Campground Water Spigots

Turning the small t-shaped handle, a familiar squeak-squawk-swoop sound filters through my ears and into a deep nook of my brain. “Ah,” my brain says to the familiar sound of a campground water spigot, a sound tied to a hundred different memories.

The memories that come first are from camping trips with my family when I was a little girl. Vacations meant camping and, though we occasionally stayed in hotels (preferably ones with pools in my sister’s and my opinion), I don't remember hotel trips as well. Hotels didn't have those familiar water spigots.

My memories are colored by vivid fern and pine greens, the pale blue of early morning sky and a bit of haze from campfire. They feel like the rough flannel of my dad’s button up shirt, warm like a cup of hot cocoa my mom made, spongy like the old yellow-foam mats we’d roll out every time we set camp, and soft like our matching navy-blue sleeping bags that smelled faintly of campfire and earth. With a soundtrack of chirping birds in the morning and the crackle of campfire along with the spigot squeak, these colors, feelings, and smells paint the backdrop to memories of hide-and-go-seek at twilight in the woods behind our campsite. Roasting s’mores to the perfect golden brown and mourning the loss of ones turned to charcoal. Setting up our gigantic Colman tent with its confusing color-coded poles that could fit the four of us plus our bags and the dog and our toys and maybe a school bus or two (or so it seemed in those days.) We camped close to home, and we camped hundreds of miles away too.

With my sister, mom or dad, I would walk to get water from a spigot for cooking dinner on our 2-burner Colman or cleaning the dishes, to fill water bottles before a hike or to fill the dog’s bowl. After dark, my sister and I would walk closer together on our way to wash our hands and brush our teeth, while trying to one-up the other with scary stories of ghosts and Bigfoot and the boogie man. With a squeaky turn, the high-pitched whistle of water would signal the flow through pipes while we did the "chore" of filling some pot or bottle, inevitably splattering the ground and our feet and faces in the process.

Camping led to building forts in the roots of massive trees in the Olympics, seeing the late day sun shine on Mt Rushmore, playing cowgirl in wooden-porched museums, daydreaming of dinosaurs in the Badlands, crying about the approach of the Hells Angles while stopped a South Dakota rest stop. My imagination stretched with curiosity as landscapes changed before my eyes at the speed of 60mph on the drive to our annual summer destination. I learned to pee outside without getting it on my shoes and that blue colored berries are edible, red are sometimes edible and white are never, ever to be eaten. I learned that whatever you see, look a little closer, a little longer and you'll see more than you ever expected. And I learned that sleep comes faster, deeper, and more restful under the canopy of trees, stars and a quiet, wilderness sky.

I don't know why my parents chose to camp. Maybe because they both camped as kids with their families. Or, maybe financially, they could afford to travel more with a family of four by not spending on flights and fancy hotels, but rather driving and carrying our home in a rolled up canvas bag. Or because they really just love the outdoors. Most likely, it was a little of all. Whatever the reason, I am grateful.

Now, from the moment I set out for a campout in an established park packed with July tourists or some solitary backcountry spot, I nearly instantly find peacefulness and creativity forgotten in the standard routine of coffee, house, work. All it really takes to get there is the turn and squeak of a campground faucet.

Friday Fuel

Tuesday's sunset = inspiration lived. Bogus Basin.
Photo: Hilary Oliver

Its the last Friday of August and its not lost on me that a year ago this weekend, I was pulling out of Seattle and driving east towards my soon-to-be new home, Boise. A stop for a fun weekend with friends in the Methow Valley gave me a familiar eddy to pause in for a moment and from there, onward. Reflecting just a bit on this past year, while also enjoying these (hopefully) last very hot days of summer, my creative mind is finding inspiration through these bits and pieces. Here are the stories and comics and images that are making up my Friday Fuel this morning:

Zen Pencils: A Cartoonists Advice. In Bill Watterson style (convenient as Calvin and Hobbes is still my favorite!), cartoonist Gavin Aung Than puts images to a few words from a graduation speech Bill gave to the freshly diploma'd. This is just the inspiration and reassurance I need today to not feel like a total crazypants for going out on a limb to pursue my own dream.

