Forward

. . . chilling out with the New River Academy down in the Nantahala Gorge. And though I thought it would be just me and them, rough-housing and telling ghost stories around the fire and paddling like normal, it turns out I was wrong. We were in the midst of a big competition, the NOC shoot out, and the kids, normally isolated in the rugged backwoods of Nowheresville, in the region of Bigwater, in the country of WayOffthemap, well, they were excited.

There was music playing all day over the wave, and people all over the place. We paddled in water that was excruciatingly cold; when it got to be too much, we sat by the riverbank and watched it all go down, or we lay on our backs in the grass and took naps while the sun beat down on us and the whole scene just floated by.

I ate lunch with the little monsters, who bought me iced tea and ice cream. They lectured me on leaving, why I shouldn't have left.

Zoe and I went for a walk, Zoe who used to be a sloucher and a mumbler, Zoe who used to be 14 and homesick and scared....

Zoe said, "You know how you told me last semester to speak up, and walk straighter, and hold my head up, and get people's attention when I wanted it?"

And I said yes and I held my breath....

"Well," she went on, "I haven't forgotten that. I live by that now."

Yeah, it pretty much felt like a thousand champagne bottles were being uncorked inside my head, and every good teacher I've ever had was toasting me.

It was so easy to forget how much I missed my dog when I worked with the school, and how much I missed real coffee, and how much I wanted quiet and time and space and all the elements....and just how hard it could be...when the kids all looked so bright, and happy, and excited to be competing. They transformed from kids who play video games over lunch. . .

into kids who shred. . . .


And when night fell, the lights came on, and the music kept booming, and they kept on shredding....


When finally the lights went out and the river started going down, the kids went to sleep in their hammocks, swinging from the trees. I stayed up late and drank beers with some of the staff, talking about the time we outran a volcano, the time we sat in a lodge near the Argentina border as it rained for seven days straight, the time we nearly lost our minds by the ocean.

And then Tino and I went to sleep in the tent, and stayed up late killing hours with words, talking till our voices turned edgy and cracked and eventually faded, and then we slept.




I left the next afternoon. I could have stayed another day, but there didn't seem to be any reason. Everybody was doing so well, and I had things to get home too.

Moving forward is the only way to move. The river teaches us that. Rest assured there will always be things waiting for us downriver.

And that every time you trade in, you trade up. No matter how it might feel at the time. Because it's only natural to go forward.

Every time you run away from something, you're actually running toward something else.

May God continue to bless you, long after I've stopped saying it


Will and I are driving to Georgia. He has allergies. He sneezes a lot. I have no patience for sneezes, or sniffs, or anything like this. Our long drive looks something like this:

hour 1:
*sneeze!* *sneeze sneeze!*
me: God Bless you!

hour 2:
*SNEEZE!*
me: woah, big one! Are you alright? Bless you!

hour 3:
*sneeze!* *sneeeeeeze!*
me: maybe you should take something for those allergies.

hour 4:
*sneeze!* *sssNNEEZE!*
me: bless you. take something.

hour 5:
*sneeze!*
me: take something.

hour 6:
*sneeze sneeze!*
me: silence. Turn away and look out the passenger seat window.

Then he puts on Reggae music, and oh I don't like Raggea very much. Ooohhh rasta...rastafari....they like to sing. It annoys me. I try to put on my music but he told me all my songs are too depressing.

Everyone is always telling me my music is depressing.

They're all correct, it really is.

It don't pay to live like that


I thought I'd just spend one night down in the gorge, but I ended up staying a few. It was good to be living like that again, the river on the left and the fire on the right, sleeping on the hard ground. The first night I g on rail road walks, one-on-one with nearly all of my former students


We jump in the van and drive around the off beat towns of North Carolina, buying food to throw into tin foil and cook over the fire, shouting at each other over the music. In the front seat Tino says to me, "Those kids are overjoyed to see you."


At night, I drink wine from a water bottle, it's calm and quiet out and everyone is asleep. I lie back on one of the picnic tables thinking & thinking & thinking. Later on I crawl into the staff tent and lie down on my sleeping bag, spread out next to Matt and beneath Tino's swinging hammock. We're whispering- when we remember to- and Matt and I talk for a long time, until he's asleep, and I'm hovering close to it but still I'm thinking & thinking...

It would be so easy to roll away with this river life. To take a job teaching kayaking here at NOC, live in a tent or a house made of plywood and glue, live off of beer and sun, maybe develop of a taste for liquor. Spend the whole summer encased in the Gorge, surfacing in Asheville every now and then, a long 70 miles away.
Dog, sure. But me? I don't know. That's the thing, I DO NOT KNOW what I want.

Working at New River was like trying to teach algebra to a three ring circus. There were earthquakes shaking and volcanoes erupting all around and we had to navigate ourselves and someone else's kids around them, down big rivers and through customs at the Santiago airport and into the Canadian border, and try to give them an education and try to get some sleep at the same time.

Now, it's so easy to just drop in....you have all the time in the world to play and paddle and run around and take walks and listen to them...you do not have to plan for classes or teach them, or file discipline reports or do endless food shopping or worry about logistics or vans breaking down or study halls. And the kids are nice to me, you know? They're in good moods. Clay even gives up Shotgun to me without a fight. Without a word, even. Rest assured, it is not always so easy.

