The woods are lovely, dark, and deep

Did I Miss Something?

2012-02-12T22:42:00.002-07:00

It's a little strange, and a little humbling, to be in a college classroom again, this time sitting in the desks instead of being the person at the front of the room. It's a little strange to return to the campus where I spent six years, and to return to undergraduate classes. So much has changed. I'm enjoying this time as a participant observer. The sociologist in me can't help but mentally catalog away the things I notice. Some of it, I know, is because I've been away from cities for awhile, and some of it has always been there but I never stopped to notice it.

During my last year at the university (nearly six years ago) I couldn't leave my carrel without running into someone I knew; now I float anonymous in a sea of students.

I'm in a place where girls leave their backpacks sitting outside their stall in the bathroom rather than take them into the tiny stall. They trust that no one will take their backpack with their shiny Apple computer inside.

This will date me, but when I came to college no one had cell phones. Then, rich kids had them. In our apartment there was a big whiteboard where your roommates (hopefully) wrote your messages. I begged my engaged roommates to please answer the call-waiting beep while they were on the phone with their fiancé. I bought my first phone at the end of my junior year. I don't think texting was even invented until after I left campus.

Once there were armies of computers ordered in clean rows in computer labs. I'd go in to write a paper in a massive room filled with computers and students. Now, most students have their own laptop so those big labs have had walls built so that more classes can be held in the room using the computers. A class held in a computer lab used to be exceptionally rare.

We watch a lot of youtube clips in my classes. I never saw a youtube clip in all the years I spent here before.

There's a piano in a big, open lobby in the Student Union. Almost every time I walk through someone is playing. I never noticed it before, but now it amazed me that a students sits down and pounds out some jazz, some classical, some of whatever he or she knows by memory for hundreds of passing students to hear.

Umm, how long have people been wearing tapered pants? I clearly, clearly remember a girl pulling me aside as a freshman or sophomore in high school and asking me why I was wearing tapered blue jeans. She explained to me how out of touch I was with fashion. And now I find myself out of touch all over again.

I can't remember a lot of things about campus, but I can still walk to a bathroom in every single building without even having to think.

When I came to the university a few weeks after high school graduation my professors were old men. Now, I wonder when BYU hired all these handsome academics. I used to check the boy next to me for a wedding ring, now I check my professor.

I realized that if I had a paper and a test of equal weight in a class I would rather get a C on the test and an A on the paper than B's on both.

I argue with my TAs. Sometimes I bring up tricky social theory questions in review sessions partly to test them and see how well they know their stuff.

I hardly know anyone on campus, but I keep seeing the faces of old friends in those who walk around me.

The first boy I ever kissed passed me on campus last week, but didn't recognize me. He's a professor here now.

My how things have changed. But then, some things haven't. I remember being 18 and stopping in my tracks on campus as I watched the sun break over the mountains. I still find myself watching the dawn while students flow around me on their way to somewhere important.

"No change of heart, a change in me."

2012-01-20T11:02:00.002-07:00

I moved last month. I've sort of put off writing about it because I didn't know what to say. I packed all my belongings into a trailer and the 400 square feet I called home became bare and impersonal. I turned in my bear spray, radio, keys, and cleaned out my desk. Only in Yellowstone is bear spray part of your work equipment. I sent my last e-mails and scrambled to finish the to do list at work. I tried not to think about leaving until the moment arrived to say goodbye. I have rarely felt so much love for the people around me or felt so much love from them. I think that's why I haven't written; I don't know how to ever explain the feelings that surrounded my decision to leave.

My last day was filled with goodbyes to friends that have been unlike any I've ever had. I'd like to be a friend more like them: I felt loved for exactly who I was without any stipulations of what I needed to become. That night I walked in the cold, biting wind past the high school and out the Old Road. I remembered summer morning walks by the river and seeing the bitterroot blossoms opening with the dawn. The lights of Gardiner were bright across the river and a myriad of stars glittered above my head. I saw my old favorite, Orion, as well as Taurus the Bull, the Pleiades, the Dippers, and the North Star hanging where it always does. Running over my head, right in line with my own footsteps, flowed the Milky Way. It looked like a great, white rainbow filled with stars. I stood there until I lost the feeling in my fingers and toes.

It was such a cold night I didn't sleep well. But perhaps it had nothing to do with the cold.

In the morning, Christmas Eve morning, I walked through the Roosevelt Arch and reached out to touch its cold basalt. I soaked up views of Electric Peak as I walked. I walked across the bridge as I did every day for the past year going to and from work. I remembered the owl I saw, the wolves I heard, and the changes each day in the Yellowstone River. I looked down and saw chunks of ice floating downstream. A doe with her fawn eyed me as their hooves clattered across the bridge.

