Texas girl in the middle of Kiwiana

Amy Boatman

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Getting Up Off My Ass

I usually prefer to sit. I like to sit and watch TV, sit and read, sit and play on my computer, sit and play computer games. Sitting is my preferred position. This is followed a close second to laying down. Upright and mobile are not in my favourite categories. I also don't much care to leave the house. I have everything I need right here. Why go anywhere else?

Well, for only one of many reasons, staying at home too long makes me a bit squirrely. My mental health is much better served by my getting out and going somewhere, anywhere. Today, I actually wanted to! 

Shan has been off work on vacation for the holidays and has stayed home with me for most of them. She's a bit stir crazy too. Today we went to Waiatarua Reserve. It's quite a nice park. It was once a lake but was drained leaving behind wetlands which have an active pukeko population. I didn't see any babies today but maybe next time. 

I tried to bag a couple of geocaches but between my sling, my inaccurate gps, and Shan's impatience when I don't find it right away I was not successful. We decided to come back another day when she would walk on her own and I could geocache to my heart's content. 

My goal is to journal about a positive experience every day and today it was seeing this lovely park and spending time with my wife.

How to Be More Positive

Something passed across my consciousness on Facebook the other day about how to bring more positive energy into your life. I feel like I've had far more negativity in my internal mental space than positive so I thought "Why not give it a try?" It consists of doing five things every day.

1. Perform one random act of kindness everyday.

2. Be grateful for at least three things.

3. Meditate for at least three minutes.

4. Exercise for at least 15 minutes.

5. Journal about one positive experience from the previous 24 hours.

Today, I decided to begin this journey. I posted on Facebook about three things for which I'm grateful. They are a wonderful wife who made my favourite dinner, two lovely kitty souls who adore us, a family that I love but don't get to see as much as I'd like. Shannon and I went for a walk in Waiatarua Reserve for over an hour. I tried to bag a couple of geocaches but I just couldn't find them. I found a cool app for my phone called Calm that gives you a guided meditation every day. I did that for three minutes. I'm going to journal about something positive as soon as I get done with this. That just leaves a random act of kindness. I'm kinda stumped on that one. I'll have to think about what I can do in the next two hours before the day is over.

Is it time to give up?

For as long as I can remember I've wanted to be a writer. I wanted to have my stories published and read by everyone in the world. I wanted to be rich and famous or at the very least well off and well known. I'm 45 years old now and I haven't done anything with the writing gift I was given. I've got half finished stories and nebulous ideas but little else to show for the ambition I carried around for so long. Ambition without drive is a heart breaking thing. Every day I have ideas. My brain is always going. My imagination is always in overdrive but when it comes to actually writing it, I can't muster the energy or the desire to put a single letter on the page.

The other day, Shannon was telling me yet again that I needed to blog about one thing or another and I told her I just couldn't be bothered. She said, "That's why you'll never be a writer." Ever since, those words have been haunting me, mocking me. "That's why you'll never be a writer." 

I've been holding on to this desire since I was in single digits. A writer is the one thing I always wanted to be even as the other ambitions came and went. Is it time to give it up? Is it time to admit that I don't have the drive, the self-motivation, to make it as a writer? The thought leaves me with a feeling of complete and utter loss and at the same time relief. I've been beating myself up for so long because I feel like such a failure. I mean, how difficult is it to turn off the TV and spend a few minutes writing stuff down? 

Most of the time I find it difficult to write unless I'm in the right frame of mind. The problem is I can't get in the right frame of mind for anything. I don't want to work. I don't want to write. I don't want to do anything but stare at the TV and zone out. I feel like a spectator in my own life and I just don't know what to do to get myself into a more active role. I feel useless most of the time. I can't summon up much enthusiasm about anything. 

I'm not yet ready to give up on my dream. I have hope that one day I'll feel like living again. Maybe I'll never be a writer but then again maybe I will. I'm not ready for it to be over yet though. 

My Wife is Awesome!

My wife spent the last several days making my website beautiful! She found this great CMS that makes uploading pictures a breeze and I finally have a blog directly on my website. She also spent days and days working on my Xenacast website and it looks fantastic too. It's easier for me to upload the mp3 files and put up the episode info too. I'm so impressed with how well she did. Now she's working on her website so we'll have three sites looking pretty.

Thank you my love!

