(Not much going on in February for a schoolteacher in Oregon. So I'll write about other times, the quarter of the year when I don't have to show up to work. This will be a multi-part series.)
The Teton Range is a jagged spine that juts out from the Wyoming plains like a tablesaw blade. I went there, two summers ago, and hiked through two glacial canyons with my wife and a buddy of mine. We spent three days in those mountains.
I've been to that part of Wyoming a few times before. In Yellowstone, I worked in a fire camp, visited with my family, and went on part of my honeymoon. I'd seen the Tetons, but only from a car on short day trips. This time, I vowed, I would live out of a backpack and see things most tourists don't. I brought my bear spray--a 12-oz. canister that works like mace, only it's designed to fend off grizzly bears. My buddy got the time off work. My wife is resilient, and willing. We penciled in the date, made the reservations through the ranger station, and set off.
It's a long drive through barren parts of Eastern Oregon and Idaho, this passage to Wyoming. My buddy and I once bought white, ten-gallon cowboy hats in Canada, and we wore them the whole way, of course. Stayed a night in Pocatello. Ate food at truckstops. Chased the American Dream.
After passing the horrible, kitschy "western town" of Jackson, WY (think Sisters, OR, but worse), we set up basecamp on the dry, sagebrush flats of the Gros Ventre River Valley. We listened to a ranger campfire talk that night, under wide-open western skies. The ranger said that the seeds chipmunks collect in the mountains impact grizzly bears' eating habits, and that we are all connected in a great wheel of life. Not a quarter-mile away, in the dark, a great herd of buffalo snorted and shuffled and bedded down for the night. Soon, we did too.
The next morning, we stuffed our tents into our backpacks and drove, in the bright sunshine, to the huge mountain range that filled the entire western skyline. The Teton Range, somehow, has no foothills, so the 7,000 foot jump from our our basecamp to the summit of the Grand is jarring, an imposing wall of granite and ice. We picked up our backcountry permits at the Jenny Lake ranger station. The ranger was impressed at our route--a three-day loop through the Paintbrush and Cascade Canyons via Holly Lake, the Paintbrush Divide, and Lake Solitude--and told us to have a good time. We borrowed the bear canisters, those Nalgene-esque plastic containers for our food. I attached the bear spray to my belt, and we were ready to go.
I've always imagined myself staring down a huge grizzly bear on a mountain trail, wife and buddy hiding behind me. I would coolly snap the bear spray out of the holster, pull the pin, and in an acidic fog of pepper and chemicals, let the bear have it. This didn't happen on our trip to the Tetons. We did, however, encounter our share of crazy mountain animals. The first was a bull elk, feeding in a patch of wildflowers high up on a rocky slope, across the canyon from our trail. The next was cow elk, bedded down and surprised at our presence, about twenty feet away. Alarmed, I almost let her have it with the bear spray. Near the top of the Paintbrush Divide, we saw a number of marmots and pikas. That's right, marmots and pikas. On day three, we saw what looked like a pair of skis on someone's shoulder coming at us from behind a bush around a bend in the trail. The "skis" turned out to be antlers from a bull moose. We all did a little dance and scattered while the seven-foot ungulate crashed though the underbrush. An hour later, another bull moose, this time across a small river. The ranger was right: the great wheel of life was intact.
I recommend a trip like this. It's satisfying to hike from dense forest to wildflower meadows to rocks and snow. We camped by a beautiful lake, fed by glaciers, and a clear, cold mountain spring. The top of Paintbrush Divide (elevation 10,700 feet) was a great milestone, like the floor of the Grand Canyon in reverse--it was all downhill after that point. Importantly, the Divide separated two unique glacier valleys, and the hike down was as picturesque and unique as the hike up. We felt alive when we huddled in our tents during a high-elevation thunderstorm. The air, the flowers, the animals, the ice, the rocks, the long traverses over glaciers--the hike was a reconnection with the American West and a reaffirmation of those great passages from Thoreau and Emerson.
At the end of the trip, after 19 miles of hiking and almost 4,000 feet of elevation change, it felt good to get in the car and drive up to Yellowstone. We had some local microbrews, walked on a boardwalk, looked at geothermal features. Though we were only there for a day, we could tell that Yellowstone is another great adventure--some 98 percent of visitors stay close to their cars and yet the backpacking trails extend for miles. I hear Glacier National Park is pretty good, too. Same with Kings Canyon and Sequoia. And Zion. And Big Bend, down in Texas. I heard the Sawtooths in Idaho are nice. Banff is supposed to be the real deal. And Bryce Canyon. And North Cascades. And Moab. And Yosemite. There's a trail around Tahoe, I heard.
I'm endlessly happy that my job has a summer vacation.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Sojourns: Volume One--RAGBRAI
(Not much going on in February for a schoolteacher in Oregon. So I'll write about other times, the quarter of the year when I don't have to show up to work. This will be a multi-part series.)