I drove away from Gardiner a few hours later. I watched the Arch grow smaller and smaller in my review mirror until it disappeared entirely. That was almost a month ago and I've sorted through my feelings since then and am left with three thoughts, none of which are mine originally.

First, John Muir wrote, "In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks." That is exactly how I feel about my time in Yellowstone. The reasons I came were good reasons, but the lessons I learned and the people I came to know were much, much more than I could have dreamed. I count my time there as a great blessing in my life.

Second, this fall I gave a presentation about what it means to love a place. I have thought about that a lot. With those thoughts, I've remembered a poem by ee cummings.

love is a place
& through this place of
love move
(with brightness of peace)
all places

There are places I love and I see them wherever I go. All places are connected through my memory of them and I continue to see them wherever I go. I've learned that leaving a place doesn't mean I love it less.

Finally, Yellowstone has been like Narnia to me. I wrote about that when I arrived in Montana. I thought that I had come to the final book where the Pevensie children come to Narnia to stay. Instead, I learned that I was actually only at the beginning of the story. I came to Yellowstone, had great adventures, and met people that I hated to leave. Although I thought I'd stay in that magical world I was called back here as surely as if Aslan had come to fetch me himself. But, just like all who tangle with powerful magic, it has changed me. I see things differently now.

Our Town

2011-12-07T21:19:00.001-07:00

Tonight I am proud of my little town. I always admire the mountains, the stars, and the wildlife, but tonight I am more proud of the people. It's a quirky place, a town built in an area known for a strange combination of a national park, mining, cattle ranching, and tourism is bound to be a little strange. It's not unusual to see dogs waiting patiently for their masters outside the Two Bit Saloon or finding deer poop on the front porch. It's a town where many people don't have a lot of money and Halloween costumes are handmade from permanent markers, duct tape, and a cardboard box rather than purchased at the store. There are some real drawbacks in housing quality, fine art, or fine food. Nevertheless, there is much to admire here.

I bet you can't buy bear spray at your local grocery store.

The current shoe pile beside my front door is a good sign.

The ice covered windows by my head when I woke up a few days ago were a bad sign.

For church, I've been the perma-substitute early morning seminary teacher since the end of October. This means that every morning I'm at the church building by seven, in a dress, in sub-zero weather, ready to teach a section of the Old Testament. I thought that substituting was a pretty nice thing for me to do, and have considered myself very self-sacrificing. My sacrifice doesn't seem so big now. One (of my two) students didn't have to go to school today. Nevertheless, she woke up before six o'clock to be driven twenty minutes by her dad to seminary. He returned at eight to drive her back home to spend the day with visiting family from the East. My other student, brought a younger friend. The younger girl is in eighth grade and a member of another congregation in town, but she would like to join our class. She wants to voluntarily wake up, with no parental encouragement or pressure, to come study the Old Testament. I respect these girls who will go far out of their way to live their beliefs.

Gardiner, tucked in the shadow of the mountains this morning after seminary.

Later today, I was leaving the laundromat when a sign caught my eye.

Behind the sign was the room where normally people wait while doing laundry. But now, it is filled with donated coats for anyone to take who is in need. No one was there to police the pile, decide who got the coats, or to even know who took them. I was touched by the generosity of those in town who so freely gave to others without asking for recognition or gratitude.

Tonight I attended the Christmas potluck for a local grassroots organization. I was impressed by those who spoke of loving this place. I was impressed by these good people, from all walks of life, freely give of their time, energy, and even money to work to keep their town clean and safe for people and wildlife. No one asked for applause, they just encouraged each of us to be a part of caring for our community. Sometimes I listen to politics and I get discouraged, but that's not true of today. I'm encouraged by the good, honest, hard working people of my community who quietly go about taking care of themselves, their neighbors, and the surrounding landscape. I feel lucky to be a part of the community.

Sunrise.

Do You Hear What I Hear?

2011-11-17T20:11:00.000-07:00

Today I stood alone in a small meadow blanketed in snow. I was ankle deep in the white covers laying the earth to rest for the winter. Standing there made me want to wrap this whitest of blankets around myself and rest in the arms of the earth, leaving my world of schedule and small worries behind. On a summer day this place teems with birds, bugs, flowers, and sound. But today, all my ears could hear was the sound of snow and the whisper of the wind.