"To invent your own life's meaning is not easy, but it's still allowed. And I think you'll be happier for the trouble." - Bill W.

Time to get myself in a bit of that trouble, I'd say.

Humans Of New York. I love this Tumblr project. Through his images and simple questions, the raw honesty that photographer, Brandon Stanton pulls from the random folks he meets in NYC is a gorgeous reminder at how very human we all are. This has been my daily go-to site for the past few weeks since I stumbled across it. A warning though; if you haven't yet seen it, you might find yourself completely hooked, spending hours scrolling through all the images.

US Department of the Interior Instagram Account. If you haven't seen it yet, get ready for your socks to be knocked off. The photos are gorgeous and a fantastic mental vacation to a place where the wind blows gently, the only sounds are of trees and birds and bubbling creeks, and where you might just discover a few mysteries of the world.

Forest Woodward's Left of West Project, (via Filson). Forest has the incredible ability to tell stories of a thousand or two words in a single image. The souls of the people and places he photographs seem to speak right through the colored squares bearing their likeness. His Left of West project has been one of my favorite to follow this summer and captures the essence of the old west still found in the mountains and sagebrush. You can get more images by following his instagram feed, @forestwoodward 

Hope you enjoy these bits of inspiration too and Happy Labor Day weekend!

Finding Pumpkin Creek

I showed him the photos. “Do you know this place?” I asked. 

“I can take ya there right now,” he said.  

Supper still in the oven, we took off from the house, dust plumes rising behind our trucks. ...we turned off the road onto a rough track heading straight for an old, dilapidated log structure that mirrored my photos, only with the roofs fallen in.  

A year ago this past May, I went on a road trip through Montana to find the homestead where my grandmother grew up. She was an inspiring, defining part of my life for 33 years and continues to guide and influence even in the last year and half since she's been gone. When she passed away it became imperative to me to make this mini-pilgrimage to find her childhood home.

I'm so proud to have a short story of the adventure finding her homestead included in this summer's Mountain Outlaw Magazine. If you live in Montana, Wyoming, or eastern Idaho, you may come across a hard copy. If so  - and if you are at all like me and love the smell of real printed words in books, magazines, newspapers - I'd be honored if you picked one up, put your nose in it and gave it a read.

You can also read it by going to the online version of Mountain Outlaw, page 42. Many thanks to Emily Stifler for the opportunity and thoughtful editing. It may be only 3 pages, and just a few thousand words, but as my first printed piece (not including technical copy about outdoor apparel in catalogs or directions on packaging for how to use roll-top stuff sacks, or other such branding collateral), I'm so thrilled. I know my grandma would get a kick out of this story too. Were she still here, this August my family would gather around her to celebrate her 99th birthday, where stories of her childhood would most certainly be told.

 Thanks for reading and happy summer!

Everything's Bigger In Texas

The ride through the center of town to my destination starts slightly downhill. Its easy and hardly requires braking or much exertion to pedal the single-speed cruiser I’ve rented. The day has started bright and warm, even in these early morning hours. Many people say hello with friendly smiles as I pass by. My route is taking me along trail that runs beside a creek dotted with big trees and construction cranes building the future. At the halfway point to my destination, I cross one of the town's lakes and begin heading slightly uphill. These "lakes" are actually parts of the Colorado River, only dammed to stillness, and to my delight, I learn the bridge I used to cross over provides home to 1.5 million bats. Easy ride, nice people, tall trees - I could be in Boise except this city is much bigger.

Arriving at the recommended coffee shop, the attitude of the baristas, the aroma of delicious coffee and subsequent quality of my americano are comfortingly familiar. The place is packed with men and women, nearly all who are adorned with tattoos. In addition to tattoos, the men's uniform includes scruffy beards, tight, worn-in black jeans and tight often black, sometimes pink t-shirts, many with classic band logos on them. The women's includes thick, Wayfarer-style glasses and with a slightly messy but highly intentional, multi-colored, layered clothing system of tank under tee under cardigan over skirt with Dora-like shoes or flip flops.

