We slept restlessly The Night of the Rodent Discovery. Megan compared waiting for the snap of the mousetraps to waiting for Santa Claus . . . I did not quite agree with the analogy, but it does suggest her state of mind as we entered battle.
Sometime in the night, while I was dreaming of being hunted and poisoned by a polygamist henchman (too much Big Love), Megan heard a snap. She was kind enough to let me sleep through the night before tip-toeing into the kitchen to observe our victim.
And then the shout, "Brad!" I sprinted into the kitchen to see a rat of prehistoric proportions dead on the counter. While Megan assured me that they have larger rats in her part of the state, I tried to avoid the mental image of a larger beast--this one was big enough.
Megan left the kitchen feeling victorious and began preparing for her day. I sat there contemplating the inevitable next steps, disposal and reconassaince. I would need to somehow transport this harbinger of Hanta virus to the alley and then figure out how it came to inhabit our most sanitary of rooms.
Quickly, I concocted a plan that would allow me to rid ourselves of the carcass without forcing me to touch the monster. I set the trashcan below the counter and found a plastic pole. I used the pole to scoot the device and creature into the trashcan. Problem solved.
Next it was James Bond time. Fortunately (fortunately?), rodents leave miniscule black deposits as they travel that allow a sleuth to track their journey. The location of the dead creature suggested that it climbed onto our counter from behind our stove. Having recently installed the stove, I knew the wall was solid behind it, but the gas line seemed to be an obvious entry point. I opened the counter with the gas line and found a gaping hole that lead into the void between the walls and presumably into the crawlspace below the house. To confirm my suspicions, I found the telltale trail of dark, little doodie all over our baking sheets. Cookies, anyone?
While I resented the vandalism, the problem can now be addressed. If a rat intends to gnosh on our grub, it'll have to find another entry.
Of course, questions remain. Was this rat the rat? Is this the cause of the rustling in our bedroom wall as well as the creature who robbed our sourdough? I'm hopeful, but we cannot be too sure. The war continues, and we will fight it on any front necessary to protect the security of our homeland. The enemy we fight is evasive and well-funded, and it has no respect for the institutions of peace, democracy, and antibiotic cleansers. Hopefully, someday, we will be able to live in peace once again. For now, we're pretty sure we need to buy bigger traps.
Showing posts with label Narratives. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Narratives. Show all posts
Monday, January 21, 2008
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Rodent Invasion: Home Ownership and Warfare
I had a deal worked out with the vermin that lived in the wall of our bedroom. During the first cold spell this winter, I woke to the sound of clawing and wiggling inside my bedroom wall. The nocturnal activity suggested rat or mouse, and either option was unappealing (think of bubonic plague and Splinter from the original Ninja Turtles movie). That said, I could accept that cold weather would inevitably drive rodents into warmer spaces, and I knew my odds of sealing off rodent access to our sixty-year-old house were slim. If the rodents would let me sleep and not alert Megan to their presence, then they could stay in the wall until spring. Peace treaties were signed, confetti was tossed, speeches were made, and life resumed to normal.
Today (or, I should say, sometime last night) the whole deal came crashing down. Working from the house to supervise some carpet installation, Megan decided to prepare herself a midday sandwich. She pulled the loaf of sourdough bread out of its ceramic bowl and noted an odd hole in the side of the bag. Behind the hole a strange tunnel of bread had gone missing. Her first thought, naturally, was to blame me. She wondered, "Why would Brad rip this strange little hole in the bag and then tunnel into the bread?"
Her second thought was to reflect on the strange scratching noises she had begun to hear at night and accept that rodents had invaded our kitchen. My office phone rang loudly: Megan had declared war.
I quickly realized that, had Megan commanded the US military during World War II, the Bomb would have been dropped everywhere, just for good measure. These mice were leaving us forever, period. Megan is the consummate public health professional, and rodents have been public enemy number one throughout history for all those trying to eradicate various forms of fecal and flea-borne pathogens. Megan had a professional goal, no, an obligation, to restore the healthfulness of our abode.
After the initial phone call, Megan called back with an action plan for sealing certain weaknesses in our defense against the order rodentia. With the defense plotted, it was time to prepare the offense.
A flurry of research took place. I read a 12-page manual on how to make a spaceship-like "humane" mouse trap out of a 3-liter coke bottle. I learned that glue traps are illegal in Ireland. I learned that, while I could hope I was dealing with mice, there was a darn good chance that rats were involved (and, unlike Splinter, I learned that they lack the thorough knowledge of Renaissance art and Zen philosophy). I learned that mice can enter a home through an opening the size of a dime. I learned that mice do not like to eat cheese (though, Megan was quick to point out that she once woke in the wee hours of the morning in a youth hostel in Amsterdam to witness a rat devouring a massive block of cheese . . . . right . . . ).
Research complete, the traps have been set. The war has begun.
Today (or, I should say, sometime last night) the whole deal came crashing down. Working from the house to supervise some carpet installation, Megan decided to prepare herself a midday sandwich. She pulled the loaf of sourdough bread out of its ceramic bowl and noted an odd hole in the side of the bag. Behind the hole a strange tunnel of bread had gone missing. Her first thought, naturally, was to blame me. She wondered, "Why would Brad rip this strange little hole in the bag and then tunnel into the bread?"
Her second thought was to reflect on the strange scratching noises she had begun to hear at night and accept that rodents had invaded our kitchen. My office phone rang loudly: Megan had declared war.
I quickly realized that, had Megan commanded the US military during World War II, the Bomb would have been dropped everywhere, just for good measure. These mice were leaving us forever, period. Megan is the consummate public health professional, and rodents have been public enemy number one throughout history for all those trying to eradicate various forms of fecal and flea-borne pathogens. Megan had a professional goal, no, an obligation, to restore the healthfulness of our abode.
After the initial phone call, Megan called back with an action plan for sealing certain weaknesses in our defense against the order rodentia. With the defense plotted, it was time to prepare the offense.
A flurry of research took place. I read a 12-page manual on how to make a spaceship-like "humane" mouse trap out of a 3-liter coke bottle. I learned that glue traps are illegal in Ireland. I learned that, while I could hope I was dealing with mice, there was a darn good chance that rats were involved (and, unlike Splinter, I learned that they lack the thorough knowledge of Renaissance art and Zen philosophy). I learned that mice can enter a home through an opening the size of a dime. I learned that mice do not like to eat cheese (though, Megan was quick to point out that she once woke in the wee hours of the morning in a youth hostel in Amsterdam to witness a rat devouring a massive block of cheese . . . . right . . . ).
Research complete, the traps have been set. The war has begun.
Saturday, December 1, 2007
Rainier Climb: Onwards and Upwards
The morning of the climb arrived. We woke, scarfed some food, downed some coffee, and packed and unpacked and repacked, just for good measure. Our packs were transporting the lightest load that would allow our continued survival, so we stashed the excess gear in the rental car and headed to meet our guides. Below is an image of us in those precious naive moments before the climb:
Our lead guide frequently guided trips up Kilimanjaro and was pursuing his 132nd summit of Rainier. I realized immediately we were in good hands. I reaffirmed this opinion by glancing at the guide's pack, visually weighing it in at a solid 90 pounds.
Our fellow climbers were of all ages. Many had lived in the area and looked up at Rainier for most of their lives just wondering about the summit. Others had placed Rainier as the goal of a personal fitness revolution. Others of us weren't quite sure why we were there except for a general desire for adventure. I am pretty sure Gabriel and I fit in this last category.
The bus ride to the Paradise Lodge seemed interminable. I felt thankful for every small gain in elevation along the way, each foot up was one less I would need to surmount. The bus parked at Paradise Lodge, and my altimeter watch (I know, gearhead) indicated an elevation of roughly 5,000 feet. Only 9,000 feet up along 20 miles round trip awaited me. I refilled water bottles, grabbed my trekking poles, and got in line. From the parking lot, I looked up the mountain to see the view captured in this photo. The summit did not seem so far away, but I had to remind myself about the intense foreshortening that occurs in these settings. Distances are wildly deceiving to the eye. The summit seemed close, but it was very, very far away.
The hike began gradually and quickly became more vertical. We had been clearly instructed that we could only stop when the guides allowed a break, so complaining was no option. We were headed up through nature's greatest solar reflector, cooking in an icy oven. The sweat began gushing as it had the day before, and I was feeling fantastic.
A break arrived, and I munched on another Cliff bar. Each bar is dense and flavorful--three or four swallows offered over 300 calories, and I was thankful for the fuel. Each rest stop came after such a long march that the views became substantially more spectacular at each break. The rest stops allowed us to continue our education. For example, we learned an important mountaineering rule of wisdom: don't walk if you can stand still, don't stand if you can sit, don't sit if you can lay down, don't lay down awake if you can lay down and sleep, don't lay down and sleep alone if you can lay down and sleep next to a woman, . . . and it goes downhill from there. Anyway, here is a photo from one of our breaks:
The march continued at a fast pace. Gabriel and I made a point to be near the front of the line. The group generally stayed together, but as the march continued, some folks began to drag behind. By being near the front, Gabriel and I knew we would get the longer breaks, getting to enjoy a few precious extra minutes while the stragglers finally made it our way. The disadvantage of being near the front was the need to keep up with the grueling pace set by our lead guide. I kept thinking of Gabriel's label for the climb: a "tour de force." I let willpower triumph and demanded that my body follow suit. Upwards and upwards we struggled. At each break, I'd down some more calories, but I absolutely could not keep up with my body's consumption. I downed a sandwich, Cliff bars and other candies. I tried, but I felt continually behind.
When I get hungry, I tend to get really grumpy, and I found myself approaching camp in a rather foul mood. I wondered what compelled me to climb, why I didn't just enjoy a long weekend in less glaciated locations. I sat on my pack and consumed a sandwich. I wondered if I had what it took to make it the rest of the way--knowing that the five mile lug of that morning was nothing compared to the fifteen-mile task facing me the next day.
Muir Snowfield
With each bite, my mood improved. Pretty soon, I realized that I was sitting at the most beautiful place I had ever visited. I knew I could do it, but I also knew I would have to do a better job scarfing the food during the summit bid.
The stopping point for the night was the Muir Snowfield, 10,100 feet according to my altimeter watch. Climbers using the RMI guides get to stay in a cabin on bunks:
Other independent climbers choose tents. The bunkhouse was nice, but, I had to capture the cliche, outdoor magazine image of a tent perched on a rocky escarpment overlooking an abyss:
Rest
We arrived at our rest spot in mid-afternoon. We would eat a quick dinner and face lights out at 6 PM. We had to go to sleep at 6 PM, naturally, so that we could wake at midnight and then climb up and down over the next 15 to 18 hours.