The snow fell in small flakes, almost like salt falling from the clouds. My ears felt unnaturally sharp. I heard the sound of each fleck pinging my jacket, my ears, and my cheeks. I heard each individual sliver of snow and counted them with my breaths. Distant at first, then closer, I heard the wind moving through the pines. Not just through, but moving with the pines like partners in a dance—perfectly in tune with each other. Near and far, the wind murmured across the landscape. Then it wrapped itself around me and, in a low tone, whispered secrets in my ear. I always listen carefully to the wind. I stood transfixed by the sound of each flake of snow, the dance of pines, and the murmurs of the wind. I thought of words of Aldo Leopold and I think I understood a bit of what he meant:

“It is in midwinter that I sometimes glean from my pines something more important than woodlot politics, and the news of the wind and weather. This is especially likely to happen on some gloomy evening when the snow has buried all irrelevant detail, and the hush of the elemental sadness lies heavy upon every living thing. Nevertheless, my pines, each with his burden of snow, are standing ramrod-straight, rank upon rank, and in the dusk beyond I sense the presence of hundreds more. At such times I feel a curious transfusion of courage.”

Time passed and meant nothing to the trees and me--we all stood tall while carrying our burdens. A flock of small, dark birds swirled overhead like leaves in a breeze. Alone in the woods with the day drawing to a close, I turned my skis back down the trail, and left with the winds secrets still ringing in my ears.

Source: Aldo Leopold, Sand County Almanac (1966), 93.

A Wish

2011-10-27T14:52:00.000-06:00

I wish you were here. I wish you were here with me to feel the crisp, cold air and hear the silence when I step out of my home at 6:30 in the morning. It's getting down into the teens at night and my breath puffs, then hangs in the air. I wish that you could stand beside me to look up into the glittering galaxies shining down. If you were here, you could join me in the awe of seeing the Milky Way stretching over our heads like a rainbow of white painted across the night sky. We would stand in the middle of the street, forgetting where we were going because the silence, cold, and glittering sky took our breath away. We would turn and see the stars in one corner of the sky fading with the approaching dawn.

I wish you were here as the first rays of light break over the eastern horizon and bright beams hit Electric Peak. The peaks are all dusted, or perhaps frosted, with snow. The golden beams turn the distant snow into prisms of light reflecting a rainbow of colors into the morning. We would push our hands deeper into our pockets and wonder when winter will reach the valleys.

If you were here, we'd walk down the streets and laugh about the deer walking there too, or the herd of elk resting on the football field. We'd joke about the Two Bit Saloon being the only place in town you can get breakfast at 8 am. Someone driving past would stop his car in the middle of the street to say hello.

I wish you were here to walk with me in the afternoon when the air is still crisp, but the sun is warm. We'd walk out the Old Road and soon wish that we hadn't worn such warm jackets. After a few minutes, we wouldn't be able to resist the call of the hills. Peeling off the road, we'd follow winding game trails with no destination in mind and complain about the burrs stuck in our socks. The grasses are gold now and I know you'd marvel at the contrast between the firs on the slopes of the mountains, the golden glow of the meadows, and the deep blue of the sky. Around the bend we'd see a stand of cottonwood or aspen trees that look like a burning torch against the sky. We'd both stop in our tracks, amazed that any tree could be so brilliant.

If you were here, we'd sit in silence and watch the sun set down the valley. We'd watch the last rays of light reflecting off the river. As the evening deepened, we'd walk home past the school football field. The elk have moved off and have been replaced by a small group of dedicated athletes and parents at a game, braving the quickly falling temperatures and daylight.

I wish you were here. We'd get home and turn up the heat; it's worth it when there are two of you. The kettle would whistle and we'd warm our fingers around mugs of steaming cocoa or tea. We'd settle in and read, or perhaps talk about memories of the past or dreams for the future. We'd remember something we needed at the grocery store, only to realize it has changed to "winter hours" and closed at seven. We didn't really want to go out into the cold night anyway. After awhile the conversation would slow, or I'd finish my chapter, and we'd both yawn.

I know you can't be here. You have work, children and family to care for, or it's too far and too expensive to travel. But still, I wish you were here. I wish I could share with you the wonderful, simple things that highlight my life.

Love at First Sight.

2011-09-22T19:42:00.000-06:00

The best part of my town is not living on the edge of the world's first national park with breathtaking scenery. It is not going for morning walks and watching an osprey dive into the river and come back out clutching trout in its talons. It's not having a staring contest with a pronghorn antelope or hearing the elk bugle. The best part of my town is Derek. I knew Derek would be "the one" when I first met him. He handed my keys to me, our hands touched, and as our eyes locked he said with a quiet, confident smile, "Everything should be better now." I knew, deep in my heart, that he was right. And since that moment, some months ago, things have been magical and different. I feel like I'm living in a fairy tale.

Derek takes care of my car.