Last Summer, from July 19th to the 25th, I pedaled a road bike across the State of Iowa in the world's largest group bike ride. The Register Annual Group Bike Ride Across Iowa, or RAGBRAI, is such an enormous and complex event--especially for non-midwesterners--that it becomes difficult to relate without hyperbole. RAGBRAI is a challenge, a party, a journey, a pilgrimmage, a community fundraiser, an examination of soul, a race, a vacation, a threshold crossing. RAGBRAI asks important questions of us; it demands our focus and attention, for it has stories to tell.
For many, especially Iowans in their twenties, RAGBRAI is a week-long binge during the high point of summer. Roving mobs of young people, in matching inappropriate bike jerseys, guzzle huge amounts of Busch Light at every stop as they drink their way from town to town. These teams have painted school buses parked at each end-of-day party, they holler and carouse into the night, and they pedal in close, drunken groups down the road. Small Iowa villages will transform into MTV's Spring Break (in bike shorts), thanks to these people.
Older midwesterners treat RAGBRAI as a chance to re-affirm their grasp on life. To them, RAGBRAI is an annual gut-check. These people leave early in the morning, travel at a safe pace, and arrive at the host towns with more than enough time to shower and eat a healthy meal. They're doing it, year after year, to separate themselves from the slog of a career. They're doing it to push themselves one more time. They're doing it to be young again--and good for them.
Of course, thousands of other people, from all over the world, descend on Iowa for thousands of other reasons. RAGBRAI is a traveling circus, the most exciting thing in the state all summer. It makes the local news every night, blaring from the televisions in Hivee Supermarket produce sections. Towns petition to get the enormous economic stimulus of hosting a RAGBRAI for the night, or just for having RAGBRAI pass through. Gas stations stock up on Busch Light.
I never filled out an entrance form for RAGBRAI (thousands don't) and never felt part of it, even though I pedaled every mile. I was an unregistered pirate who didn't leave early in the morning, didn't let anyone else haul my stuff, didn't quaff cheap beer, and didn't understand the common decency of the Midwest. I viewed the whole deal with an outsider's eyes, and I had my own reasons to be there. I went to Iowa to see if I could ride that far, and to escape the reality of my dad's death in Oregon a few weeks before.
RAGBRAI had things in store. I finished, on the proud shores of the Mississippi in Burlington, a much different person that when I left Council Bluffs a week before. It is hard to quickly describe that week and its Dante-inspired journeys from the depths of Hell up through Purgatory and finally into Paradise. (That description is apt: about two-thirds of the ride, if not Hell, wasn't much better.) I know I ate a lot of pork chops and slices of pie. I weathered two apocalyptic Midwest thunderstorms. I endured the curious metamorphosis of my buttocks from "normal human" to "baboon." I pedaled past inebriated hordes and over hundreds of hills. I relieved myself in cornfields, avoided naked slip-and-slides, camped in supermarket parking lots, vomited from dehydration, consoled tired bikers, was consoled by tired bikers, had a stranger write the word "virgin" on my calf. I saw lightning bugs for the first time. I saw real-life Amish people and had serious talks with locals about NASCAR. Throughout, thousands and thousands of people in tight black bike shorts, churning and speeding and dancing and laughing and shouting.
When I finished RAGBRAI I kept going. The people I was with were from Wisconsin, and we had another two-and-a-half days' ride. Very quickly, as we crossed the great muddy river and headed into Illinois, the complexion changed. It was quieter. The roads, blocked off to traffic before, were now filled with cars. And one unexpected thing started to happen: passing farm houses, we'd get chased by huge, protective family dogs. Were dogs less friendly in Illinois? No, I soon realized. In Iowa, the dogs were totally worn-out by the time I passed. They couldn't fend off the great migration east.
Last Summer, from July 19th to the 25th, I pedaled a road bike across the State of Iowa in the world's largest group bike ride. The Register Annual Group Bike Ride Across Iowa, or RAGBRAI, is such an enormous and complex event--especially for non-midwesterners--that it becomes difficult to relate without hyperbole. RAGBRAI is a challenge, a party, a journey, a pilgrimmage, a community fundraiser, an examination of soul, a race, a vacation, a threshold crossing. RAGBRAI asks important questions of us; it demands our focus and attention, for it has stories to tell.
For many, especially Iowans in their twenties, RAGBRAI is a week-long binge during the high point of summer. Roving mobs of young people, in matching inappropriate bike jerseys, guzzle huge amounts of Busch Light at every stop as they drink their way from town to town. These teams have painted school buses parked at each end-of-day party, they holler and carouse into the night, and they pedal in close, drunken groups down the road. Small Iowa villages will transform into MTV's Spring Break (in bike shorts), thanks to these people.