But being a visitor into your old life poses its own risks, I suppose-


Shoot-out surprise

Last week, I put a boat on the car, and a sleeping bag in the back, and the dog in the passenger seat, and drove South. Spring had exploded in a party time uproar down there, and each tree was either white with popcorn blossoms or purple with candy beads.
The school was just in West Virginia and I visited them just last week, killing a possum, exploding a bird on my windshield, hexing myself and driving away from a gas station with the gas pump still in the car (which led to the tongue lashing of my life from a West Virginia meth head) in the process. But now....there they were in North Carolina! My state (my current state anyway). I had to go visit them again, and this time hope less roadkill, black magic and people yelling at me. Let me advise you, if you ever have a friend or two (or 16, in my case) in the same corner of the country, take a day off and drive down to see them . . .
Under normal circumstances, the world's most alternative high school exists within its own world, alone on the banks of some rural Chilean river or packed like sardines into the little house in Fayetteville. Under normal circumstances, it's just us....making our own entertainment, causing our own trouble.

. . . this was no normal circumstance. It just so happened to be the big Shoot-Out at the NOC. . . a freestyle kayaking rodeo competition that boasted a 10,000 cash purse. The place was just crawling, literally crawling with kayakers and pros and big names and friends and strangers and people 'in the industry', a huge sound system boomed over the cold, cold river, there was beer and liquor all over the place, and at night there was a garish light thrown over the wave so we could paddle till midnight.

It was a bit....as you can imagine....

more to come....

Make it possible: be a part of it

Quick public service announcement! Read this and I promise to reward you, in the next post, with a ton of bright, sparkling photos.

So maybe you've noticed a difference on The Wilder Coast lately. If not, let me point it out: I removed the Google Adsense advertisements that appeared on the sides of the blog. They were too flashy, too distracting, and, in my opinion, really brought down the appearance of the blog.

More importantly, I did not have any say in what was being advertised. After seeing ads for a few things I would not choose to support myself, I decided to nix the ads altogether.

I wrestled with this decision for a while, because Google Adsense advertisements actually allowed me to generate revenue off of this blog. Because I spend about 30 hours per week writing, editing, and photo editing for The Wilder Coast, this income was much needed.

Instead of the ads, I have added a "donate" button on the side of the page. If you enjoy the stories and photos brought to you on The Wilder Coast, consider giving a donation! This will make it possible for The Wilder Coast to continue providing humor, insight, photos, work breaks, study breaks, empathy....and anything else you might gain by reading.

As well, you'll get a beautiful thank you card, hand made by me, including your choice of printed photo from the blog. (Unless you donate anonymously, then you'll just get a lot of good energy sent out to you.)

Any little bit helps! Thank you!

Lastly, I am still a proud member of BlogHer publishing network, so there will still be two BlogHer sponsored ads at the top corner of the page. I have complete control over what BlogHer advertises on my site, and I am happy to host them.
I hope you enjoy the new, cleaner appearance of the blogs. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for reading!


Real Time




I talked with my friend Ammen yesterday, who mentioned that he loses track of where I am and what is 'real time' on this blog. The truth is, I usually write about something a few days after it occurs. There are a few reasons for that. Time being one, photos being another, and taking some time to process everything being the third. If I wrote everything in the heat of the moment, I'd never be able to edit anything out, I'd want to keep it ALL in there because it's ALL SO important! The wilder coast would be terribly boring.

But today, I am writing in real time, as I sit here writing down directions and waiting for CDs to burn.

Today I'm driving to the Nantahala Outdoors Center for the first play boating of the season. Also, to see these guys:

I'd better get moving.

Getting after it


This morning I endured a particularly painful acupuncture session. "This is not going to be an endurance contest," Ramsey, my acupuncturist, had said during our first meeting when I inquired, sheepishly, about the pain. But that's exactly what it did feel like today. I lay there with needles everywhere, including three in each ear. I tried to breathe in colored light, as per her instructions, as she pushed more metal into the sides of my feet. "Okay, take a deep breath for this one...." (never what you want to hear,) and she twisted the needle in circles. God damn. Ouch.

This is supposed to be grounding. And it's supposed to help my cranium stop playing host to all those electric pain storms that I get to so frequently. According to my research (an article in Real Simple magazine a google search) this ancient Chinese medicine can also make you more centered, calm, and connected.

I'll take yer calm, centered and connected and raise you one 'richer.' Or at least 'less poor.' Can your needles turn me into someone with more money? I wanted to ask. A little more in the bank account and I swear, I swear I'll work on getting more connected. I'll Connect to whatever you'd like.

Before each session, Ramsey gives me a thorough interview about what's happened to me since she last pushed needles through my skin. This is my favorite part of wholistic medicine- everything is taken into account. Every aspect of your life, physical or mental, is of equal importance.

This morning during our interview I said, "Well, I'm pretty sure I got cursed by a badger I killed, I left my Ipod behind on a rock, and the job went to someone else." And then I added, "But, I'm sleeping beautifully."

Ramsey wrinkled her forehead and said, "Tell me about this badger."

Today, for some reason, I got double the needles as last time.


When I got home an hour later, I looked around the living room and felt the same sort of pervasive hopelessness I've been feeling lately. So many questions, so many things out of my control, so many things in my control that I'm just not doing anything about. Day in and day out.

So, I decided to bake. Everything in the house. Moderation has never been my forte. I'm moving in a few weeks and I decided, at that very moment, to bake up and eat everything before I left. This morning, at least, it turned out to be a pretty good idea.