My car has waited a long, long time to have a relationship like this. This little Hyundai has traveled across the country and throughout the Rocky Mountains. It's been tough at times, this search for "the one". Time after time my car's been out of my care, but she always comes back unsatisfied after the first date. It's probably partly my fault. I do my best to take good care of her, but I'm afraid all too often she has received only barely competent care. I pushed oil changes off as long as possible and when I couldn't wait anymore I drove straight to the cheapest, quickest place that I could find. All of that changed when I came here. Derek is the caretaker my little one has always hoped for. He changes the oil, checks the battery (I don't ask him to and he doesn't charge), tightens loose bolts (no charge), reminds me to rotate and/or buy new tires (free of charge), selects the best tires for the car (also free of charge), and orders them because by now he knows me, my car, and my budget well enough to know what we both need. He promises to call when they come and I know my Hyundai can't wait to spend another afternoon with him.

For me, I appreciate that he keeps me in the loop in this relationship. Derek often stops by my work, where he's also responsible for our fleet of vehicles. Without fail, he pokes his head into my office with a smile and asks, "How's your car running?" As if all of this wasn't enough to earn my undying loyalty and my car's affection, when there is work to be done on the car I park it behind the building and leave the keys inside. He comes, picks it up, and drops it back off while I'm at work. No more sitting in the Jiffy Lube waiting room eating stale popcorn (especially since the nearest Jiffy Lube is 80 miles away). No more wondering if I really need a new air filter or if the company is looking to make an extra buck on my ignorance. I don't even know Derek's last name, but if I did I'd send him flowers because my car has found true love.

Late Summer Love Song

2011-09-12T13:53:00.000-06:00

In the past month I've spent more time away from town and up in the hills. It's an incredible time of year here. The plants, animals, and people seem to be soaking up all of this last warm weather. Already, there is a chill in the night air. Nests are empty, but the skies are full of the birds that once were eggs filling those nests. Day after day the sky is blue. I think if I could jump just a little higher I could grab a handful of that blue. I would keep it safe, and when life and skies are grey, the handful of blue would remind me that summer always comes again.

Four Red Tailed Hawks soaring in the afternoon

The meadows that were green look as if King Midas had come for a visit. The sun plays on the glacially-carved slopes creating folds in the golden grass. When I look closely, I can see every plant an animal preparing for the winter ahead. The elk are gathering and the bulls are bugling. The flowers have turned to an endless array of seeds and fruits. Other animals are hastily eating and storing what the plants are producing. A few, late season flowers are still blossoming.

Obviously, Yellowstone isn't famous for its fall colors. But that makes every plant I see losing its chlorophyll even more beautiful because its so rare. I see them tucked in the shadows, under the fir trees, and I know that summer will soon be gone. Nothing lasts forever, which is okay too. I can feel change in the air. I look around me at summer ending. I see plants dying and becoming dormant. The flowers have withered, but in their place seeds wait patiently for the wind to carry them away. I'm reminded that every ending contains a new beginning.

Fun With Mud Pots

2011-09-04T22:36:00.000-06:00

I spent a few days shadowing instructors. I came back impressed by their skill as educators and also grateful that in 1872 the United States had the foresight to set aside the land we call Yellowstone to be preserved. It is an incredible place. As I watched the instructors I saw them reach their young students--the youth connected with the place. It's a beautiful thing to love a place. Exupery in The Little Prince wrote about how loving and knowing a flower makes it different from all the other flowers. Loving and knowing a place gives it a magical quality. It stands out from other places because of what you saw, felt, thought, experienced, or became in that place.

View of Gallatin Mountains from Artist Paint Pots

Looking down from the top of the Artist walk

The days spent with instructors rekindled my love for the place. It renewed my sense of awe for the literally thousands of varied thermal features in the park. It reminded me that I get to do a work that is very important to me.

And, I finally got some great pictures of mudpots. You don't know how hard it is to catch these at the right moment. I must have a hundred pictures of blank pools of mud to get these three good shots.

This is bison scat with plants growing out of it.
Seed germination in poo in the middle of a geyser basin!

The green is photosynthetic algae living in the runoff channel of a hot spring.

This girl is using a temperature gun, but wasn't such a fan of the rotten-egg smell.

The colors of Grand Prismatic are reflected into the steam

This is why I feel my work is important.
What is she thinking and what will it mean when she gets home?

The Mystery of the Funk

2011-08-11T10:54:00.001-06:00

I keep waking up on the wrong side of the bed. I wake up mildly crabby and vaguely discontented. I know the easy solution is just to move my bed so that I can wake up on the other side, but it's just not that simple. There really is only one way for my bed to fit in my little room, which is wedged into the corner. That means there is only one side for me to get out of the bed, and clearly, it's the wrong one. Which has led me into deep and serious introspection about Funks. What causes Funks to happen? I'm clearly in the midst of one that is difficult to shake. For those who are unfamiliar with what a Funk is like, allow me to enlighten you.