Older midwesterners treat RAGBRAI as a chance to re-affirm their grasp on life. To them, RAGBRAI is an annual gut-check. These people leave early in the morning, travel at a safe pace, and arrive at the host towns with more than enough time to shower and eat a healthy meal. They're doing it, year after year, to separate themselves from the slog of a career. They're doing it to push themselves one more time. They're doing it to be young again--and good for them.
Of course, thousands of other people, from all over the world, descend on Iowa for thousands of other reasons. RAGBRAI is a traveling circus, the most exciting thing in the state all summer. It makes the local news every night, blaring from the televisions in Hivee Supermarket produce sections. Towns petition to get the enormous economic stimulus of hosting a RAGBRAI for the night, or just for having RAGBRAI pass through. Gas stations stock up on Busch Light.
I never filled out an entrance form for RAGBRAI (thousands don't) and never felt part of it, even though I pedaled every mile. I was an unregistered pirate who didn't leave early in the morning, didn't let anyone else haul my stuff, didn't quaff cheap beer, and didn't understand the common decency of the Midwest. I viewed the whole deal with an outsider's eyes, and I had my own reasons to be there. I went to Iowa to see if I could ride that far, and to escape the reality of my dad's death in Oregon a few weeks before.
RAGBRAI had things in store. I finished, on the proud shores of the Mississippi in Burlington, a much different person that when I left Council Bluffs a week before. It is hard to quickly describe that week and its Dante-inspired journeys from the depths of Hell up through Purgatory and finally into Paradise. (That description is apt: about two-thirds of the ride, if not Hell, wasn't much better.) I know I ate a lot of pork chops and slices of pie. I weathered two apocalyptic Midwest thunderstorms. I endured the curious metamorphosis of my buttocks from "normal human" to "baboon." I pedaled past inebriated hordes and over hundreds of hills. I relieved myself in cornfields, avoided naked slip-and-slides, camped in supermarket parking lots, vomited from dehydration, consoled tired bikers, was consoled by tired bikers, had a stranger write the word "virgin" on my calf. I saw lightning bugs for the first time. I saw real-life Amish people and had serious talks with locals about NASCAR. Throughout, thousands and thousands of people in tight black bike shorts, churning and speeding and dancing and laughing and shouting.
When I finished RAGBRAI I kept going. The people I was with were from Wisconsin, and we had another two-and-a-half days' ride. Very quickly, as we crossed the great muddy river and headed into Illinois, the complexion changed. It was quieter. The roads, blocked off to traffic before, were now filled with cars. And one unexpected thing started to happen: passing farm houses, we'd get chased by huge, protective family dogs. Were dogs less friendly in Illinois? No, I soon realized. In Iowa, the dogs were totally worn-out by the time I passed. They couldn't fend off the great migration east.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
When the Devil's Loose
The musician A. A. Bondy looks and sounds like he just wandered into your town after falling out of a boxcar five miles down the line. He's gaunt and wears a checkered shirt; he plays guitar and harmonica. I'm digging his two albums, American Hearts and When the Devil's Loose. They're the musical equivalent of Southern Gothic literature: metaphorical, vaguely religious, and authentically hardscrabble. A. A. Bondy (his birth name is Auguste Arthur Bondy) writes songs about war, peace, addiction, traveling, working, small-town life, Jesus, and the devil. Happily, he rarely sings about love. (And when he does, it's with a wink. One lyric goes: And love, it don't die, it just goes from girl to girl.)
A. A. Bondy, the person, reminds me of a guy I knew once, who was also in a band. This guy was real skinny, from a rough part of town, and smoked cigarettes but had "quit drinkin'" a few years back. He was kind and genuine, and quiet, but when he did speak, we all listened. He had that faraway look in his eyes. He'd seen things. He'd worked too hard; he looked broken down. That guy, if you've ever met him or anyone like him, is A. A. Bondy.
Of course, I heartily recommend a listen to his albums. They're the real deal: honest, haunting, musically sound. Great voice, great lyrics. Play the albums at night, after a really long day at work or school, and stare out the window. That kind of music.
A. A. Bondy, the person, reminds me of a guy I knew once, who was also in a band. This guy was real skinny, from a rough part of town, and smoked cigarettes but had "quit drinkin'" a few years back. He was kind and genuine, and quiet, but when he did speak, we all listened. He had that faraway look in his eyes. He'd seen things. He'd worked too hard; he looked broken down. That guy, if you've ever met him or anyone like him, is A. A. Bondy.
Of course, I heartily recommend a listen to his albums. They're the real deal: honest, haunting, musically sound. Great voice, great lyrics. Play the albums at night, after a really long day at work or school, and stare out the window. That kind of music.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Climbing the Mountain
"What are we doing with our lives?"--Jerry Seinfeld, Episode One,"The Engagement," Season Seven
I remember once, in my high school Health class, when a kid asked the teacher if high school was the best time in one's life. It was an honest, desperate question. Surely, the kid wondered, this couldn't be the high point, could it?