Flipping through the local weekly to see what live music will be playing during the weekend, I can't help overhearing conversations around me. A man and woman to my left discuss plusses and minuses of life changes like moving cross country and she mentions the psychic she consulted for insight and maybe he ought to go see them too? Behind me, a group of college girls bounce from topic to topic competing for audible space with the couple: “It was so good and, like, my friend was, like, so grossed out”…”what’s interesting is the connection in Tennessee with the Cherokee and the Chauktaw” …"and then suck in your stomach and hold for like 20 seconds and if you do that every day you’ll have a flat stomach”...“This is where the career has been kicking my ass." I might just as well be in Seattle at Solstice near the UW or at Zeitgeist in Pioneer Square.

Then there is the pandemonium of birds; bold and incessant though not entirely unpleasant they hit a decibel that could nearly cause ear damage. Larger birds make a loud, sustained “squweeee” sound and the other littler birds a light, tinkling “chir chir chir.” They nestle in the flowering trees that shade coffee drinkers and hold on to branches as if they are surfing the light breeze. To my relief the air is not still and movement offers some relief from the heat. The humidity is so thick, my high-desert-of-Idaho-tamed mane into a voluminous look straight out of the Lion King. This place is so familiar, it could be Hawaii if there was an ocean nearby.

The night before, I had stepped off the plane and immediately started to sweat. The air, even at nearly midnight, was sticky. My initial impressions: hot, humid, big. Arriving so late, I had little visual perspective in the dark but had started building a human impression first from the two drunk men who’d been on my flight and kept asking where I was going to party that night as I dodged them on my way to baggage claim (luckily, I am highly trained in concourse navigation and have the speed of cheetah even when toting luggage). Then there was the very kind, award-winning travel guide on my shuttle with a big smile and gentle handshake who offered endless tips on where to go and what to do for anyone seeing his city for the first time. And, also the shuttle driver who went the wrong way down a freeway onramp to the unexpected excitement of all of us passengers.

The morning bike ride had finally revealed a visual of this city with traffic and panhandlers and construction noise that added to the impression of “big”. Even the people seemed louder, talking boldly of personal things in public. Maybe 6 months of living in a small city/big town has already changed me or maybe I’m just now learning that I’m just how private and quiet and cautious I actually am.

Which is what I’m thinking sitting at Jo’s, unintentionally eavesdropping on that couple next to me – is it a date?, just friends? – not that it matters. In their minds, they are in a private bubble and are comfortably sharing and being inspired to dig into meaty topics here at this busy outdoor coffee shop.

The birds mix with conversations and the sounds of trucks and cars rumbling up the street. Asphalt mixes with the scrubby trees and shrubs creating a natural feel in this urban hot spot. This city is a  mashup of natural and manufactured with bubbles of stillness every now and then that echo in the bustling city shuffle. I feel like I should already know this place but I keep getting lost.

Its not quite Boise, nor Seattle, Portland, or Hawaii, but a little of each. Familiar in so many ways but built by its own formula its also not. This is Austin, where the tattoos are plentiful, the biking easy and they make a damn fine cup of coffee. And food trucks. I forgot to mention the food trucks...

My Feet Have A Fever

A few years back, Maile The Great and I set off on an ill-fated outing fueled by desperation to feel dirt beneath our feet and piney air in our lungs. But that Memorial Day weekend had been too early in Washington for a backpacking trip. It was just one of many attempts I've made to satiate my spring trail fever that wouldn't go at all to plan. I am really good at this. 

What a view. 

So far, total disaster has been avoided and usually, I wind up coming home early after having had my hand slapped by Nature. 

It’s that time of year again and my feet have trail fever. 

I should know better. 

But I’m in Idaho now, where the climate is drier and seemingly more stable from the lack of rainstorms. It seemed possible to satisfy my early spring need to sleep on dirt. My friend, Jess, also wanted to get out backpacking, too and her enthusiasm fueled my motivation. I should've warned her.