Funk, pronounced "fuhngk", is an emotional state of being where nothing is really wrong, but nothing is really right either. It comes as a series of "bad days" that have no event that makes them "bad". A Funk can be difficult to identify because its accompanying signs and symptoms can present themselves very differently. Common symptoms are a mild to moderate case of the blues, uncertainty of current and possibly future life paths, discontent, and general lack of excitement, interest, or motivation. The patient may also find him/herself asking, "What is the point? I seem to have forgotten why I'm living the way I do. I can't remember what goal I'm working towards." These symptoms can be difficult to pinpoint or explain, but are often accompanied by a nagging feeling that something is missing. Nothing is wrong, per se, but something isn't quite right.

Having a funk is like having a really nasty cold. After being sick for a week or two with no signs of real improvement I ask myself, "Do I go to a doctor or not? Would it really make a difference or do I just wait it out?" Those are the same questions asked during a mysterious case of the Funk. "Do I change something in my life or not? Would it really make a lasting difference or do I just wait it out?" For most cases of the Funk I prescribe keep going, get outside, and give it time. In other words, don't just eat toast, make some dinner. Take a walk, go for a bike ride, watch a sunrise, find some mountains to climb or watch the sun set behind. Truly difficult cases may require more aggressive treatment: tell someone about your Funk, read some fiction, and have a good cry. If you've diligently (and repeatedly) done all of the above and have found that Funk symptoms persist, the time has come to address that nagging feeling and truly, bravely ask yourself, "What is missing?"

Sunset walk last week

The Perfect Day

2011-07-26T20:36:00.000-06:00

"What is your perfect day?" It's the kind of question I never know how to answer. What kind of fabulous combination of people and adventures makes up a perfect day? It depends on where and when you're at. Over the 4th of July I had not just a perfect day, but also the best Independence Day holiday I've ever had. I didn't even stop to take a picture of any of it because I couldn't bear to let a viewfinder get in between me and the moment.

It began Friday afternoon with a last minute trip to Salt Lake City. I left Gardiner worried and confused. I arrived in Utah late that night to find my old roommate, Amy, waiting up for me. Saturday dawned clear with a sunrise walk, time in the temple, and an afternoon spent with my sister-friend Miriam. Have you ever met a person that you know is your sister, but was stolen away at birth? That's Miriam. We drove up to the mountains to swim in cold lake water, laughed in the sun, and ate at a fancy French bakery for dinner. In Montana bison burgers are easy to come by, but nicoise salad is much harder. That evening I went with Amy to see fireworks. We danced to the live band and I reveled in the sparkling array that lit the night sky. As I lay on my back and watched the sparks dance, I reflected on what a great honor it is to work in the National Park world. At that moment, my work felt rather patriotic. Amy and I talked far too late into the night. I had forgotten what it was like to have someone to talk to before bed!

Sunday morning found me attending church in the chapel where I worshiped for my time in Salt Lake. I soaked up hugs, friends, and the looks of surprise when friends saw me. In the afternoon I drove south to visit with my sister Eve. We cooked Indian food, took long walks, talked and talked and talked, wrote, read, and then were silent. An old friend came by that evening for a visit which ended with us running through sprinklers in the dark and laughing as the water dripped our noses.

Monday morning came. Eve and I went for a short hike and then I began working my way north. I stopped for dinner with my family in Idaho and then drove to our cabin to stay the night. It was Independence Day and although there were no city fireworks to see, an evening thunderstorm created a show much more impressive than any city could accomplish. I arrived at the cabin where the mosquitoes were as thick as the rain. The storm had knocked out the power, which was fine because I was so tired I fell right into bed. In the morning I rose with the sun and finished the drive to my work.

The confusion that I had felt leaving Gardiner was gone. Instead, there was clarity and peace inside. I understood myself and my course. A perfect day, or days, don't have to be complicated at all. Looking back, the events are a small part of the equation, but being with people I love more than completes it. I've said it before and I'll keep on saying it: people matter most. No wonder I studied sociology! Of course there were friends I didn't see during that whirlwind weekend, but I still look back and see that Independence Day trip as the best holiday I've had in a long time.