I ate some sort of freeze-dried nastiness and realized my mistake. Many of my fellow climbers had simplified the food situation by ordering a pizza the night before and wrapping that to eat cold the next evening. That allowed them a very tasty, calorie-laden meal. In my effort to recreate my old backpacking days, I had purchased a freeze-dried meal that I had fondly remembered in hikes of my past. These fond memories excluded how truly salty and disgusting most of those meals are. And, for a short trip like this, how unnecessary. Remembering my utter grumpiness earlier in the day, I opted to eat the whole meal.
After dinner, we had a group meeting. We had climbed the first part of the mountain unroped, without ice axes and crampons. Tomorrow morning, the climb became much more serious. They reminded us of the basic safety measure: if someone screams "falling," you should drop to the mountain and dig in with all of your strength. If someone shouts "rock," turn your pack toward the mountain, hope your helmet is on tight, and pray that the missile either misses you or is small enough that it does not kill you. Awesome.
Then they announced rope teams. Apparently they had evaluated us on the climb up to assess our strength. They wanted to match teams evenly and then send the teams out according to ability. Despite our utter lack of training, Gabriel and I were selected for the lead rope team. The lead team can be tough since that group would potentially have to break trail for the other teams. I also knew that being on the lead meant greatest chance for success. Most importantly, I felt that I had duped the mountain. From the time I signed up for the climb to the time of the climb itself, I had exercised very little and assumed my willpower would allow success. Apparently it was working wonderfully (little did I know that the mountain would soon have its revenge).
I crawled into my bag, and tried to sleep. Unfortunately all of my fellow climbers also struggled to sleep, and the cabin filled with the sound of tossing, turning and frustrated breathing. Except, of course, for the one guy who managed to snore at epic volumes. The snowpack seemed stable, but I was certain that this snore would trigger cataclysmic avalanches. Alas, the shack survived, and after six hours of lying in a down bag terrified and wide awake, I donned my garb to climb this beast. It was "tour de force" time.
Our lead guide frequently guided trips up Kilimanjaro and was pursuing his 132nd summit of Rainier. I realized immediately we were in good hands. I reaffirmed this opinion by glancing at the guide's pack, visually weighing it in at a solid 90 pounds.
Our fellow climbers were of all ages. Many had lived in the area and looked up at Rainier for most of their lives just wondering about the summit. Others had placed Rainier as the goal of a personal fitness revolution. Others of us weren't quite sure why we were there except for a general desire for adventure. I am pretty sure Gabriel and I fit in this last category.
The bus ride to the Paradise Lodge seemed interminable. I felt thankful for every small gain in elevation along the way, each foot up was one less I would need to surmount. The bus parked at Paradise Lodge, and my altimeter watch (I know, gearhead) indicated an elevation of roughly 5,000 feet. Only 9,000 feet up along 20 miles round trip awaited me. I refilled water bottles, grabbed my trekking poles, and got in line. From the parking lot, I looked up the mountain to see the view captured in this photo. The summit did not seem so far away, but I had to remind myself about the intense foreshortening that occurs in these settings. Distances are wildly deceiving to the eye. The summit seemed close, but it was very, very far away.
The hike began gradually and quickly became more vertical. We had been clearly instructed that we could only stop when the guides allowed a break, so complaining was no option. We were headed up through nature's greatest solar reflector, cooking in an icy oven. The sweat began gushing as it had the day before, and I was feeling fantastic.
A break arrived, and I munched on another Cliff bar. Each bar is dense and flavorful--three or four swallows offered over 300 calories, and I was thankful for the fuel. Each rest stop came after such a long march that the views became substantially more spectacular at each break. The rest stops allowed us to continue our education. For example, we learned an important mountaineering rule of wisdom: don't walk if you can stand still, don't stand if you can sit, don't sit if you can lay down, don't lay down awake if you can lay down and sleep, don't lay down and sleep alone if you can lay down and sleep next to a woman, . . . and it goes downhill from there. Anyway, here is a photo from one of our breaks:
The march continued at a fast pace. Gabriel and I made a point to be near the front of the line. The group generally stayed together, but as the march continued, some folks began to drag behind. By being near the front, Gabriel and I knew we would get the longer breaks, getting to enjoy a few precious extra minutes while the stragglers finally made it our way. The disadvantage of being near the front was the need to keep up with the grueling pace set by our lead guide. I kept thinking of Gabriel's label for the climb: a "tour de force." I let willpower triumph and demanded that my body follow suit. Upwards and upwards we struggled. At each break, I'd down some more calories, but I absolutely could not keep up with my body's consumption. I downed a sandwich, Cliff bars and other candies. I tried, but I felt continually behind.
When I get hungry, I tend to get really grumpy, and I found myself approaching camp in a rather foul mood. I wondered what compelled me to climb, why I didn't just enjoy a long weekend in less glaciated locations. I sat on my pack and consumed a sandwich. I wondered if I had what it took to make it the rest of the way--knowing that the five mile lug of that morning was nothing compared to the fifteen-mile task facing me the next day.
Muir Snowfield
With each bite, my mood improved. Pretty soon, I realized that I was sitting at the most beautiful place I had ever visited. I knew I could do it, but I also knew I would have to do a better job scarfing the food during the summit bid.
The stopping point for the night was the Muir Snowfield, 10,100 feet according to my altimeter watch. Climbers using the RMI guides get to stay in a cabin on bunks:
Other independent climbers choose tents. The bunkhouse was nice, but, I had to capture the cliche, outdoor magazine image of a tent perched on a rocky escarpment overlooking an abyss:
Rest
We arrived at our rest spot in mid-afternoon. We would eat a quick dinner and face lights out at 6 PM. We had to go to sleep at 6 PM, naturally, so that we could wake at midnight and then climb up and down over the next 15 to 18 hours.
I ate some sort of freeze-dried nastiness and realized my mistake. Many of my fellow climbers had simplified the food situation by ordering a pizza the night before and wrapping that to eat cold the next evening. That allowed them a very tasty, calorie-laden meal. In my effort to recreate my old backpacking days, I had purchased a freeze-dried meal that I had fondly remembered in hikes of my past. These fond memories excluded how truly salty and disgusting most of those meals are. And, for a short trip like this, how unnecessary. Remembering my utter grumpiness earlier in the day, I opted to eat the whole meal.
After dinner, we had a group meeting. We had climbed the first part of the mountain unroped, without ice axes and crampons. Tomorrow morning, the climb became much more serious. They reminded us of the basic safety measure: if someone screams "falling," you should drop to the mountain and dig in with all of your strength. If someone shouts "rock," turn your pack toward the mountain, hope your helmet is on tight, and pray that the missile either misses you or is small enough that it does not kill you. Awesome.
Then they announced rope teams. Apparently they had evaluated us on the climb up to assess our strength. They wanted to match teams evenly and then send the teams out according to ability. Despite our utter lack of training, Gabriel and I were selected for the lead rope team. The lead team can be tough since that group would potentially have to break trail for the other teams. I also knew that being on the lead meant greatest chance for success. Most importantly, I felt that I had duped the mountain. From the time I signed up for the climb to the time of the climb itself, I had exercised very little and assumed my willpower would allow success. Apparently it was working wonderfully (little did I know that the mountain would soon have its revenge).
I crawled into my bag, and tried to sleep. Unfortunately all of my fellow climbers also struggled to sleep, and the cabin filled with the sound of tossing, turning and frustrated breathing. Except, of course, for the one guy who managed to snore at epic volumes. The snowpack seemed stable, but I was certain that this snore would trigger cataclysmic avalanches. Alas, the shack survived, and after six hours of lying in a down bag terrified and wide awake, I donned my garb to climb this beast. It was "tour de force" time.
Saturday, November 24, 2007
Rainier Climb: Education
Ashford, Washington is a quaint place. The city vanishes into a lush valley of green with rivers and lakes and other visual pleasures that would have been much more enjoyable had a massive hunk of stone and ice not loomed over everything. Yes, I could enjoy the scenery, but these same vistas constantly reminded me of my goal, a goal resting nearly three vertical miles off the valley floor.
We had reserved a spot in a bunkroom at Whittaker's Bunkhouse, a climber's hotel affiliated with the Rainier guides. The place was wildly stimulating. Climbers who usually stick to crags were testing their skills on a climbing wall or on a tightrope. Others were planning climbs of Rainier as a step toward a Denali expedition. Folks coming off the mountain seemed haggard, and those of us about to head up were wired with anticipation. Nerves were building.
Warning
We found our room, picked up the rental gear, and headed to the bunkhouse to sort and re-sort, to pack and unpack and repack, to anticipate and get anxious. Eventually we dropped our tasks to head out for some pasta (carboload) and salad with blackberry dressing before eating some blackberry pie (they grow enormous loads of blackberries in the area, so nearly every dish had been topped with various derivatives of the succulent fruit).
We returned to the bunkhouse to try to rest up for climbing school. As we walked in, we met a guy who was preparing to head out the next morning for his second climb of the mountain. He began a strange rant, what seemed the product of decades of serious experimental drug use:
"You guys goin' up the mountain? It's a huge, freakin' mountain, man. I mean, that is a huge freakin' climb, man. You just got to stick your face in the mountain and don't look down, man. 'Cause if you look down, you're comin' off the mountain, man. You're fallin' down like 'aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!' (arms waving wildly), man. You just got to stick that ice ax in the mountain and keep going up. You look down, and it is over, man, over. It's over. Just look at the mountain."
I tried to dismiss the comments as insane, but my anxiety latched onto his words and the fear mounted.
"So, here's what you need to do tomorrow. You'll go to climbing school, and you'll pay attention. You'll learn what to do, and you'll pay attention, man. Then you got to come back here, and hit the climbing wall. Just burn it out. You have to burn it out. Just hit the climbing wall and burn it out. Just burn it out, man. You know what I'm saying? Just burn . . . it . . . out . . . man. And then you'll rest, you'll sleep, and you'll head up the mountain. Remember to look at the mountain. Don't look down. Just look at the mountain. Then come back down, get some food, have a cold beer, and then hit the climbing wall and burn it out. You have to burn it out, man. Just burn it out. It's going to be awesome, man. Just burn it out."
Sweet. All I had to do was burn it out. No problem. Just had to burn it out. Fair enough. But I was a little more concerned about the "aaaaaaaaah!" part of the climb. Somehow, Gabriel and I extricated ourselves from the deranged monologue, and proceeded to our bunkroom to quietly express our shock and incredulity. We packed and unpacked and repacked and tried to sleep.