What I like about cooking is the concept of turning a bunch of dry ingredients, powders and oils and raw things, into something edible. Something that will do you good. I love the way the oven or the saucepan can transform things. It makes me feel a little hopeful, like maybe I can scrap together the resources that I already have and turn them into something worth while.

Maybe.

Also? It's an excuse to use my roommate's amazing kitchen equipment while she is still my roommate.
In the midst of the chaos I was creating, I found a letter that Maggie had retrieved from the mail box and left on the counter. It was a personal letter to me, the kind of awesome just-for-kicks letter with handwriting squeezed in to fill the entire card. Magic. Thanks, Andrew. It went up on the fridge, a place I have reserved for the good things that come in the mail, reminders that there are lots of friends out there, friends in different cities....who maybe aren't here to pick me up off the floor and take me for out to the Margarita Mill, but they are out there, and they would if they could.


While I'm at it, here are two more things to be (really) happy about:

One....did I mention that summer is spitting distance away?


And two....David Clark is back in town. David is one of the boys who greeted me with open arms the first time I visited Boone. He and his crazy tribe swept me without reservation into the active, creative and stylish whirlwind of a life they had created in this mountain town. It left such an impression on me, I had to move here myself.

Dave has been off exploring the rivers of Ecuador and Columbia, and now he's back, passing through our town between his white water excursions. We soak up every minute of the time we have with him. It began with tacos, pin ball and PBR at the Boone Saloon, and lasted well into the night with Columbian rum and blankets on the breezy front porch as we shared stories of dropping off waterfalls in South America.


(A few more of Cat, because she was sitting in the right spot. And she's divinely beautiful.)



And yeah, I know it's blurry, but I flippin' love this smile, and it's not easy to photograph. At all. Because 'camera shy' does not even begin to describe this one.

And David....just look at that style.... Rolled cigarette in his mouth, pouring out some cubalibras, Guitar hero pajama pants. I appreciate people who get after it, and David Clark is one of those people. Here's to ya, boy.

Finally, a shout out to the littlest dog, who waits patiently for hours while I work, waiting for me to come relieve her of her post guarding the cafe, and take her on a much deserved walk.


And that's enough for now....

People against landlocked lives


Lately, with the animal skulls and overdraft fees and other not so pretty elements of life scattered on the table, I have been feeling mildly inadequate. Inadequacy is not depression; it's not even sadness. But it does set you up to be in the position to break down at the stupidest little things. For example, the other day I was running from here or there, and I whipped open the fridge to grab a snack and BAM! The fridge door broke and all the condiments and wine bottles came crashing down on me in an almighty mess.


And dear God, the anger I felt? You would have thought Dick Cheney had been hiding amongst the shelves helping himself to my hard boiled eggs and string cheese. I was THAT angry. I was IRRATIONALLY angry. I hated EVERYONE.

And then it hit me....oh Lord....could I possibly be....I'm certainly showing symptoms of it....am I in danger of leading a LAND LOCKED LIFE? You know what I mean....the lives led by the trapped, the overprotected, the pointless, the boring and the easily frustrated, the sedated and the sedentary, the mundane routine followers, the adventure-less, the shriveled, the sun-starved, need I go on? In a nut shell, the people who can't laugh at themselves, not even a little, when the fridge barfs on them.

When I started this blog, I named it The Wilder Coast, and added as its byline: People Against Land Locked Lives. At the time, I was in no danger of mundanity (not a word, I'm making it up.) I was one of those wild girls livin' the struggle, always in dirty clothes, constantly euphoric:
But then again, it's pretty easy to live a wild, coastal life when your working somewhere like New River Academy, otherwise known as the great escape from reality. Life is one big road trip. Let me tell you it's not an easy way to live, and the exhaustion will own you, and it's full of its own bullshit, but it's in no way ordinary.

It's a little harder to have this sort of experience when your a little older, significantly poorer, outa college, post-world-kayak-adventure, living the pay-per-month life, rent checks and insurance forms and the same-daily-grind every day.

....But then, there are the adventures. Constant adventures. Why do I tend to overlook the good stuff when I write these posts? I always intend to write about them, but they keep getting shoved aside for other things, like skulls and fees, questions and emotionally hazardous frog songs. The truth is, by writing only about the struggles, I'm essentially lying to you.

Because I'm lucky.

Incredibly lucky. I get to hang out with this guy, all the time. And when you hang out with someone like this one, life is full of waterfalls and mountain tops and whitewater and things you've never done before:


Our typical day looks something like this: adventure. Dinner. Adventure. Dinner. Sometimes we throw in some variety, like a big breakfast with friends. Followed by an adventure. Followed by dinner.
Cold weather Nolichucky runs, ice in the eddies, and the long walk back on the very active rail road track. ("Remember to run across the bridge! If the train does come, lie on your stomach, don't jump, it's too rocky.")
Edging around the cliff sides of the Linville gorge and jumping off waterfalls, chasing the dog down rapids and bonfires in the front yard. Bouldering and scrambling up Table Rock and camping down in the gorge...not in a camp site but on the rocks. Next to sieves and caves. We burn campfires alongside the eddies and sleep with the salamanders.
And did I mention that he led me down the Watauga Gorge? The hardest river by far that I've ever run. There were rapids that I would run blind, then turn my neck and think....did I just run that?! REALLY?! Tight turns and huge boofs, a few portages, one swim. The Watauga gorge, one of the biggest accomplishments of my kayaking life.
Anyway, just a post to remind myself that it ain't all bad. Not really. Not at all.


