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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I have recently taken up hiking. Yes, you can stop rolling on the floor laughing now :D. It’s so beautiful up here that I want to get out and see it. And the bonus: It’s not hot!!
Up until yesterday, I had only gone on what could be considered leisurely strolls through a local park not too far from my house. A few days ago, I decided to spend one of my days off on something more challenging. I have this great book called 60 Hikes within 60 Miles or something like that. I looked through it and found one that sounded interesting. It was at Tiger Mountain State Park. According to my book, there are three peaks and the one I picked was the smallest. Great, I thought, I can do that one.
Tuesday morning came and went and it was Tuesday afternoon before I got myself out of the house. I entered the coordinates into my handy dandy Garmin GPS and off I drove. It took me probably twice as long to get there as it should have because the coords I entered were to the trail head and the little GPS was trying to get me there. Unfortunately, the trail head wasn’t on the road so it was having a really hard time. Anyway, I finally found it by following the directions in the book. Huh, go figure.
I parked the car and pulled out my pack that Shannon gave me and off I went. I had wanted to do some geocaching while I was out here but the cloud and tree cover was such that my littler GPS couldn't get a signal. No problem, I thought. I’ll just do the hike.
I headed off in the direction the sign was pointing and at first the trail was fairly flat and nice. That quickly changed. I was busy looking all around at the beautiful, tall, moss covered trees and listening to the sound of water rushing nearby when I rounded the bend and saw that the trail went straight up. Okay, I though, no problem. It’ll probably level out around the next bend. I trudged up, my out of shape legs doing their best to get me up the slope.
I saw another bend coming up and thought cool, it’ll get flatter now. Well, no, it didn't. It continued to go pretty much straight up. Ugh, I thought but I was convinced I could do this. I may be out of shape but my stubbornness serves me well on occasion. I trudged up that slope to the next bend. And, you guessed it, the next slope went straight up as well.
By this time, I was breathing quite hard and sweat was pouring down my face. The clouds had dropped a bit of a drizzle on me so what wasn't covered by my waterproof coat was a fair bit damp. My hair felt as if I had just gotten out of the shower but all that exertion was making me very hot so I took off my jacket and stuffed it in the pack.
As I plodded up the slopes, one just as inclined as the last, I noticed that there was not a sound around me. No birds singing, no animals snuffling, nothing. It was eerie. It dawned on me they were probably waiting for me to die so they could eat me. I envisioned dozens of other hikers who had just keeled over on this mountain and become animal chow. Sure enough, on the next bend I saw a mound of dirt and gravel. The last unfortunate hiker, I was sure.
When I first set off at the beginning of the trail, the sign said the summit was 1.6 miles. After dragging my ass up for about an hour, I came to another sign that said 1.9 miles to the summit. Okay, I felt supremely lied to but I’d already come this far, I was determined to make it up. So, I sat for a minute, drank some water, looked around nervously for the animals waiting to eat me and then headed out again.
I had started off only having to stop and gasp for 10 minutes every other slope. Well that soon became every 10 feet of so. Walk a few steps, lean against a tree and suck air for a minute. The cool thing I noticed about this was that I could breathe. I was getting winded but I was not becoming wheezy. My asthma was taking a day off and I was extremely grateful. When I was still smoking, I couldn’t have made it up the flat part of the slope much less any of the rest of it.
My world gradually became very small: Walk, gasp, walk, gasp. I stared at the trail directly in front of my feet because if I looked up, it was more than I could handle. When I stopped to breathe, I looked around at the beauty surrounding me. The book had said the view from the summit was gorgeous and I could see hints of it through the trees. The animals had become active again. Birds flew over head, a beautiful woodpecker was busily tap tap tapping at a tree, a tiny little squirrel ran up a tree with something about half as big as it was in its mouth. I could hear water rushing somewhere nearby. The trees were covered in moss, some of them looking as if they had been there since the dawn of time. Their huge trunks led up to slender tips reaching for the sky. The air smelled of pine reminding me of Christmas and Mr. Clean. The air was chilly, my breath smoky as it came out of my mouth. My skin was so hot, it was steaming so that I was surrounded by a self-created fog.
