Asheville (2)

With all the birds in the airplane engines, the love and all the late night laughter, the barbecued quail thrown up in the back yard of the blue ridge mountains and sun burnt blood red mimosas, this is the life that writes itself.

Yonton Mehler Photo

What I'm trying to say is, business trips are always tough to write through due to lack of time and having to keep my clothes pressed sharp, but this one doesn't have to be written, only transcribed. 

Just one more minute, off to New Jersey with a little luck, then I'll sit down and let the bird out of the plane engine and onto the paper, if you know what I mean. 

(I was going to be done with the birds, but then one gave its life for me to have one more night in Asheville, we drank a toast to it last night and I got a new necklace made out of a stone.)

All in a week

The whole week in Asheville! 1. Sarah and Charlie drove from Boone to walk through a downpour and drink chocolate with me 2. David tastes his first ship flask whiskey 3. morning pastries at Dough with Yonton 4. sea glassing in beer city 5. West Asheville in the evening 6. flip flops, 88 degrees 7. Kristen and the sudden flowering 8. late nights, long talks and strong drinks, each night every night 9. French Broad chocolates 10. blocking the sun at Tupelo Honey Cafe 11. painted alleyway 12. manmosas after work with the boy who knows everybody.

The worst flight

I flew from Seattle to Asheville in a windstorm that blew over the entire country. For seventeen hours, three delayed flights and four crowded airports, I kept my hands pressed over my face, looking out from the space between my peace fingers when I had to see.  I couldn't stand to not be in Asheville for one more second.

When I was finally buckled safely in my seat on the little prop plane out of Charlotte, I closed my eyes, felt my brain spinning backwards into an exhausted hole, and tried not to think about the huge gusts of wind barreling over the runway.

Then the flight attendant reached for the PA mic and clicked it on with manicured fingers. "Ladies and gentlemen," she said brightly, "welcome to United flight 446 to Asheville. If you're wondering why this flight has been delayed, it's because a plane at the Asheville airport crashed on landing."

I've never heard a silence quite like the one that followed.

Finally someone in the back row asked, "Why did you have to tell us that?"

The flight attendant kept smiling as she unhooked the microphone and took a moment to click it back on. "I didn't want you to see the clean up crews and worry." She had a charmingly southern accent.

It was comforting to know there'd been a plane crash. Otherwise we'd have seen the debris and worried that there'd been a plane crash.

After we'd lifted into the air, the pilot came over the PA system. "Ladies and gentlemen, we're anticipating an extremely turbulent flight so please remain in your seats. If you're wondering why we're delayed, it's because the plane before us crashed on landing and they had to clear the runway."

The flight attendant was nodding enthusiastically.

It was the worst flight.

By the time the plane dropped out of the sky and bounced onto the tarmac, I was filmed in sweat. I may have crawled across the runway and into the street where a single taxi was idling in the heat.

"Wow!" exclaimed the driver as he threw my bag into the trunk. "You look like you're having a nervous breakdown!"

I just nodded and folded myself into the backseat.

"But you know what?"

What, I asked.

"So am I, honey. So. Am. I." Then he started laughing, and I started laughing, and we cruised down 240 East with the windows down and the radio up.

(The flight that crashed into Asheville airport on April 8th was a private plane. Nobody was killed.)

bird

My wires are getting crossed. Yesterday when I was doing the dishes I threw the silverware across the kitchen floor. Then I stood there in the exaggerated silence that fills a space after a loud noise. "Well," I said aloud, half laughing, my hand against my forehead, "that really accomplished a lot."

This past week, it seems as if there have been two of me sharing one shape. There's the person who throws the spoons and the person who picks them up, rewashes them, and then suggests gently that I go for a walk.

I feel like the bird that hits the window. But I'm also the kid who stoops down and gathers the bird, puts it in a shoe box, tries to talk to it.  How can I be both of those things? How is it that I can sit back and scratch my head, wondering why I feel so angry and overwhelmed, but I can't fix it?

How is it that after five years I haven't run out of bird metaphors?

The things that are supposed to cause me enjoyment are not causing me any enjoyment. I am trying to figure out why. I am trying to figure out why I wake up every morning gasping for breath. I feel like a fish with a baffled, wide open mouth.

There are certain things that I want to go away.  They are good things and I want them to go away. Invitations and opportunities anybody would be lucky to have are turning me into a ball of chattering anxiety.

I'm afraid of saying this out loud because of what it might open me up to, if somebody will call me out for being ungrateful or entitled or spoiled. Maybe. Maybe not. I'm in Chicago now, suspended between Seattle and Asheville, feeling like the fish and the bird.

Hoping my flight will not be delayed forever, trying to figure it out.

***

This past week we lit the first of the summer's bonfires. Salt air and smoke always makes me feel better. I've spent so much time on the beach lately I wonder if I'm slowly becoming frosted, like sea glass.

Maybe a few more cobalt evenings of salt and smoke and I'll be untwisted, I'll be done abusing birds with literary techniques, or abusing literary techniques with birds, whichever way it goes. 

All in a week

1. workday evening bonfire 2. bad snow 3. going through a sour beer phase 4. rainy neighborhood walks 5. dinner at home with Liz 6. the perfect bags for sea glass thank you pendants 7. Lisa can cook for a climbing trip 8. the ship flask meets the snow 9. cooling beer in the Tieton river 10. Sunny Sunday farmers' market 11. redemption at the reptile zoo BBQ 

The grand spectacular

I am absolutely the best version of myself: winter me, apres ski edition, blue tights and snow boots. I'm hanging out at Vert Fest after a day of gate keeping, it's early evening and the racers and volunteers and vendors are drinking beers out of plastic cups and volleying for spots around the fire. We have our heads back laughing, telling stories and subtly one upping one another as always. The thickly falling snow makes everyone feel fresh and vibrant and prettier than usual.

A boy elbows his way into the circle and is now standing next to me, palms outstretched towards the flames. He has very rosy cheeks. That's really all I can say about him, because that's the only piece of him not covered in synthetic fabric. He's got rosy cheeks and he's tall.