(It is spring, after all.)


My Curse

I'm driving through the foggy dark of a mild spring night in West Virginia. Tino is in the passenger seat. We're talking so fast we haven't touched the radio. Behind us is the little house in Beckwith, the base for our strange little school. Across the hammocks, beds, couches, floors and porches, the kids are falling asleep for the night. Or so we presume. Teenagers have their own secret world, and when the lights go off, who knows. Who knows.

We are driving towards town, to some basement rafter's bar where Tino and I will drink beers and catch up on the months and miles between us. I haven't seen him since we said goodbye one early morning in Chile. He was half asleep, I hugged him in his wooden bunk and headed towards the Temuco aiport. We were both bruised by exhaustion. I was shaking with both sadness and relief to be leaving, deep in the fog brought on by one life quickly running out, and another poised to begin. Tino stayed behind, ran bigger waterfalls every day and fell in love with a Chilean girl named Canella.

Tino and I are both native New Englanders; we grew up with seperated by only a stretch of highway 91. We met in Chile as teachers for the school, I was 24 and he was 20. We've shared two long trips to Chile, two trips to Canada, two trips around the South East of the US. Sometimes our days together seem as if they could fit inside the space between heartbeats, other times, it seems like we shared half of our lives.

He is the kayaking, survivalist trained son of an herbologist and a Unitarian minister. He knows how to break hearts across the world, pose for a camera, and play the guitar. He's a lot of fun. And I miss him so much.
We drive down the road, high beams spotlighting the dilapidated houses on either side of us, roadside souvenirs of an area of the US that is dying. And then I see an animal in the road. At first I think it's just a shadow, but as we approach it, the lines darken and solidify into the shape of a heavy, grey and black body and a long, pointed nose. I hit the brakes and we are thrown forward. The animal freezes, then jumps up. It jumps up, as if to meet the underside of my car. Which it does. There is a thunk.

"Oh GOD!" I yell, taking my hands off the steering wheel and holding them out in front of me. "Oh my God oh my god ohmygod!!" Tino reaches over and grabs the wheel. "Oh man, you got him!" He shouts, laughing. "You got him!"

We continue driving this way, my foot on the gas peddle, Tino's hands on the wheel. I continue to say "ohmygodohmygodohmygod!!!"

"If it's any consolation," Tino shouts over my hysteria, "you hit the ugliest animal I've ever seen." He was right. That long, pointed nose, that fat body, that grimmace. "What was it? What was it?" I ask.

He says, "I think it was a badger."

Eventually, I regain control of myself and the vehicle. We drive into town and sit at the basement bar, peeling the labels off of our bottles as we talk. On the way home, he points to a slouched figure on the yellow line, says "there's your animal!" and laughs.

Later on, I fall asleep listening to the girls late night whispered conversation, the raspy sounds of someone watching a movie, someone snoring. These are the sounds that used to drive me crazy as I tried to fall asleep after the long days. Now, I welcome them as I drift away, invite them to permeate my dreaming. I am so happy to be back in the secret, hushed symphony of a regular night at the school I love so much. The badger I killed, just a detail melted into all the other details, is forgotten.

Until yesterday. I am back home from West Virginia, back to my safe, square little house. I wake up late, as usual, and shuffle downstairs. I put something on the stove, flip through a magazine on the kitchen counter. And then I see it. Actually, I almost trip over it.

There is a skull on my carpet.

As far as skulls go, this is a particularly hideous one. This is not something to be mounted over the counter of a Phoenix, Arizona bar. This is not the stuff of porcelain white bone, sun bleached and anonymous. This is the skull of something that died recently, and viciously. There are bits of black and white fur clinging to the long, pointed nose. It's teeth, still filled with plant and animal decay, are twisted downward into a sneer that clearly says, I was killed before I should have died. This is the skull of a badger.

First I blame the dog. She's lying on her side in a puddle of sunlight, peaceful, and she's obviously annoyed when I wake her up in the rudest of manners. I yell and pretty much drop-kick her outside. I grab a hand towel and, which my eyes closed, pick up the skull, fingers in the eye sockets. I run through the house and toss it off the porch. It lands with a sickening thunk. A vaguely familiar thunk.

I go about washing my face and hands, violently scrubbing under my fingernails. I'm not a stickler for germs or cleanliness or any of that, but I feel as if I need to cleanse myself of any trace of that skull. It was not a friendly thing. I think of that time I was in San Alfonso del Maipo in Chile, and we drove up into the mountains and found one of Pinochet's death camps. "Do not touch anything, or bring anything home," said Lorenzo. "This is a bad place."
Then I quickly pack up my things, give one last shiver, and start the car. I go into town to write, listen to music, and forget. I take the dog with me.

When I return in the evening, the skull is back. On the carpet, in the same spot, with its gaping eye holes and grimacing, clenched mouth. The living room smells like a carcass.

This time, I can't blame the dog.

I'm not entirely sure, but I think I've been cursed.

Oh my God, what was I thinking that day I turned 25, in the gloom of a Vermont mud season, when I decided to make this year my year of magical thinking? And why did I ever put it out there into the universe by writing this:

This is the year to blur the lines between what is fiction and nonfiction, what is possible and impossible. Magical thinking is like positive thinking in HD, Native American spirituality blended with American pop psychology. I am going to see the power, the potential, and the meaning in all things. Life will be luminous, studded with the unexpected, rich in omens, visions, unexpected wisdom.