I continued making my slow way up the mountain. The thought of stopping crossed my mind but by that point I had gone too far to turn back. I was determined to make it to the top. Several people passed me on their way down and I was relieved. Someone to bury me when they found me dead or at least call someone who would. At one point, this wizened old lady came up behind me and blew right past me. She was trucking along at a good clip as if this were just a Sunday stroll instead of a fricking mountain ascent. A man, who had passed me on the way up about an hour before, came trotting past me. “Good job,” he said to me as he went by. “Yeah I’ll shove my good job up your….” I thought as I shot daggers into his retreating back. Uh oh, I thought, this was probably the beginning of the altitude dementia I’d heard so much about. Of course, on reflection, I realized I’d only heard of that happening on Mt. Everest and Mt. Fuji but surely my lack of upward treks in the past left me susceptible where others were not. Yeah, that was it.
After two hours of pushing myself ever upward, I saw a sign ahead of me. Woohooo!! I thought. It was surely pointing the way to the summit. As I approached, I read “Summit: 0.9 miles.” My pack suddenly weighed 500 pounds and my legs refused to take another step. I plopped down on a rock and nearly cried. In the last hour, I’d only gone a mile. I thought for sure I’d gone 10. But no, here stood this little white sign mocking me. I pulled out my book to see what the actual length of the trail was. As I was perusing the entry, I noticed some text I had missed the last time. It said that while this was the smallest peak, it was the steepest. Well, there ya go. The steepest. I would have thrown a fit but I didn’t have the energy. That urge passed and I realized the absurdity of the situation. If only I’d read the small print. Teach me to skim.
As I sat there, I noticed how late it had become. The park closed the gates at dusk and I wasn’t sure when dusk was coming. The last thing I wanted was to get stuck on this side of the gate unable to get out. I had stupidly forgotten to charge my phone and the one little red battery line flashed impotently at me.
I contemplated my choices. I could continue to slog up the mountain. I really wanted to see that view and my sheer stubbornness was enough to carry me up there. On the other hand, what good would the view do me if I became one of those completely unprepared Survivors I giggled at every Thursday night. With a big sigh, I decided to do the prudent thing and head back down. I put on my coat since I was now soaking wet and quite chilled, shouldered my pack, and headed down.
Here’s what I had not counted on even though from past experience I should have. The decent was in its own way harder than the ascent had been. My knees crunched, my toes smashed into the fronts of my boots, if I leaned just the slightest bit too far forward I knew I’d go tumbling head over feet into the ravines looming beside me. Yeah, I know, sounds dramatic but hey, that’s what I was feeling. I can be a supreme drama queen at times.
After what seemed another hour and with my legs aching, I finally made it back down to that deceptively flat spot where I began this grand adventure. My hair was drenched, my shirt was soaked through, the inside of my jacket was wet as well. My legs ached, my lungs hurt, and my feet had blisters. I hadn’t felt that good from physical activity in a long time. I hadn’t made it to the summit, true, but I had made it about 4.5 miles and that’s nothing to sneeze at. Especially considering this was my first hike of any consequence. I was quite proud of myself.
At the trail head, I got my GPS to work and decided to do at least one cache. The little arrow pointed me .6 miles down a flat path so I headed that way. One of the things I really love about caching is the unexpected places it takes me. Oftentimes It’s places I would never have gone otherwise. This cache led me to this quiet little spot next to a bridge with a small stream running busily underneath. The bridge must have been new because it still had that tarry smell. I found the cache after a couple of minutes looking, signed the log, and tucked it back into its hiding place. I had not eaten before I left my house and now I realized how ravenous I was. I pulled an apple out of my pack and sat there by the stream eating my apple, listening to the stream, and enjoying the spot.
It’s not often that I don’t have some kind of noise in my head whether it be the TV, the radio, people at work, or my computer. This was one of those rare times when the only noise in my head was internal. I sat there a while contemplating the changes that have taken place in my life of late. I thought about faith and relationships, endings and beginnings, how the smallest ripple can cause a huge wave further down the line. I’m on an interesting journey right now. I’m learning about myself, about those I love, and about what I want in the future. Several paths have opened before me that I once considered closed.
There’s a lot going on.
It’s exhilarating, exciting, scary, and interesting. It’s quite a ride right now and I can’t wait to see where it’s going.