We glance at one another and do the once-over, you know what I'm talking about. Then he turns to Silas, standing on his other side, and begins a loud conversation I'm just certain he wants me to hear. This is good. This is all part of the equation. I drink my beer and wait for my cue, which arrives neatly after about five minuets.

"So!" He booms. "Really been meaning to make it into the back country this winter!"

I spin around. "I'm getting into the back country, and I'm looking for more partners."

The boy grins and widens his eyes in exaggerated shock. "Well, no offense Silas, but I'd rather follow her than you!"

Ha ha, ha ha. A few jokes about Silas being old, about my being young, something about my tights. We all have a good laugh

But really though, do you want to ski? Avalanche certified? Cool. We exchange phone numbers and discuss schedules. Then we have a few hours to stand there and be quick and witty and irreverent. "I hope you don't mind my jokes!" He says. He's so jolly! "I'm always offending people with my jokes!"

I puff up my down-covered chest and say proudly, "Well I'm from the East Coast so you can't offend me!"

And then ha ha, ha ha, we start bouncing jokes back and forth. Really, it's a great time. We're shouting over the chords of a bad cover band, the snow is coming down, new people show up at the fire, introductions all around. We're all feeling very young and delightful, very prime of life. The snow catches in our eyelashes.

Around ten o'clock I call it a night. "After all, lots to do tomorrow!" I tell the protesting crowd, mostly older men, and the boy and I walk to my car. He helps me brush off the foot of new snow that's accumulated on the windshield. Then he gives me a hug, the lingering type. I drive home on I-90 feeling on top! Feeling good! Perfectly executed, I think to myself. I mentally brush my shoulders off.

It really been a good day. I made some new friends- Silas and Ryan and Stefan, and Stefan showed me this secret lodge up there you can stay in for ten bucks a night. I bought an armful of lottery tickets and won an Avalung backpack and a couple of hats and ate some pizza. The whole event thing was a spectacular win. A grand spectacular! But I was most excited about the boy, of course. He seemed so good natured and convivial, and he'd already texted me by the time I got home.

Boy not pictured. Come one. I wouldn't do that.

So we start texting, a little back and forth about snow conditions. I'm not interested in snow conditions but I am interested in where this is going, so I play it cool. 

I wait for him to invite me skiing, which I'm absolutely positive is going to happen, but it's not happening. It's just banter, and it's going to go on forever. 

In Seattle, maybe in any other city but I wouldn't know, you can bounce back and forth with useless texts forever if you're not careful. It's like being stuck in a pinball machine of passivity and vagueness. And if you think a casual 'we should ski sometime' is going to get you out of that pinball machine, you're sorely mistaken. I've learned to keep it quick and specific- suggest a time, suggest an activity, send. 

So I give up waiting and I ask: Want to go skiing on Tuesday?

And this is when it all falls apart. 

He writes me back something about how good the snow was last Friday. He says there were thirteen inches. Then he writes, thirteen inches is never a bad thing, right?

I'm thinking, is he really this into snow or is this a penis reference? And if it's a penis reference, that's fine, that's totally fine, but how about we make these innuendos in person, say, on a chairlift, say, TUESDAY.

But I can't write that, too aggressive, so I write: Ha ha, yeah.

Then he asks where I'm going on Tuesday, and I say Stevens, but I could do Alepental, and he writes that Alpental is closer, and then he doesn't say anything else. 

What would you do if you asked a guy to dinner, and instead of saying yes or no he asks where you're going. So you say, either the Sexton or The Matador, and he said "The Sexton has better fried chicken." And then he doesn't say another thing?  No shit the fried chicken is better at the Sexton, I eat there every Wednesday, do you want to fucking come with me or not?! 

In the old days, you'd get full on rejected and it was wonderful. When I was in 8th grade I asked Oak Clifford to be my boyfriend, after only four months of gathering courage, and he said no. No is pretty easy to interpret. So I moved on and I set my sights on Ethan Waldo, no problem. 

Sometime in the past six or seven years, the customary rejection became just no response at all.  It's a lazy but generally straightforward no. You don't hear from him within 24 hours? Move it along. 

It's the same in the publishing industry. Used to be you'd receive a rejection letter in the mail. Someone took the time to type out a no thank you, or at least send a copy of a form letter. They were almost a badge of honor; authors would do ironic things like turn them into wall paper or make books out of them. 

Not these days. Now you just hear....nothing. Ever. I've written about 15 punchy little magazine pitches in the last six months and submitted them, painstakingly following all the guidelines, each time a quivering little ball of excitement- this is the one, best pitch ever! And then nothing but crickets. Not a word. 

It's just how it goes. 

But this? These non-response responses? It's a new kind of humiliation, because you've gathered the courage to ask someone on a date, and twenty minutes later you're still texting, trying to figure out whether you're talking about snow or about penises and then you remember- wait, didn't I just ask you out? 

(I'm using Vert Fest boy because it's recent and hilarious but he's not the only one, remember Snake Guy?)

So Tuesday comes along and I go skiing, without him, and he sends me a text later that evening. So, did you go skiing?

I'm picturing a cave man. A cave man texting.

I reply yes. He replies something about snow conditions. 

This should have been it. I know that. But to be perfectly honest, I gave it one last try. I shouldn't have because the writing was on the wall, and it's embarrassing to admit, but I did. Just in case he was into me, but he was just dumb as a rock.  

I asked him to go to Smash Putt for Jeremy's birthday with me.  He wrote back: Smash Putt?? 

I explained that smash putt was like mini golf, but hip. 

And that was that. That was the last I ever heard from him. 

So that's how this one ended. Not with a bang, not with a whimper, but with an explanation of smash putt. 

At least I won an Avalung, so it wasn't a total wash. 

Tieton Photobook

I don't trust myself around boys. I let them do everything. It's a bad, bad, bad habit. 

I sit back as they lead the climbs, coil the ropes, start the fires, plan the routes. When I was working at New River Academy I let them load 17 kayaks on top of the van every morning. I'm serious, I don't think I loaded one boat during a paddling road trip that lasted a year. I figured, what the hell, they're taller than me, they're stronger than me, they're better at this than I am, and they don't mind. 