(?!)

Oh, that's right. Studded with the unexpected, rich in omens. Then that post goes and wins an award, and gets a lot of publicity, further pumping that extremely silly message into the world. I really thought magical thinking would mean more fireflies and sunsets and candlelight and train tracks and things just falling into place, la la la. Instead, it seems so far to be my year of dark magic, power animal digestion, skulls on the carpet, money magically disappearing. Not my intent whatsoever.

As I am writing this, my girlfriend Abby walks through the door into the cafe. Abby is one of my most precious discoveries since moving to Boone. Blond, beautiful and full of color, she laughs as she talks in such a way that she sounds just like a sweet, exotic bird.

I close my computer screen and give her the details of my weekend, including the story of my curse. I list to her the things that have gone wrong already since the skull befell me. Headaches, lost possessions, more money concerns. Trivial things, maybe, but this is just the beginning of my curse. Trivial things so far. (Duh duh DUH!)

"My year of magical thinking isn't going too well," I conclude, leaning back in my chair, only half joking. "I'd say it's going quite darkly."

"Don't worry," she says in her bird way. Although the story of the skull made her eyes get big and round, she tries her best to sound reassuring. "This is just life. Sometimes there are bumps in the road."

"Sometimes, you're right, I guess." I say. And then we both pause and say at the exact same moment, "and sometimes, those bumps turn out to be badgers." We're laughing and it's just so ridiculous. But then she leaves. And my coffee is cold. And I am left to sit here, staring at the computer screen, thinking. This is what I can conclude so far:

Sometimes there are bumps in the road. Sometimes, those bumps are badgers, and you kill them. Sometimes, those badgers exist in purgatory between the dead and the undead, and they haunt you and leave their mangled skulls on your carpet.

What next? I wonder.

And I do wonder.

For everyone who was ever in their 20's

Wake up on the floor, on the pile of white and blue blankets you call a bed. There are pink daisies next to you in an old wine bottle. You bought them for yourself as a treat, because you won a writing award and if you aren't going to celebrate it then who will? They were only four dollars; you bought them with your debt card. Because you have no way to get cash. Because there are no Wells Fargo banks in town or anywhere near. Yes, you've checked.

Outside your bedroom window the morning sky is bright blue and the young trees are covered in colorful birds. You stand up, feet on the cool floor, feeling luck race through your veins like caffeine. There is your boyfriend, so very nice to look at no matter how many times you look at him. And there is your dog, still asleep curled up in the pillows. You have these things. You have a car and a roommate and a seedling career that's starting to take shape. You have your own towels that match and a decent collection of cookware. By all accounts, you're doing okay.

On the way to the cafe you listen to music and sing along and the traffic doesn't bother you at all. You're drinking coffee from a reusable mug and feeling smugly responsible. Today you're going to work hard and write and make some money. Today is going to be the day when things really start to happen, you know? Oh yeah, you roll down the window and let the wind whip at your hair, oh yeah, today is the day.

And in the evening when it grows cooler, you'll pick up that nice boyfriend from work, drive into the hills and go rock climbing.

Isn't life a breeze.

Inside the cafe, there's that beautiful barista who knows you by name. You tell her what a nice necklace she's got on, you used to have one just like it. Then you go upstairs with your coffee, smile at the faces you recognize, open the computer and check your email real quick before starting work.

Whadayaknow, you get a mysterious message from your bank. You open your online bank statement and drum your fingernails against the table as the page takes forever to load. Maybe you start to feel anxious, maybe just curious.

You take a look at your bank account and see that the bank has taken all your money. A lot of money. Even money you don't have.

Have you ever had a day like this?

This is my day so far. My overdraft protection was canceled- after eight years of it- for no reason. And the bank never bothered to notify me. My last rent check overdrew, not because I don't have any money- but because I have no way of putting my money into my checking account. Because, remember, there isn't a Wells Fargo around here. My checks accumulate until I go to Vermont where I put it in my Vermont bank account. Because there isn't a Wells Fargo in Vermont, either.

Now I know what you're thinking- some of you who have really got it together- this isn't a great system. And to you I say hold your judgment, I'm only in Boone for a few more weeks and then it's back to Seattle, where there are Wells Fargos on every street corner, and on Fridays they offer free doughnuts.

So anyway, I was suspicious that I might overdraw, but it didn't really concern me knowing that overdraft protection would just transfer it to my credit card for the time being, and paying that back would be a snap.

Well, they cancelled the overdraft protection, meaning every time I purchased anything they fined me $35.00. Meaning those pink daisies I bought for myself were not four dollars, they were $39.00

Hey- all of a sudden, I'm sweating! The day is curdling in the sunlight. Am really drinking coffee? On an empty stomach? Don't I know better? Hey, is that my dog barking outside, disrupting the peace?

So....You load up the dog, forget the errands you had to do- the library books can go another day before being returned- and you go home to face an afternoon, possibly an evening, of arguing with bank tellers and bank managers. Trying not to multiply 35.00 dollars by any number because the math will only upset you. And don't forget the head hanging phone call to the parents to ask for help. Croaking, like a frog. Help.

Every time I think I've got it figured out, well...something reminds me that I don't.