I started my new job at Starbucks on the 26th. The class has been alright. I’m not really good at sitting in a classroom but it was probably the best training class I’ve been in for years. Plus, there’s some really great people in the class. It’s kicking my ass having to get up so early and it’s only going to get worse. My new shift’s gonna start at 6am. 6am! Fuck that’s early! I also have to work weekends. Shift bids are done every three months so hopefully in April I’ll get a better shift. I was really bummed to get such a crappy shift, especially since I was told right after I was hired that I’d have at least one weekend day off, so I came up with a list of things that are good about coming in early and working weekends:
I’m sure there’s more but right now they elude me. I’m looking forward to getting down to the real job though. The classroom stuff is over. We start talking to real people on Monday. We’ll still be in the classroom with mentors though. Now if I can just keep myself from saying “Ummmm, wow, I have no idea” in response to my first question, I’ll be doing good.
- I’ll be working a similar shift, including weekends, with my classmates. That’s the best thing.
- There will be plenty of onsite parking.
- The gym is pretty empty around 3pm so I’ll get right on the machine I want.
- It’ll still be light when I get off.
- I’ll get to go to lunch around 10ish so it won’t be so crazy in the kitchens and in the cafe.
- The weekends are really laid back. I can wear sweats and look all slouchy.
- There’s no bosses there on the weekends.
- The building is almost empty so I can explore in peace.
Not much else going on in my life right now. I get up really early, I go to work, I come home, I go to bed really early. I go to my Tuesday night NA meeting which I love. I’ve missed the Thursday writing get together lately but hope to get back at it. A couple of Wednesdays in a row, I got to go to a women’s treatment center and share my story. That was awesome! I really enjoyed that. It’s great getting to share my experience, strength, and hope with other people. Now I just need to find a sponsor here. I’m not sure why I’m reluctant but I am. I have someone in mind I want to ask but I haven’t done it yet. We’ll see.
I’m so happy today is Friday. R and her friends are gonna get mani/pedis tomorrow and then go to the thrift stores. They’re looking for sweaters to take apart so they can use the yarn for other things. It’s really pretty funny. Anyway, I’m getting some alone time!! Woohooo!! I’m hoping to finish Family Guy. That’s a damn funny show! Tomorrow night, we’re gonna go see The Golden Compass and then Sunday, hanging with the mother-in-law for her birthday.
You know how we all have those situations in which the witty, snappy comeback alludes us? Hours later, when we least expect it, the perfect line comes to us. It’s so damned annoying. Well today we went over to Barnes & Noble to spend a $25 gift card. I got two books and the total came to $24.98. The cashier asked me if I planned it that way but of course, I’m just not that good with numbers. She gave me my $.02 and said “I don’t know what you’re gonna do with it though.” I said, “I’ll give somebody my $.02 worth.” I could hear the drum and rim shot in the distance.
We attempted to do some geocaching today but struck out once again. We are now something like 0 for 12. I’m not sure what it is but we just can’t seem to find anything here. It was rainy and windy today so, honestly, we didn’t try that hard. We ended up on Alki Beach looking for this one cache. We didn’t look long due to the aforementioned rain and wind but over just about 50 feet from where we were standing, the water was washing up on the wall. There was this couple standing there and every time the water came up, they cheered. They looked like they were having so much fun. It was awesome!
Afterwards, we went over to Starbucks (go figure, huh) for some coffee. R was looking out the window at the water and I was looking at the sale circulars. I saw that Radio Shack had GPS units on sale. Now, a little background on this. Last weekend, we were going…somewhere and I was supposed to be navigating. I couldn’t tell how to get on the highway so I told R I usually just “feel” my way around in these situations. Well, she got a bit upset. Turns out she has a thing about being lost, not knowing exactly how to get somewhere. I hadn’t been aware of this before. I love it when I learn new things about her just when I think I know it all. So, anyway, knowing she has this fear, I saw these GPS units for sale. I told her we needed to go over to Radio Shack and look at them. So, off we went on a mission.
Do you know what a bad idea it is to go to one of the shopping centers two days before Christmas? Well it’s right up there with yelling fire in the theater and watching The Pirate Movie. We spoke with the young man in the store at length and asked him questions he had no answer to but at least he had Google. (What did we ever do before Google?) We ended up leaving with a brand new shiny Garmin Nuvi 200 complete with maps of the whole US, driving directions to every Starbucks and yarn store in town, and this bland female voice that tells us which way to turn. The funny thing though is it tells us to turn as we pass the turn, lol. We played with it all the way home and had a blast.
So, we get home and decide we want to figure out how to use our nifty little gadget for geocaching. I hooked it up to my computer and transferred over a gps coordinate file. We turned it on expecting to see all kinds of pretty geocaches light up on the screen. What we saw instead was…black screen. And then more black screen. It turned out I overrode the internal file or some such. We both dinked around with it for a bit but couldn’t figure out. I gave up and suggested we take it back to Radio Shack in the morning. Then I sat my ass on the couch and watched the Amazing Race. R continued to play with it. Periodically I would glance over at her seeing her wrinkle her forehead and stare intently at the computer screen. Occasionally, she would tap the GPS and it would beep. I would glance over at her hopefully but she’d shake her head and frown deeper.
Hours later, I hear a shout of triumph. She had gone from site to site, forum post to forum post, odd bit here and odd bit there. Somehow, against all the odds I had placed on it happening, she managed to restore the whole damn thing. I am incredibly impressed with her. She rocks!! Now she’s figured out how to do all kinds of impressive things with it. She is a rock star!
It took me a while to realize something I wasn’t seeing here in Seattle that I had been used to seeing in Texas: Bush/Cheney bumper stickers. Back home, they’re everywhere. It wasn’t until I saw one that I realized I hadn’t seen one in a while. I was driving…somewhere. I drive there but have no idea where I am half the time. Anyway, I saw this big bubba truck parked on the side of the road. It was a commercial street and they have these shoulder-type things here. The truck was a Ford 250 with one of those wimpy half-assed backseats. I mean really, if you’re gonna buy a truck with a backseat, get one with a REAL backseat. So, anyway, this truck was parked on the shoulder. As I got right up to it, the driver suddenly pulled out in front of me and gunned it. The truck was a diesel so it belched nasty black smoke all over my car. I thought it appropriate. A big, fuel guzzling, black smoke belching, ozone layer killer driven by a selfish bastard who thinks he owns the road. Yep, that’s a Bush/Cheney fan.
Something else odd I noticed the other day. I was at my Tuesday night NA meeting at the local community center. In the women’s bathroom were two condom dispensers. State sponsored condom dispensers. Now, condom machines aren’t alien to me. I’ve seen them in truck stop bathrooms and rest stop toilets. They usually sit seductively next to lube and “enhancer” dispensers in bars. I’ve even seen them in lesbian bar bathrooms. Go figure. But I’ve never seen a condom machine in a bathroom frequented by kids. I mean, everybody knows teenagers in Texas don’t have sex. At least that’s what the evangelicals say. They’ve managed to convince the lawmakers of this fact so it’s almost illegal to give a condom to a teenager. “If we give them condoms, they’ll have sex,” is the mantra of the religious right. “If we don’t mention it, they won’t figure it out, and therefore they won’t do it.” Hmmm, maybe that’s why Texas is near the top of the list for teenage pregnancy. So, to see the state of Washington not only admit the kids will probably have sex, but also want to protect them from STDs and pregnancy just cements my belief that I have moved to the right place.
I discovered a glaring deficiency in my wardrobe shortly after I moved to Seattle. My coat is a Texas coat. It was adequate for the occasional cold snap back home but I just don’t think it’s gonna cut it up here. So, I headed over to the local Goodwill to find me a coat.
Their coat selection was enormous. I probably spent an hour going through first the women’s coats and then the men’s coats searching for just the right one. Unfortunately, the perfect garment alluded me. Oh well. I wandered around the store for a bit seeing if anything jumped out at me. While strolling through the shoe aisle, a man brushed past me. I didn’t give him a second. Once he was past me a bit, though, I noticed something odd about the way he was dressed. He was probably in his late 50′s, about six feet tall, with a monk’s bald patch and hoop earrings in each ear. He had a weather wrinkled face, a big, bulbous nose, and bright red lipstick on his lips. Over his flanneled shoulder he carried a black purse, and at the end of his blue jeaned legs, he wore black high heel shoes.