But what do I do when the boys evaporate? Because let me tell you what I've learned: Boys. Evaporate. 

Lisa and I went climbing in Tieton this past weekend, just the two of us. She set up the tent by the side of the road while I got the fire started. I put up slow, halting leads. We learned which cracks lurked with rattlesnakes and which buzzed with wasp nests. Tieton is not for the faint of heart. 

The routes we'll frequent this summer may look different than last year; not so big or majestic or tricky or rugged. But we'll get there, or somewhere close enough, we'll inch along. 

Here are some photos from a weekend where there was nobody taller, nobody better, nobody stronger, nobody more capable than us*. Here is what we did ourselves. (Oh, and as it turns out, when there is one of you climbing and one of you belaying, you can't get too many climbing pictures.)

*Except Jeremy Park, who we keep running into. He's everywhere. And so handsome! 

All in a week

1. spring at Shilshole 2. Lee and the Pilot 3. the card shop that sells espresso- I spend too much money here 4. last wave of Boulder Drop rapid on the Skykomish river 5. breakfast of champions on Saturday morning 6. Megan on a hot blue ski day 7. dogs and crowds at Vantage 8. solos margaritas and late sunsets in eastern washington 9. the dog going nuts at the beach. 10. Jesse's birthday crab boil 11. the city in bloom

the reptile zoo BBQ remains a mystery

Well, now that that pounding thing in my chest is mended(ish) and the head is clear (the ego is still in recovery), I can get back to the real mission of my life, which is to have a nice time, be outside, and enjoy some barbecue every now and then. 

All the rest? Well, I'm sure it will come around again. But for now it's just me and some choice girls and boys going exploring, working our jobs and drinking some good beer when we can, and not everything is fraught with emotion, which is refreshing.

That said, it was time for a good old fashioned day trip. Nothing too crazy, just the things we like to do. 

Megan and I had ourselves some spring skiing on Monday. (Megan who is loud and funny and occasionally needs a helicopter evacuation after she thinks she's been stung by a bee, even though she's not allergic to bees. She reminds me of a little lion.)

The pass was blazing warm in the sun and the snow was sticky and loud. Hard to believe it was only two days since I'd been out in the brown, scrubby desert, sunning like a lizard and dodging rock fall from above. Then I blinked, and there we were, immersed in cobalt skies and pine trees, burying ourselves in diamond snow to cool off. There was a warm wind and hillsides of powder. My shoulder is hobbling along and when I took one big wipe out and lost both skis and one pole, I managed to roll onto my right side instead of my left, no harm done. 

I felt like the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet

****

On the last run of the day, we got really jazzed up about pie. I'm not sure how it started, but we were talking about it, all the flavors and different types of toppings, we were really getting into it. On the drive home we realized we were adults and we could eat pie whenever we damn well chose, so we decided to really grab life by the balls and stop at the bakery. I ordered a piece of peanut butter silk and it could have won the award for saddest excuse for a good thing ever. It was made with pure Crisco and not much else; it stuck to the roof of your mouth. A huge disappointment. I saved it for later that evening, when I was two beers in and half an article down, and I ate it without even noticing.   

Finally, there's this snake zoo that we pass every time we go skiing, or paddle the Skykomish river, or climb in Leavenworth. They boast 10 of the world's deadliest snakes, and a two headed turtle that swims in its own tank. Also, the Reptile Zoo BBQ school bus is parked outside, which could serve brisket or could serve snake, we're not sure. We always talk about it and we never stop. But this time, since we're holding life by the balls, we gave it a try. The sign said OPEN. We were giddy. But we couldn't find anyone around to help us. We drove away scratching our heads. The place remains a great mystery to us all. 

And that's it! An account of one nice day of easy living. Simple as it should be.

All flask, no hootch

Lee Timmons Photo

I full on ate my feelings the other day, and they were delicious. I don't normally do that, but I just had so many, what was I supposed to do, compost them?

It happened at a Mexican restaurant in Eastern Washington, I was by myself, it was probably the first time in my life that I was alone at a restaurant after a climbing trip. Usually you go out with your climbing partner and drink margaritas and wash the blood and dirt off your hands in the restaurant bathroom. Then one of you drinks gas station coffee and drives home while the other plays with the radio and falls asleep. I've done this a thousand times and each time it's close to heaven.

But I was alone this time, dirty and bloody as ever, but alone in a giant booth built for a family of six. I gotta say, I missed the shit out of Andrew, and I was happy, and I finally felt like myself again, like there was finally some hootch in my flask.

Let me explain.

Rip Hale photo

Ten o'clock on Friday night, I'm digging through the back of my car looking for my ship flask while Rip sits in the dust and sage and plays The Ballad of Love and Hate on his guitar. He's drinking from a big bottle of cheap whiskey- he told me he bought it because the label was pretty, which in a nutshell is why I'm friends with Rip.

"Here it is!" I say triumphantly, pulling the flask out from underneath my sleeping bag and tossing it towards him. "Could you fill that with whiskey? I'm all flask, no hootch!"

Rip stops playing guitar and gives me a look like I'm some sort of hero. "All flask, no hootch," he says."I think I like that."

I stopped climbing five months ago and it's made me feel like a total loser, which I hate to say, because there isn't an uglier word in the English language. I wouldn't direct that word towards anybody that I know, anybody except myself.

But that's how it goes. I wasn't just heartbroken this past winter. Heartbreak is acceptable, its got its own whimsy, its own cult following, like the rocky horror picture show. People write a lot of beautiful songs about heartbreak. What I felt was decidedly more unflattering- jealousy, envy, rejection, ugly stuff we don't talk about because it would illuminate our fantastically flawed, utterly insecure shadows that we try so hard to keep camouflaged. 

I couldn't separate climbing from Andrew and Andrew from pain and I'd have done anything to avoid running into him. So I avoided the sport, the community, the gyms and all the events- the bouldering comps, taco Tuesdays, send and socials, parties, fundraisers. I did other things instead, like sit at home and try to untwist the rebar from off of my ego. Also, skiing.

Climbing leaves you pretty quick if you're not diligent. First the calluses disappeared, and then the strength, the confidence, the identity. I'd stand there in the mornings with my skinny shoulders and soft fingertips and look around my room- all the pictures and gear and guide books- and feel like a complete fake. All talk, no substance. In other words: all flask, no hootch.

Well it was about goddamn time that I got rid of all the angst and got back into the shit. 

Last Friday, Lee invited me on a last minute trip to Vantage. Lee is this astoundingly fun, confident, strong, funny girl from the South who makes wine and takes pictures, and you want her by your side when you reintroduce yourself to the life you've been hiding from for half a year.

I'd never even met her, yet I knew this to be true. 

Lee is a kayaker from Asheville, and she's friends with that band of adventurers I used to hang with down in Boone. It seems like we're always one step away from each other- she was boating down in Chile right after I was, she ran the Grand Canyon with my love Will, we have some of the exact same photos from down in that ditch. I forget when she started reading the blog, but she did, and then we started writing back and forth, and she sent me letters and a book of poetry while I was on the boat.

If you're ever looking to win over my heart, send me a book of poetry when I live on a boat.  

Well, then she moved out West, and we've been trying to meet up for ages and I keep almost but not quite making it down to Hood River. So when she invited me out to Vantage, there was a crash as whatever I was holding at that minute fell to the ground and I was loading the car up with my sleeping bag and my climbing rope and my ship flask. 

The first time I meet Lee she's running towards me in the desert in the dark holding a bottle of Rose. She squeezes me like an accordion. 

For the last few weeks everything has been getting better and better and now I feel like myself again. When Lee hugs me, my old friend I'm meeting for the first time, everything is back where it belongs.

***

I fought the sadness with medicine, and luck, and snow, and writing, and alcohol, and taking all the advice from my mom and my brother in law and my friends and readers and strangers and books and forceful talks from my roommate. I fought it with writing, and work, and Ren, and business trips and crying and bath tubs and sleeping in the basement of Steph and Ammen's house. I remember lying in bed for days, with black sand in my head, but one day I woke up and the winter had melted mostly away, Nici was calling me from her picturesque land line in Missoula with a martini in her hand, Will was shaking his head and smiling down at me with that smile he gets, and Lee was throwing a pair of climbing shoes at my head and saying "Hey, get up, let's do this." 

Lee Timmons Photo

Saturday is sixty degrees and drenched in sun. We're looking up at a climb and counting the bolts, gauging its possible rating since we don't have a guide book and we don't know where we are. "Looks pretty good," I say to Rip. "Why don't you lead it?"

I haven't led in forever. I figure I'm out of the game for a while.

Rip's tying in but then a stranger appears on the trail and says, "Oh, that's a 5.10 C!" and disappears around the bend. Rip turns to me, he's got the look, he says, "I don't think....I want to start on this."

It looks good to go, so I say I'll try it. What the hell. It's not pretty, I hang on the draws, but it's solid. I lead it bolt by bolt, I fall twice and it doesn't scare me, I finish the climb and when I get to the chains I lean back and think, "Holy shit." As in, Holy Shit, I did it. It's all the eloquence I can muster. 

The calluses are gone but the muscle memory remains. And the confidence. The confidence instilled by following Andrew up hundreds of routes, up cliffs and big walls and faces I'd never have seen without him, of being nine pitches up and thinking, I'd better figure out how to get up this because I have no choice, the self assurance I gained when we stood on top of Total Soul in Darrington on the fourth of July, and he gave me a hug in the evening sunlight and said, "You just floated up that." 

Here I've been fighting off all the bad things, but the good things remained locked in hidden vaults somewhere in my memory. They were there all along. 

In that instant, on top of a granite spire near the Columbia river, I see straight. I see what is gone, and what is good. 

Later that day, Rip decides to stay for another night, and I drive home with the dog. I get hungry and find the Mexican place, and I'm alone with all these emotions and realizations swimming around my head like tropical fish in a tank, and there's a menu and there's no one to stop me. And so begins the eating- carne asada and margaritas, the meteor-like ball of fried ice cream with strawberry 'topping'. And thank God. It's been a long five months. I'm fucking hungry.

All in a week

1. the last yoga night until next winter 2. low tide 3. Ren triumphs over my busted shoulder 4. Jesse in his element 5. found blue 6. the return of taco tuesdays 7. spring and the coffee is over ice 8. wings 9. the anchored ship cafe, where the boat captains go and I write in the mornings 10. bursting trees at Discovery 11. packing for the season's first climbing trip

fresh gathered & giving

Thank you for reading. I've wanted to be a writer since I was three. Your reading of my words makes me a writer. 

If you get anything out of reading The Wilder Coast- humor, escape, a five minute distraction from work, empathy- and by the way, this is what I hope you get- then consider giving a donation. This blog is my reason to wake up, but it's also extremely time consuming. Your donation makes writing this thing possible. Click on the yellow Donate Button on the right sidebar to use your credit card. 

Last year, I did not ask for donations. I was living on the ship, before the ship was good, and what I truly needed was letters. And I got them. Your letters kept me afloat, and they still do. I keep them in a box on my bookshelf and read through them from time to time. 

This year, I'm excited to offer something new and tangible. If you donate 25$ or above, I will make you a pendant from freshly gathered sea glass here on the original wild coast.

I make these pendants at my kitchen table, usually while listening to The Decemberists or anyone who can deliver a good sea chanty. The glass will make a lovely necklace-with-a-story, or just a pocket token for you to have, a little piece of the coast. 

As always, anyone who donates at any level will receive a handwritten Wilder Coast photo card as a thank you. (The cards change every year, and this one is good, but the design is a secret until it lands in your mailbox.) This is not just a scrawled thank you- I write a full on letter and send it to the billing address provided by Paypal. 

There is a comment section through Paypal, so feel free to tell me a little about yourself, then your thank you card will be a continuation of dialog- my favorite. 

As we all know by now, blue sea glass means good luck in love, so if you're feeling like you need some extra luck, mention that in the Paypal comment section and I'll try my best to find some blue for you. Not guaranteed, because it's rare! but I'll try my best. It worked for me.

If you love the Wilder Coast, consider donating if you can with the yellow button on the right. If you can't, you can always help by sharing this blog with anyone who might enjoy reading it. If you'd like to see more about giving and my thoughts on the magnificently weird realm of blogs in general, check out A Letter to Readers.

Thank you to you for reading.

With love,

Melina

The Anchored Ship Cafe on Ballard Ave, March 2013

My 27th year in 27 Moments

1. We celebrate my birthday after the plane crash has been cleaned up. The victims lived or died, we saved them or we missed a moulage wound and they bled out, so deep into the snow that we never saw the blood. Now they are all sitting around the fire at the lodge singing happy birthday to me. An Alaskan paramedic, blond hair falling out from under a knit ski hat, presents me with a cake. I blow out the candles, my 26th year pops like a balloon and my 27th, the year of the Saturn return, begins.

2. Two days from our final EMT exam, Randall and I are at the Icicle Brewery in Leavenworth. "You want to know about boat world?" he says, smiling slowly, as if we're sharing a great secret. "You can't really explain boat world. You should just join us." I shake my head. "Oh no," I say, "I'm done with seasonal work."

3. In early April, standing at the end of the dock at Fisherman's terminal, I shake hands with the captain of a tiny expedition cruise ship. I'm officially a crew member of the M/V Safari Endeavour, bound for Juneau, Alaska.

4. The first climb of the spring season is called Rattletale, on the upper wall in Index, Washington.  I sink my hands into the cold granite crack, all the way to the elbows. Andrew belays me from above, peering down and grinning. He's got a sweet, wicked grin.

5. We are plowing through the waters of British Columbia, sharing the ocean with pods of Orca whale. Alone on the boat deck, I watch dark mountains glide pass, numb, listening to this music on repeat. I've made the wrong decision. I know I have.

6. One night in June, under the still glowing Alaskan sky, I sit on the stern and watch a deckhand named Scott crush a barrel full of glass bottles. The glass will be thrown overboard on turn day. So this is where sea glass comes from, I realize. I've never thought to wonder.

7. On Sundays in Juneau, the mail arrives on the boat. A giant pile of letters and boxes and books sent from my friends, and, miraculously, from blog readers, piles up on my chair. One of the deckhands motions to the pile and punches my arm. "What the hell, Lina?" It feels like Christmas.

8. We are officially sailors on leave, which means we are drunk and rowdy and happy. On the plane to Seattle, the assistant engineer tells me that I am the stuff dreams are made out of. Then he sighs deeply, throws up, and falls asleep.

9. Adam plays guitar and we sing in the evenings, down in the dim, windowless crew quarters. It's wave over wave, sea over bow, I'm as happy a man as the sea will allow. As we sing, the boat rocks in the wake of a giant calving iceberg crashing into the sea.

10. Andrew calls me Melinafish. I don't know where it comes from. If I happen to be walking on the upper deck and we hit a random pocket of reception, I'll get a text from him: Melinafish, how is the swimming?

11. On the last night of a six month season, the crew is at the Boxcar in Magnolia. Everyone is drinking and kissing and smoking and singing. I climb up onto a table. "LET'S GO BACK TO THE BOAT!" I cry, raising my fist into the air. "LET'S GO IN THE HOT TUB AND SLEEP IN A SUITE!" Go in the hot tub, sleep in suite! It becomes a chant. 

12. Now I'm running through Fishermen's terminal, out of my uniform and back in my own clothes, dodging the nets and buoys and piled crates. Andrew runs towards me, we meet in the middle, and it's all very dramatic. My legs wobble on dry land and I'm back home.  

13. Dungarven, Ireland. My sister yanks me into a dress shop three minutes before my first performance. You are not wearing athletic clothes to your show! she hisses. She picks out a new dress for me. It fits. I throw a handful of Euros onto the table and then run down the ancient street and up three flights of stone stairs to the performance hall. 

14. Sean studies metaphors about time for a living. His brother Dermot designs the sets for Tim Burton's movies. The three of us are standing in the pouring rain in a field full of rocks and sheep. "Here," says Dermot, "take this." He hands me his jacket. Their accents are thick and pretty. 

15. In October, we sneak a chocolate cake into the woods and light the glittering 28 candle. Worn out from climbing, we cook dinner over the fire and sing happy birthday to Lisa. We manage to have an immensely good time and Andrew and I don't mention that this is our last climbing trip together. Our last anything together.  

16. At a bar in Whitefish, Montana, Ryan orders me another beer and picks my head up off the table. "Kiddo, you never loved him. Why are you so sad?" 

 17. The morning that the Endeavour embarks for Baja, I am sitting at my kitchen table, doing not much of anything.

18. I begin each morning by counting pills. Celexa for depression, something for anxiety three times a day, vitamins for good measure. At night I can take a handful of Ambien and feel nothing. I could take a handful of Ambien and operate heavy machinery, even though they advise against that. That's how little it works for me. 

19. I take the pulse of a man in Pioneer Square who is lying in a pile of bloody vomit. I can detect something beneath the tissue of the wrist, weak and thready but alive. I look at my watch, counting the beats. "What do you do now?" Asks the firemen who is crouched beside me. I know exactly what to do. Every word from the Alaskan Paramedic has stuck with me.  

20. Colleen sits next to the mattress on the floor where I'm curled up. "Tomorrow, we're going to build you a dresser, because you can't live like this." She motions to the unkempt room, the clothes thrown about in heaps. She is is suddenly very serious. "You can't live like this any more, do you understand?"

21. After three months of silence, Andrew and I go out to dinner. He has a new girlfriend. He says, "We bought a used guitar in Albuquerque." I say, "Please do not tell me about your trip to Albuquerque."

22. In late January I start to laugh again. At the top of a mountain in the Cascades with a girlfriend on our 20th day of skiing. She says something funny, or maybe I do, and we both fall into the snow and laugh until we're so overheated we have to take all our clothes off.

23. I start to write a book. "Chapter One," I write, and then the phone rings. I stand outside, wrapping myself in a thin sweater. "Maybe," I say into the phone, "maybe you should just come and see me."

24. Now Will is here, standing in my kitchen, and it feels normal, like he might live here. I'm so happy that I set out jars of daffodils and white candles and I set the daffodils on fire, I really do. He laughs and pulls me onto his lap, then pushes the hair from out of my face. "I just...love being around you," he says, kissing my forehead. For the first time in months I feel my body completely relax.

25. On the ferry from Coupeville to Port Townsend, Will falls asleep. His head drops onto my shoulder. 

26. Something happens, and people start reading my blog. A huge shift, overnight, no subtleties. After five years, it seems like someone is finally paying attention. I think about this on the beach on Whidbey Island. I look over at the boy who is reading Edgar Keret out loud, he's such a private person, and I wonder how it could all possibly work out. 

27. As the boat from Bainbridge draws closer, the blinking skyline of Seattle comes into focus. In his deep Tennessee accent, Will points out every part of the city that he can remember: "There's the needle, Volunteer park, Capitol hill, Redmond." He has his arms wrapped around me very tight, as if I might go overboard if I wasn't supported. I can't stop laughing, insisting that he's wrong: "No, that's not right, you can't even seen those things from here!" He says, "Shh, shh, this is how it goes." And then he starts over, from East to West: Needle, Volunteer Park, Capitol Hill.... He redesigns Seattle, it is a new city, composed entirely of places we've been together, the rest does not exist, the rest has never been.

All in a week

Another week on both coasts, from Boston to Port Townsend, and about a hundred things in between. 

1. a long walk on Whidbey Island 2. Philidelphia to Seattle 3. hot toddies at Sirens in Port Townsend 4. Cassie, a field in Vermont, and a bottle of chocolate infused wine 5. Charles King, his southern accent, my dog 6. playing in the Puget Sound 7. mostly asleep on the Coopeville Ferry. 8. a Vermont evening with Jen and Rob, my high school teachers. 9. Spring comes to Fort Casey state park. 10. I turned 28. 11.the geologist, a tiny reminder of the grand canyon. 12. Cass and I take in sugaring season. 

This week in writing:

1. At the beginning of the year, I ran into the boy I had a secret crush on while wearing a hat with a large pompom. It brought out all of my insecurities. Happily, it also led to this piece on Outdoor Nation, which I'm kind of proud of. 

2. I was asked to write for a new project with a focus on happiness and relaxation. Quick micro-articles about happiness? Yes. Here's my first tiny contribution: Listen yourself to happiness. 

3. A little idea I had while listening to the Decemberists on the way home from the mountain materialized on The Clymb: A seasonally appropriate skiing playlist. Steph actually put this together (after removing the really corny songs) and played it during Thursday Yoga night, and it's actually a pretty nice set!

4. The comments on my blog piece about the static cling are hilarious. I had NO idea anybody else had ever been a victim of laundry, but I'm learning that it's not uncommon. Thanks for sharing your stories, everyone, the laughs were uproarious. 

5. Finally, I'm still getting kind and personal emails/messages/comments from readers who found me through my essay on Kelle Hampton's site. I will write all of you back- I use reading and answering your messages as a reward for finishing (a paragraph on) my articles. Thank you, everyone, and thank you Kelle. 

28

Birthday preparations are in full swing and the North Carolina boys are in town.

It's my turn to be deranged with excitement.

they crush I crash

Bright pashminas: the cure for the common sling

I rarely post videos, but I thought we all deserved a little escapism today. My friend David O'Donnell took this video the day I smashed myself up. Look at all that soft, glittering powder and blue sky. My favorite thing about this video is probably David's cheerful Australian-lilting Woohoo! commentary. Click full screen to make this interactive experience more like a movie theater and less like a postage stamp. 

My shoulder is still painful and visibly deformed (oh, I love being able to say that, I've only ever been visibly deformed once before, when I chopped off the top of my finger in a door). On the plus side, now I match Will, who has the bony, permanently messed up shoulder look of the devout paddler, and he makes it look really good. 

Exercise and standing with good posture have been tough since this day, which is driving me batshit, and I wasted all the pain killers, so I'm starting to think this whole injury situation was not a great deal for me. As long as dream-team trainer Ren can help me get things in order and save the climbing season ahead....I still say it's worth it. I mean, just look at this day....

Curious and deranged with excitement

Here is a story I like to tell live. I perform two genres of stories: close-call adventures and moments of humiliation. Until now, I've avoided blogging about the cringe stories; a live event with a set audience is fine, but I don't have the guts to immortalize these stories on the internet. With this piece, the tides are turning.

I'd also like to point out to any teenage girl reading this, that even though this happened to me, and there were witnesses, I'm still pretty cool now. So that should cheer you up.

14 years old. Full braces smile after getting my billfold of Riverdance signed by the cast

When I was in eighth grade I had no sense of fashion. None. Even in Vermont, where anything goes, particularly in the wintertime, I was at the bottom of the heap.

I remember owning one pair of pants. Back then they manufactured pants that were sensible to the point of indestructible and unfortunately, they could last for years, handed down from cousin to cousin. This pair was dark green, wide-ribbed corduroy, with hefty pockets on the side and an elastic waist.  I paired these with sturdy flannel tops and Ts from catalogs with letters in the name: LL Bean, JC Pennies.

It was these pants, along with physics, that made me a victim of static cling. In case you've never done laundry, this is a phenomenon where static causes one article of clothing to cling to another. Usually you peel apart the items and go on your way. Sometimes, if the climate is particularly dry, there are sparks and it's exciting. Over the course of a normal lifetime, static cling is just a thing that happens, neither a force for good nor evil. I wasn't so lucky.

My green corduroys were roomy on my late to bloom adolescent frame. I may have been wearing long underwear at the time and, as we've all learned, an extra layer dulls sensation, no matter how thin. And so, when I got dressed that dark January morning, I was unaware that a pair of my underpants had become balled up inside of my pant leg during the drying process.

I know I'm not supposed to use the word underpants. It's a word generally dropped from our vocabulary by ten or eleven, either forever or until we become moms and start saying it again. It's not a good word. But that's what I wore at the time. Underwear is too neutral. Panties seems inaccurate and also slightly inappropriate. Nobody is more sorry than I to say this, but mine were Underpants with a capitol U. K-mart variety, dull white, no frills. They came in a pack of ten.

On this day, the air was so dry, the cling so mighty, that the underpants stayed in place until the end of school hours, when all my walking from class to class must have caused them to migrate down the leg and towards the ankle.

After lunch, I trooped as usual to Mr. Young's 7th period American History class. As luck would have it, that afternoon I was giving a presentation that required me to stand alone in front of my peers. Then, like now, I was not adverse to public speaking. I'm sure I dazzled. And then it happened.

As I was striding confidently back to my seat, the underpants tumbled from my pant leg, out from the ankle and onto the floor. By the time I realized something had gone wrong, I was a good three strides away from it. I paused, looking straight forward. I thought, "Please, please be a sock." And then I turned around.

In that moment, time stood as still as ice. The world shrank down to three entities: me, my classmates, and the underpants. Even the teacher disappeared. For a single, surreal second, all was still. And then, from the back of the class, came the voice of a boy, a voice at once genuinely curious and deranged with excitement: "Is that underwear?!"

Too late, I took action. Like a mother lifting a car off of a pinned child I sprung with the strength and speed of an Olympian. I snatched up the garment, arrived at my seat and shoved them into my backpack, never once breaking a tense and practiced poker face.

Then I made a very mature decision. In that instant, I knew that what had just occurred was so devastating, so career-ruiningly horrible, that I did not yet possess the proper brain circuits or learned coping mechanisms to deal with it. I decided to stow it away in the recesses of my mind, move on with my life, and wait until such time as I was better equipped to handle such things.

What I didn't know at the time was this: it was just the beginning, the smallest scrap of beach on an island of humiliation that would emerge, slow but steady, as the warm, protective ocean of my childhood dried up around me. I live a rich and wonderful life, but it's a life studded with moments like this, more than my fair share and, to my memory, it all began here.

Which is not to say it's all for naught. A serious adaptation for life stemmed from that slice of eighth grade horror: I no longer wear underpants. I wear panties, chosen with such cautious deliberation that, should a pair escape from out of my pant leg right now, I would feel nothing but pride, and you would feel nothing but desire.

For more, follow me on instagram @melinadream

All in a week

This week occurred on both coasts.

1. driving east to Spokane. 2. new england ice 3. dog contemplates the American West. 4. Nici and Andy at Andy's art opening. 5. their two little rock stars. 6. the dog in our room at hotel Ruby. 7. cheerful Vermont graffiti in the capitol. 8. figured out a pretty good sling arrangement. 9. a very cold Killington summit on a cautious, no arm, no fall ski day. 10. a morning with my mentor and high school english teacher, Kerry. 11. home.

The happiest moment of my whole life

The happiest moment of my life occurred at 1:13am on an early Tuesday morning inside of a Walgreen's. The happiness was artificially induced, buts its inauthentic origins did little at the time to diminish my state of euphoria.

I should have been disconsolate. First there was the fact of me being at a Walgreens at 1:13 in the morning, having just been released from the hospital where I'd lay alone for many a doped up hour.

Even worse,  I'd spent the last three days violently voiding the entire contents of a week's worth of food up my wind pipe and out of my mouth, over and over in a desperate, bent-kneed, eye-watering, gastronomical attack. In public. At the beach. In front of the boy with whom I share a rocky history and whose affections I was trying to win back. His eyes, as I staggered back towards him on the sandy path, wiping my eyes, held the wide-round horror of the "I know I should support you but that was really gross" variety.  

To compound matters, I'd just put him on a plane back to New Mexico, where, like clockwork, he'd come down with the virus. On the plane, not in New Mexico. So he was gone and I was missing him and hoping he wasn't too resentful of me for causing him such a wretched ride home.

But still, I was happier and full of more pleasant tidings than I can ever remember. When the bored, poker faced pharmacist told me I'd have to wait fifteen minutes for my prescription, I was thrilled. I had fifteen uninterrupted minutes to wander along the joyful aisles of a Walgreen's, how often in life are we given that opportunity? (A lot.)

After I'd put Will on the airplane, I'd choked down a bowl of soup, thrown up the bowl of soup, and then fell asleep. The next morning wasn't looking any brighter. I went down to the beach to try and heal myself with the fresh sea breeze and some rare self portraiture of me looking pale and skinny. The pale and skinny part of that sentence is what makes it rare. For once it didn't cheer me up; instead I puked quietly and despondently in the sand. So I trooped over to the hospital. They put me in the same room where I'd been less than week earlier when my shoulder bones began their trial separation.

Photo by Chris Forsberg, if I don't say this he'll be after me. He seems to know his rights.

The nurses gave me an IV and pumped me full of wickedly good stuff. I don't know what it was. I'd been feeling mildly stiffed that I'd had my hands on some Vicodin for my shoulder and it went to waste. I don't engage in mild altering activities and I hear vicodan gives you a pleasant high if it doesn't make you barf your head off. I was excited, and then I got the virus and barfed my head off anyway, so the Vicodin never made it to the correct receptors. Whatever they gave me that day in the hospital more than made up for it. I fell blissfully asleep, only not fully: I was just awake enough to be aware of how blissful I felt now that the pain was gone and I was floating above my body on a big white cloud.

The first two days of Will's visit were nearly as cheerful and peaceful as my drug induced high. For some reason, despite our checkerboard past and not having seen him for over a year, I was completely at ease. I expected my heart to be in my stomach when I retrieved him at the airport, but that wasn't the case. I am completely, utterly unselfconscious around him, which came in handy when I threw up on the door to the shower (not the inside of the shower either) while he was making toast in the other room. 

To get you over that image here is a picture of hometeam being held like a baby:

Those easy first days, we went to the beach and the huge park near the shipyard, walked through a terrific windstorm with our heads ducked against the gale, searching for glass and shells. We slept in and went out for perfectly crafted espresso at Fiore. I took him down to the yard and pointed out all the boats in my fleet except the Endeavour, which is wintering in Baja. Those two days swirl together in my memory, but they were sandy and windswept and happy. I got stuck in his eyelashes a few times. We were sort of entranced by one another.

We had dinner with Steph and Ammen, who held the permit to our grand canyon trip where it all began. They are the very reason we ever met. As always they fed us well, and we talked about cabins on the ocean we could rent for the weekend. I had originally planned to fill every second of our time with outdoors activity, which used to be the only way to keep him sane. Skiing, hot springs six miles deep in the woods, snow shoeing. Those plans evaporated the second my shoulder hit the snowy ground before the rest of my body, and so my next attempt was to whisk him away to the isolated coast to the West. 

On the way home, Will told me he didn't need a trip to the ocean. That the Puget Sound was ocean enough. "An isolated cabin with you would be great, but my life right now is completely isolated. I'd rather do city things? Like.... museums?"

His voice inflected into a question because he knew how shocked I'd be. I couldn't believe it. The city craving side of a man who lived entirely in and for the wilderness.

That night I drifted easily into sleep, thinking about all the ways I'd show off my city of a decade, the raw and colorful Pike Place with their flower bouquets and dusty magic shops and flying fish, the gum wall, a ferry out to Bainbridge island. I thought about the science museum and the aquarium and the sculpture garden at sunset. Simultaneously, somewhere inside, the virus was planning its blitzkrieg. I awoke in the morning and I knew it was all over. I ran into the bathroom, bypassed the preferred receptacle for vomit (not enough time to lift the seat) and threw up on the shower door. The cat observed silently from the sink.

For the remainder of his visit I was bedridden. Except for the unfortunate beach trip. It was really sad. He took care of me, along with my roommate, but there wasn't much they could do. It was one of those painful stomach viruses. If I moved, it hurt. If I sat up, I'd throw up. The second night I  burned up in bed with a fever and Will rubbed me down with pieces of ice. It was like the grand canyon sickness take two, only not as dramatic. Or traumatic. Or memorable, or storyworthy. I've gotten a lot of mileage telling that story live, but this one, how my crappy immune system ruined his once a year visit, I'll only tell here.

I was so fucking mad. "Will," I whispered after I'd been lying in the same position for 12 hours, "I must tell you I've become a very independent, vibrant, sporty and can-do person since we broke up." I paused. "You may not know that by looking at me now."

Will rubbed an ice cube on my forehead and said, "I know, Lina." He was bemused. Seventy five to eighty percent of the time, I bemuse him.

Then the airport, the soup, the hospital. The sweet, lapping waves of something good hitting my seratonin receptors. I was there for about twelve hours. Then, for the second time in a week, they  filled my discharge papers and asked, "Are you here alone? Because you can't drive after what we gave you." And, for the second time in one week I responded with a stiff upper lip, "It's okay, I'll just walk."

I didn't mind. I didn't mind anything in the world because right before I left they emptied a whole second vial of the stuff into my arm. It went right to my head and it made me deliriously pleasant to be around. The best way to describe it is that I felt intensely, bizarrely cozy inside. And so, script in hand, I marched down to Walgreen's at midnight, beaming at the empty streets and the few passing cars.

If you ever get a dose of this stuff, go to Walgreen's. There is no better place for you on earth. Besides all the helpful boxed remedies, there is shelf upon shelf of cheap, inexcusably flimsy, wasteful stuff, which, when stripped on the labels of cheap, flimsy and wasteful, is actually just a bundle of plastic joy. The store was decorated prematurely for Easter (they mowed right through St. Patrick's day) which is the world's happiest holiday, strictly in terms of decoration. I just stood there and smiled back at all of it, completely blown away by the amount of fun surounding. Fuck me, is that a bunch of peeps skewered on a stick? Chocolate carrots wrapped up in orange foil? An M&M full of M&Ms? A pastel M&M wearing a basketball cap with legs filled with real M&MS?

So wondrous. All was right with the world.

I guess this is why people do drugs.

I can honestly say I felt as happy and blissful dreamily content as I've ever been.

So it was probably a good thing when my insurance refused to cover my script on the spot, and the bored looking pharmacist pushed the papers back at me and shrugged. I'm not sure if the medicine was the same stuff they'd pushed into my veins at the ER, I didn't think to ask, but if I'd had a whole bottle of that stuff for myself it may have ruined my life. In the most blissful possible way.

Which is sort of what Will did, because he lives so far away, with no prospects of moving here in the near future. He completely wrecked my Seattle life in the most windy, blissful, lovely way.

****

Annnd now for something completely different: the winner of the winter photo giveaway. Thanks for all the winter time survival tips, they were fun to read and a lot of people mentioned that they scrolled through and looked at all the comments to get some good ideas. The winner (chosen my random.org) is.....

Jacki said...

Something about that Irish Boat just grabs me - beautiful!

My surefire way to beat the winter blues is to take a four-year-old sledding. I would imagine any winter activity with an enthusiastic young pal would do, but my boyfriend's son + sledding = instant cheer.

And on days when my sledding buddy isn't available, hot chocolate and lighting a bunch of candles around the house.

Congrats Jacki! Irish boat coming your way. Email me at: melina (dot) Coogan (@) gmail.com

Winter's Photo Giveaway

This winter is slipping away. Let's memorialize it before it's completely melted. I have gotten so much joy & support from my readers in the last few months; I want to give back a little bit and hopefully make it a more common occurrence.

I'm giving away one of these photos to a random commenter. I will print it out and mount it, hopefully on canvas! I'll send it to you with a hand written Wilder Coast photo card.

In the comments section below, please let me know which photo you'd like. If you'd like a photo but would prefer it not be mounted (because your walls are already filled up, your a minimalist like my friend Steph, or you live in a van) just let me know and I'll send you just a photo. Here's the catch! I've been gathering 'survive the rainy/snowy/long/dark winter' tips the past few months, and I'd love to know yours. Leave a comment with your name, with some winter loveliness, and don't forget to mention which photo you'd like.

From left to right:

1. Crow
2. Midwest Octopus
3. Cloud Sea
4. Irish Boat
5. Wood on the beach
6. Moon ski
7. Calving Glacier
8. Ski racers
9. Tranquil Sound

Much, much love and gratitude,
Melina