After few phone calls to BLM managers and conversations with local gear shop employees, I hatched a plan for an easy season overnight in the Owyhees. It really seemed flawless. 

Of course, the desert presents its own challenges. There may have been two of us eyeballing the way and we might have even had directions broken out to the tenth of a mile, but everything in the desert looks the same. 

We tried the original directions. We back tracked, reset the odometer and started over again. We looked for missed possibilities and thought about just creating our own way across the barren land. The ninety-minute drive turned into four hours. We never found our destination. Navigating the unmarked roads proved impossible.

Being optimists (or rather, me being slightly neurotic and at the wheel and poor Jess stuck along for the ride), we (I) scrapped Plan 1, and went for Plan 2: the parking area pull-off recommended by a BLM manager (why I didn't start here originally, I dont know). I'd been told this parking area offered access to a hikeable terrain but that there were no actual trails. 

"Just go overland until you decide to turn around," the BLM dude had told me. 

"Great!," I had thought, and, "foolproof!" (I’m serious. I actually thought, Foolproof!)

The parking area was easy to find and, from it, led an old dirt road. Packs on, we set off, the dogs ecstatic to be freed from the dusty, bumpy bouncing of the truck. 

Ten minutes later, the road faded into a sage bush. Ten more minutes and it reappeared fifteen feet to our left, near an old fence line. This pattern went on and on - disappearing road, reappearing road, disappearing again - for an hour or so as we circumnavigated a low hill. I figured if we walked for a while, we'd eventually find a tree or rocky area for a somewhat sheltered spot to camp. 

We never found the water source the BLM manager had mentioned in the barren, sort-of-but-not-really picturesque, hills. All we had came across were old snow patches for the dogs who enthusiastically ate it, dug in it, jumped around in and barked over it. 

As we continued, we turned around the hill about 270degrees from our starting point which is when we were hit in the face hard by whipping, mean, cold wind. 

And like a cruel prank, off in the not-too-far distance - no, it wasnt an amazing view of awe-inspiring mountains - it was the road we drove in on.  If an undulation of a hill in the foreground had been a little lower, we would’ve been able to see the sun gleamingly off the top of the truck. It didnt exactly feel like we were out in The Nature. 

Now, I have camped out in some pretty uninspiring places; boggy soggy soil in a downpour, unprotected hard-packed desert in an electrical storm, the back of my truck at countless rest stops… but I have a really hard time justifying setting up my “backcountry” camp when I can see my vehicle. That the conditions also sucked inspired me even less. 

Back at the truck, we reevaluated our hopes and dreams for the weekend. We settled on picking up a bottle of wine and Doritos at a convenience store in Mountain Home, and heading out to Anderson Reservoir for road-side camping. 

Even the dogs were cold. 

The next morning was so cold we abandoned plans for breakfast. We took enough time to boil water for coffee while packing up before hitting the road back to the city. 

The difference between this trip and that poorly executed Memorial Day one (and all those others) is that I did not stay attached to the specifics (my feet also did not, excruciatingly, lose circulation from my dog sleeping on them.). I let go. And I - me, Teresa - actually went with the flow. Mostly. (maybe i'm learning to just throw my hands up and smile at my own misguided self.) 

In the end, my intentions were again overly enthusiastic, out-of-season, slightly dingbat. In the end, AGAIN it was all misplanned. But even so, in the end, we got to hike with heavy packs. I slept outside. The dogs got to frolic. I had time to lean back and take in the night sky packed so full with stars that in spots they blended into a glowing blur. I had dirt packed under my nails (a sure sign of a good weekend), we laughed a lot, and there was plenty of time in the truck for me to sing along to Trampled By Turtles and old Janet Jackson (which I had not anticipated). In the end, it was kind of great.

And, as Jessica said, "adventure with Teresa means packing for a 3-day, 2-night backpacking trip and going for a half day instead." I think I take that as a compliment.  ? 

Privacy Died and I Missed The Memo

Over the years while telling stories about growing up on a farm, my dad has mentioned once or twice that the phone his family had when he was a kid was a party line. Party lines weren’t private but shared between multiple families. Besides the person you purposefully called, dad explained that on the party line, anyone else who shared that line might be listening on the other end of the phone.  You had to be somewhat discrete, otherwise whatever you said could become common knowledge to everyone in town by the next day.

As a pre-teen, I become an excellent snooper on the phone when my older sister started dating. What did she talk about for hours with that boy anyways? I got really good at picking up and setting down the receiver with hardly a trace of a click (or at least I thought so – she might disagree). If she talked about anything that seemed particularly juicy to my 12-year-old ears, I might share it with my 3 or 4 girlfriends so that we could decipher its meaning and figure out what boys were all about.

I dont know this nice looking
gentleman, but I found his photo
online and I DO like ice cream

In both my dad’s youth in the ‘50s and mine in the ‘80s/‘90s you could share things with your closely held and, while friends, family, school mates or coworkers might gossip, for the most part your news would be contained within your immediate community. Unless someone did a lot of legwork, your story was yours to share.

Nowadays, with the creation of the Internet and the convenience of group information sharing including Facebook, Pinterest, Instagram, Linkedin, etc. our personal stories are being shared faster and the not just our chosen communities, but with the whole wide, wide world with a click and a second or two of waiting (no big news, I realize. I guess I’m just a late bloomer).

When I signed up for my Facebook account, it was with the intention of staying connected with close friends who lived far away. Sharing photos and brief news was a way to witness their lives without having to be there, without losing touch.

This blog was created for a trip to Nicaragua to allow me to share my travels with family and friends back home so that they wouldn't worry and also in part because as a solo traveler I wanted to have people I loved “along” for the trip.

Over the years, like so many others’ who are light years better at this than I am, my job has become intricately intertwined with the web; blogs to manage, Facebook, Twitter, and Vimeo accounts to update, being a public voice for brands with clients and employees spanning the globe. That I loved my jobs, that some of my best friends were coworkers or associates, and my personal passions aligned with the brands’ focuses blurred the line between personal and business. Broadcasting news and info through business accounts was highly personal and would often bleed over into my non-work accounts; and vice versa.

I recently was prompted to see what might come up about me and was astonished by how much I found when I hit Return. Maybe I shouldn't have been. Maybe my surprise just shows a blatant and embarrassing lack of awareness on my part. Through the evolution of my usage, personal information, experiences and relationships that I thought were fairly private seem to have been served up on a platter for anyone who wants to see.

While its part of my job, from a personal side I also enjoy parts of this community sharing immensely. There are people I care about but who are as busy as I am and I appreciate the ability to stay somewhat connected.

I dont know this dude either
but he looks to be in a cool
place and coffee is nice. 

So what does it all matter then, right? The conflict comes from the fact that I also enjoy my privacy. And it is my own damn fault for not honoring this myself, for letting too many bits and pieces loose.

Maybe I should simply realize that there is no such thing as privacy anymore and, as evidenced by my sharing, maybe even I don't really want it.

The internet has pulled wide open the curtains of our lives, of our souls and hearts, for the world to see. And we let it happen – I let it happen (though apparently I wasn't paying attention). We obliterated the private life, allowing the internet to be our own personal paparazzi sharing any nugget that might be juicy – as well as all those boring as hell nuggets that no one gives two shits about (want another photo of another brussel sprouts dinner I’ve made?)– to anyone who will take notice, or who wants to take notice.

Is this just the new reality to get used to and I am behind the curve?

Should I just get over the urge for privacy (when my social sharing is anything but)?

Should I quit sharing though it may mean, or at least feel like, losing touch with people I’d like to stay connected to?

And as viewers, is there a certain level of information gathering that is respectful versus invasive? If you walk by your neighbor's house at night and the blinds are open, does the glow of lights cause you to quickly glance inside or to stop on the sidewalk and study their interior decorating in depth?

Long gone are the days of making a call and asking to speak to one of several people who share the same number, and of making a call and wondering who might be listening in (unless you’re a conspiracy theorist and then multiple governments and manipulative corporations are listening into your calls). We don't share phones very often these days. Instead, the internet is the new party line, and anyone can listen in at anytime, and gather more than you ever imagined you might’ve said publically. Privacy is dead. But what I don't know is, does it matter?

Lessons For a City Girl, Part II

It's a strange thing to wear sunglasses in a fog. But I’m in Idaho so maybe it's actually normal. Driving east on Highway 20, the lack of visual distance wouldn't be much of a problem (I know this road by heart) except for the moisture freezing to the windshield.

At first, it just looks like fog but soon my view is truly blocked by ice that has slowly creeped down from the top. Hunching low over the steering wheel, I peer through an 8-inch band of non-frozen glass.

Idaho is a sunny place, so freezing fog or no freezing fog, its bright, hence the sunglasses. With the spreading ice blocking my view, I blast the defrost it as hot as it goes and, though not winning the fight, at least I halt the spread.

Maile leans forward between the front seats to get closer to the heat, her little ears twitching in the flow of hot air. I am sweating.

Then a strange noise startles my concentration. It’s not a SMACK! like a rock hitting the windshield, and not a tap-thwack as if hit by a leaf or tumbleweed. Its almost a thud as if I hit a bird, but sharper. The sounds is really a combination SMACK!, tap-thwack, thud.

There is actually time for me to think through all this, it was that non-startling. And then I see it.

Throughout this first Idaho winter, my windshield has collected a slew of significant dings from kicked up gravel. I don't think I ever had more than one at a time in Washington, but now I have nine. Most look like stars, with one or two legs extending a quarter inch or less. One ding even includes a full pebble-sized dent scooped out of the glass. I meant to get them fixed or melted out or whatever.

But, on this freezing fog morning, Idaho has a new lesson about Living in The West to teach me.

Lesson II: Dings are crazy buggers. Sandwich a windshield with really big dings between freezing fog on the outside and a blasting hot defrost on the inside, and before you know it, SMACK!, tap-thwack, thud! - one of those dings will get a wild hair and run all the way to the other side.

This is how I’ve come have an impressive 3’ long crack along the bottom of my windshield. Note to self: fix dings faster.

Other rules to winter living in The West (which is very different from the Pacific Northwest):

When biking to work in the snow, dress appropriately. 
Tights dry fast but act like Velcro to snow. Soggy tights are kind of gross and cancel out the “cute” factor of your skirt/tights/boots combo. Jeans are better. Particularly when you wear tights or long johns under them.

Another biking-in-snow tidbit.
The mash potatoes might eliminate the “slick” factor of packed snow/ice, but it also acts like sand. Avoid it. Ride in the packed snow/ice instead, simply brake earlier and/or put your feet down faster.

Shovel your sidewalk and walkway, all the way to the grass. 
If you don't shovel appropriately, as the snow melts it will puddle between snowy berms on either side of the walkway and re-freeze at night. It’s hard to hang on to your morning coffee when you’re slip-sliding away down an ice skating rink of a sidewalk.
*Multi-tasking bonus: Shovel as fast as you can to simulate shoveling someone out of an avalanche = great practice I hope you never have to use in reality.

When its 0degrees at the time of your morning run, it will hurt to breathe. 
Wear a facemask and/or buff (depending on how cold it is). Also, wear long johns under your running pants. And don't wear glove liners, put on the real deal. Your dog will likely get cold too; invest in Mushers foot goop and a jacket. I’m serious. Don't laugh. She’ll like you way better.

Sledding before work is really, really fun.
When you wake up in the morning to fresh snow at your doorstep, don't dilly-dally. You’re from the Pacific Northwest after all and this doesn't happen all that often. Put on your snow pants and boots and get your dog ready. Then grab your sled and zoom all the way down the hill in a flood of giggles; then repeat this last bit. Best way to start a workday!

Wear sunscreen. 
Always. Seriously.

I’ve been compiling this list over the last month and was going to include a bit about how you have to watch out for getting lots of dings in your windshield. Yeah, well.