Climbing School
Climbing school was brilliantly designed. They managed to take a tremendous and daunting task and make it seem achievable. I was thrilled to finally have crampons on my boots for the second time in my life. I broke out the climbing glasses (old school-style with leather shields on the side), and I was happy to be moving around the snowpack. We practiced arresting a fall, learned how to work with rope, learned that we needed much more sunblock and generally figured out what we were going to have to do. Here is a picture of Gabriel and me enjoying climbing school . . . notice the massive summit looming in the background:
I also learned that I needed to reevaluate my gear situation, something that I love to do. After watching my father over the years, I realize that I am genetically predisposed toward "gear-headedness"--it's a recessive gene that effects some individuals. While a problematic condition, at least financially, I note the genetic advantages that the condition brings. A gearhead often accepts his or her own limitations, limitations, physically and mentally, to what they can accomplish in climbing or motorcycling or hunting or photography or cooking or golf or whatever. Then, the gearhead does extensive research to ensure that their equipment will eliminate as many of these limitations as possible. So, for example, I knew that I was not in condition for the climb, so I grabbed my lightest backpack and proceeded to pack in the most efficient manner possible with ultralight long underwear, ultralight shell, etc. Of course, this also meant an ultralight disposable camera which left the climb poorly documented, but, heck, I needed my gear to work for me because I was definitely not strong enough to do it myself.
Anyway, I had expected my time on the glacier to be a cold experience (gear switch: ditch Smartwool Mountaineering socks). Instead I found myself gushing sweat, massive loads of fluid pouring off my skin. I might as well have been running a marathon on a July afternoon back in Texas (gear switch: use Patagonia lightweight long underwear, switch to a lighter padded Smartwool sock). The side effect of the sweat was the need to constantly reapply sunscreen. It also meant a stream of metallic taste into my mouth, which was less than pleasant (gear switch: Burt's Bees lifeguard lip balm to reduce metallic taste). The intensity of the sun was truly stunning, and the hat I had purchased the day before at Seattle's REI offered little shelter (gear switch: acquire goofy hat with extra long bill and protection for neck and ears).
With climbing school over, we enjoyed the new education. I made some gear adjustments and packed and unpacked and repacked. Gabriel and I headed out for a dinner, a "last supper" of sorts. We felt tired in a great way and ready for the task. I enjoyed more salmon with blackberry topping of some sort, and looked forward to a good night's sleep. We'd need it for the tour de force.
We had reserved a spot in a bunkroom at Whittaker's Bunkhouse, a climber's hotel affiliated with the Rainier guides. The place was wildly stimulating. Climbers who usually stick to crags were testing their skills on a climbing wall or on a tightrope. Others were planning climbs of Rainier as a step toward a Denali expedition. Folks coming off the mountain seemed haggard, and those of us about to head up were wired with anticipation. Nerves were building.
Warning
We found our room, picked up the rental gear, and headed to the bunkhouse to sort and re-sort, to pack and unpack and repack, to anticipate and get anxious. Eventually we dropped our tasks to head out for some pasta (carboload) and salad with blackberry dressing before eating some blackberry pie (they grow enormous loads of blackberries in the area, so nearly every dish had been topped with various derivatives of the succulent fruit).
We returned to the bunkhouse to try to rest up for climbing school. As we walked in, we met a guy who was preparing to head out the next morning for his second climb of the mountain. He began a strange rant, what seemed the product of decades of serious experimental drug use:
"You guys goin' up the mountain? It's a huge, freakin' mountain, man. I mean, that is a huge freakin' climb, man. You just got to stick your face in the mountain and don't look down, man. 'Cause if you look down, you're comin' off the mountain, man. You're fallin' down like 'aaaaaaaaaaaaaah!' (arms waving wildly), man. You just got to stick that ice ax in the mountain and keep going up. You look down, and it is over, man, over. It's over. Just look at the mountain."
I tried to dismiss the comments as insane, but my anxiety latched onto his words and the fear mounted.
"So, here's what you need to do tomorrow. You'll go to climbing school, and you'll pay attention. You'll learn what to do, and you'll pay attention, man. Then you got to come back here, and hit the climbing wall. Just burn it out. You have to burn it out. Just hit the climbing wall and burn it out. Just burn it out, man. You know what I'm saying? Just burn . . . it . . . out . . . man. And then you'll rest, you'll sleep, and you'll head up the mountain. Remember to look at the mountain. Don't look down. Just look at the mountain. Then come back down, get some food, have a cold beer, and then hit the climbing wall and burn it out. You have to burn it out, man. Just burn it out. It's going to be awesome, man. Just burn it out."
Sweet. All I had to do was burn it out. No problem. Just had to burn it out. Fair enough. But I was a little more concerned about the "aaaaaaaaah!" part of the climb. Somehow, Gabriel and I extricated ourselves from the deranged monologue, and proceeded to our bunkroom to quietly express our shock and incredulity. We packed and unpacked and repacked and tried to sleep.
Climbing School
Climbing school was brilliantly designed. They managed to take a tremendous and daunting task and make it seem achievable. I was thrilled to finally have crampons on my boots for the second time in my life. I broke out the climbing glasses (old school-style with leather shields on the side), and I was happy to be moving around the snowpack. We practiced arresting a fall, learned how to work with rope, learned that we needed much more sunblock and generally figured out what we were going to have to do. Here is a picture of Gabriel and me enjoying climbing school . . . notice the massive summit looming in the background:
I also learned that I needed to reevaluate my gear situation, something that I love to do. After watching my father over the years, I realize that I am genetically predisposed toward "gear-headedness"--it's a recessive gene that effects some individuals. While a problematic condition, at least financially, I note the genetic advantages that the condition brings. A gearhead often accepts his or her own limitations, limitations, physically and mentally, to what they can accomplish in climbing or motorcycling or hunting or photography or cooking or golf or whatever. Then, the gearhead does extensive research to ensure that their equipment will eliminate as many of these limitations as possible. So, for example, I knew that I was not in condition for the climb, so I grabbed my lightest backpack and proceeded to pack in the most efficient manner possible with ultralight long underwear, ultralight shell, etc. Of course, this also meant an ultralight disposable camera which left the climb poorly documented, but, heck, I needed my gear to work for me because I was definitely not strong enough to do it myself.
Anyway, I had expected my time on the glacier to be a cold experience (gear switch: ditch Smartwool Mountaineering socks). Instead I found myself gushing sweat, massive loads of fluid pouring off my skin. I might as well have been running a marathon on a July afternoon back in Texas (gear switch: use Patagonia lightweight long underwear, switch to a lighter padded Smartwool sock). The side effect of the sweat was the need to constantly reapply sunscreen. It also meant a stream of metallic taste into my mouth, which was less than pleasant (gear switch: Burt's Bees lifeguard lip balm to reduce metallic taste). The intensity of the sun was truly stunning, and the hat I had purchased the day before at Seattle's REI offered little shelter (gear switch: acquire goofy hat with extra long bill and protection for neck and ears).
With climbing school over, we enjoyed the new education. I made some gear adjustments and packed and unpacked and repacked. Gabriel and I headed out for a dinner, a "last supper" of sorts. We felt tired in a great way and ready for the task. I enjoyed more salmon with blackberry topping of some sort, and looked forward to a good night's sleep. We'd need it for the tour de force.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Rainier Climb: Preparations
"This is crazy, just crazy. Utter insanity. Absolutely crazy." I kept muttering this to myself, fortunately unheard by my cabin mates. It was roughly one a.m., and I was shivering as I stuffed my sleeping bag. The plywood bed had offered little rest, but I doubt a feather bed would have allowed me to sleep given my nerves. I choked down a couple doses of oatmeal and a Cliff bar, chugged a load of water, and re-laced my boots. My hands were shaking out of a perfect mixture of adrenaline and frigid air. In what seemed like moments, it was time to head out onto the Muir Snowfield and rope up. The summit bid was on.
Getting Ready
Six months earlier I had made the initial decision to climb Rainier. Having read about mountaineering adventures for years, I decided it was time to actually have an adventure of my own. I had visited Everest Base Camp and handled the altitude with ease, so I needed to find a good test. More importantly, this test would have to fit within a five-day vacation window at the end of June. My objective would have to require ice ax and crampons, and this pretty much left me with Rainier. Coincidentally, the last week of June tends to offer the best climbing conditions on the mountain, so all signs pointed to go.
I was reluctant to head off on this feat alone, so I began searching for a climbing partner. I had to find a person whose idea of a great vacation also included hauling a heavy pack up a massive glacier. Gabriel Rainisch was just the person. He and I had not-so-gracefully gone swimming in a class four rapid named "Tablesaw" just the summer before. Although we both swallowed our fair share of the Ocoee River in the process, we had survived--so surely our good karma would carry us up and down Rainier.
So, we booked the trip, reserved some rental equipment, and spent the next months intending to train. Instead of training, I studied, ate lots of food, and began a clerkship at a law firm. Gabriel got married, bought a house, and worked long hours. It quickly became clear to us that victory on the mountain would have to be a result of willpower and determination. As Gabriel put it, our climb would be a "tour de force" in every sense of the term.
Lift Off
Departure day arrived quite suddenly. Gabriel and I had been chatting often that week trying to figure out gear, meals, and generally venting our nervousness. I spent an edgy day at the firm before leaving a bit early and heading to DFW. Somewhere in the midst of trading my wool suit for climbing pants, I realized that I was really going to have to climb this thing.
The flight passed slowly. My nerves built as I reread Jim Wickwire's excellent climbing memoir Addicted to Danger. Wickwire accomplished amazing achievements in mountaineering while also practicing law. I sat on the plane wondering whether I would follow in his footsteps or find my own climbing career end on my first three-day "expedition" up the easiest route on the mountain.
As the plane descended, I spotted a peak in the distance, and I felt really confident. It didn't look so bad. I really couldn't see what the fuss was about. Even adjusting for the distance, the peak really didn't seem like a big deal. Rainier ray-schmeer. Apparently the money I had spent hiring the best mountain guides on the planet was unnecessary.
And then the plane landed and turned around. I'm not sure what peak I had spotted earlier, but Rainier was now in my window--and I lost my breath. It's enormous. Absolutely enormous. I knew the mountain was 60 miles away from me, but it still loomed over everything. Tour de force.