The feeling of leaving, the feeling of staying put

I drive to the grocery store in the evening, needing only a few things. The store where I go is called the Food Lion, and it is not a very nice place, but it's close to home. As I step onto the parking lot I hear something, something I haven't heard for so long I have nearly forgotten it and the strange effect it always has on me. I freeze in place, body turned towards the sprawling, concrete building, and feel a familiar ache settle into my chest and curl inside the four chambers of my heart.

It is the sound of frogs, which means that winter is gone, and it also means I'm going to have a very small personal crisis. I always do when I hear frogs.

Some time in the past few days, the spring frogs emerged in wet places across the south, including the marsh between the Food Lion parking lot and highway 421 in Boone, North Carolina. Starting when the sun sets, they stand with their skinny legs anchored into the muck and cry their frog hearts out: that tranquil, sad, aquatic meeep meeep sound.

Ever since I was a kid, that warbly song has made me want to do funny things. It made me want to rise out of bed, pack a few of my possessions and start walking. This is before I could drive. After that, I wanted to pack up my car and drive and drive and drive. Maybe this is the effect that the full moon has on the rest of the population. Not me. The full moon causes insomnia and spontaneous photo shoots that never turn out as well as I hope. But not this.....this inexplicable blend of emotion, something like falling in love mixed with homesickness mixed with the desire to RUN and discover something completely brand new.

It feels like part of me is moored to the harbor and part of me is struggling towards open water. And it hurts.

The same strange thing would happen years later when, driving across the city at odd hours, I would catch a glimpse of apartments glowing with a strange bluish light. A television screen, or a dimly-watted light bulb, dismal hues that never found their way into my own house. The same ache of the childhood frogs would tug at my heart cavity. I would explain the feeling like this: there was something waiting for me- something I had to get, somewhere I had to be, and I had to go forward and find it, NOW. I remember once turning to my friend Miranda, we were driving on Aurora late in the evening, and doing my best to articulate it. "Do you ever feel that way," I concluded, "like maybe you're supposed to be somewhere else?" And she sighed, her hands on the wheel, and said, "maybe."

When I was little, I just felt it and fell asleep and trusted that in the morning, things would be right again. They always were, my mom would draw back the curtains, things would be cheerful and bright, and all those unnamed feelings scurried under the bed or blinked away in the sunshine.

These days, when it catches me- either by strange lights in strange houses or by peepers in marshes near grocery stores- I try like to hold onto that feeling, see it I can't squint my eyes and make out the details. What is it that I'm wanting so badly? What could I possibly feel homesick for before I've even found it?

From what I've gathered so far, it's some place, some life, where I completely belong, where the money I put into the bank doesn't mysteriously disappear. There are friends around a dinner table, something on the radio, and everyone says the things I think they should be saying. And I think I own the house. Yes, I definitely own the house. The word that sums everything up is permanence.

It doesn't make any sense. My childhood was the picture of permanence, everything in it's place, and still I felt it, like a shred of adulthood had fallen through the cracks and found me: a glimpse of things to be, where elements of life melt away when you're not looking, and answers don't exist to questions you haven't asked yet.

I stand there in the food lion parking lot, listening. On the highway, cars rush towards me as diamonds and fly away as rubies. I'm 25, I think. Is this where I thought I'd be.

I move through the halogen glow of the parking lot, and think, I'm going to buy lots and lots of food. I'm going to throw it in the car and take off. The dog and I will drive and drive and drive.
That's where you'll find me if you're looking for me. In Pennsylvania. Or Maryland. On the side of the interstate, asleep with the keys in the ignition. Just some number of hours and some number of miles away from that thing I'm looking for.

"It didn't work"

To catch up on this story, click here.

The good part about writing Stephanie's story is that I have an excuse to call her all the time. I ask her to edit the pieces for accuracy and clarity. I fear that what I'm writing is too personal, or that the style is could be offensive in some way. It's such a delicate situation. But Steph always answers my prodding questions graciously, explains varying medical procedures with patience. The story is important to tell for many reasons, one of which being to prevent this from ever happening again, to anyone.

I'm sitting at the cafe in Boone as evening settles purple-grey on highway 421. I'm almost done writing up a section of the story when I decide to call Steph, just to say hi. It's been about a week since I visited her at Duke. We were all waiting to see what would happen during the next six weeks as the blood patches hardened into place. We held our breath. We counted the minutes that she stayed whole.

She picked up and I knew instantly. She spoke slowly, as if through a haze. She said hello, asked me how I was.

"Steph-" I said, feeling panic blow up like a balloon beneath my ribs. "What happened?"

"It didn't work," she said, simply. BAM. The balloon burst. I felt winded.

"Oh. I'm sorry" The inadequacy of my reaction floated between us. "What's going to happen next?"

"I'm going back to Duke, this time they're going to mix glue in with my blood, hopefully that will make it stick."

"Okay, Steph. It's going to work this time."

"I know it is."

The last resort

For Stephanie Jones Jordan

To catch up on this ongoing story, click here.

Steph and Ammen once lived in Boone, North Carolina, a college town in the high country of Appalachia. On certain mornings they would go to Mosaic Books, where I am writing at this very moment, to read over coffee. One summer day on a nearby river, they met a bearded man named Grant, and his soon to be wife, a strikingly beautiful woman named Laura. Laura is a professor at Appalachian State. The couple also own and run an adventure outfitter called River and Earth Adventures.