Clover Coffee

Yesterday, I had some time to kill so I went to the Starbucks at 7th and Pike. They are one of the stores with the new Clover coffee system. I was really excited because I had heard such great things about Clover coffee but hadn’t tried it yet. The woman behind the counter was awesome and really made me see again why I like working for Starbucks. We really have some of the best people around working with us. Anyway, I had a cup of the Kenya something-I-can’t-pronounce and it was WONDERFUL! A truly spectacular coffee experience. Yeah, I know, I’m a big geek. I don’t care. I love coffee and that was the best damn cup of coffee I’ve ever had. Of course, it was probably the most expensive too at $3.95 for a 16 ounce cup. Good thing I get the employee discount, lol. It was totally worth it though. I certainly won’t buy it everyday but for a treat sometimes, I’ll definitely be back.

Who Was Here Before?

ne of the things I love about learning history is finding out what people were doing in this spot 100 years, 500 years, 1000 years ago. It fascinates me to learn about these people, long dead now, who walked the very streets I’m walking now. Or maybe they weren’t streets but goat paths back then. Or maybe it was just a vast virgin forest that had never seen humans before. I think it’s cool to think about these things when I’m trecking along.

Today, though, a more immediate “who was here before me” thought came into my head. I was taking the bus downtown to see a movie when, at one stop, a very old man got on the bus. He used a cane and shuffled along like that Tim Conway character from the old Carol Burnett skits. There was a big wet spot on the front of his trousers that traced a path down his leg. I felt really bad for the old guy. Ya know, there’s something about old men that just seems helpless to me. Old men, if left alone, won’t bathe or change clothes or clean up a single thing. They don’t clean their teeth. They don’t eat well. They seem to have this sort of animal existence. You can usually tell if an old man has an old woman who looks after him. If he does, he’s better groomed, wearing clean clothes, and doesn’t usually smell as bad. Old men that don’t have women look much like this old man. His clothes, aside from the pee stain, were pretty grimy, his hair was dirty, and he had a scruffy several day growth of beard. And he stunk. Like only an old man can stink. Now, I know old women stink too. But old men have a smell that is something else entirely. I knew there was a grimy old man getting on the bus before I even looked up and saw him. Oddly enough, old men were my favorite patients back in the day. I just loved old men and they loved me for some reason. Go figure.

Anyway, this old man sat in the seat in front of me on the bus. My nose is pretty stopped up because I’ve been sick this week so his smell didn’t really bother that much. Plus he got off the bus just a few stops later. When he got up, I noticed the back of his pants had a wet stain as well. The next stop after the old man got off, this young woman gets on. She looked as if she was going to go on past me but at the last minute she swerved and sat in the same spot that old man had just deserted. It was too late at that point to say anything to her. Best she just go on oblivious to the fact that a man who had obviously wet his pants had just been sitting there. Sometimes we are better off not knowing.

This got me to thinking about the people who had sat in my bus seat before I did. Who were they? Where were they going? Had they wet their pants too. Ewwww, best not think on that one. I see some of the people on the bus and often wonder just what exactly I’m sitting in. If I were just slightly more neurotic, I would bring saniwipes with me on the bus. “Did someone who wet their pants sit in this seat before me” was not something I had to wonder when I had my own car. When you ride the bus, you are much closer to humanity than you could ever possibly be.

When I had an earlier shift at work, there was a guy who rode my bus that stunk to high heaven. He smelled like wet dirty dog and cat piss all mixed up together. He was this older guy with a ponytail. Looked kind of like a refugee from the 60s. I see him walking around the neighborhood sometimes walking his dog. He has this big black lab with no hair on its back half. I don’t know if it has mange or what but the dog is bald from mid chest down. Poor thing. If the guy smells that bad though I can only imagine what his house must smell like.

Later on, at the movie theater, I could have sworn there was blood spatter on the bathroom ceiling. Surely not, I hope, but that’s what it looked like. Too many Dexter episodes I think. Although it reminded me of my most embarrassing moment ever that was, luckily, not witnessed by anyone. I won’t go into detail. Suffice it to say it was an airplane bathroom and I managed to get blood all over the place. And I do mean all over the place. If CSI went in there with their little squirt bottle and funky glasses, the whole place would have glowed. But I managed to clean it up and no one was the wiser. I think if we all knew what went on in the places we frequent, we’d probably never leave our houses.