I waited for my baggage as Gabriel reserved a rental car. I noticed that my baggage was different that most. Almost every other person from the Dallas flight picked up a rolling bag and a cooler. These people, the sane ones, were up in the Northwest to go fishing for salmon. This is a healthy activity with little chance of plummeting into a crevasse or losing fingers and toes. I picked up my Mountainsmith pack and wondered why this was going to be better than fishing.
I found Gabriel and we headed to his cousin's house on Bainbridge Island. The scenery was beautiful, but the mountain was always right there in the distance. Gabriel's cousins were skeptical that we would make it up, and I was wondering if I would find any confidence myself. We sat in the backyard, sipping coffee, watching a bald eagle in flight, and I wondered if it would be a smarter decision to just enjoy Bainbridge for a few and head home rested.
Fortunately, we had spent a substantial sum reserving our spot on this climb, so we had to climb, out of fiscal responsibility if for no other reason. The time on Bainbridge rocketed by, and it was time to head to Ashford . . . climbing school was a day away.
Getting Ready
Six months earlier I had made the initial decision to climb Rainier. Having read about mountaineering adventures for years, I decided it was time to actually have an adventure of my own. I had visited Everest Base Camp and handled the altitude with ease, so I needed to find a good test. More importantly, this test would have to fit within a five-day vacation window at the end of June. My objective would have to require ice ax and crampons, and this pretty much left me with Rainier. Coincidentally, the last week of June tends to offer the best climbing conditions on the mountain, so all signs pointed to go.
I was reluctant to head off on this feat alone, so I began searching for a climbing partner. I had to find a person whose idea of a great vacation also included hauling a heavy pack up a massive glacier. Gabriel Rainisch was just the person. He and I had not-so-gracefully gone swimming in a class four rapid named "Tablesaw" just the summer before. Although we both swallowed our fair share of the Ocoee River in the process, we had survived--so surely our good karma would carry us up and down Rainier.
So, we booked the trip, reserved some rental equipment, and spent the next months intending to train. Instead of training, I studied, ate lots of food, and began a clerkship at a law firm. Gabriel got married, bought a house, and worked long hours. It quickly became clear to us that victory on the mountain would have to be a result of willpower and determination. As Gabriel put it, our climb would be a "tour de force" in every sense of the term.
Lift Off
Departure day arrived quite suddenly. Gabriel and I had been chatting often that week trying to figure out gear, meals, and generally venting our nervousness. I spent an edgy day at the firm before leaving a bit early and heading to DFW. Somewhere in the midst of trading my wool suit for climbing pants, I realized that I was really going to have to climb this thing.
The flight passed slowly. My nerves built as I reread Jim Wickwire's excellent climbing memoir Addicted to Danger. Wickwire accomplished amazing achievements in mountaineering while also practicing law. I sat on the plane wondering whether I would follow in his footsteps or find my own climbing career end on my first three-day "expedition" up the easiest route on the mountain.
As the plane descended, I spotted a peak in the distance, and I felt really confident. It didn't look so bad. I really couldn't see what the fuss was about. Even adjusting for the distance, the peak really didn't seem like a big deal. Rainier ray-schmeer. Apparently the money I had spent hiring the best mountain guides on the planet was unnecessary.
And then the plane landed and turned around. I'm not sure what peak I had spotted earlier, but Rainier was now in my window--and I lost my breath. It's enormous. Absolutely enormous. I knew the mountain was 60 miles away from me, but it still loomed over everything. Tour de force.
I waited for my baggage as Gabriel reserved a rental car. I noticed that my baggage was different that most. Almost every other person from the Dallas flight picked up a rolling bag and a cooler. These people, the sane ones, were up in the Northwest to go fishing for salmon. This is a healthy activity with little chance of plummeting into a crevasse or losing fingers and toes. I picked up my Mountainsmith pack and wondered why this was going to be better than fishing.
I found Gabriel and we headed to his cousin's house on Bainbridge Island. The scenery was beautiful, but the mountain was always right there in the distance. Gabriel's cousins were skeptical that we would make it up, and I was wondering if I would find any confidence myself. We sat in the backyard, sipping coffee, watching a bald eagle in flight, and I wondered if it would be a smarter decision to just enjoy Bainbridge for a few and head home rested.
Fortunately, we had spent a substantial sum reserving our spot on this climb, so we had to climb, out of fiscal responsibility if for no other reason. The time on Bainbridge rocketed by, and it was time to head to Ashford . . . climbing school was a day away.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Mount Rainier Summit Anniversary
One year ago this morning, I reached the summit of Mount Rainier. To mark the occasion, I originally intended to write an in-depth account of the climb. Unfortunately, the bar exam has thwarted that plan, so my frequent readers will have to wait a while longer for that post. For now, a few photos will have to suffice. The photo below features Gabriel and me standing at climbing school the day before the hike. The summit appears in the background, roughly 10,000 feet above and ten miles away from us. The photo at the top of the post shows us enjoying our accomplishment, completely ignorant of the difficulties that would face us on the long walk out.
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
Gun Barrel City, Texas: Saturday Night at Cedar Isle
The moon illuminated Cedar Creek Lake as we slowly cruised toward the bar. It was a cool night, the sort of night one sorely misses in August. The water was calm, and, as the breeze from our motion forced me to squint, I soon fell into some strange space between sleep and consciousness. The short trip was relaxing and peaceful, and it in no way prepared me for what would ensue.
We were headed to Cedar Isle, a bar that squats above a dock along highway 334. It's the kind of bar one expects to find on a lonely tract of tourist beach . . . the type of place that should have Jimmy Buffet blasting from the radio while the owner bitterly rants in a drunken haze about how the beach bar was the fulfilment of a lifelong dream. In that vein, the bar sports tattered turquoise siding, a guy grilling burgers near the dock, and easy boat access. This bar was different though. First, the ocean is roughly 500 miles away. Second, Jimmy Buffet never entered the band's playlist. Third, this bar made me feel out of style for not having a mullet. Cedar Isle is a world of its own.
As we pulled toward the dock, we strained our ears to determine whether the bar had a live band or a karaoke machine. The water distorted the sound, and we couldn't tell whether the vocals came from a self-labeled "professional" musician or a drunken hack reliving past glories. We soon realized the sound definitely came from the band, but it was likely also coming from someone reliving past glories.
We muscled past the grill and onto an open patio. Our senses were soon occupied with an eclectic cast of characters. We saw an aging woman in a red top with Shirley Temple, red-died curls framing her weathered face. The band seemed to be a gathering of utter strangers: a bass guitarist who looked like a young Paul McCartney with Ringo's 70s hair and a cut-off tank top. The lead guitarist flaunted a grandiose mullet that moved with his rockin' gyrations. The other guitarist looked twenty years and about nineteen thousand cigarettes behind the rest. Together, they offered three distinct sounds: Beatles (he sounded like a young John Lennon, meaning this one man was effectively channeling three Beatles), high-pitched hair rock (via the Mullet), and 90s grunge rock. They were perfect.
We staggered through the crowd and immediately realized that we were about five beers behind our fellow patrons. We also realized that we would not, and probably could not, catch up to them. We found a table next to a couple of guys from Waxahachie who were just passing through, apparently enjoying a day of "fat doobies" on the deck of their boats. While they confirmed that detail in conversation, their smiles had told us that already.
Our table gave us great views of the dancefloor. A lone dancer in a polka-dot top thrusted her arms about violently, jerking in utter disregard for rhythm. Occasionally she would collapse suddenly on the ground and then rise again, a drunken phoenix. Her efforts were soon joined by countless others. Perhaps a result of the crowd, the polka-dot dancer vanished. A while later I spotted her in the distance, continuing her dance quite alone on the dock. This night was all about her.
We sipped our beer and laughed, thankful to be the hell out of Dallas. Megan and I had visited a posh Dallas establishment the night before, a place notable for its creative cocktails, unique food items, and plastic-surgeried patrons. Cedar Isle was a simpler universe. The beer was canned, the music was classic, and the deck shook with a lust for life repressed in the Dallas restaurant by self-consciousness and glam.
I took in the scene and reveled in the unbridled joy. Somewhere in that reveling, I noticed a woman had pulled off her shirt and was giving lap dances to her friend. Meanwhile, polka-dots was coming dangerously close to assaulting the younger guitarist. The cops seemed to have circled in on a group of underage partiers, and somewhere in the emerging chaos, we decided it was time to head home.
We untied the boat and headed off toward the moon, which was now high in the sky. The cacophony of Cedar Isle slowly slid into the distance, and the hum of the engine prepared us for sleep. I shook my head and wondered whether that trip to the bar was just a strange dream.
We were headed to Cedar Isle, a bar that squats above a dock along highway 334. It's the kind of bar one expects to find on a lonely tract of tourist beach . . . the type of place that should have Jimmy Buffet blasting from the radio while the owner bitterly rants in a drunken haze about how the beach bar was the fulfilment of a lifelong dream. In that vein, the bar sports tattered turquoise siding, a guy grilling burgers near the dock, and easy boat access. This bar was different though. First, the ocean is roughly 500 miles away. Second, Jimmy Buffet never entered the band's playlist. Third, this bar made me feel out of style for not having a mullet. Cedar Isle is a world of its own.
As we pulled toward the dock, we strained our ears to determine whether the bar had a live band or a karaoke machine. The water distorted the sound, and we couldn't tell whether the vocals came from a self-labeled "professional" musician or a drunken hack reliving past glories. We soon realized the sound definitely came from the band, but it was likely also coming from someone reliving past glories.
We muscled past the grill and onto an open patio. Our senses were soon occupied with an eclectic cast of characters. We saw an aging woman in a red top with Shirley Temple, red-died curls framing her weathered face. The band seemed to be a gathering of utter strangers: a bass guitarist who looked like a young Paul McCartney with Ringo's 70s hair and a cut-off tank top. The lead guitarist flaunted a grandiose mullet that moved with his rockin' gyrations. The other guitarist looked twenty years and about nineteen thousand cigarettes behind the rest. Together, they offered three distinct sounds: Beatles (he sounded like a young John Lennon, meaning this one man was effectively channeling three Beatles), high-pitched hair rock (via the Mullet), and 90s grunge rock. They were perfect.
We staggered through the crowd and immediately realized that we were about five beers behind our fellow patrons. We also realized that we would not, and probably could not, catch up to them. We found a table next to a couple of guys from Waxahachie who were just passing through, apparently enjoying a day of "fat doobies" on the deck of their boats. While they confirmed that detail in conversation, their smiles had told us that already.