As the story goes, on that particular day, Ammen was teaching Steph to kayak, and Grant was teaching Laura to kayak. Let me tell you, it takes a rock solid relationship to survive that tutorial: cold water swims, water up the nose, shouting and cursing, fear and trust and the whole damn thing. I know how to kayak, very well, and I still yelled my head off at Will three days ago as I followed him down the Watauga gorge. I missed a move, crashed down the left side of the river instead of the right, and ended up gasping in the eddy below, completely unharmed. "I WASN'T GOOD ENOUGH FOR THAT RAPID, WILL!" I shouted at him. "I SHOULD HAVE WALKED!"

"You did great," He responded with sincerity. "Excellent recovery. And here you are in the eddy, all safe." I fumed, infuriated, and refused to speak as I followed him down the next mile of rapids.


And so, when the four of them met on that on the river that beautiful summer day, both couples were arguing. The women became fast friends and griped about the men, the men became fast friends and griped about the women. From that day forward, the four of them had many adventures together, until the day that Ammen and Steph moved back to Seattle. When, a few years later, they scored a permit to run the Grand Canyon, they invited Grant and Laura along. They also invited me.

Laura was pregnant with Asa at the time and had to remain on dry land, but Grant signed on immediately. One of Laura's students was a kayaker named Will, tall and knock-out handsome, from Memphis Tennessee. He was kayaking buddies with Grant, and when he heard about the Grand trip, he marched to the registrar's office, withdrew from winter quarter, then went home and packed his dry bags.

And that's how we met. Grant and Will drove from the South East, Ammen, Steph and I flew from the North West, and we met in the middle, on the banks of the wild Colorado river, on the fringe of polygamy country, in an ice storm.

Two years later, I moved to Boone, down the street from that Tennessee boy from the Grand Canyon. When Grant and Will are paddling the spring run-off and Laura is at work, Asa- now a blond haired toddler- and I go to the library together; we walk around town, his little hand curled around my one finger.

It's all because of Stephanie and Ammen. Do you see what I mean? She isn't just a friend. She is the person who reached up and punched holes in the sky, so that the stars could fall into place. What I do, where I am, who I kick in bed in my sleep each night, is because of her. What if I hadn't met her, what if she hadn't met Laura and Grant, what if Laura and Grant hadn't met Will, what if we had never gone to the Grand Canyon, questions not worth answering. Because they did happen.

If you will remember, the last myelogram was ineffective. All of the past medical procedures had been ineffective at patching her spinal leaks- in fact, they had all exacerbated the problem. Her family searched and searched, and her mother- herself in the medical field- eventually discovered a doctor who was the world's foremost expert in spinal leaks. This doctor, a woman, performed nothing but mylogromas, spinal taps and blood patches. Steph referred to this woman as 'the last resort.'

In February, 2010, Steph flew with her family to the hospital at Duke University. The specialist was warm and reassuring, the complete inverse of the long string of previous doctors and interventions. "We will fix you," said the doctor, her hand on Steph's shoulder. "And if this doesn't work, you will come back and we'll do it again. And if that doesn't work, we'll do it again. We'll keep doing this till we fix you."

Imagine what those words must have felt like.

As the myelogram was performed, the ink surging through her column illustrated not four- the original number of errant needle stick- but ten leaks. Steph's column was a porous pipe running alongside her spine.

How did this happen? How did the animal that bit her grow six extra teeth? I'm shaky on the details, being in no means familiar with medicine or even anatomy, but here is what I can piece together. Steph lost a copious amount of cerebral spinal fluid after the original injury- enough to fill multiple pints of Ben and Jerrie's ice cream, and her body grew accustomed to dangerously low levels of fluid. Later, when it was increased by medication to a normal level, her dura burst in ten places, trying to expel the fluid.

And so the doctor in North Carolina patched her up with ten seperate blood patches.


A few days after the procedure, Laura, Grant, Will, Asa and I traveled to Duke to see Steph. We piled into the River and Earth Adventure Van, with the window stuck down and the wind howling on the interstate. "WOOHOOO!" Hollered Grant. "Appalachia comes to the big city!" We ate breakfast from Biscuit World and wondered what the visit was going to be like.

In the hotel parking lot, we sprung out of the van like clowns: four wild haired adults, a toddler, a dog.

Steph was very skinny, almost glamorous in the haute-chic sort of way, a scarf wound tightly around her neck. But she looked powerful, as if she had endured and conquered more in the past nine months than any physical challenge had ever presented to her. Regardless of what was happening to her spine, in her mind and soul, she had transcended, she had beaten it. Mental fortitude and insight beyond the scope of my understanding had transformed this callamity from devastating to enlightening. She radiated a combination of acceptance and defiance that had combined, reacted, and created a pure, straight, elemental strength.

She floated within the temporary reduction of her life: the lawn chair in the patio, the hallway, the elevator, the bed in her room. We followed her, gingerly, pulling the dog and the toddler away whenever we thought they got too close. All strength aside, anything could burst those fragile, essential blood patches. Laugh, sneeze, cry, hug, open a door- do it all with the utmost caution, or you're back to the beginning.
After an hour or so, the boys sidled downstairs to drink beer in the downstairs bar. The women remained with her. I tried to fight the urge to tell her every small thing that had happened to me in the past two seasons, but I lost. And in the middle of one of my long winded stories, I could feel her begin to fade. Her head pulsed in pain even as she lay flat. At that precise moment, when her gaze drifted away for just an instant, her mother appeared by her side. "You have to leave her for a while," she said to Laura and I, "she won't say it, but she isn't feeling good." It goes without saying that her mother's instincts were astoundingly accurate.

