I woke up and staggered through the woods to the cabins I found that Palmer started puking in the night, and so did Tracy. And so did Trop. And Ian. And Jackson? Who else?! All of them were happy and healthy yesterday. We had the best workout so far, with attaining, ferrying, boatcross, playing, and something called Wave Wars that was like boatercross in the hole, I avoided it. Everyone was happy as I've ever seen them....well, whatever hit in the night hit hard! Everyone is sick, lying in their beds in the cold film of sickness and sweat. Not easy for kids to be sick in a foreign country. David was running around doling out soup, sprite, gatoraide and Cipro. When he saw me, he conjured a cup of tea with half a lemon cut up in it. He can do about 10,000 things at once.

I started to feel a little better and was able to spend the afternoon bleaching bathrooms and bringing people soup (they groaned, turned away) and tea (they groaned, turned away) and cold sprite (this they accepted.) Then I bought a giant chocolate cake in town and told the healthy kids that if they did a good job in the rodeo (they were exhausted, we were supposed to go to the hotsprings today to chill out, but plans change when half the group is erupting like volcanoes) then they could devour the cake. So they took off for the river, the rest of the group lay in their beds, and I escaped the germs (with the exception of my own) and went into town to get things for Tracy's birthday tomorrow. I'm sitting here in Trawen hoping that Mellon juice is the panacea that it tastes like it ought to be. But now I feel like I have a fever rising in quick intervals with every passing minute so we'll see what happens next...

the fall-out


We had our bags packed for the futa. I had taken down the tent, for once ahead of the game. I ran into town to buy chocolate for the Futa, because the town is a hours away down are-you-joking roads and there are no supplies. We were planning on filling up the truck with food. I was thinking about the 12 hour ferry, sleeping outside while the wind whipped by, Chilean stars above and sharks below.

And then we got word that the Chaiten volcano erupted and the town of Chaiten, where the ferry was to dock, was evacuated by the Military. The roads connecting the Futa valley to Argentina were covered in ash and the air in the town of Futa was difficult to breathe.

I am thankful to everything that prevented us from getting to the Futalaefu River, the chaos and miscommunication with the ferry, the downed websites and the tangle of language. I am so relieved not to be stranded in the Futa valley with the water darkening in the river and ash raining down. Adventure is one thing. But Adventure when you're in charge of the well being of 13 wide eyed and eccentric students who you've (however exhausted you are) completely fallen love with, is something entirely different.