Our table gave us great views of the dancefloor. A lone dancer in a polka-dot top thrusted her arms about violently, jerking in utter disregard for rhythm. Occasionally she would collapse suddenly on the ground and then rise again, a drunken phoenix. Her efforts were soon joined by countless others. Perhaps a result of the crowd, the polka-dot dancer vanished. A while later I spotted her in the distance, continuing her dance quite alone on the dock. This night was all about her.
We sipped our beer and laughed, thankful to be the hell out of Dallas. Megan and I had visited a posh Dallas establishment the night before, a place notable for its creative cocktails, unique food items, and plastic-surgeried patrons. Cedar Isle was a simpler universe. The beer was canned, the music was classic, and the deck shook with a lust for life repressed in the Dallas restaurant by self-consciousness and glam.
I took in the scene and reveled in the unbridled joy. Somewhere in that reveling, I noticed a woman had pulled off her shirt and was giving lap dances to her friend. Meanwhile, polka-dots was coming dangerously close to assaulting the younger guitarist. The cops seemed to have circled in on a group of underage partiers, and somewhere in the emerging chaos, we decided it was time to head home.
We untied the boat and headed off toward the moon, which was now high in the sky. The cacophony of Cedar Isle slowly slid into the distance, and the hum of the engine prepared us for sleep. I shook my head and wondered whether that trip to the bar was just a strange dream.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
More Texas Storms
Well, the storms returned, but this time Megan was able to participate in the chaos. Here is Megan sheltering in the closet as tornado sirens sounded:
To back up, I came home from a day at the library yesterday and turned on the TV to see that a tornado watch had been issued. The day was cloudy but not bleak, and I was surprised . . . until the radar revealed a massive line of storms heading our way. The main storm was traveling west to east with straight-line winds at 70 to 80 miles per hour. Another line of storms was headed south to north with a tendency to produce tornadoes.
The clouds darkened, the line of storms approached, and, predictably, sirens sounded. At this point, Megan's emergency preparedness instincts came into play, and she moved our massive emergency kit (this thing has everything . . . if we needed to perform open heart surgery, the equipment would be in this box directly next to the coloring book, there in case children need emergency entertainment). Megan moved into the closet along with the entirety of our bedding.
Meanwhile, I'm looking out the window. After all, we'd seen about an hour of footage so far of reporters around the metroplex being blown around in winds that had now been gusting to 100 miles per hour. It was raining sideways, and it was very impressive to watch. Naturally, I wanted to witness this first-hand, but, with safety in mind, we retreated together to the closet . . .
Hopefully the weather will mellow out, but, if not, we'll be sure to keep the camera handy.
To back up, I came home from a day at the library yesterday and turned on the TV to see that a tornado watch had been issued. The day was cloudy but not bleak, and I was surprised . . . until the radar revealed a massive line of storms heading our way. The main storm was traveling west to east with straight-line winds at 70 to 80 miles per hour. Another line of storms was headed south to north with a tendency to produce tornadoes.
The clouds darkened, the line of storms approached, and, predictably, sirens sounded. At this point, Megan's emergency preparedness instincts came into play, and she moved our massive emergency kit (this thing has everything . . . if we needed to perform open heart surgery, the equipment would be in this box directly next to the coloring book, there in case children need emergency entertainment). Megan moved into the closet along with the entirety of our bedding.
Meanwhile, I'm looking out the window. After all, we'd seen about an hour of footage so far of reporters around the metroplex being blown around in winds that had now been gusting to 100 miles per hour. It was raining sideways, and it was very impressive to watch. Naturally, I wanted to witness this first-hand, but, with safety in mind, we retreated together to the closet . . .
Hopefully the weather will mellow out, but, if not, we'll be sure to keep the camera handy.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Inn of the Anasazi: Santa Fe, New Mexico
A loud noise appears somewhere in the walls around me, and I woke up in a haze.
"Megan, did you hear that?"
Given the volume, I was sure she had to have heard, but it was 3 AM. We were in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and the previous evening had involved a nice amount of wine with the folks--so perhaps she wouldn't have heard.
"Yes, and you need to do something about this."
Right. So I sprung to action. We were lodged at the Inn of the Anasazi, frequently rated in the top 500 hotels on the planet. And the place had, so far, lived up to this expectation. The staff was amazingly helpful. The rooms were spacious and charming, and the location could not have been superior.
But now it was 3 AM, and the walls were making a groaning sound of epic proportions. I was pretty sure this was the sound a dinosaur would make if it were having bamboo wedged under its toenails. As I walked toward the bathroom, the volume increased. I turned on a faucet, thinking that perhaps our pipes somehow had some air pressure that needed releasing (obviously I had no idea what I was doing), and the volume just increased. So, I called the front desk.
"Ummm. This is Brad Knapp in room 226, and a loud, groaning noise is coming from the bathroom." Immediately I realized that this probably sounded delusional, if not perverted, to the night manager. "It's like a loud, echoing screech." Maybe that would help.
"Well," he began in a voice that notified me that I definitely woke him, "we have someone in the basement working on the plumbing. Maybe that is it. See if it goes away."
Translation: I don't want to deal with this right now.
So, I laid back down, and the sounds continued. Megan and I mused that the sound was the ghost of the Anasazi coming to warn us about something (I was reading Collapse, which details the collapse of the Anasazi civilization, collapse triggered by a long period of resource depletion followed by a drought). Megan is not a fan of ghost stories however, so we quickly focused on our annoyance.
Meanwhile, I heard doors opening and shutting in the hallway, leading me to believe that the problem affected many. I didn't realize that my father was, at that moment, walking the hallway in his own investigation.
I decided to call the desk again. "Yes, this is really, really loud. Is everything alright?" The noise continued.
"Wait, is that the noise in the background? Wow! Okay, we'll get on that." Finally, the proof had been transmitted by phone, and action would take place. I felt better--if this hotel is among the best in the world, I would need to see proof and quick.
About twenty minutes later, the noise ceased. Shortly therafter, I heard a knock at the door. I quickly tossed on one of the soft robes featuring the hotel's monogram and opened the door. In front of me was an older gentleman in a denim shirt and jeans. He appeared to be completely soaked in water.
"I'm sorry for the noise, sir. A pipe exploded in the basement draining all of the water in the boiler and gushing cold water as well. The noise should be finished now."
I was speechless. I choked out a "thank you" and closed the door. I felt like an enormous jerk. I had spent the previous morning on the ski slopes enjoying a late March snowstorm that left me with empty slopes and gorgeous powder. That evening we had dined at The Compound, my favorite restaurant in Santa Fe. We had enjoyed gorgeous afternoon sunshine in one of the prettiest settings on earth. After all of that,I had crashed on a very soft mattress surrounded by down blanketing, and I had slept beautifully until briefly disturbed by the noise.
Meanwhile, this messenger came to the door after spending an hour, at least, getting soaking in a cold basement at 3 AM. He then was sent, by the management, to apologize to me, which, of course, made me feel like a horrible brat. I went back to bed feeling guilty but finally drifted into sleep.
The next morning the hot water was gone. Other guests were complaining about the situation, and, at this point, I decided I'd just keep my mouth shut. I'd shower later. For now, we'd just let the ghosts of the Anasazi work their mischief on someone else.
"Megan, did you hear that?"
Given the volume, I was sure she had to have heard, but it was 3 AM. We were in Santa Fe, New Mexico, and the previous evening had involved a nice amount of wine with the folks--so perhaps she wouldn't have heard.
"Yes, and you need to do something about this."
Right. So I sprung to action. We were lodged at the Inn of the Anasazi, frequently rated in the top 500 hotels on the planet. And the place had, so far, lived up to this expectation. The staff was amazingly helpful. The rooms were spacious and charming, and the location could not have been superior.
But now it was 3 AM, and the walls were making a groaning sound of epic proportions. I was pretty sure this was the sound a dinosaur would make if it were having bamboo wedged under its toenails. As I walked toward the bathroom, the volume increased. I turned on a faucet, thinking that perhaps our pipes somehow had some air pressure that needed releasing (obviously I had no idea what I was doing), and the volume just increased. So, I called the front desk.
"Ummm. This is Brad Knapp in room 226, and a loud, groaning noise is coming from the bathroom." Immediately I realized that this probably sounded delusional, if not perverted, to the night manager. "It's like a loud, echoing screech." Maybe that would help.
"Well," he began in a voice that notified me that I definitely woke him, "we have someone in the basement working on the plumbing. Maybe that is it. See if it goes away."
Translation: I don't want to deal with this right now.
So, I laid back down, and the sounds continued. Megan and I mused that the sound was the ghost of the Anasazi coming to warn us about something (I was reading Collapse, which details the collapse of the Anasazi civilization, collapse triggered by a long period of resource depletion followed by a drought). Megan is not a fan of ghost stories however, so we quickly focused on our annoyance.
Meanwhile, I heard doors opening and shutting in the hallway, leading me to believe that the problem affected many. I didn't realize that my father was, at that moment, walking the hallway in his own investigation.
I decided to call the desk again. "Yes, this is really, really loud. Is everything alright?" The noise continued.
"Wait, is that the noise in the background? Wow! Okay, we'll get on that." Finally, the proof had been transmitted by phone, and action would take place. I felt better--if this hotel is among the best in the world, I would need to see proof and quick.
About twenty minutes later, the noise ceased. Shortly therafter, I heard a knock at the door. I quickly tossed on one of the soft robes featuring the hotel's monogram and opened the door. In front of me was an older gentleman in a denim shirt and jeans. He appeared to be completely soaked in water.
"I'm sorry for the noise, sir. A pipe exploded in the basement draining all of the water in the boiler and gushing cold water as well. The noise should be finished now."
I was speechless. I choked out a "thank you" and closed the door. I felt like an enormous jerk. I had spent the previous morning on the ski slopes enjoying a late March snowstorm that left me with empty slopes and gorgeous powder. That evening we had dined at The Compound, my favorite restaurant in Santa Fe. We had enjoyed gorgeous afternoon sunshine in one of the prettiest settings on earth. After all of that,I had crashed on a very soft mattress surrounded by down blanketing, and I had slept beautifully until briefly disturbed by the noise.
Meanwhile, this messenger came to the door after spending an hour, at least, getting soaking in a cold basement at 3 AM. He then was sent, by the management, to apologize to me, which, of course, made me feel like a horrible brat. I went back to bed feeling guilty but finally drifted into sleep.
The next morning the hot water was gone. Other guests were complaining about the situation, and, at this point, I decided I'd just keep my mouth shut. I'd shower later. For now, we'd just let the ghosts of the Anasazi work their mischief on someone else.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Shamrock Fest, Washington DC
I got an early start to Saint Patrick's Day celebrations with Washington DC's Shamrock fest last Saturday evening.
Mark Everett and I had traveled by plane from Dallas to Kansas City to Baltimore before catching the Amtrak to Union Station and then a cab to the hotel. The trip took a while, and we were pretty beat. Upon arrival, we kept getting calls from our brother, Tom, to head to RFK Stadium to some event called "Shamrock Fest." We were told the event was some sort of festival with Irish music, and we expected a low-key time.
As we reached the Metro platform, we noticed large numbers of folks wearing green. In fact, it seemed that a ton of folks were headed that way.
We started walking to the stadium after reaching the Armory-Stadium metro stop, and we soon noticed that we would likely encounter something a bit more exciting than just traditional Irish music. The crowd leaving the festival consisted of a mass of stumbling, mumbling, near-comatose individuals . . . and it was 6 PM. We saw guys concentrating hard to stay on their feet while several couples decided that the world needed to participate in their affectionate cuddlings with their drunken escorts. The crowd that had decided to cut themselves off from the party was sloshed, which left us a bit fearful of what the actual festival would hold.
It was like Dante's journey through the Inferno. Except we were encountering deeper circles of drunkenness. Finally, at the eighth circle, we found the festival and the madness it entailed. The ground was littered with cups and food wrappers with several individuals deciding that games of kick-the-cup were wildly entertaining.
The music hardly qualified as Irish traditional as covers of rock songs filtered through the air. Thousands of people rocked on their feet on the verge of unconsciousness as they horded around beer lines and food lines and toilet lines. Needless to say, Mark Everett and I quickly had to shake our exhaustion and wake up fast, even if just for added awareness and self-preservation.
We wandered for the first hours observing the madness around. We partied to a Journey song at one stage, grabbed chicken sandwiches, and listened to the musical brilliance of DJ AM.
Finally, Flogging Molly was set to headline, so we made our way down to the main stage. The crowd, at this point, was rowdy, and Irish punk music lit quite the fire. The front of the crowd immediately became a mosh pit leaving one of Tom's roommates with a hand injury. Folks began streaming out of the center of the crowd with fearful looks on their faces.
After a while, a guy staggered our way being held up by his friend. The friend was gripping the guy by his t-shirt. At one point, the drunken fellow fell to the ground--we assumed he would be out for good, but he rebounded, did a really silly dance, and wandered away.
Immediately behind us, a mosh pit opened as a group of folks decided that this music really required them to smash their bodies into one another on full runs. Occasionally the pushing from behind would shift our group into near collapse, but we escaped unscathed.
Flogging Molly tried to sedate the crowd, imploring them to take it easy and be kind to one another. Their words had no effect, and after a few awesome songs, we decided to head to calmer climes at the Hawk and Dove, a bar near the Capitol.
I decided that the music scene on that particular day suffers from a serious lack of hippies. I could not imagine Austin City Limits turning into such a raucous drunkfest . . . then again, ACL doesn't take place near St. Patrick's Day.
Saturday, March 3, 2007
Concert in Cardiff: No Room at the Inn
Shivering as we walked through the dark streets of Cardiff, I had fantasies of being tossed in jail . . . at least that would be warm, right? And how bad could a Welsh jail be? Shake the thought . . . and just keep moving . . .
The thoughts were largely provoked this morning by tantalizing blog entries by a couple of cousins currently studying abroad. My cousin, Will, is at St. Andrew's in Scotland, and his blog describes a close encounter with Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds in Glasgow. Similarly, my cousin, Alyson, is enjoying a study experience in Copenhagen, and her blog mentions an upcoming music festival where she'll be seeing great shows like Galactic and Keller Williams. Their experience with these US musicians in intimate European venues reminds me of my last week in London in December 2002. We headed to a venue called "Bush Hall" where we saw Austin singer-songwriter Patti Griffin give a remarkable show. It was a taste of music from home as welcome as the barbecue restaurant we found in an East London market (run by a guy from Arkansas . . . which was good enough for us).
Meanwhile, I have been creating a mix of global music back home. I've collected some great stuff over the years ranging from random Tibetan pop music to the bluesy sounds of Ali Farka Toure. I've add some interesting European finds, like Sui Vesan and Sigur Ros, to the mix as well as a great Blanquito Man track from the movie, Babel, called "Cumbia Sobre El Rio."
I sit at home listening to music that reminds me of being abroad while my cousins are abroad listening to music that likely reminds them of home. And we all do a bit of travel, at least metaphysically. But back to the cold streets of Cardiff . . .
24 Hours in Cardiff
My favorite international concert experience involved a much different situation than the ones above. A friend from college, Shelby, and I headed to Wales in November 2002 to see Welshman, David Gray, perform before an adoring home crowd in the city of Cardiff. Even his grandfather watched from a balcony.
Our plan was to stroll into Cardiff the morning of the concert, see the sights, find a youth hostel, and have a few drinks at local pubs before and after the show. Immediately upon our arrival in Cardiff, we knew our plans would be derailed. The streets were swarming in a strange patchwork of black and green and red. The black colors belonged to the jerseys of the New Zealand All Black's fans while the green and red represented the Welsh team. Cardiff was mad for the rugby event about to unfold, and we soon realized that our lodging prospects were dimming. Regardless, we headed to a castle and some shops and generally fell in love with the town. The day felt like Mardi Gras, with the Kiwis getting a very early start to the celebration. In the first match between New Zealand and Wales in a very long time, both sets of fans were there to party . . . and to win.
A quick inquiry into our lodging options revealed that there was really no room at the inn, so we determined the time had come to reach a pub and get a pint before the concert. We watched the match from the bar and soon received lectures from our fellow patrons on how rugby is a vastly superior sport to American football. After all, why do our guys have to hide behind pads? They had a point, and they were buying us beers--so of course, we agreed. After watching more rugby, our agreement was suddenly genuine.
So we headed to the concert, and we loved every second of it. The venue was like a high school gymnasium, maybe a bit larger. The crowd adored the show, David Gray's drummer performed his usual quirky antics, and, for those hours, I had forgotten that we would soon be out on the cold streets without shelter.
And then we were on the cold streets without shelter. The post-rugby party was in full swing, and we began thinking creatively. As we wandered, we grew colder before noticing a glow from a nearby Burger King. A bit hungry anyway, we realized we could hang out at the Burger King until they closed at 2:30 AM. So, equipped with fries and cokes, we headed to a long wait at a warm booth.
But we hadn't really thought this plan through. After all, drunk people tend to be attracted to fried nastiness, and Burger King offered exactly that. After a few hours, the natives were growing restless, and the Kiwis and Welsh fans were started to have a bit of a row. This was relatively entertaining until some genius realized that cups of coke make ideal projectiles. Soon, the Burger King was turning to a chaos of soda showers as cups missed their targets and smashed into the walls. Hoping to avoid a cold night of soaked stickiness, Shelby and I headed out of the King and back into the streets.
But the streets had changed in the passing hours from clean cobblestone to knee-high refuse. Styrofoam containers, previously home to delicious doner kabobs, now blocked our path, and the bottoms of our shoes became stained in condiment juices. Nice.
So we wandered and wandered. We soon found the train station was closed (the Gare du Norde had been a nice home on a cold Paris night once), so we huddled into seats at a relatively sheltered bus stop. Soon , we were shaking from the cold, and Shelby threw out a suggestion, "Dude, why don't we just sleep in a hotel lobby?"
I pondered his suggestion and images of vagrants flashed through my head. We couldn't be vagrants (obviously not thinking . . . we had just been sleeping at a bus stop). "Come on, man, maybe a hostel has some space."
So we navigated the dark streets until we found a youth hostel. We rang the buzzer and soon heard a voice, "We're full."
"Please, just a little room on a couch? Do you have a floor we could sleep on?" I sounded pathetic because I was. It was 3:30 AM, and my body was shaking.
"No room."
And we were wandering. Movement kept us warmer. We noticed some doner kabob stores open, but we were both short on cash--the exchange rate had been killing us for four months, and paying for a sandwich seemed like steep rent.
"Maybe we can find a hot vent." That's what people find in the movies, right? We just needed to find a grate with steam rising up.
We wandered through the refuse and considered making a small fire. The fire would warm us, and, worst case scenario, a night in jail would give us a warm bed, right?
Around 4:30 AM we spotted a hotel. The doors were open, the lobby looked warm, and a group of All Black's fans were still drinking at a table. Shelby's suggestion, made two hours before, seemed brilliant, and we soon found ourselves unconscious in green wingbacks in the lobby. We were warm and asleep and life was good.
At 6:30, a manager tapped me on the shoulder. "Sir, you will have to leave around 7. The guests will be waking up."
I thanked the man for his hospitality. We must have looked pathetic to warrant the charity . . . it was welcome.
We wandered back toward the train station to catch the first train back to London. We had down duvets awaiting us. As we boarded the train, we miserably slumped into our seats and began to doze. As I passed out, I noticed the seats next to us being filled with three guys carrying a few cases of beer. It was 7 AM, and they were beginning to drink.
Their energy was nauseating, and I was soon blissfully asleep.
It was an awesome concert.
The thoughts were largely provoked this morning by tantalizing blog entries by a couple of cousins currently studying abroad. My cousin, Will, is at St. Andrew's in Scotland, and his blog describes a close encounter with Dave Matthews and Tim Reynolds in Glasgow. Similarly, my cousin, Alyson, is enjoying a study experience in Copenhagen, and her blog mentions an upcoming music festival where she'll be seeing great shows like Galactic and Keller Williams. Their experience with these US musicians in intimate European venues reminds me of my last week in London in December 2002. We headed to a venue called "Bush Hall" where we saw Austin singer-songwriter Patti Griffin give a remarkable show. It was a taste of music from home as welcome as the barbecue restaurant we found in an East London market (run by a guy from Arkansas . . . which was good enough for us).
Meanwhile, I have been creating a mix of global music back home. I've collected some great stuff over the years ranging from random Tibetan pop music to the bluesy sounds of Ali Farka Toure. I've add some interesting European finds, like Sui Vesan and Sigur Ros, to the mix as well as a great Blanquito Man track from the movie, Babel, called "Cumbia Sobre El Rio."
I sit at home listening to music that reminds me of being abroad while my cousins are abroad listening to music that likely reminds them of home. And we all do a bit of travel, at least metaphysically. But back to the cold streets of Cardiff . . .
24 Hours in Cardiff
My favorite international concert experience involved a much different situation than the ones above. A friend from college, Shelby, and I headed to Wales in November 2002 to see Welshman, David Gray, perform before an adoring home crowd in the city of Cardiff. Even his grandfather watched from a balcony.
Our plan was to stroll into Cardiff the morning of the concert, see the sights, find a youth hostel, and have a few drinks at local pubs before and after the show. Immediately upon our arrival in Cardiff, we knew our plans would be derailed. The streets were swarming in a strange patchwork of black and green and red. The black colors belonged to the jerseys of the New Zealand All Black's fans while the green and red represented the Welsh team. Cardiff was mad for the rugby event about to unfold, and we soon realized that our lodging prospects were dimming. Regardless, we headed to a castle and some shops and generally fell in love with the town. The day felt like Mardi Gras, with the Kiwis getting a very early start to the celebration. In the first match between New Zealand and Wales in a very long time, both sets of fans were there to party . . . and to win.
A quick inquiry into our lodging options revealed that there was really no room at the inn, so we determined the time had come to reach a pub and get a pint before the concert. We watched the match from the bar and soon received lectures from our fellow patrons on how rugby is a vastly superior sport to American football. After all, why do our guys have to hide behind pads? They had a point, and they were buying us beers--so of course, we agreed. After watching more rugby, our agreement was suddenly genuine.
So we headed to the concert, and we loved every second of it. The venue was like a high school gymnasium, maybe a bit larger. The crowd adored the show, David Gray's drummer performed his usual quirky antics, and, for those hours, I had forgotten that we would soon be out on the cold streets without shelter.
And then we were on the cold streets without shelter. The post-rugby party was in full swing, and we began thinking creatively. As we wandered, we grew colder before noticing a glow from a nearby Burger King. A bit hungry anyway, we realized we could hang out at the Burger King until they closed at 2:30 AM. So, equipped with fries and cokes, we headed to a long wait at a warm booth.
But we hadn't really thought this plan through. After all, drunk people tend to be attracted to fried nastiness, and Burger King offered exactly that. After a few hours, the natives were growing restless, and the Kiwis and Welsh fans were started to have a bit of a row. This was relatively entertaining until some genius realized that cups of coke make ideal projectiles. Soon, the Burger King was turning to a chaos of soda showers as cups missed their targets and smashed into the walls. Hoping to avoid a cold night of soaked stickiness, Shelby and I headed out of the King and back into the streets.
But the streets had changed in the passing hours from clean cobblestone to knee-high refuse. Styrofoam containers, previously home to delicious doner kabobs, now blocked our path, and the bottoms of our shoes became stained in condiment juices. Nice.
So we wandered and wandered. We soon found the train station was closed (the Gare du Norde had been a nice home on a cold Paris night once), so we huddled into seats at a relatively sheltered bus stop. Soon , we were shaking from the cold, and Shelby threw out a suggestion, "Dude, why don't we just sleep in a hotel lobby?"
I pondered his suggestion and images of vagrants flashed through my head. We couldn't be vagrants (obviously not thinking . . . we had just been sleeping at a bus stop). "Come on, man, maybe a hostel has some space."
So we navigated the dark streets until we found a youth hostel. We rang the buzzer and soon heard a voice, "We're full."
"Please, just a little room on a couch? Do you have a floor we could sleep on?" I sounded pathetic because I was. It was 3:30 AM, and my body was shaking.
"No room."
And we were wandering. Movement kept us warmer. We noticed some doner kabob stores open, but we were both short on cash--the exchange rate had been killing us for four months, and paying for a sandwich seemed like steep rent.
"Maybe we can find a hot vent." That's what people find in the movies, right? We just needed to find a grate with steam rising up.
We wandered through the refuse and considered making a small fire. The fire would warm us, and, worst case scenario, a night in jail would give us a warm bed, right?
Around 4:30 AM we spotted a hotel. The doors were open, the lobby looked warm, and a group of All Black's fans were still drinking at a table. Shelby's suggestion, made two hours before, seemed brilliant, and we soon found ourselves unconscious in green wingbacks in the lobby. We were warm and asleep and life was good.
At 6:30, a manager tapped me on the shoulder. "Sir, you will have to leave around 7. The guests will be waking up."
I thanked the man for his hospitality. We must have looked pathetic to warrant the charity . . . it was welcome.
We wandered back toward the train station to catch the first train back to London. We had down duvets awaiting us. As we boarded the train, we miserably slumped into our seats and began to doze. As I passed out, I noticed the seats next to us being filled with three guys carrying a few cases of beer. It was 7 AM, and they were beginning to drink.
Their energy was nauseating, and I was soon blissfully asleep.
It was an awesome concert.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Ski Santa Fe: Affirming Life on Muerte
Two weeks ago, I found myself making a quick car swap in Amarillo. The trade was simple: take my beautiful car with its high repair bills and swap it for my brother's car. As long as I was headed that far, I figured I'd join the family for a quick run up to Santa Fe where the eating is good and the skiing is great.
Muerte
Muerte, or "death" in Spanish, is probably my favorite run at Santa Fe Ski Area. The run is very steep and very fast. Very fast. The wide, flat slope contains several possible lines leaving the skier the option of diving into the most precipitous paths or taking a slightly more gradual approach down.
In the past, Muerte has been unkind due to lack of snow. Two years ago, my uncle, Rick, featured below, and I spent quite a bit of time bombing down that run. That year the snow was thin and crisp, and Rick and I had to stare hard at the slope in order to navigate. At those speeds, we feared hitting a small tree top, rock or pine cone left on the fragile surface, and Muerte presented a slalom course of perilous obstacles. We destroyed our bodies trying to get down unscathed.
This year was different. Santa Fe has copious amounts of snow, and Muerte holds a glorious, thick blanket. Early on Saturday morning, Dad had declared that we would not be skiing any black diamond runs that day. I stayed quiet as I eyed Muerte from the lift--the snow looked beautiful, and even at that distance, I knew we'd have to get over there.
Eventually, I coaxed Dad to the top of the run, and I think he had started to feel a bit more daring. As I began to put my hat in my pocket (I planned to go really fast), I heard Dad say, "Okay, Brad, I'm going to ski this slow and controlled." By time I had zipped my jacket pocket, Dad had devoured the first half of the run and was nearing its end. I pointed my skis down and labored to catch up, but he was gone. By time I reached him, I could tell by his smile that we'd be heading up again.
And we did, and it was glorious. There were times on the run where I took a particularly steep line and couldn't tell whether I was still attached to the slope. The run presented a feeling of controlled free fall, and it was beautiful. We will be back on the slopes at the end of March, and I can only hope that Muerte will be as inviting.
Group Ski
After spending a morning bombing down runs with Dad, it was time to rejoin the part of the family fresh out of ski school for a more leisurely afternoon on the slopes.
At lunch, my brother, Mark Everett, complained of a sore knee. He lifted his outer layer around his knee to find a bloody patch on his long underwear. Both layers looked as though they had been cut with a knife.
Apparently Mark Everett had suffered a bad crash during his ski lesson. In an attempt to master the art of heli-skiing, Mark Everett had jumped out of a helicopter onto the top of a snow-laden ridge. The ridge was heavily corniced, and his guide noted the avalanche danger. They turned on their avalanche beacons and decided the powder basin below called their name. With such beautiful snow, playing it safe means missing a great opportunity to baptize oneself in a holy fount of powder. Anyway, they started down the bowl making quick, telemark turns when a slab avalanche broke loose above. Mark Everett knew that he had no choice but to pick up the pace. As the avalanche gathered strength, Mark Everett and his instructor found themselves at the top of a series of frozen waterfalls. They precariously shot down the icy river bed with the powder on their heels before the avalanche caught them and smashed them into the trees. Fortunately, they were able to tunnel out of the snow pack, and Mark Everett escaped with minor injuries. (Note: This story has been embellished at Mark Everett's request. The actual accident may or may not have occurred at low speed on a groomed run).
The afternoon was good. I watched my younger siblings demonstrate a growing confidence and better grasp of the fundamentals. Mark Everett had shaken off the terrible events of the morning and managed to ski the afternoon with his knee wrapped . . . later he would receive 12 stitches, but for the time being, I treasured hanging with him on the slopes. Chairlifts are great spots for conversation, and we chatted until runs were covered in shadow and our legs wouldn't take any more.
We closed out the day at a Spanish restaurant called, El Maison. Diving into a massive skillet of seafood paella, we relaxed and recounted the days' glories. We only had the one day on the slopes, but we were glad to have made the most of it.
Muerte
Muerte, or "death" in Spanish, is probably my favorite run at Santa Fe Ski Area. The run is very steep and very fast. Very fast. The wide, flat slope contains several possible lines leaving the skier the option of diving into the most precipitous paths or taking a slightly more gradual approach down.
In the past, Muerte has been unkind due to lack of snow. Two years ago, my uncle, Rick, featured below, and I spent quite a bit of time bombing down that run. That year the snow was thin and crisp, and Rick and I had to stare hard at the slope in order to navigate. At those speeds, we feared hitting a small tree top, rock or pine cone left on the fragile surface, and Muerte presented a slalom course of perilous obstacles. We destroyed our bodies trying to get down unscathed.
This year was different. Santa Fe has copious amounts of snow, and Muerte holds a glorious, thick blanket. Early on Saturday morning, Dad had declared that we would not be skiing any black diamond runs that day. I stayed quiet as I eyed Muerte from the lift--the snow looked beautiful, and even at that distance, I knew we'd have to get over there.
Eventually, I coaxed Dad to the top of the run, and I think he had started to feel a bit more daring. As I began to put my hat in my pocket (I planned to go really fast), I heard Dad say, "Okay, Brad, I'm going to ski this slow and controlled." By time I had zipped my jacket pocket, Dad had devoured the first half of the run and was nearing its end. I pointed my skis down and labored to catch up, but he was gone. By time I reached him, I could tell by his smile that we'd be heading up again.
And we did, and it was glorious. There were times on the run where I took a particularly steep line and couldn't tell whether I was still attached to the slope. The run presented a feeling of controlled free fall, and it was beautiful. We will be back on the slopes at the end of March, and I can only hope that Muerte will be as inviting.
Group Ski
After spending a morning bombing down runs with Dad, it was time to rejoin the part of the family fresh out of ski school for a more leisurely afternoon on the slopes.
At lunch, my brother, Mark Everett, complained of a sore knee. He lifted his outer layer around his knee to find a bloody patch on his long underwear. Both layers looked as though they had been cut with a knife.