Milestones

2011-07-13T12:30:00.000-06:00

I ran for twenty minutes today. That's twenty minutes more than I have run without pain in two years and eight months. I last ran a marathon almost three years ago and sustained an injury shortly afterwards. It has been a long road to get back. In summary: two physical therapists, three sports medicine specialists, one nurse practitioner, one acupuncturist, home remedies, running store advice, wacky shoes, and endless Google searches. Treatments have included two years of physical therapy, four kinds of insoles and orthotics, sleeping with a night splint for ten months, oral steroids, a handful of steroid injections, two x-rays, ultrasound imaging, and six "dry needling" procedures (think lawn aeration or meat tenderizer), and pain killers. I gave up running, hiking, dancing, walking, and standing. I counted each step.

I recognize that I am not fully recovered and that more treatments may still be in store. There were times I doubted, but I am now confident that recovery is possible. There were times I looked at past medals and wondered if I would ever even walk without limping. Now though, I can be grateful for the injury. I learned a few things. Two weeks off an injury is much better than two years--listen to your body. A one mile walk is not to be poo-pooed. I have a glimpse of what it is like to live with a disability or constant pain. Faster and farther are not always better. Patience, patience, and then keep hoping someday I'll learn patience. Sometimes it's good just to be still.

When I left in the morning, knowing this was the day I would try to run, I worried that I wouldn't like to run anymore. Not so. Winded as I was, I loved feeling my heart, arms, legs, and lungs all pumping together. I'm taking it slow (don't worry, I've learned my lesson) and have no plans for races any time soon. But I love waking up before my alarm goes off because I can't wait to get outside and greet the sun as it slips over the mountain. I am blessed. Anyone up for a run?

In the spirit of this, with tongue in cheek, I provide the following perspective. Because now, it is something I can laugh about.

First Light

2011-07-10T15:48:00.000-06:00

A week ago I went for an early morning walk on Sepulcher's foothills.

I was in search of Bitterroot blossoms. It was dawn and I had never seen the flower, it grows mostly in Western Montana and parts of Idaho. I knew I would know it when I saw it. I felt that way once before. I was in the Louvre in Paris, looking for a statue called The Slave by Michelangelo. I had never seen a picture of it, but had read a book about Michelangelo's work. Lost, I wandered from room to room. As I entered a new room, I saw a white marble statue from the back. Without sign or even full form I knew that this was indeed the piece I was searching for. That's how I felt about Bitterroot. I desperately wanted to see it, for reasons that are hard to put into words--I felt I would understand this place (and in it my place) better. I found some buds, watched the sun creep over the mountains, and waited for the petals to unfurl.

The blossom is beautiful--a delicate pink--and grows out of the most unforgiving, rocky soil. It would be spectacular anywhere, but is especially breathtaking given its unlikely location. Bitterroot's scientific name is Lewisia rediviva. Lewisia after Meriwether Lewis of the Lewis and Clark expedition who found and named it. Rediviva because the plant is legendary for being able to live without water for over a year. It is sometimes called the "resurrection flower": it symbolizes strength and beauty under almost impossible conditions. The leaves appear first, looking a little like green anemones, then they die and the blossom appears alone in the rocky soil. I imagined the Lewis and Clark expedition traveling not far from where I stood. I imagined Lewis's wonder as he saw the blossoms appearing underfoot.

I thought of the many Native American tribes (Nez Perce, Flathead, Shoshone, Spokane, Kalispell, and Pend d'Oreille) who depended on it for food. As the name Bitterroot suggests, the root wasn't too great on its own. But it many tribes timed their trek east for bison hunting with the Bitterroot flowers so they could dig its taproot. The roots were cooked and then mixed with meat and berries into small cakes--the first energy bar! These could be carried and eaten while traveling. The plant could also be traded with another tribe or with pioneers or trappers. A sack of prepared Bitterroots could purchase a horse. Sometimes there is much to be gained in life by knowing how to handle something that on the surface is bitter. The bitterroot was valuable when properly prepared. We too can become better when tested and changed by life experiences that initially seem bitter.

One Native legend tells the origin of the plant. A mother was crying because she could not find food for her children. The sun heard her cries and changed her tears into the Bitterroot so that she would always have food for her family.

I gently touched the petals--aglow with the morning sun. I pondered new hopes, second chances, perseverance, and new life found in unexpected, difficult places.

Sources: http://www.50states.com/flower/montana.htm, http://www.wildflowerinformation.org/wildflowerfolklore.asp, http://ezinearticles.com/?The-Resurrection-Flower---Montanas-Bitterroot-Wildflower&id=886513

"June is Bustin' Out All Over"

2011-07-08T20:00:00.000-06:00

There's something funny about Gardiner, marmots, mountains, and the kinds of pictures that I find on my camera at the end of the month. I can think of nothing deep and profound about the following images, but they seem to represent the strange world that I currently call my life. All I can really say in my defense is that despite the many, many pictures I have of marmots I always take more. Perhaps that is because they are an animal that actually holds still and is close enough for me to take good pictures with my little camera.