No, the teacher said, after thinking about it. College is the best time in one's life.
That was good news at the time. I sat back in my chair and smiled. My suspicions were confirmed: things will get better.
I graduated from college five years ago, and I look back on that answer from that teacher. What a sad, sad man. I still have that hope; he's living in the past. College was a hoot, but I was mostly a lazy knucklehead for those five years. I missed out on the biggest collegiate rock-climbing wall in America (OSU's behemoth at Dixon). I was out-of-shape. I watched too many movies, left too many books unread. I had tons of free time, but I can't really list a lot of accomplishments from those years.
Now, with a full-time job, hour commute, wife, and pets--actual responsibilites--I'm making things happen. In March, I plan on heading to Banff, the crown jewel of Canada's National Parks, to tear up Lake Louise Ski Resort. In May, I'll try to kill myself in the Eugene Half-Marathon. In June, I'll deliver an address to thousands of people at Gill Coliseum. In July, I'll head to Scotland. Sometime this summer, I'll ride a bicycle to San Francisco. I'll read some good books, maybe write a thing or two. This is a pretty good time of my life, much more exciting than high school and certainly on par with college. It would be sad if these years were the downhill slope, if the summit had already been reached.
Happily, many of my peers haven't given up, either. The guy that teaches two doors down from me is trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon. My brother-in-law, tired of his job, applied for and was accepted to law school in Chicago. My brilliant wife is forging ahead in graduate school, dominating tests about arcane body parts and esoteric diseases. We're all elbowing our way up a little higher, raising our profiles.
I don't understand people that don't have goals, or watch a lot of TV, or don't get outside, or don't read. For them, there was a brief period--about four or five years--when they didn't live with their parents and, simultaneously, they didn't have a full-time job. College, and its absence of responsibilty, was their Mecca. Then they gave up. Life flared up for a few years, then burned out.
The mythical "best time in life" is an amorphous thing, almost solely determined by our will. For me, I think 57 will be a good year. That's my summit. After that, my health will probably start to go--the Kammerzelts have a history of colon cancer and high blood pressure--and I'll fade a bit. But the best time certainly isn't behind me. And, dear blog reader, it shouldn't be behind you.
I remember once, in my high school Health class, when a kid asked the teacher if high school was the best time in one's life. It was an honest, desperate question. Surely, the kid wondered, this couldn't be the high point, could it?
No, the teacher said, after thinking about it. College is the best time in one's life.
That was good news at the time. I sat back in my chair and smiled. My suspicions were confirmed: things will get better.
I graduated from college five years ago, and I look back on that answer from that teacher. What a sad, sad man. I still have that hope; he's living in the past. College was a hoot, but I was mostly a lazy knucklehead for those five years. I missed out on the biggest collegiate rock-climbing wall in America (OSU's behemoth at Dixon). I was out-of-shape. I watched too many movies, left too many books unread. I had tons of free time, but I can't really list a lot of accomplishments from those years.
Now, with a full-time job, hour commute, wife, and pets--actual responsibilites--I'm making things happen. In March, I plan on heading to Banff, the crown jewel of Canada's National Parks, to tear up Lake Louise Ski Resort. In May, I'll try to kill myself in the Eugene Half-Marathon. In June, I'll deliver an address to thousands of people at Gill Coliseum. In July, I'll head to Scotland. Sometime this summer, I'll ride a bicycle to San Francisco. I'll read some good books, maybe write a thing or two. This is a pretty good time of my life, much more exciting than high school and certainly on par with college. It would be sad if these years were the downhill slope, if the summit had already been reached.
Happily, many of my peers haven't given up, either. The guy that teaches two doors down from me is trying to qualify for the Boston Marathon. My brother-in-law, tired of his job, applied for and was accepted to law school in Chicago. My brilliant wife is forging ahead in graduate school, dominating tests about arcane body parts and esoteric diseases. We're all elbowing our way up a little higher, raising our profiles.
I don't understand people that don't have goals, or watch a lot of TV, or don't get outside, or don't read. For them, there was a brief period--about four or five years--when they didn't live with their parents and, simultaneously, they didn't have a full-time job. College, and its absence of responsibilty, was their Mecca. Then they gave up. Life flared up for a few years, then burned out.
The mythical "best time in life" is an amorphous thing, almost solely determined by our will. For me, I think 57 will be a good year. That's my summit. After that, my health will probably start to go--the Kammerzelts have a history of colon cancer and high blood pressure--and I'll fade a bit. But the best time certainly isn't behind me. And, dear blog reader, it shouldn't be behind you.
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