I’ve been told that I can be a bit closed minded. I try not to be but sometimes I just can’t help it. While in theory I find nothing wrong with people dressing however they want, actually coming face to face with a middle aged man (who was obviously a man) dressed in women’s accessories took me by surprise. I might, and let me emphasize MIGHT, have seen a man dressed thusly in Austin, I would never have seen a man dressed like that in Marble Falls. I mean, you can get your ass kicked for looking like that. I went through a period where I didn’t want to shave my legs and you should’ve seen the looks I got. It’s just not done. The men look like men, the women look like women, and the queers live in Austin. And of course being queer, I hightailed it to Austin as soon as I could.
I have certainly seen my share of drag queens. I lived in San Angelo in the late 80s. In fact, that’s where I came out. I had a number of gay male friends who were drag queens. Some of them were quite good. I even got makeup and clothes tips from them. Well, they tried to give me makeup and clothes tips. By the time they got to me, that boat had sailed. I was doing my best to perfect the baby dyke look. The look consisted of a mullet with the hair on top of my head spiky. Button down Polo style shirts with the collars starched up tucked into Wranglers with a snuff can impression on the back pocket. I didn’t dip snuff but I spent hours rubbing the pocket with the can in it so it would look like I did. Why this was fashionable, I have no idea. Mine was not to question why. Mine was simply to look the part. On my feet were slightly scuffed (just slightly, mind you) Ropers boots. That was the dyke uniform of 1988. My drag queen friends didn’t stand a chance.
So anyway, I understand the difference between drag queens and transvestites. Drag queens are usually gay men while transvestites are usually straight men. My first reaction to this man was Wow, that is just weird. And in all honesty, my second, third, and fourth reactions were the same thing. Why in the world would he want to dress that way? I mean, if he was trying to look like a woman, he failed miserably. It would have been like my father-in-law dressed in drag. He could never have passed as a woman. And then I thought why in the world would he want to wear the most uncomfortable parts of women’s clothing?
All this got me to thinking of my own prejudices. I typically dress in what would once have been considered man’s clothes. I never, repeat never, wear dresses. I don’t wear makeup. I only wear boots or sneakers. When I can get away with it, I don’t wear a bra. In years past, I would have been ridiculed for dressing like that. So why shouldn’t this man be able to wear anything he damn well pleases without having to deal with people laughing at him or worse. Why was my first inclination upon seeing him to look around and see if anyone else had noticed? Had I met the eye of anyone thinking the same as me, we would have smiled and shaken our heads in that “Boy is that dude weird” kinda way. Had I been in Texas, I have no doubt that’s what would have happened. Living in Seattle, though, no one seemed to give him a second glance.
So why was my reaction to him negative? What do I care what he wears? What finally dawned on me is that I was jealous of his blatant disregard of anybody else’s opinion. To leave your house wearing clothes you know might get you laughed at or beaten up is the ultimate “fuck you” to society. To boldly be yourself no matter what anyone else thinks is a most courageous act. I was jealous that I don’t have enough strength to be totally who I am without caring what other people think. I have a really hard time breathing through my nose. I wear those nasal strips at night when I sleep and boy has it made a big difference. I will even keep it on after I wake up until it falls off or until I leave the house. Once I leave the house, though, it comes off. I’ve commented several times that I wish I could wear them all the time because it really does help my breathing but I won’t because I’m afraid of people’s reactions. I care what total strangers think of me. It matters to me that Mary Sue at the Albertson’s doesn’t think I’m a nut job. I’ve never seen her before and odds are I never will again so why should I care what she thinks? Why are we taught practically from birth that other people’s opinions matter? That total stranger’s opinions count for so much?
I have stopped caring what others think about me in several areas of my life. I am an out and proud lesbian. I dress comfortably even if it’s not anywhere near close to being stylish. I talk loud and laugh louder. I’m a huge Xena nut and I’m a sucker for good sci fi. I like video games and I don’t even try to hide my inner 14 year old boy. But I will not leave my house wearing a nasal strip. I also won’t wear high waters or anything with lace.
One of the things I’ve learned along the way is that nothing is really about anybody else. It’s all about me. My reaction to that man in the Goodwill had nothing to do with him. More power to him if that’s how he wants to dress. My reaction had everything to do with me and my own feelings of envy. Maybe someday I’ll have the strength to leave my house wearing a nasal strip on my nose, my skanky holy old t-shirt with no bra, my shorts with big bleach stains on them that are so comfortable and my ratty flip flops. But then again, there’s a big difference between strength and just plain stupid. I think I’ll just stick to wishing I could leave the house like that because, really, who wants to see something like that?