The Long Approach: springtime 2008 comes creeping in real slow

There have been many instances of late in which I am finding myself realizing that there will be an end to the winter again, that summer will indeed someday come, that I will again bask in the long-lasting and golden light of day. That this will sink into my mind completely. One day before I know it, I will look up--and erased will be the cold crystallization of life at a standstill. I will forget the feel of tundra underfoot that pushes frozen all the way down and reaches up into me, into my own slow calculated movements and makes me know, yet appreciate, the very bite of winter.

But how do I know? I know because we traveled together to the Oregon Coast last month to begin to remember the other side of being ourselves, outside. We went camping and roaming the sunny hillsides of a February holiday. We went to seek the refuge of coming out like waking up from a long hibernation. So hungry, we went seeking the smell of the salt and the sea, and refuge as well from the cold and rain of Portland, the stillness of the mountains, and the search within ourselves for the wealth of heat and lightness that the secret of springtime holds in waiting.



Now that it has been not about a month since we took that first trip, and the promise of a new season first began to peek its face into our lives. Since then, there have been new developments every day. There are blossoms on the sweet-smelling cherry trees that line our streets. There is another hour and 15 minutes of daylight and more every day, and, even though the cold and rain persist (it's only March, after all). Acknowledgment is pretty much universal that springtime has hit the Northwest. My energy level has been on the rise ever since our restful coast trip, and I am increasingly excited about training for the on-season, for living my life on my toes.
I have begun switching my 2-3 run per week
(plus cross-country activities) schedule with more bike rides as the days grow longer, there are more sunnier days, and my desire increases to go further. Standard rides are to the tops of Rocky Butte, Mt. Tabor, and Counsel Crest all in Portland. What can I say, I like climbing up and then flying down. I have also done several longer, less hilly rides as well, in preparation for our 5-day bike touring trip next week out to climb in the eastern Columbia River Gorge. I can't wait! Here are some views from Rocky Butte, a steep hillclimb bike ride and sport climbing crag in Northeast Portland:

When we have been able to get out camping on the weekends, we have also been doing some more spring hiking-type activities. Recently, we backpacked in about 7.5 miles up Eagle Creek in the gorge to camp in our new larger, more rain-appropriate backpacking tent. Still fun and relaxing, but we are gearing up for and discussing a 1/2 month wilderness backpacking trip this summer, so I want to get all of the experience possible this season hiking with a heavy pack. Who would have thought it could be so much fun??




Another twist in events has been my interest in downhill skiing lately. Some friends took me out for my first time ever, then I went a few more times, as my budget has allowed. I have to say that, were it not for my environmental obligation to abstain from supporting too many trips up the mountain ski lift machine (and the chunk each trip takes out of my wallet) I might be able to do this activity much more. I love the feeling of gliding down so fast and, with some coaching, have mastered level 1 black diamond runs at local facilities. My main goal: to save up and buy a pair of A-T all-terrain downhill back country skis, for "skinning up" large inclines and alpine skiing down. The basic difference between these and the downhill skis I have been renting is that the binding allows for switching to a free heel system and attachment of "skins"--frictiony, snow-grabbing scales for uphill travel--for ascents. I am excited about my quick progress towards these goals, and also my authentic enthusiasm for the season to come. I now feel really to jump feet first into the icy waters of spring; this readiness is invigorating and intoxicating. I jumping. I am smiling. I am shifting into a position poised for the heights to which I know can climb if I dare.

Snow in the moonlight that looks like magic: Finding my way in a Blue Mountainscape

Last weekend, Michael and I embarked on our longest cross country ski/backpacking trip to date, although conditions were particularly cush, not just because of blue skies, beautiful snow and no wind, but also because we rented a 1930's civilian conservation core-era guard station cabin 11.4 miles from Mt. Emily Sno Park off hwy 84 in northeastern Oregon. in the Blue Mountains which, once we got to it, made our stay more comfortable than any snow tent imaginable. Even though it wasn't the most trying of circumstances, or the most strenuous or therefore challenging adventure, it offered us several valuable opportunities for learning about ourselves and each other, as well as to take a load off and let our nerves settle away from the city and into the woods for a while.

The plan was to leave on Thursday evening after work, but unfortunately a pair of illnesses made it impossible for us to leave before Friday morning. Stress levels rose as we were eager to get to our cabin, reserved for 21 dollars/night Friday-Sunday on the Forest Service website,

but the over 11-mile largely uphill trip with packs on presented a hard day of skiing, and leaving on Friday morning to get to the Blue Mountains from Portland meant we would arrive at the entry point around 2pm. (We could have woken earlier, but much-needed sleep and recovery time outweighed an earlier departure.)

As a result, we left the Mt. Emily parking lot at 2 with about 6 hours of skiing ahead of us and about 3 hours of daylight left.

At about 7pm, the overabundance of goodies we had packed for our 3 nights in paradise was taking its toll on my back. Like the kind soul that he is, Michael offered to carry both of our packs. He insisted, in fact. So he did carry them both, for about 75feet. Even though it didn't take much physical burden away from me (I then made him give me my pack back so we could keep moving forward), emotionally the gesture really lightened my load. If he could be kind enough to offer to carry my pack when he already has his own load to shoulder, his own aches and pains, his own problems, then surely I could keep going with a positive attitude for just a while longer. After all, this was what I had signed myself up for. Actually, this was what I needed.


After getting to our destination, at about 8:30, exhausted, we had one last scare as we fiddled with the lock on the cabin door attempting to get in. We did, and proceeded to enjoy the propane stove, heater, and lamps, and well as the beds and table. More than anything, the three days and nights of skiing that followed served as a chance for us to get to know those woods, ourselves, and each other better. We didn't see another person during that time, aside for a few passing snowmobilers. I fell in love with those quiet mountains, our cabin, myself in that place and us in that place. It all seemed so simple, even if only for a little while. I started to think: what if I no longer lived in the city at all? What if I could look up into these huge pine trees, overburdened with their own loads of snow and life but still standing tall, and know that we didn't have to leave them at all or carry our burdens alone, but could instead learn to watch ourselves grow by measuring our progress against something so much bigger and taller than ourselves, something real and alive?




After returning, I feel myself itching to be out in the snow daily, even now as I look out of my window onto the evening Portland skyline of warehouses, construction equipment and people hurrying home. Maybe it's partly because I've caught the bug for cross country skiing, the beautiful sliding motion that lets me go and feel the world around me in a way that invites vibrant enthusiasm into my every step. But maybe that's just it--I feel more like myself when I'm sliding along through the forest, or at least more like a self I want to be, a self I like and can relate to. Not as much like the self of the city that hurries along like everyone else. That snaps at loved ones when I've had a rough day. That doesn't have compassion in my heart for all of the people I meet. Is it possible it just takes more space for me to be that person I actually like, more healthy life around me and filling my life with everyday magic?

Because the full moon lit our way, we didn't need to use headlamps or even squint our eyes to see along the winding road leading up through the glittering trees and sparkling snow to our cabin in the woods. I felt for a little while like maybe I could
see more clearly that way even, than I can in the brightly lit urban spaces I frequent where so little magic seems to grow. And I realized it's possible I need to see by the light of the magic outside in order to find my way to the place I want to go within.