We collected ourselves, went downstairs and watched the last minutes of a football game from a tv suspended over rows of glass liquor bottles. I chased Asa around the luxuriously furnished hotel. I felt uneasy. As much as she loved us, openly, unremittingly, it seemed as if Stephanie's ability to heal came from her being deep within herself, not from talkative friends or anything we could bring to her. All I wanted in the world was make her feel better, my presence was not helping, the way all the doctors before this one had wanted to help her, but just ended up hurting her more.

This one- this time, this doctor, this procedure- would be different.

We said goodbye, told her we hoped not to see her back at the hospital any time soon, stayed real positive, ra ra, and then drove home in silence. It was hard, but we were hopeful, you know? She was in the hands of the most competent, compassionate doctor on the planet. All she had to do now was lie quietly, for six weeks, and the nightmare could be over.

We were hopeful.


False promises

A few days ago, I celebrated the first day of spring by running the Watauga gorge in only a splash top, basking in the sun-filled eddies. My Glacier gloves and drysuit are locked away in the gear closet along with long underwear and snow boots. My long, long winter of americanos melted into a spring of iced lattes, my own seasonal leap. I ran through downtown Boone wearing shorts, exposing white legs, feeling the sun on my shoulders, everyone was smiling, I felt like every dream I ever had could come true, I felt like every dream I ever had WAS coming true. It was like living in Woody Allen's musical 'Everyone says I love you.' My cooped up, cabin fevered, snow-weary dog and I were happy. The problems in my life- all results of being inside for too long- were dissolving alongside the last bits of snow.

It was nice, those four days. But now the snow is back, the driving snow, hard bits of it pelting the windshield. The little pearls of green on the trees are yanking back into their underworld. It's freezing cold- had I forgotten what cold was like, in those few days of false spring? It feels terrible. It makes my bones ache. I'm back to my old tricks- tea from a bright kettle, run another bath, drive on slippery roads out to a contra dance in the next town over just to get out of the house and move around. But each day feels the same, a regression, as if we are following the calendar backward and soon it will be January, then December, then before we know it, a blustery autumn. I head to the same corner of the same bookstore, cream swirls into espresso, computer screen glowing blue, hands skitter uninterested on the keyboard. Restless. Staring at outside at the telephone wires slicing across the stone-grey sky. Remembering what it was like to wake up, just a few days ago, to the sweet, alien sounds of birds.

You play the hand you've drawn

I had been deliberating as to how I should approach the "about me" page for this blog. I really saw it as a big chore. Even though I write about myself every day, usually I write about myself within the confines of other things, so it's not entirely about me. (Right?....Right?) The "about me felt awkward, contrived and stiff: Which details of my life are relevant? What should the tone be- straightforward? Self effacing? Glowingly self-confident? How do I do all this in third person? And the constant devil in the ear: why would anyone care?

Then I struck genius- or so I thought. Have you ever played Apples to Apples? Good game. It involves noun cards and adjective cards, and throughout the game you end up with a certain amount of adjective cards. Apparently, or at least I've been told, the cards you end up with describe you. If you end up with the cards, "Dreamy, Creative, Morose" well, then you are a dreamy, creative, morose person. So I thought I'd play a game, examine the cards I ended up with, and go from there. What a creative way to approach my about me page....

I ended up having a match of Apples to Apples with Will, my roomate, and her boyfriend, during the night of a particularly vicious blizzard. Snow so thick you couldn't see your hands in front of you. Throughout the game I acquired three adjective cards. Just three cards- usually you get ten or eleven- but my competitors decided to quit early and play Mexican train. "Guys, come one!" I pleaded. "Just a few more rounds! I need to get some more cards here!" Of course, no one payed attention to me. And so this is what I was left with, three adjectives that supposedly describe me:

I'll take the middle one

Obviously, that creative approach went out the window. And though I have been considered all three of these words by certain people at one time or another, I can think of many more accurate terms to describe myself. Terms for today? Inefficient. Long Winded. Exhausted.

I did finally finish my About Me page, about 4 weeks late. It's in the title bar under "The Author."

Quick words from early spring

It's been a few days since I last wrote. I blame the 17 hour drive I did in one nearly delirious stretch, and the fever that caught me the second I walked into the door in my house in Boone. I burned and froze all night and woke up repeatedly soaking in sweat. The next day, I rolled over and blinked at the window: blue sky and a stream of warm sunlight. When I left North Carolina three weeks ago, it was buried under feet and feet of snow. The world was a white tunnel of chaotic snow flakes and wind. Now I return to a town that gets progressively greener each day, sunburned shoulders and people on the street who actually smile. This is not the Boone I had come to know in the past few months.

My first day I moved about as if in a dream, recovering from the sudden fever and putting things back where they belonged. In the evening Will and I went bouldering, and the simple feeling of hand against dry rock was almost bewildering in its sublimity.

Today I wrote web content all day for two rafting and kayaking businesses I work for, and now the sun is starting to hover with reluctance on the horizon. I have so, so, so much to write on here, but it will have to wait for just a little longer. The good news is, I'm learning how to 'scrapbook' which is not as lame as it sounds. It means I'm learning how to combine photos into one file so that they can appear as one combined strip on the website. No more long columns of single photos! Oh, except this last one: just some images of the world as it is lately: