When the Universe speaks, I try to listen. Winter cometh. I offer this reprise:
A Trickle or a Flood, June 7, 2016 She sat on the banks of the muddy San Juan, in the shadow of a bighorn sculpture and watched the river roll away lazily to the Southwest. It made her long for the beach. That is where the river was headed, after all – to join the mighty Colorado at Lake Powell and finally empty into the Pacific Ocean.
But she knew something the river did not yet know; it would never make it to the ocean. It was headed for the beach, but along the way destined to recreate, irrigate, hydrate, relax and refresh millions of people. Somewhere, 50 miles or so short of the Gulf of California, the river would trickle to a stop.
So she pondered this truncation, this travesty, this unavoidable change of plans people foisted on the river and she asked herself, “How are you doing on your own bucket list? Are you headed for the beach? And whether you ever make it to the beach, will you restore and refresh and recreate and relax? How much of you will be absorbed and diverted into the schemes and needs of others? How much of the landscape of your life will you beautify along the way?”
Live. Love. Laugh. Learn. You do not know if your end will be part of a cataclysmic flood or simply trickle away.
Goodness knows, the saying and phrase paddle your own canoe has been around a long time. Probably ever since man first hollowed out a log to float upon the water. We are each responsible for our own journey although it is nice to share the load with a partner, a team, a family. Another important thing to remember is not to put your oar in other people’s business. So yes, paddle your own canoe, chart your own course; row, row, row, your boat gently up the stream.
And that is exactly what she did. She launched her kayak for the grand finale float of the season and she paddled upstream. Upstream – even when the river has dwindled to the breadth of a creek – requires that you paddle constantly. No need to paddle frantically, power paddle, or exercise a stoic focus. A gentle stroke is all you need, but you must be consistent and regular. The moment you rest your paddle to fish for your phone, camera or water bottle you will begin a lazy 180 degree turn, a drift toward the riverbank, or a sideways bob down the river.
She moved gently, consistently, without urgency and without pause up the river. An hour took her through four miles of lazy river meanders that equaled 2 miles of straight roadway. Not another soul was on the water. She passed by a preserve trail peopled only by a toddler who pointed and a dad that waved. The Oxbow Preserve Park sported a new boat ramp and a beach empty but for the socially distanced middle-aged couple and their bandanaed dog. The canine seemed eager to be an uninvited passenger so she moved farther toward the other side of the river to appear less attractive. She did not hello them. Bounded on both sides by private property riverbanks she saw two swaybacked horses out to pasture, seven geese a laying that followed her from sand bar to the next sandbar, heckling. From somewhere in the lingering golden leaves of fall she heard the piercing call of a hawk. Even in a state of near relaxation she learned things. Mesmerized by the autumn beauty, she yet absorbed what the river had to teach.
You will move faster if you launch into the deep. Caution may keep you in shallow water. Nevertheless, choose the deep waters. It is tough going in shallow water. You make less progress in the shallow – even paddling upstream. And it is not one bit safer.
In a meandering river, the laminar will take you only a few yards. No matter where you catch the downward current you cannot rely long term on the energy of someone else.
If you should get stuck on a sandbar, don’t hesitate to rock the boat – a little or a lot – to get back out where you need to go.
Have a plan for loading and unloading your vessel. If you look like you know what you are doing, you will attract less outside advice and interference.
So yes, paddle your own canoe through life. And when it is time to cease paddling for the winter and put the vessel away – keep putting one foot in front of the other, and remember the lessons learned from the last kayak trip of the season.
You see, I tried washing my hair this morning to no avail.
October 18, 2020: Andrea and I traveled two hours up a dirt road yesterday – to a ridge dense with lodgepole along the Colorado Trail behind and beyond Purgatory Ski Area – almost to Rico. We hiked for a couple hours and then returned via the same dusty road, coughing and sputtering and sneezing whist reminding ourselves to keep sipping from hydration packs. Arriving home, we exited her trusty 4-wheel drive truck, stomped our feet at the door and entered our apartment. We smelled like dust. In our wake, the kitchen smelled like dust. My hair, freshly washed before setting out, was grey and smelled like dust. As I brushed out my hair – billows of dust scattered everywhere. I thought of my Mom and her stories of traveling the Alcan Highway in 1953. Her hair turned so gray from the dust – she said – that the inn keeper thought she was Dad’s mother when they found a room and stopped for the evening. She remedied this by washing her hair in water dipped from the nearby stream. Her hair returned to dark brunette. I tried washing my hair this morning to no avail. I’m still sporting long shimmering gray over light brown locks. Maybe I need to fetch water from a stream?
Friends don’t let friends miss out on all the good things in life – or – Purple Bliss is just an Emotion on the Water
The first thing you need to know about Janice is that she is older than I – by about four days. This is not the case with so many of my friends. I have a friend of 43 years who never lets me forget she is younger – by four months. Yet I will forgive her generously for this age bias because she accompanies me on beautiful hikes – even invites me. We have enjoyed many adventures together. Thank God for my newer friends who admit they are older. But the thing about friends – older and newer, younger or elder – is that friends don’t let friends miss out on all the good things in life.
Yes, I have friends with an uncanny ability to sniff out the best things in life and then foist them on me. Take Linda, for instance, she tracked me down in Canyonlands and proceeded to hike me to her favorite places in my own backyard. Then, she came to visit me at Glen Canyon and beguiled me with stories from her Lake Powell memories. But more importantly, we kayaked down 11 miles of the John Wesley Powell route of the Colorado River from Ferry Swale to Lee’s Ferry and I have pictures to prove it.
Janice and I have more things in common than just our June birthdays. I met her through Sweet Adelines so it may be safely assumed we both love to sing. But what, I ask you, is ever safe about singing? It is such a gateway drug. First you are sitting on chairs and then practicing on risers and before you know it you are preforming on stages and soon you find yourself not only singing in the streets, but dancing in the streets. I have made many unique friends in this way.
So yes, Janice and I have a June birthday month in common, we are both about 5 foot three or four depending on how you round it, we love to hike and travel, we share a love for singing – and we were both working in public schools at the time we first met – I as a music specialist and Janice as a resource teacher. But in one area, Janice and I are complementary opposites. Janice is a champion foister. I am the foisted upon. Definitely to my benefit.
After my first stint with Sweet Adelines, I moved to Seattle. Janice kept in touch. When she found out I was coming back to Colorado, she immediately engaged her recruiting persuasion. Why would I not want to sing tenor in a newly minted quartet? Sigh. Four of us made beautiful Musique together. But no. Singing and dressing alike was not enough. We must do bonding activities together – the chorus that plays together stays together. Janice and two other Sweet Adelines were going kayaking on the Colorado, would I come?
I was stubborn and full of lame excuses like not having a kayak or PFD. But Janice knows how to foist. She had an extra kayak and PFD. She told me when to show up. She gave me specific instructions on what to wear and what to bring. Those Adelines laced me into the PFD, seated me in a vessel, handed me a paddle and shoved me off. Up ahead, Janice led in her Purple Bliss. Bringing up the rear, I floated in Janice’s original hunter green kayak, taking to the water like a duck.
When I know it’s right, you don’t have to ask me twice – but they did. We also floated the Gunnison that summer. And I spent a fair amount of time kayak shopping in local sporting goods stores.
Seven years later I was still single and kayakless, but I now had a good deal of experience under my belt having rented all manner and style of kayaks for recreation. Sit in. Sit on. Inflate. Deflate. Lake. River. Back-haul. U-haul. Tie in the truck. Shove in the van. Mount in the kayak carrier. Kayak carrier – what a great concept! Janice bought one – a kayak rack – for her motorhome. The rack was second hand – and came with two kayaks. Worst of all for Janice – and best of all for me – Purple Bliss would not fit in the carrier. She was too skinny – at both ends.
And then Janice began her attempts to foist Purple Bliss on me. It took her two years. During that time she visited me twice at Lone Rock. She dined me, tried to wine me, hiked with me and once even lent me the hunter green kayak to go exploring slots in the nether regions of Lake Powell. Every time I mentioned kayaking on social media, she followed up by promoting Purple Bliss to me.
In early October I arranged to meet Janice at her place, ostensibly to sign two of my books which she had ordered on Amazon, but with a covert motive to kayak shop – to see if the purple kayak would ride on top my car. Janice let me do it myself. It fits and rides charmingly. We finally agreed on a price. The transfer took place ten days ago. Janice has released her favorite vessel and I am adoption happy. I have been on the water four times in less than a fortnight.
Purple Bliss is a specialty kayak built by Emotion and brokered by REI. She is designed especially for a small woman. She weighs only 34 pounds. She is a thing of both beauty and independence. I can hoist her to the rooftop of my Rav4 (aka Silvergirl) and take her down – after all, she weighs less than a grandchild – even if she is 10 feet long. We go everywhere together – just the two of us – with a step stool and a purple and red paddle and a red PFD. Friends don’t let friends miss out on all the good things in life.
What are you doing the rest of your life? She was the up-lake, district interpretive ranger and had been a back-country ranger in Bullfrog for many years previous. We had several interactions during the three years I was with Glen Canyon Conservancy. Valerie and I were not close, but I knew her well enough to attend her retirement party last fall. It was there I heard long term officemates sing her praises. What a varied and adventurous life she lived! Valerie died on September 15 of this year. That knowledge has shaken me and made me reexamine my goals. Why? Valerie would have been 66 in October. She is four months younger than I. Valerie had only ten months of retirement.
Looking at my maternal line, I figure I have roughly 20 more years of life at most. My mother died this spring at the age of 86 outliving her older sister by nearly three years. Their mother died at 65. I’ve already outlived grandma and great grandma before her. So what will I do with that remaining fifteen or twenty years? What would I do if I knew I had only a year? I would retire. I would throw my efforts into the things I love to do and long to do. I would hike every day. I would write. I would make music. I would spend time with those I love and like. I would travel. How about you? What are you doing the rest of your life? Let’s do it!
She is the type of girl who thinks a daily bath is essential to survival. Never mind if it is cold water, warm water, hauled water, stream water or the lake. It hasn’t always been that way, of course. As a child, like most children, she was required to take baths – one on Wednesday before midweek church service and the other on Saturday night in preparation for Sunday services. Sometime in junior high, daily bathing became a ritual of choice. It gave continuity to her schedule and provided the confidence that results from making one’s best effort to look nice. It also caused her parents to chide her for wasting water and to expound on thrift. Nevertheless, the bathing habit remains her eccentricity. She considers water from the tap an essential. She luxuriates in hot water, whether hauled and heated on a woodstove or available via a simple turn of the faucet handle. Hot springs are an ultimate extravagance provided just for her by Mother Earth.
When Forest Bathing became the new trend and buzz word in 2016 (the idea of shinrin-yoku-a taking in of the forest atmosphere – had been around since the 80s in Japan) she took to it like a duck to water. To get out and take in the forest atmosphere, bask in the great outdoors, soak in the beauty; that too became an almost daily habit. And what a luxurious habit it is! One day a ponderosa forest, the next replete with aspen, a third day piñon-pine.
Forest bathing does not have to involve splashing about or getting wet in water, though it frequently does. The best days are those she hikes for miles and returns to a hot bath or shower. No substituting one for the other; she will have her bath and forest bathe too – every last day of her life if possible.
Her ultimate daydream includes a long hike followed by the almost delirious indulgence of a hot-springs dip surrounded by mountains and conifers. Throw in a piano by the fireside and a savory meal cooked by someone else and she will know she has died and gone to heaven. But that hasn’t happened yet. So, for the time being we’ll leave her with a daily hike and a clawfoot tub filled to the brim with Epson salts.
She awoke yesterday with the distinct knowledge that it was fall, fall 2020; an end to the record setting heat and the beginning of joy and vitality for fall is her favorite season. Never mind the calendar says fall will not arrive for another eleven days. Her body, her mind, and especially her spirit knows it is fall. Her favorite season. The season of her bloom. Did she know it was coming? Of course. As regular as the herald of any season, she smelled it on the breeze one day in August and then it retreated, faded again into the obscurity of 90 degree temperatures in a mountain town of nearly seven thousand feet where homes have no air-conditioning because repeated days of summer heat are not expected. She heartily believes in global warming because that is what the earth does. It warms, it cools, more regular than present day clockwork, though each heave and undulation spans more eons than her lifetime.
It is fall and life is perfect. Perfect outdoor temperature for hiking any hour of the day without overheating or freezing. Perfect indoor temperature for baking. Perfect weather for pairing shorts with sweaters. Perfect time for scorched dreams and waning energy to resurrect and move forward. Genius simmers on the back burner. Dreams and schemes once withered in the summer heat are urgently planted like fall bulbs to take root under the snow. The promise of spring again seems a possibility.
It is fall and she has escaped so far the fires, the hurricanes, the murder hornets, homelessness, starvation, and covid19.
It is fall. She will squeeze every last drop – like cider from an apple – until the freeze of winter. And then she will cozy up by a fire and reminisce.
First of all, using a bandana as a facemask is not a new idea. Cowboys have known this for a couple centuries. Nothing says the west more colorfully than a button up shirt, sweat-stained cowhide jacket and a red bandana. And yes, somewhere back in time I rode horses and I’ve been hot and dusty. I was a child born in the fifties to a mom who wore a bandana to keep every hair properly coiffed in the wind until she arrived at her destination be it church or office.
She called them bandanas. We called them scarves. They were not cowboy paisley. Rather, they were sheer and colorful and available in a rainbow of colors from the local five and dime. I hated them. Not because my mother wore them, but because she tried to get me to wear them. Bandanas were definitely not of my generation and they looked horrid with braids and later with my updated flip- until 1968 anyway. But I am really not averse to using these same rainbow scarves while dancing in worship – or in music and movement classes.
1968 saw the advent of the little three-cornered scarf, a sort of kerchief made of cotton print, designed to match a short cotton shift. These were worn by teenagers who were not really hippies, but not old-fashioned either. I made one of excess fabric when construction was complete on my home economics dress project. The shift and kerchief became my favorite outfit. The girl wearing it felt anything was possible because she finally looked like a modern woman. The shift was well-tailored, finished with detail and boasted a good fit. The kerchief, passing over the ears and tied under the curl of my pageboy haircut revealed just the smallest portion of earlobe. The mint green tiny floral print of the fabric contrasted nicely with formerly mousy brown hair and drew attention to the eyes. Alas, not even fabulous fashion trends last forever. Bandanas disappeared again before high school graduation save for those worn by the likes of Clint Eastwood and John Wayne on black and white TV.
Somewhere in the late eighties, bandanas made a comeback. My mother, of course, was still wearing the sheer variety. But outdoorsy folks were using them for a variety of purposes; towels, handkerchiefs, doo-rags; as they ran cross-country, camped, or rode motorcycles. Women used them for craft projects. I found a matching pair at a local discount store. They were bandanas with wide, fuchsia-pink borders and a black and turquoise floral center. These I purchased for a dollar a piece. I sewed them front to front fashioning a sleeveless pullover blouse. This minimal shirt looked great with my Levis 501s and chukka boots and was one of two outfits I wore on a 21-day motorcycle honeymoon across the continental US. There was also another bandana on the trip. Red. Harley-Davidson. Absolutely necessary. A wedding gift from an older friend. After learning a hard lesson about sunshine and windburn on day one, my red Harley-Davidson bandana protected my tender nose and cheeks for the remainder of the trip. It is the second oldest bandana remaining to this day in my collection.
The oldest bandana in my bandbox is from a place of work. In 1976-77 I sold women’s sportswear at a quality, Main Street, department store in the heart of Grand Junction. With my employee discount, I purchased from the clearance rack a wonderful, seventies-inspired button-up shirt which I wore until frayed and threadbare. A bandana of the same fabric came with the shirt. That bandana is my oldest and has remained my favorite for 47 years. It has passed from me to my daughter and back again and seen duty as a costume accessory, wardrobe scarf pulled through a ring, hiking must-have, and dresser scarf in both college dorm and cabin. Why do I love wearing my 15 bandanas collected over the years? Because I would rather tie on a bandana any day then negotiate my thick tresses to pinion the elastic of a facemask to my ears. Besides that, other daily hikers have referred to me as Jesse James – and it is nice to be a celebrity of sorts. At my age, you rock your vintage doo rags and take what attention you can get.
Rocking two old bandanas while hiking in 2020: the 70s bandana and the 1987 Harley bandana
Marking time in isolation with an entire wardrobe of bandanas. March 2020
Seventies bandana on the 1889 Boulevard in spring of 2020
We attended a wedding yesterday. Yes. We suspended our Saturday busyness and took baths in the vintage claw foot tub, dressed with care in garments chosen from the special events side of our closets –seldom used of late – and Zoomed in and attended the wedinar. It was a very early wedding for some of the guests. 9:00 AM Mountain Daylight time for those of us in Colorado. God forbid you woke on the west coast this morning and had to be washed and dressed and in attendance by 8:00 AM.
It probably seemed a late wedding for the principals who have known each other – known this was the one – for three years and who have been waiting, waiting for COVID19 to clear. Late or not, it was a beautiful wedding. 11:00 AM in Cambridge meant the bride looked fashionably appropriate in her street-length, flare-skirted, professionally tailored, white wedding dress and elbow length veil. The ceremony took place in a lovely, huge, Presbyterian church complete with pipe organ, vestments, linens and vessels of communion; and empty pews. Fortunately, both bride and groom are musically astute so they obligingly sang the congregational hymns. But most of all, the bride and groom are intelligent and wise. We loved them for their integrity. We applauded them for pulling this off in the midst of a socially distanced pandemic and in such a way that we could be invited and included- something that would not have been possible from a distance of 2,000 miles in more traditional times.
And we cried. Not because of Coronavirus and because these kids can’t have a regular wedding with hundreds in attendance. No. We cried for all the reasons guests usually cry at weddings. We cried because they are young and idealistic and have perfect plans for their lives. One of us is old and disillusioned and knows what too often happens to idealistic plans. So she wipes her tears and smiles and says in her heart, may theirs come to fruition! The other of us is still young and idealistic and listens to their vows with rapt attention and thinks, it finally happened for them. Will this ever finally happen for me? We listen to the bride’s parents extol her virtues. She is literary and loves to hike and camp. Sigh. She is a perfect woman. We weep. Like women of any age and any era we look over the groomsmen in Zoom thumbnails and try to decipher who is most eligible. In the plus column, we see that all have beards. Wonder of wonders, they are quoting C.S. Lewis in their wedding speeches. What riches! What intelligence! We have found our people! Briefly, we cry again for joy. Where have all the young men gone? We also see companions in the thumbnails; family members in the guestbook photo gallery. Ah, most of the wedding party have found their people and are surrounded by wives and toddlers. The best woman (aka sister of the groom) is planning her nuptials That is good! The world is unfolding as it should. And again, we weep.
Not one tear do we shed for social distance. We are happy to be invited and attend virtually. In no other way would it be possible to be present. We didn’t have to wait until cake was served. You can have your cake – and eat it too, and your popcorn or chips anytime you feel like it at a virtual wedding. You can run spontaneously to the kitchen for chips and juice to take communion with the un-crowd. I even answered a phone call from the other room.
So yes. It is August of 2020 and we went to a wedinar yesterday. We laughed. We were inspired and comforted. We wept. What makes you cry at weddings?
Some time back I heard additional excellent advice along the same lines. One of those motivational, handsome, hip, spiffy, well-chiseled, broad-shouldered – but I digress. Anyway, one of those motivational, dress for success, guys advocated rising each morning and dressing as though you are going to meet the love of your life. Everyday. That seems a bit extreme to me. But I get the point. Most women apply makeup for special occasions – as do I.
So yes. I put on lipstick when I hike. I wear makeup in the Great Outdoors -mostly because my lipstick is a moisturizer and also sunscreen. When I am working – even the most casual of jobs-I dress up – I pay attention to what I wear. I have always recognized and followed good advice. But pandemic. Isolation. Living alone. Some things were neglected the second quarter of 2020.
Today I remembered. I bathed and groomed with care. I put on my makeup. I chose a favorite outfit. I’m now dressed to meet the love of my life – so I am convinced I’ll find the perfect kayak.
Putting One Foot in Front of the Other, Hiking for Life!