This, my friends, is the furry namesake of the outdoor clothing company "Marmot".

Here he is again, looking like he's about to give a speech.

My office has no window; sometimes I get desperate.

This is phlox, it is growing right in a bison footprint.

The local tow truck.

Driving back home on the 4th of July. Great natural fireworks. Ignore the bug guts on the windshield.

Talk about saving money on invitations.

The profile is good too. It's nice to be photogenic from all angles.

The Gardiner Rodeo is the social event of the summer.

The view from the arena is pretty good too.

Sunset on Electric Peak.

This tail seems like it was borrowed from some other animal.

Sunset in a geyser basin.

Growing Pains

2011-06-30T15:17:00.000-06:00

I had a birthday. It seemed like an appropriate time to do something I'd been dreading.

I have a lovely, small, white car. I bought it as I finished my Master's degree before I moved to Washington D.C. When I drove it off the lot it had eight miles on it. At the time all of my belongings fit inside of it. After four months in the capitol I moved back West. I paid off the car in less than a year. Really though, this post has nothing to do with the car. Really, this is about growing, maturing, and a mild identity crisis. I bought the car in Idaho--my home state. I have proudly driven with a license plate colored like a sunset proclaiming "Famous Potatoes" in every car I've ever owned or had on loan (thanks Mom and Dad).

However, I now have a "real" job and can no longer avoid changing the license plates to my current state with excuses like, "I'm just a student" or "I'll be moving in a few months." A few weeks ago I drove to Livingston where I paid my money to the state of Montana for a new plate and driver's license. Yesterday my Idaho license expired. I took it out of my wallet, placed the Montana license in its place, and I stepped toward my little car armed with a screw driver. I tried not to think of all that it means to give up my Idaho plates. But as I unscrewed my bug-encrusted plates the memory of stepping over rows of potatoes while helping my brother move irrigation pipe came to mind. I could smell the dirt, the dew, and the green all around. All to quickly my car, and me with it, had been stripped of our previous identity.

We both felt strange as well looked at one another. I almost heard it whisper, "Do you know me?" And I whispered back, "Who am I?" In all fairness, I am twenty-nine and plenty old enough to claim a new state. And really, losing Idaho to Montana is like being late for dinner because your massage went long. But still, I feel that I let go of a piece of myself. How will I find my car in a parking lot? Okay, parking lots in Gardiner aren't very crowded. How will I ever learn to remember all these strange, new numbers? Of course, now the sheriff will stop leaving notes on it when I don't drive it for weeks. And locals will finally wave at me. Nevertheless, as I grapple with my new residency and voting precinct I ask the "big sky country" that I am now a part of, "What will be next?"

"Earth laughs in flowers." -Ralph Waldo Emerson

2011-06-28T13:47:00.000-06:00

There are so many books worth reading that I constantly have a stack on my shelves of those I am going to read next. It always seems to grow rather than shrink. Because of this, I rarely read the same book twice. However, there is a book that I re-read every single spring. A few years ago I received a wonderful birthday present: the National Audubon Society Field Guide to Noarth American Wildflowers--Western Region. Each yea,r as the blossoms begin, I pull it out. It's a bit like reading your high school yearbook before a reunion. You remember old friends you had forgotten about and see some faces that seem utterly unfamiliar. Sometimes I search in the book for a specific flower I saw and want to know better. This year I've been properly introduced to Sugar Bowl, Woodland-star, and Desert Parsley.

Sugar Bowl

Woodland-star

Desert Parsley

Sometimes I sit down with this bright, yellow-covered book at look at every picture. Any plant that interests me I look up in the back to read more about it--even those far from my region. Each year I find some other amazing gem of knowledge that I didn't know before. For example, how else would I know that Indian Paintbrush is partially parasitic? It grows some of its own roots and also leaches strength off of others' as well. Here is a short sample of some of the tidbits gleaned from the most recent cover-to-cover read.

Growing up there was a beautiful vine whose blossoms opened in the morning and twisted closed at night. I called it Morning Glory, but it is actually a nasty invasive called bindweed.

Bindweed

A real Morning Glory--it has tips at outer part of each pinkish ray

Saguaro cacti have fruits which were an important food source for Native Americans. They used long sticks to knock the fruits off from the top of the cactus. During the day it is pollinated by White-winged doves and at night by bats and bugs.

White-winged doves enjoying the fruits

You can eat Glacier Lilies!

You should not eat Death Camus.

Arrowleaf Balsamroot roots were used to make medicine by Native Americans.

Blue Flax was used by Native Americans to make rope.