You Really Have to Tell People That?

Today, I was hanging out at my house when I heard a scrabbling noise at my door. I peeked out the little viewer and saw a woman putting notes in everybody’s doors. I opened mine and found a letter from the property management of my apartment complex. It’s a list of reminders of the property rules. Just when I think living here can offer me no further life lessons, I am handed these (directly quoted so all misspellings and grammatical errors are theirs):

Satellite dish’s can only be kept with in a residents rentable space and not attached to the building and or standing freely with no wiring coming out of windows or on a post in the property.

All garbage is to be in plastic bags and to be disposed of into the trash dumpsters and not let out side of the trash dumpster and or not out side a residents window and or hallway.

Grease: There is to be no dumping of grease out side the windows at any time. This is not only a Health violation it will damage the siding we just installed.

Storage: Please do not leave any bicycles, BBQ’s chained or un chained and or any shoes etc. in the hallways and or in front of your apartment home. Any thing that is left out will be tossed out.

And my absolute favorite of all:

Urination in Hallways: At no time is there to be pet and or human urination in the hallways. This is a serious Health violation. No compliance can result in the termination of your lease.

I live in a place where the residents need to be reminded not to pee in the hallway. Really?

Three more weeks and I’m moving out of this third world country and back into the land where you don’t have to remind people not to use the hallway as their own personal toilet or throw grease out the kitchen window.

Truth in Advertising

I had to look up the phone number for my apartment complex yesterday so I googled it. I found the listing and was amused to see this was the description on the property owner’s page:

“The Heights at Burien offers you an idyllic community, nestled within towering trees and lush, green lawns. Surrounded by breathtaking mountain scenery and stunning views of Puget Sound, you are enticed inside by a tree-lined drive and welcomed into a charming neighborhood of spacious, colonial-style apartment homes.

Outside you will find a community garden and covered picnic areas while inside you will enjoy a state-of-the-art fitness center and resident business center. Once inside your newly renovated apartment home you will enjoy updated, European cabinetry, appliances, flooring and lighting and you will enjoy inviting friends or family over for an evening of entertainment.

The Heights at Burien offers an optimal location with Sea-Tac International Airport within minutes of your home as well as a perfect shopping experience at South Center Mall. For outdoor recreation, golfing, parks and Seahurst Beach are moments away, providing opportunities for a scenic stroll or picnic. Conveniently located for public transportation with easy access to downtown, The Heights at Burien is only minutes from work, major attractions and all that the Seattle area has to offer.

It is a community, it is a neighborhood, it is a lifestyle.

The Heights at Burien: It is home.”

If there were truth in advertising, the advert would read:

“The Heights at Burien offers you an eclectic community of drug dealers, multi-generational households, and single parent/latchkey kid households. It is nestled within towering trees and dirt covered lawns. Surrounded by broken down cars on blocks and stunning views of the overflowing dumpsters, you are enticed inside by a tree-lined drive and welcomed into a charming neighborhood of cramped, military-style apartment homes.

Outside you will find a community cigarette butt garden and graffiti-covered picnic areas while inside you will enjoy ancient washers and dryers located conveniently in the dank basement of each building. Once inside your apartment home you will enjoy quaint antique appliances, flooring and lighting. Enjoy open expanses of wall space without the clutter of excess electrical outlets. We believe in community so you’ll be able to hear everything your neighbors say and do on the other side of the paper thin walls. Let the mellow contact high from your neighbor’s marijuana parties and the soothing sounds of Tejano music mixed with domestic violence lull you to sleep. You will look forward to your friends and family inviting you over to their house for dinner.

The Heights at Burien offers an optimal location with Little Pat’s Diner within minutes of your home as well as a perfect shopping experience at the Burien community garage sale. For outdoor recreation, the Burien police department has cleaned out the crack park across Ambaum Way providing opportunities for a scenic stroll or picnic, before dark that is. Conveniently located for public transportation with easy access to downtown, The Heights at Burien is only minutes from work, major attractions and the county courthouse to take care of those pesky warrants.

It is a community, it is a neighborhood, it is a ghetto.

The Heights at Burien: Don’t forget your bullet proof vest.”

Yep, that’s more like the place I call home.

Do I Want That Mountain...or THAT Mountain?

My friend Lauren from work and I went on the March 26th hike together. We live really close to each other so we carpooled out to North Bend. My favorite thing about carpooling, other than having good company of course, is that you get to take the carpool lane!! The 405 is a ZOO during rush hour. The drive out to North Bend is quite a ways and if not for that lovely HOV lane, we never would have made it before everyone took off and left us. Although in retrospect, I’m not so sure what I was worried about. It wasn’t like I would be able to keep up anyway.

There were two choices for this hike. The Mt. Si trail is a 3200′ ascent with an extremely rugged trail and 7 miles round trip. The second choice was the Little Si trail with a 1250′ ascent and 5 miles round trip. One guess on which I chose.

So, we set off on the Mt. Si trail…….HA! Just kidding. Although I will get to type those words for real sometime soon.

We pulled into the parking lot and were greeted by Michael and a couple of the other uber hikers. The weather was cold and a bit windy but actually really good for hiking. Lauren and I hung out for just a bit until the other Little Si hiker showed up and then we headed up the trail.

It wasn’t straight up but it was pretty darn close. Within moments my thoughts of having someone to visit with while trudging up the mountain were dashed when I once again lagged behind everybody else. Although I had thought it would be cool to have company, I was also okay with being alone again on the trail. It gives me time to think. At least in between gasping for air and willing my legs to continue to move.

The uber hikers had still been gathering in the parking lot when we left and they soon caught and passed me. Michael was the last in line and as he jogged by, he told me this was the worst part of the trail. Silly me believed him too.

After a while of going straight uphill, the trail did actually level off and become while still not flat, at least not straight up either. This area was entirely different from the other place I had gone hiking, Tiger Mountain. This was a volcanic mountain range or something like that so the terrain was all odd looking rocks. It was also covered over by tall thick trees lending everything a twilight quality.

Everyone was far ahead of me so I had the trail to myself. Ocassionally, someone would come hurrying by. One man ran past me going up and a couple of others trudged on by but for the most part I was all alone. The diffuse light and complete lack of animal noise gave the whole place a forbidden forest feel. The trail was level for the most part with a few upward climbs here and there. The rocks, and there were some as big as small cottages, were covered in silky green moss. The trees were limbless until at least 20 feet off the ground and then the limbs stuck out at 90 degree angles. My cousins would have loved those trees when I was a kid. If they could have made it up to the first limb, they’d have used the rest like stairs until they were all the way to the top, touching the sky. I always seemed to be at the bottom looking up at them, too afraid to climb, too afraid I would fall.

At some point along the trail, I came across a bench. It was in an odd place, tucked off to the side and actually fairly easy to miss if one weren’t looking. It was just your basic wooden slatted bench, the kind you see everywhere, with a name engraved on it. It said it was in memory of Doug Hansen who had disappeared on Everest shortly after reaching the summit in May, 1996. He had trained on Mt Si and in the Cascade mountains. It said the bench had been placed here by his friends. When I got home, I Googled Doug’s name and found out that he was one of 15 people who died on Everest that year. He was one of many who paid a company to take them to the top of the mountain. In 1995, he had failed to make the summit so was determined to do it in 1996. His guide, Rob who was an experienced Everest climber, had practically dragged him to the top. He radioed the camp and told them they had made the summit and were headed back down. Hours later, Rob radioed in to say Doug was dead and he was in danger. The next day, Rob died on the mountain too. There had been an IMAX crew on the mountain at the same time filming a documentary and I remembered this incident from the film. Rob had been in contact with his buddies via his radio. They all knew he wasn’t going to make it and patched him through to his pregnant wife in New Zealand so they could say goodbye. It was heartbreaking. At the time I stood in front of that bench, all I knew was this guy had hiked in this mountain range. I imagined he had at least achieved his goal when he summited Everest. It would have sucked even more to die before you got there.

After a moment of silence for this unknown hiker, I headed out again. At one point, I was walking amongst all the trees, surrounded by giant house-sized rocks and just over to the left was a sheer rock face that went up at least 15 stories. A gash was slashed through the middle of it from a distant rockslide. Rocks of every size imaginable were strewn at the bottom of the wall. It was all so very surreal.

The terrain changed once again and the trail began going straight up. Several places required me to scramble up on my hands and knees. See, now this is why I don’t believe Michael anymore when he says some or other part is the hardest. The last two miles of the trail was more of a climb than a hike. I hauled my butt up tree breaks and through slits between rocks. I had to pause every few feet to catch my breath and curse Michael. This last stretch rivaled the trudge up the Cable Line trail I’d done at Tiger Mountain two weeks previous. It was truly tough.

At one point, I met up with one of the other club members on her way down. She joyful shouted “You’re almost there!” I noticed her perky attitude, her unsweat stained clothes, and her total lack of fatigue and wanted to deck her. Most likely, though, if I had done I would have missed and flung myself in a freefall down the trail I had just trudged up. So, instead, I smiled as best I could and breathed, “Thanks.” A few more feet up, I ran into my friend Lauren. She too looked way too unruffled for my taste but she assured me I was literally just steps from the top.

Sure enough, a few more turns and there I was. The way opened up and I was on top of the mountain. It was covered with rocks and the first thing I had to do was plop down on the rock and breathe for a minute. Then I was able to enjoy the view. Exalt in the view is probably more accurate. I had not seen anything that beautiful in a very long time. The valley stretched before me as far as I could see to the west and north. It was covered in pine trees with the ocassional roof peeking through. Over to the south and east was Mt. Si. And it was HUGE!! I looked up and up and up and was very grateful I had not chosen that trail. I would still be climbing that sucker.

As I stood there enjoying the view and all that beautiful oxygen going into my lungs, it began to snow. Soft, fluffy flakes drifted down around us. I turned my head up and caught some flakes on my tongue, just like a little kid. It was awe inspiring. I had to share the moment so I called my parents. I had laughingly and only half-jokingly told them that when I finally made it to the top of a mountain, I would play the Rocky theme song that I used as my dad’s ringtone. Unfortunately, I got a new phone not too long ago so I no longer had that ringtone. No matter, though. It rang through my head as I called my parents and told them that not only was I calling from a mountain top but I was calling them with snow drifting around me as well. (I am from Texas, as are they, and snow is an alien concept to us.) After I hung up with them, Lauren and I snapped pictures of each other and headed back down.

I find it interesting that my return trips are becoming so different from my ascents. It is, of course, so much easier going down so it goes more quickly. But also the last two trips, I’ve had company on the way down that I didn’t have on the way up. Lauren and I stuck together as we picked our way through the hard parts and then strolled down the trail. It snowed on us all the way down. The upper part of the mountain was somewhat open so the snow fell on us but once we reached the tree cover, it could no longer reach us. The leaves were so thick they created a premature twilight so it was almost like walking in a cave. Off to our right, where the rock face began to climb and there was no tree cover, the light was shining and the snow was falling. It was again very surreal.

We were almost at the end of the trail when my lack of attention caught up with me. My foot snagged on a rock and I fell down, landing smack in the middle of a mud puddle. I landed on my knee pretty hard but no damage was done. The only real issue was that now I was covered in mud. The import of that didn’t dawn on me until we got back to my car. I looked at my muddy self and my relatively new car that I’m trying to sell and wondered what to do now. Honestly, if I’d been by myself, I’d probably have shucked my pants and driven home in my undies. But I didn’t think Lauren would appreciate that and well, it’s just weird to see your co-worker without their clothes on.

An aside here about that. At the Starbucks headquarters, there’s a gym just for the employees. At first, this idea tickled me. However, after seeing a few people strolling across the ladies locker room without any clothes on that I then had to sit across at a meeting table, that enthusiasm waned. It’s hard to take someone seriously when you know what type of underwear they have on and that they have a Bugs Bunny tattoo on their ass.

Not wanting to freak out Lauren, I searched around for something to put down on the seat. I dug under all the various crap that seems to find its way into my car and discovered a raincoat that made a perfect mud tarp. It snowed on us all the way home. Even Lauren had to admit it was bizarre to have such a late season snowfall. I wasn’t complaining though. Well, at least not much. It was beautiful watching all that snow fall on the pine-covered mountains.

My schedule has changed now and I can no longer go hiking with the Starbucks hiking club. I’m really disappointed because I had looked forward to judging my progress by how much less I got left behind from hike to hike. I sent out an email to all my co-workers in the call center and only Lauren seems really interested in hiking with me. We’ll see though. I plan to keep going out on my own. And yes, Mom, I’ll bring my cell phone so at least I can be found by the GPS inside of it should I go missing. But really, it’s not like I’m going to be hiking Everest any time soon so I think I’m okay.

Yes, Actually, I Am Insane

I went hiking again last night. There is a hiking and moutaineering group here at Starbucks. Last night was the first hike of the season. We’ll go out every other Wednesday to a different trail around the area.

When I got the email, I was so excited. I’d been wanting to join a hiking group but all the ones I found went out on the weekends. Since I work weekends, that wasn’t possible. So now here comes this group that goes after work on Wednesdays. Woohoooo!

Last night was a conditioner hike. We went out to Tiger Mountain which is where I went on my own last time. I thought we would be hiking the same trail I had done before. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Actually I was terribly wrong on two counts: A conditioner hike is not a “let’s start off the season on an easier note” hike. It’s a “lets weed out the weak” hike. It was not the trail I had done before. In fact, it wasn’t even a trail at all. It was where they had cut through the forest to put down cable to the top of the mountain. It’s called a technical hike because it requires more than just your average hike. I figured it was called a technical hike because it was technically bushwacking, not hiking.

I arrived before everyone else and just hung out waiting. Finally everyone started to arrive and I met the guy who organized it, the one I had been talking to via email. He pointed out the trailhead to me. I looked around trying to see what he was talking about. Surely he didn’t mean that little animal track that went straight up. Well, yes, that’s precisely what he meant. He took one look at me, though, and pointed around the bend. He tells me that around the corner over there is a less steep trail that winds around and meets up with this little animal track. And then he says, you might want to get started now. Okay, so apparently I have “beginner” written all over me. Or it could be my couch potato physique that clued him in. Well, not one to shirk good advice, I headed over to the “easier” trailhead.

The very first thing I did was step ankle deep in a mud puddle. My hiking boots are pretty good but there is a seam that’s busted out so I could feel a bit of water soak into my sock. Ah well, not that big a deal. I start climbing up the “easier” trail and that’s when I got my first clue I might be in trouble. The “easier” trail went up only slightly less vertical than the animal track the others were coming up.

My “easier” trail hit the main trail about the same time the others were coming up. I pulled off to the side and let them pass. One look at all of them and I realized I was majorly outclassed. They had all the gear, all the right clothes, and all the right bodies. Michael, the group organizer was the last one in line. He tells me that the first 1/2 mile is the worst. My brain paused for a moment to take that in. The first 1/2 mile was the worst. Okay, too much to think about right now. Let’s shelve that bit of knowledge. Now back to Michael. Then he tells me that I might want to get some trek poles for the next hike and he holds up the ski poles he’s carrying. I had noticed that every other person on this hike had these poles but I figured it was just a flashy accessory. Something to match the velcroed “keep things from crawling up your pants legs” strips of cloth wrapped around their ankles, their color coded packs and shoes, and the nifty shirts and knit caps they were all wearing.

Let me pause here to give you a clue into my outdoor activity clothing history. When I was 17, my church youth group went skiing in Crested Butte, Colorado. I had never been skiing before so I had none of the equipment. Living in Texas, having cold weather gear was not that important. So, I was able to borrow most of what I needed except actual ski pants. My mom and I looked at the ski pants and were flabbergasted at how expensive they were. As we wandered around Academy, we came across the fishing wear. There hung a pair of blue plastic waders, kinda like overalls but waterproof. Well wouldn’t that be perfect and they were actually in our price range. Now I had my outfit. I had a red ski cap, green jacket, purple gloves, and blue waders. Do I like to attract attention, you may ask? Well not really but hey, I wanted to go skiing.

So, clothed in my psychedelic ensemble, I hit the slopes. Snow being kind of rough and plastic being not so tough, all the falling I did on that first day led to a big rip in the ass end of my waders. Well that just wouldn’t do. That night, with the help of a couple of the girls, I ironed on gray duct tape to the ass of my blue waders. Now I was not only psychedelic, I was hillbilly psychedelic. The duct tape held really well and I spent the rest of the trip with a relatively dry ass. Although it would be years before I lived down what came to be known as “Amy’s white trash skiwear line.” Having inappropriate clothing and accessories was nothing new for me.

Now back to my current foray into not having the proper equipment. Michael told me that people usually went at their own pace on these hikes. Oh good, so my turtle pace wouldn’t hold anyone else back. He told me that when the others started passing me on the way back, it would probably be a good idea to turn around and head back down myself. Well, he certainly had a lot of faith in my ability didn’t he? With those tidbits of advice, he headed out.

I began climbing up behind him but he quickly disappeared from view. The trail didn’t even start off giving the illusion of being not so difficult. It went up at a slightly less than 90 degree angle and it was a 2100 feet ascent. Plus it had rained so the whole thing was mud. Within two minutes, I was winded and my thighs were crying. That little lazy part of my brain was telling me I should give up, go hang out in the parking lot, or better yet go home and return to my previous state of couch potatoness. The insanely stubborn part of my brain pulled out a bat and beat that other part senseless. I wasn’t going to quit, that was for sure.

My world quickly became very small just like the last hike. Climb a step, breathe, climb a step, breathe, watch out for the mud slick, step over the tree branches, breathe, don’t look up, don’t look up, don’t look up. I looked up, and up and up and up. Discouraged but determined, I looked back down at the mud in front of me and just kept putting one foot in front of the other. Occasionally I came to places where I had to use my hands to scramble up part of the trail. Everytime I stopped to catch my breath, I was again reminded why I moved here. This was such beautiful country. I was surrounded by tall moss covered trees and more vegetation than I’d ever seen in one place before. The air had a damp, slightly decayed smell that was actually quite pleasant. Off in the distance was a woodpecker and some bird that sounded like a monkey. I was soaking wet with sweat and the cold air felt good on my hot skin.

I continued to climb, up and up. At one point, I got the idea that I should walk like you ride a bike up a hill, take small quick steps instead of big, slower steps. Well, the image that came to mind was of the bicyclist not being able to keep up and rolling down to the bottom of the hill. Still, it did seem to make a small difference. I paused a moment to gasp and looked up. Ahead was a set of tree branch steps. Steps, as I’m sure you know, are much harder than a slope. As I trudged upward, I remembered why I used to exercise on the stairmaster when I was still going to the gym.

The rest of the upward climb is a blur. At some point, I hit the 1/2 mile mark because the trail opened up into a normal trail, wide and much better maintained. Off to my right was the regular trail which, as it turned out, was the trail I had used the last time. I noticed a sign at the end of the trail I had just used (or the beginning, however you look at it). The sign said this trail was not maintained and was not really a trail. Most hikers chose to use the main trail. I stared at the sign and laughed hysterically. If I had had a pen, I’d have drawn a picture of a dead hiker on there.

Off to the side was a big rock so I plopped down on it to contemplate my next move. I sat there for a long time thinking about various things happening in my life right now. I kept hoping the other members of the group would start heading down so I could have an excuse to head down myself. After a while, I began getting cold and knew I had to make a move one way or the other. I looked up the vertical slope in front of me and decided it was time to head back down. As much as I wanted to finish, I needed to be realistic. These last two hikes had set a baseline for me and I knew that I would be able to judge my progress on them.

I headed back down the trail and quickly realized another dilemma I was now in. Going down such a steep slope may not be quite as hard but it’s certainly more dangerous. All the mud didn’t help. I slipped and slid a few times almost landing on my ass. On a comforting note, being here with a group at least they would head down at some point and find me if I fell and broke my leg.

I reached a point where I began to freak out a bit about going down. It had seemed so much easier going up and I felt stuck. Just then, a woman appeared headed down the trail. I stepped aside to let her pass but instead she stopped and talked to me. I told her this was only my second hike and she laughed and said “You know, there are less strenuous trails to start on.” I laughed too and before I knew it, I was following her down the trail not really noticing that I was scared. I continued to slip and slide but now it seemed more like fun. Suddenly, we rounded a corner and were in the parking lot. And I was intact!! Yay!

I didn’t get my angel’s name, she headed off to her car and drove away, but I was very grateful for her. I didn’t have to wait long before the other group members started coming back. Once everyone was down, we stood there in a circle discussing the next hike. Michael assured me the next one wouldn’t be so hard. Of course looking at his well used equipment and fit, trim physique, I had to wonder what “not so hard” meant to him. I have a feeling to me it’ll mean “won’t feel quite like a freight train running over me."

I headed back to my car and drove off, feeling like I had accomplished something. I may not have made it to the top but I made it further than I thought I would. I went on long after that annoying voice in my head told me to stop. I kept going even though my muscles were screaming and my lungs burned. I persevered long past the point I would have in the past. I didn’t make it to the top this time but just the fact that I got out on that mountain and did my best makes me a winner.

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