Off The Beaten, Well-traveled Track

His email exploded with enthusiasm. And I believe in him, that he meant every word to the core of his soul.

     “This is what makes this trip different to the 100's of other emails you probably get; I'm 
     looking for a real adventure, something pure and truly "off the beaten track".

An off-the-beaten-path taken from a highway.

There is a lot of truth in his statement.

His trip is different – can adventures ever really be duplicated even if you follow a fairly well traveled path. The weather, the people met along that path, the food, the way our perception takes it all in, will never duplicate exactly what another has, even what we have, experienced in the past.


Real adventure, that’s the pure essence of what we go searching for. To do something atypical, to have to work a bit for it, to get greater reward than what we put in, to get the shit scared out of us just a little. And to come home with a story worthy of the rapt attention of everyone around the campfire, so focused on our every word that they forget to sip the beer slowly warming in their hands.

Purity. Free of the hassles and clutter most of the rest of the world bring with them when they travel. Like the lady at airport security who turned back to check her bag when she was told her three quart-sized baggies of mini bottles of shampoos and lotions and important salves of some sort or another was over the one-baggie limit rather than lose them even if it meant being late to the gate where her flight was departing. The simplicity of letting go of our comforts and embracing what another place and culture has to offer. It’s a beautiful way to travel, to get outside ourselves.

It’s also true, that I get hundreds of emails requesting sponsorship for people’s amazing and life changing adventure plans. Its part of my job, and I find it fairly entertaining, if not only a way to feel productive by sending massive “no’s” out and in a big lump, emptying out my inbox.

But going “off the beaten track” and being different from the 100’s of other ideas that are out there? In this world where community is global, where people in the most remote places have access to cell phones and internet, where for the right amount of cash you can go anywhere – is there really any place truly off the beaten track at this point? Or is off the beaten track simply a blanket description for places your friends and parents never have and may never want to travel to? And when it comes down to it, the likelihood that no one has come up with your “unique” free flying, low budget, no-guidebook idea is pretty unlikely – someone probably set out with that same travel itinterary yesterday. You’ve been scooped.

But it doesn’t really matter. What is it behind our incessant need to be the first, be different, push the boundaries past the guy who did it last time, find the new thing/people/place, have the experience NO ONE else has had? Your trip to the local farmers market could be just as entertaining and interesting as that guy over there who’s telling a story of narrowly escaping attacks by wild monkeys throwing green bananas. Are we trying so damn hard to be different simply because we cant tell a good story about what’s already around us without the extremes found off the beaten path? Am I trying so goddamn hard to climb as hard as I can simply to tell a good story around the kitchen table, when in reality, the story I want to tell is about the 5.2 I followed with a good friend in a beautiful place? A place that we accessed by well beaten trail (most of the way) and by shuttle boat ride that to arrange required we talk to at least 3 people, in our own language, without having to mime what we wanted in a goofy game of charades that we would’ve had to play in a truly exotic place where there is no book on how to learn the local language and for $15 allowed us to skip a grueling “character-making” bit of trail?

When is the last time you read a book or heard a story (not on TV) that grabbed you at the core, left you breathless with anticipation, and made the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end? That made you laugh so hard that you started hyperventilating and could barely muster enough body control to grab hold of your aching sides to keep them from splitting wide open? That moved you so much that you wanted to reach across a table or into the book to touch the hand of the storyteller, give it a squeeze, offer a tissue with hand that would then wipe away your own tears.

I’m not saying we should stay on the couch forever doing nothing because its ALL been done before, so whats the point of anything. But maybe… Maybe its not so much about being needing to be different, to be extreme to be recognized and to have people want to hear our stories, but to be able to tell a good story about whatever, wherever and whomever is important to us; a walk in the park or a walk on the wild side.

The Root

I came across Hafiz recently and fell in love with his words (you can find another on Solo in Tandem). Its hard to know how close his actual voice was to the modern, English translations, but I like to think the essence of his message is still true.

This past February, I took a trip to Ketchum (aka heaven on earth). One morning, while sitting by the kitchen table still in my pjs and coffee in hand, with views of freshly snowed-on mountains in every direction out the window, the sun waking up the day, and a silence so deep it roared with gentle comfort, I read The Gift and stumbled upon this one. His words summed up the way I feel in the mountains and forests and woods so perfectly -in a way I never possibly could communicate- that I was immediately entranced...

What Is the Root?

What

Is the 

Root of all these 

Words?

One thing: love.

But a love so deep and sweet

It needed to express itself 

With scents, sounds, colors

That never before

Existed. 

Its the only explanation that makes sense to me as to how and why such beautiful places have been created. This feeling is one I crave, that I cannot live without and it makes me irresistibly long for an escape to some natural place; any natural place. So, I'd say its time to head into the mountains. 

The Gift - Poems by Hafiz, The Great Sufi Master, translated by Daniel Ladinsky can likely be found at your local mom-and-pop bookseller, on Amazon of course, and also through the Seattle Public Library 

VertFest

Clinics and demos for 2011! 

Friendly faces smiled at me as I scanned the competition while flutters of nervous anticipation filled my belly. VertFest 2010, and my first randonee race, was about to begin. Held at Alpental, VertFest includes one or two laps depending on your division, each which ascend about 2,400' for one lap over 2.5 miles and about 4,000' for two laps over 4 miles. The race includes sweaty bootpacks, sketchy switchbacks, portions under chair lifts where riders can heckle you well out of snowball reach and a crew of the nicest, most encouraging volunteers. Last minute instructions were given, beacons were checked and before I could say "kick-turn", the gun blasted the madness loose.

The bluebird sky infused the day with electric color; a lucky occurrence on what statistically should've been a gray February day in the Cascades. Minimal snowfall had resulted in a decent but not deep base and it had been days since the last dusting. Ducking into the shadows of the trees, racers surged up the challenging start. Those in my "wave" pulling up the rear struggled for traction. Carnage littered the course; a released ski here, a water bottle sledding downhill there, people slipping this way and that... But before too long, we all found footing and settled into an upward rhythm.

Weaving up through the trees. Photo: Keith Karlick

Fffzzt phhushhhh fffzzt phhsushhh... my skins glided in perfectly aligned time to Run DMC, Aerosmith, and the butterflies still dancing in my belly. I hadn't spent much time that season on skis and had never skinned for speed. Calculating these factors with the tough conditions, I kept watch for potential "outs" in case I had to bail. All this and I still had to figure out how to drop into International, a slope with a tough entrance that I'd built into mythical proportions; a terrifyingly steep chute with thousand-foot cliffs all around and only a narrow margin to keep me from falling to a gruesome lump on the slope below. The abominable snowman would probably come chase after me too. Zoiks.

Conversation with fellow racers eased my nerves and I realized many, like me, had never attempted this before. Keeping a steady pace, breathing hard from effort, and in eager anticipation of reaching the first milepost, I closed in on the flat spot that was our checkpoint. As I neared it, the pitch steepened and in a moment of poor balance and over eagerness, I lost it and began to slide! Using my elbow to self arrest (not advised), leaving a bit of DNA along the way, I quickly reversed the progress I'd just made. In an act of mercy, the split boarder behind me stuck out a foot to stop my fall. Thank goodness for friendly competition!

Passing that first gate, I came out from the trees and into the sun-drenched open of softened snow and spring-like conditions. With more grip to my skins and the help of Bryan Adams serenading me with Summer of '69 via my Shuffle, I began the steeper ascent with a renewed spring in my glide.

Busted elbowed turkey getting the beta

Sunny peacefulness of the quiet skin track distracted me (nearly every other racer was ahead of me so I had some lovely, unintentional solitude). Before I knew it, skin glistening with a dewy perspiration, a gaggle of patrollers greeted me at the final checkpoint, patched up the wreck of my bloody elbow, helped me into my turkey suit, and gave me encouraging advice on dropping into the dreaded International. Ack.

Sounds of skiers working hard to hold an edge on the icy slope below frazzled my winged self. With glittery ridiculousness and a deep breath, I let go of the grip that pinned my li'l chicken-hearted self to the top and -gasp- I dropped in.

And found unexpected cush! Like a bird in springtime, I hopped from soft spot to soft spot, overflowing with snowy glee. Below International, I zoomed through trees along the twisty course, my sparkly turkey suit catching afternoon light. Popping out at last run, I let it all go, my wings catching the air. The ding of cowbell and cheers of spectators accompanied my own ecstatic whoops of joy as I crossed the finish.

Turkey in action! Photo: Keith Karlick

At the post-race festivities, celebration filled the air. Fellow racers shared epic stories of ascent and descent. Race winners claimed prizes and exercised well-deserved bragging rights. Raffle winners took home goodies that would've made any gear-junky jealous. Good brew poured with delicious ease. And the sun set with a golden glow as the great day faded.

In the end, this chick's time was somewhere over three and a half hours which translated to 3rd from the last. My souvenirs included a rosy sunburn, a blobby scrape on my elbow, pretty black bruises on my shins, and memories of spring snow. It was my best day of skiing for the entire 2010 season.

Now, nearly into February 2011, I'm gearing up for attempt #2. If you haven't signed up for VertFest, do it now! The race is February 13th. If you want to add to your fun, or participate without racing, this year features even more fest with clinics including Ski Photography with Grant Gunderson and Jason Hummel, Steep Skiing with Bryce Phillips of evo, and Avalanche Safety with Martin Volken and the crew at ProGuiding. The full list of clinics can be found on our VertFest Facebook events page. Also new for 2011, we'll be hosting a film festival at the North Bend Theater Saturday night. Are you in?!

Now that we have that cleared up, the only question is what do I go as this year? Lady bug, penguin, Ms. Pacman....? Let me know your suggestions and I'll see you there.

This was originally posted on VertiCulture. I have a few more stories posted there if you'd like to find more. VertiCulture is my favorite work project, powered by Outdoor Research, and filled with sport-passion and stoke from athletes and friends who never cease to inspire me. Check it out!

This One Goes To Eleven

Thanks for the inspiration, Cupcake Mafia. I've always loved themes. They're so full of purpose! I think my love of themes hearkens back to the third grade when I wrote fruit-themed poetry on paper the shape of apples....

This one really did go to 11! Good friends = good times.

2011 is right around the corner so my theme-ing is well-timed with the new year. (side note: I really don't think the year's theme has to be decided now, nor does it have to stay the same for all 365 days of the year. just a hint of things to come on snarkybumbler - keep an eye out for revised themes.) Anyhow....

In, 2008 my theme was the Year of Selfishness. Not bitchiness, mind you but this theme served as a reminder to do what was best for myself before doing what was best for others. We become the best friend, daughter, girlfriend, coworker, self, etc. only after we've taken care of our own needs - that's my thinking anyways. So in 2008, I tried to put me first, sometimes failed, sometimes succeeded and over all learned a shit-ton.

2009...hmmm... it was the year of something...honestly, I forgot what, which is probably a good thing. Oh wait... its coming back, now. 2009 was the Year of Recovery, putting broken pieces back together and finding my footing once again. 'Nuff said.

2010 was the Year of Fearlessness! I am an over-thinking, sometimes over-reacting, overly-enthusiastic girl with an over-active imagination that often gets herself in over her head. And then overly freaks out. This was the year to breathe deeply, have confidence in my abilities and decisions, and remember that even in scary situations that I have what it takes to get myself through. Risk is actually a good thing. After all, if we don't take it on now and again, in the end we might find we've missed every amazing opportunity that comes our way; the view from a mountain top, chances to make new friends, the possibility of love.

This fall, a friend told me that fear is his internal indicator. It helps him asses what he's up against and make the decision of whether, with his skills, he can mitigate the "danger" to keep going or if he should instead back off. Halfway through the year, fear changed from being a bully that I loathed to being a great tool instead. So, less the Year of Fearlessness and more the Year of Fear-use-ness. Go figure.

And now, here we are on the brink of eleven. I like taking things to eleven. And I have a VERY good feeling that this particular "11" has some awesomeness in store. So...

2011 is the Year of Being Present. I do not feel old, I actually feel "younger" in the sense of physical strength, energy and happiness at 32 than I did at 22. But I know that every year goes a little faster than I'd like. Every experience provides perspective; and I'd like to hold onto those just a little longer.

I've mulled over and over the amazing days spent with incredible people in 2010. I've been provoked and inspired by thoughts from others; Redhead Writing's Blue Balls, Daily Pep Talk, Scott Stratten's Going Until We Stop, Rock Climber Girl's - well, every story she's written and conversation we've had, Dirtbag Diaries (also check the archives for the White Book)... this list is long.

What I've found - and dear friends you know this all to well about me - I'm always in such a hurry. Such a hurry to fix, clean, climb, ski, walk, meet up, dance, laugh that I rarely slow down once I get there. And I have a hunch that this is why my years are slipping by too quickly. In 2011, I will be present. I will take the time to hug you longer, better, will go on longer walks with the pup to watch her bounce and frolic. I will not hesitate to watch the sky morph through an entire range of colors as the sun begins to set until every star is out. I will be aware of each moment to notice the smallest flurry of a drifting leaf in the wind or the colors in the wings of a bird. Be present to notice all the things that make my life so wonderful and colorful and rich and then appreciate them. Right. Then.And there. 

Always Take a Buddy...

... or at Least Lots of Handwarmers

The long fingers of a frozen night creeped deep to the bone. Attempting to hunker further down into my bag, I made another futile attempt to rub my feet together and warm the ice-blocks at the ends of my legs. But like each of the dozen attempts I'd made before, I couldn't get them to budge. In my half sleep/half frozen, middle-of-the-night haze I dreamed the entire weight of the world were holding my feet down. In reality, the force that held them was a mere 33lbs of lean, never mean, usually happy, bouncing dog machine. But this night, she was not happy with me.

Summer Sausage and Cheese. Yum.

In a desperate attempt to pacify my inner forest gypsy, I'd ventured down a trail off I-90 over Memorial Day Weekend alone. I'd had enough with winter! My bullheaded desperation to get out wouldn't keep me cooped inside another minute. So despite not having any willing human partners to join me, I did what any forest gypsy HAD to do; I packed my pack, tied my sneakers, and coerced my ever-eager hiking sidekick to come along (this is not hard to do - she is an EXPERT trail lover). Since it was a particularly lovely week leading up to the weekend, I packed my spring/summer gear. Sunny and warm in the city means sunny and warm in the mountains, right? Oh, the sweet misleading and transfixing blindness of being bullheaded!

It was all sunshine and daisies until I reached mile 2.5 of the planned 6 and found the trail fully snow-covered. Of course, bullheaded forest gypsies dont let snow stop them. It also doesnt stop dogs who love that white stuff, even if they sink to their bellies. After post holing until the light began to soften into dusk, I finally back tracked to a different lake miles short of my original destination to make camp.

Is it a fox? No! Its Maile the Great!

Thats when my sidekick started getting cranky. She actually ate my sandwich out of my hand when I distractedly looked the other way (i swear she planned a diversion on purpose). Normally, she would spend the evening prancing after bugs, but before the sun fully went down she'd tucked her frozen little body in and nested down into my sleeping bag. Then I tucked right after sunset because it was too damn cold to stay up any longer and I was shivering through all the layers I'd brought.

It was at that point I realized the thin blanket I'd brought for her wasn't warm enough and the only warm place for her to sleep was between my feet. Or rather, kinda between my feet and mostly on them - I was sleeping in an efficient tapered bag after all.

Sleeping Bag Bandit

Between the dog-induced pain of feet gone numb from lack of blood flow along with the simple bloody, f-ing coldness of the night, my twilight bed time resulted in a collective 4 hours of sleep. I was up in flash the second a hint of daylight appeared. I've never packed a tent so fast. The dog, who if given the choice will sleep in past 10am, was up and ready to run before I could utter "summer sausage". Despite the beautiful, clear, peaceful morning, we were on the trail, back at the car and heading down the highway towards home by 7am. A full day before our planned return.

Most trips, I find, turn out to be nothing like they were planned. Most turn out better. Others, well, they turn out less than better. But usually with some not-so-bestness comes (hopefully) a bit of wisdom. Never again will I go on a snow camping trip without a second sleeping bag for my dog, another buddy who's larger body will help keep the tent warm, or enough handwarmers to line my entire sleeping bag and the dog's blanket with resupplies for halfway through the night. My inner forest gypsy will be running amok again soon. Hopefully she'll remember to pack a bit more carefully.

**Snarky Bumbler's Note: While I realize its time to ski not hike and I cant get enough of the deep white these days, this little memory pops up often, no matter the time of year. It reminds me to treasure the bits of goodness found in even the least pleasant of situations, to be like Maile and smile and bounce down every path - snowy or not, to breathe in every sunrise and sunset (even if I'm silently shivering down/up the trail in solitude), and to always pack an extra layer, a flask of whiskey, and handwarmers no matter the season.

A Tribe Called Wonderful

Where the magic happens.

The African proverb, reiterated by Hillary, said that it takes a village. In my case, "village" is more aptly dubbed "tribe." For me, it took a tribe.

The tribe I found myself in a few weekends ago is special; full of gumption, spirit, kindness and compassion laced with a hearty dose of laughter, vigor, and a bit of crass humor for good measure. Wise, experienced and humble. This tribe? The ice climbers of the Bozeman Ice Festival.

I embarked on my journey by first letting go of my dark-haired companion (the dark one in my nicely arranged blonde, redhead, brunette group). Due to an injury he couldn't come but sent me off with the gifts of love, a hug, and wishes for a good trip.

My amazing blonde and redheaded partners

We arrived late in the day on Friday to the valley full of eager anticipation and energy. The Women's clinics were the hot ticket of the weekend with a stellar roster of guides including Sarah Hueniken, Lilla Molnar, Majka Burhardt, Caroline George, Emily Stifler and Mattie Shaefor. While I didnt sign up for one of their clinics, like the "big girls" on a playground these amazing women are so inspiring to my "new kid in school" self.

Hiking up to the Unnamed Wall area, we came across other climbers on their way out, including Kyle Dempster, a friend and OR athlete. A short time to catch up and a few words of encouragement from that experienced tribe leader to this novice, and I was on my way again to my first WI climb.

A new Spokane tribemate

Being a climber of rock and an aspiring alpinist, I thought ice wouldnt be too much of a stretch outside my comfort zone. I'd climbed on seracs after all and had a ton of fun. How could WI be so different? What I found turned me completely upside down, and fully inside out.

Despite arriving late, my enthusiastic and experienced redheaded friend tackled the ice with passion and dedication. But by the time he'd set the rope and lowered down, it was well past dark. Cold, wet, nervous....I was completely out of my element. With every swing and step I took, I moved further and further from my element and closer and closer to fear. And screaming barfies. Ouch. Ten feet in and I was done. Using the darkness as my excuse, I lowered and let him climb again to clean it.

The next day, at a friendly and easy "cragging" type ice area (is it called ice cragging?) my blonde and redheaded friends and I found ourselves in the company of a group of guys from Spokane. Our new Spokane friends were quick to joke, offer tidbits and coaching, and forget any display of fear...the previous night's anxiety quickly evaporated as I made my way up the ice. By golly, it was almost comfortable! With examples of strength, calm and skill all around me, possibility revealed itself in every crook and cranny of my imagination.

Blondie, showing me how its done.

The final morning I woke with aspirations from the previous days session but a taste of bittersweetness in my mouth. The weekend was ending and I had to return home. And even more apparent was that after a night of sharing and celebration, I became acutely aware of the feeling of loss over the absence of certain members of this tribe -one in particular. Trying to let it go, I packed up and headed out for the day.

What we ended up on - the Matrix - is fairly irrelevant, unless you're keeping score. In which case, you can simply have all my points for this one. Belaying Christian up, watching Jim second, I stepped out to start my climb. Maybe it was my psyche-heavy morning, tiredness or bad toast. But fear gripped my heart with an iron fist. I felt alone. I was scared. This seemed stupid - what was I doing out there flinging head-impalingly-sharp objects at brittle ice?! I popped, screaming, cursing loudly. From above, words to cheer me on showered down. Shaking, terrified, I couldn't hear them and I continued, until... I Just. Couldnt. Take it.

Not yet in panic mode.

Hardly able to breath, I paused on a snowy ramp. Later, Jim who was belaying, would tell me he asked Christian, "How's she doing?" Christian's compassionate, yet sarcastic response, "she's doing great! and she's sobbing." Its hard not to chuckle at myself now.

But with the encouraging words of my partners, and thoughts of the women guides, my friend back home, the dreams of my own heart and mind, I made it. And when I did? My climbing partners made me feel as if I'd scaled the most impossible climb with the most grace and beauty they'd ever seen.

Later, I relayed my tale of tears to Kyle and a few friends in the parking lot later expecting teasing but getting congratulations and cheers to do it again instead. Really? After all that boohooing?!

Later, in an email exchange involving another badass, inspiring climber, Margo Talbot, Christian gave me the biggest compliment by sharing with Margo that I'd done so well on my first ever ice. Wow.

The scene of the tears.

Over the course of just a few days I was fully welcomed into the tribe and despite my fears, meltdown and novice ability, though a stranger to many, made to feel as much a part of this phenomenal group of people as anyone else. Me. A part of this tribe? Yes. And I most certainly will go back, hopefully with slightly fewer tears. How could I not want to be around these people again, this tribe of wonderful? From my injured friend at send-off, to my partners and the "leaders" within the tribe, to the friends I made along the way, the climbers at the Bozeman Ice Fest are certainly some of the most incredible people.

Go next time. This is one tribe you want to be a part of. I'll see you there.

No Cage, Thanks. I'll Take Some Roots

     "I fear neither death, nor pain."
                "What do you fear, my lady?"
     "A cage, to stay behind bars until use and old age accept them. 
     And all chance of valor has gone beyond recall or desire."

The last few days have found me methodically packing for Montana. While I have only climbed "ice" twice - both times on seracs at Mt Baker - its become apparent that my psyche has really taken a fancy to this sport. With OR is a sponsor for the event, the Bozeman Ice Climbing Festival seemed the perfect opportunity to get on waterfall ice and learn what its really all about.

Into my bag have gone layers of clothing for battling the dry cold of Rockies, multiple pairs of gloves for testing, my beloved Scarpa Charmoz, harness/reverso, tools, and my swimsuit for the hot tub, of course. Tonight, I'll throw in my thermos, coffee and french press, making my kit complete. Tomorrow, I hit the road with my intrepid companions, forging ahead into a world I barely know.

Despite having very little experience, I feel an unusual calm about this trip. The words of Erowyn from LotR, above, have stuck with me since I watched the films in a marathon over Thanksgiving. Lately, and inexplicably, an incredibly steady confidence has been radiating from my core. Perhaps I'm finally outside the proverbial cage my fears have always tried to keep me in.

Or, perhaps my calm is from having a trusted, solid team to climb with. (Side note: my team consists of all men, one is a redhead, one a blond, and one a brunette. Ladies, could it get any better? Let the bad "so, I walked into this bar one night" jokes begin...) Without discounting that I am my own best "teammate", good partners are truly key. And these men, well, they're 3 of my favorite.

But, this unusual calm has me thinking....what is it with this trip? Maybe deep down I really love ice but just dont know it yet? Is it my own inner bird ready to fly free? My awesome friends? Or, maybe, maybe....

…Maybe I'm feeling a tug of my roots. After all, I am going back to the land of my ancestors. Livingstone was where my Great Great Grandfather homesteaded a ranch, the 63 (for the year, 1863 when he claimed the parcel). Of his 11 children, 2 were lost in infancy, 1 at the age of 12 when she was gored by a bull, several others lost in early life, one I believe when she caught fire on her stove while cooking and couldn’t wake her husband. My great grandfather’s first wife died 10 years into their marriage, his second wife 2 years after they wed, his third managed to stick around longer.

My grandfather grew up as a cowboy on the 63 and at the age of ~11 was riding, slab of steak kept inside his jacket during the winter's work to keep it from freezing, leaving home for stretches of time as a young boy. Not your typical way of growing up these days.

Ernest, my grandfather's cousin and a local mountaineer, is part of local legend disappearing on Granite Peak in 1959, the day of Montana's biggest earthquake. His story was quite a mystery then and remains so even after parts of him were discovered, first a shoe with a foot inside in 1999, then other bits and pieces a few years later.

Such hard, but adventurous lives, no where near as cozy or convenient as my gas-heated, 800fill down, SUV-driving life of 2010. Perhaps my calm comes from hearing the call of my family, feeling a pull towards the strength they poured into that land through their labors, feeling called to a "home" I last visited in 3rd grade.

This could also be hocus-pocus bullshit that I'm imagining because I'm a romantic-headed, creative-type with an over-active imagination. But even if that's the case, I'm enthralled by going where my grandfather and more distant relatives roamed. To be in the place that shaped my people so many years ago, where older generations influenced the next with drive, determination, and a need for exploration and adventure. I want to see and feel the beautiful surroundings that shaped who my grandfather was. That in turn, as it goes, shaped me. I think I might discover that I’m very much like him.