Apparently Mark Everett had suffered a bad crash during his ski lesson. In an attempt to master the art of heli-skiing, Mark Everett had jumped out of a helicopter onto the top of a snow-laden ridge. The ridge was heavily corniced, and his guide noted the avalanche danger. They turned on their avalanche beacons and decided the powder basin below called their name. With such beautiful snow, playing it safe means missing a great opportunity to baptize oneself in a holy fount of powder. Anyway, they started down the bowl making quick, telemark turns when a slab avalanche broke loose above. Mark Everett knew that he had no choice but to pick up the pace. As the avalanche gathered strength, Mark Everett and his instructor found themselves at the top of a series of frozen waterfalls. They precariously shot down the icy river bed with the powder on their heels before the avalanche caught them and smashed them into the trees. Fortunately, they were able to tunnel out of the snow pack, and Mark Everett escaped with minor injuries. (Note: This story has been embellished at Mark Everett's request. The actual accident may or may not have occurred at low speed on a groomed run).
The afternoon was good. I watched my younger siblings demonstrate a growing confidence and better grasp of the fundamentals. Mark Everett had shaken off the terrible events of the morning and managed to ski the afternoon with his knee wrapped . . . later he would receive 12 stitches, but for the time being, I treasured hanging with him on the slopes. Chairlifts are great spots for conversation, and we chatted until runs were covered in shadow and our legs wouldn't take any more.
We closed out the day at a Spanish restaurant called, El Maison. Diving into a massive skillet of seafood paella, we relaxed and recounted the days' glories. We only had the one day on the slopes, but we were glad to have made the most of it.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Valentine's Day: Hilton Head, South Carolina
Ever the romantic geniuses, Megan and I decided to celebrate Valentine's Day 2005 with a romantic getaway to Hilton Head, South Carolina. We had never visited the island of golf and retirees, so we were excited to see the ocean and weave through golf carts. Of course, to make things more interesting, we decided to run a half marathon just to spice up the weekend. I flew from Dallas to Atlanta, and we loaded the car to drive across Georgia to the island retreat.
Off to the Race
The drive itself was relatively uneventful except for noting the shifting location of chewing tobacco. In Atlanta, the chewing tobacco remained behind the counter with the normal tobacco products. Outside of Atlanta the chewing tobacco moved closer to the customer until we finally found it next to the candy bars near South Carolina. This is another reason why the South is awesome.
We pulled into Hilton Head late Friday evening and found exactly what we expected. The number of golf courses was staggering. I would like to see actual statistics, but I'm guessing there is roughly 3 holes per person at any given moment. Naturally, my sticks were at home.
After checking into our hotel, we met friends at an Italian restaurant to try to intimidate ourselves. One of the friends was training for a full marathon and saw this as just a practice exercise. The other friend had qualified for the Boston Marathon by running some other marathon in 3 hours 10 minutes. They told stories of injury and glory (amazing how "injury" and "glory" come all tangled up together in the running world), and I looked sheepishly at my mound of chicken parmagiana. These warriors of the asphalt are featured in the photo below.
Megan, on the other hand, loved this talk. Megan is a runner. She ran cross-country in high school, and the competitive running environment really gets her going. She lives for that sort of thing. She is a natural competitor, runs without injury, and has willpower that lifts her abilities to a much higher level.
I am not a runner. I started "running" as a way to ease the stress of law school. Initially, these outings consisted of high-speed strolls around the block. When that didn't suffice, I started circling several blocks. Eventually I was running six to eight mile stretches faster and faster. My routes were arbitrary, my times were irrelevant, my joints were beginning to not like me. How I ended up signed up for a half marathon was beyond me, and, as I stared into my pasta, I felt a touch out of place among the runners.
Jitters aside, I downed my pasta, followed it with ice cream, and assumed this fuel would lead me to glory (hopefully without injury) the following day.
Pre-Race Ritual
We woke early. Well . . . that's an exaggeration. To say, "we woke" would imply that we slept, which we did not do. How could we? Megan was in some competitive zone that night, readying herself to will herself to go really, really fast. I was in a different zone: readying myself to hopefully not have a heart-attack around mile 4 requiring me to be stretchered off into some Hilton Head hopital, presumably over-flowing with patients who recently threw out their backs on the golf course. No, sleep was tough to come by, and around four, still three hours until race time, we decided to join the day.
Somehow we had determined that our best start would come from bagels and coffee. The bagels would provide more carbohydrates while the coffee would help us . . . hmmm, what euphemism to use . . . would help us lighten our digestive load a bit.
While downing these tasteless items (bagels were cold and soggy, the hotel coffee tasted like metallic dirt), we stretched and stretched and applied body glide and tied and retied shoes . . . heck, I was even wearing foam nipple protectors since I had a tendency to chaffe (did I mention that I am really not a runner?). The nipple protectors were part of my Valentine's gift from Megan.
Of course, these hours of warm-up ritual only left me more nervous, and the awful coffee left me losing my breakfast in the toilet. That didn't concern me--I had consumed enough carbs to run for a while. What did concern me, however, was the amount of liquid I lost with that upset stomach. Dehydration would be scary, and I had taken a huge step in that direction.
Meanwhile, Megan tried to calm me down. She seemed nervous in a different way--maybe nervous someone would beat her. We made for quite a duo--she was driven to win this thing, and I was hoping to come home alive.
Ready, Set, Go
The air was cold that February morning. Romance, it seemed, had yet to fill the air. Worse, we realized the route was not going to be what we expected. We assumed that a half marathon on a beach resort island would mean 13.1 miles of running along the sea, fresh wind at our backs, sun rising over the ocean. Instead, the route seemed to follow a very, very busy road in the center of Hilton Head that was only partially blocked off. So, we realized we would spend the next 13.1 miles breathing fumes without so much as the sounds of the ocean breaking the monotony.
Shake it off. I had tried to drink a little more water, but I seemed to constantly have to urinate . . . nerves, I was told. Megan, at this point, was freezing, so we jogged in place, moved up to the starting line, re-tied our shoes, and tried not to think about how bad we had to urinate.
After a while of that dance, the gun fired, and we were off. Megan and I clicked our watches as we crossed the line. And thus began a great experience for learning about one another. Some learn these sorts of lessons about each other slowly, painfully, over years and years--we condensed all of that pain into under 2 hours . . . and the watches were the root of these lessons.
Out of the gate, we were flying, soaring. I hardly felt my Mizunos on the pavement, hardly noticed to cold vanish into a brilliant warmth. I definitely did not realize that we had destroyed the first mile in 7 minutes and 22 seconds, a pace faster than I had ever run. Cool, we could do this.
Mile 2. 7:21. At this point, I'm getting a little more concerned but still feeling good. Megan is a machine and shows no similar concern. "Hey, should we slow it down to around 8 or something close to what we've practiced?" I asked for two reasons: first, if you can speak while running, you're still doing okay. Second, I really wanted to slow down. "No," and Megan focused on the road.
Mile 3: 7:22. I only know this, mind you, because Megan is keeping our split time down to the second. Her watch is computing almost as fast as her mind as she calculates split times and speeds, visions of glory dancing through her head. Meanwhile, I'm noticing the trees and the joy of moving.
Mile 4: 7:22. Amazing. I don't know how this gal next to me keeps this pace so perfectly, but she's moving as if her race were forecasted. I'm inspired. I notice a water station on the side of the road. During all my training, I tried to master the art of drinking on the run, and I never got very far. I grab a cup and immediately pour it all over me, so I grab a second and try to slow down--Megan refuses to take water and definitely refuses to slow, so I ditch the cup and move on. This is how downfalls begin.
Mile 5: 7:24. Megan is disappointed at the two-second slip, and I'm wanting to run back a mile just to lick the water off the sidewalk. Another thing about me--I sweat. I sweat like a Knapp, and for those who don't know, Knapp men sweat enough be considered a major water source. As I jogged, I pictured weather forecasters scratching their scalps in puzzlement at the great Hilton Head Flash Flood of '05. Meanwhile, Megan had scarcely broken a sweat.
Mile 6: 7:22. Back on track. I'm starting to not feel so healthy. Another water station passes without my being able to drink, and I'm wondering where this is going to lead. I'm starting to feel a bit grumpy. I have one pleasing vision: removing the watch from Megan's hand and trampling it to pieces.
Mile 7: 7:22. Megan is now counting the women. She keeps track of how many she passes, how many pass her, and, most importantly, what age group the faster women are running in. I am often consulted. As long as they are older or younger, she doesn't care. But if they are her age, she's taking them down. I, on the other hand, become jealous of the folks taking stretch breaks on the side of the road.
Mile 8: 7:24. Another water station goes by without a drop, and I'm sinking fast. I start to slow, my muscles cramping. I'm still sweating, but my mental state is crashing rapidly. I feel upset, but I don't know why. I'm feeling awful and not able to communicate well. I realize somewhere in the cloud that I am dehydrating.
Mile 9: 8:12. I've slowed Megan down, and here, at a water station, I send her on her way. We're trying to run the same race on very different philosophies, and it is time to split up. Somehow, Megan can run for 13.1 miles without a water break. I hit mile 9 without water, and I'm quickly approaching serious health problems. The parting is not a problem. I need to swallow 9 mini cups of Gatorade and 8 mini cups of water. Megan needs to destroy her competition.
Mile 10: ?. I'm recuperating. I'm moving slow, my muscles hurt, but my mental state is more balanced. I'm back to running as I tend to run. I can't think in split times, and I find myself returning to the joy of movement for its own sake.
Mile 11: ?. No sign of Megan. I'm hoping she is preparing to hoist a trophy. I hit another water station and take the time for 8 or 10 more of the little cups full of fluid.
Mile 12-13.1: And I cross the line. I see Megan and a distance, but I'm so shaken by the entire event that I really need to be alone. I grab a water bottle, a Gatorade and a slice of pizza and head off to a field to pull myself together. The sensation was amazing and intense. My muscles chastized me for the audacity of those first few miles, but, caloried and hydrated, they started to quiet down. Megan found me, and we hugged for a while. Oblivious to each other's stench, we had made it, and, finally, it felt great. In the end, we had to run slightly different races, but we ended up in the bliss of the finish together.
Happy Valentine's Day
Megan won her award, taking one of the top places for her age group. Our competitive friends from the pasta dinner were similarly successful. As I ate more pizza along with some oranges and apples and more water, I felt very successful as well--after all, that pizza tasted really great.
We hobbled back toward the hotel and collapsed. We knew napping would leave us immoble, so we reluctantly decided to take a stroll along the beach. Fully hydrated, we enjoyed a glass of red wine and some smokey cheese as the sun vanished over the sea. Tired and content, I think we realized this Valentine's Day celebration would be tough to beat.
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