Learning flowers is like learning friends. And whenever I am out in the woods I am never alone because I know the name of much of what is around me. To me there is great power in knowing a name.

I will be the gladdest thing

Under the sun!

I will touch a hundred flowers

And not pick one.

-Edna St. Vincent Millay

These Happy Golden Years

2011-06-22T18:42:00.000-06:00

Today I sat in the sun on a boardwalk right by Old Faithful helping two girls--seven and eight years old--and their sixty-eight year old grandpa complete their Junior Ranger packets. As we discussed the super volcano and why national parks are important a part of me reflected on how unique my work is. Truthfully, I'm not out teaching much anymore. I sort of sold out: I traded the outdoors and exhausting fifteen hour days for stability and a life in middle management. But I spent the past two days out in the field with the grandchildren of a participant from this winter. It is strange to be invited to a part of a stranger's family vacation. I negotiate with parents about ice cream cones, movies in the visitor centers, and hikes. I listen to children bicker and see how adults handle it. In the course of several long days together no one, including the adults, is on his or her best behavior at all times. I get the chance not only to see long term pair bonds in animals, but also in humans. Many of those who come to take programs have retired and are vacationing with their partner. Most of us see many of the marital relationships around us ending. However, I am encouraged and learn much from watching these couples who have made it through many hard times to enjoy these "golden years" together. Here are some things I've seen in the past six months from where I stand:

- I didn't know that so many people still call each other "sweetheart"

- I also didn't know that people say "my love" to each while discussing who ordered the roast beef and who ordered the turkey sandwich

- I kept asking one man to stay out of the middle of the road while taking pictures. At one point his wife walked over and said with a smile, "Good luck. I've been trying to keep him off the road for 50 years."

- We often exchange e-mail addresses. Many read like this: bobcindy@.... or jimandsusan@.... There's something wonderful about these couples who read each other's mail.

- There is a sense of quiet confidence in each other. A sense of history and consistency.

- Couples often sit beside each other in the bus, even though there are lots of other empty seats. If they would just split up they could both sit by a window.

- One husband was a die hard athlete. Yet, for the whole week I found him going slow at the back of the pack. He was keeping an eye on his wife who was recovering from chemotherapy, had no hair under her winter cap, and had surgery on a spine tumor in a week.

In a time when family seems to be an uncertain institution, I take great hope in society by seeing these happy couples. This afternoon I caught an old man coaxing a little kissing out of his wife on the sidewalk at Old Faithful when he thought no one was looking. Afterwards, they both laughed and looked a little sheepish.

My Favorite Tree

2011-06-09T16:49:00.000-06:00

In reading Aldo Leopold's Sand County Almanac, I came to a line that struck a chord with me. Leopold wrote, "The only conclusion I have ever reached about trees is that I love all trees, but I am in love with pines." I understood exactly what he meant. Although my love extends to all trees, and especially each and every pine, I have a favorite among the pines.

The whitebark pine is a member of a tree that began in the Old World. They aren't as tall and graceful as a Ponderosa, or as plentiful as a Douglas fir or Lodgepole, but they are tenacious and tough. They grow slowly, hitting full reproductive stride at 70-100 years old and living up to 1,500 years. Whitebark pines live in high elevations--often over 9,000 feet where few other plants can grow. This habitat leads to great benefits both immediately around the pine and much further down the slope. Whitebark pines are often the first tree to grow at high elevations--other trees can't handle the amount of snow, hard wind, or poor soil. However, once these pines are established they improve the soil and provide shade needed for other plants to grow. This shade also slows the rate the winter snow melts resulting in less flooding downstream, a longer flow of water to riparian (wet) areas, and more consistent water for humans using the water for agriculture or hot showers. High on the rocky slopes, areas that have whitebark pine have more biodiversity--both plant and animal--than areas without the tree.

Animals like the grizzly bear, the red squirrel, and Clark's nutcracker depend on the seeds from the cones for winter survival. The grizzly eats the nuts to put on needed weight for hibernation while smaller animals hide seeds for eating all winter long. Whitebark pine cone production varies and on years with a low number of cones there are more human bear conflicts as bears, unable to find food in high elevations, search for it in low elevations closer to people.

Clark's nutcracker has an especially important role. Many birds and small animals will inadvertently plant a few bushes throughout the course of their lives as they collect seeds. A Clark's nutcracker, however, will plant an entire forest. This bird, named for Meriwether Lewis of the Lewis and Clark Expedition, is the key to the growth of whitebark pine seedlings. The pine's cones do not naturally open to release seeds. The nutcracker opens the cone with his built in multi-purpose tool, otherwise known as a beak. He uses it as a chisel, tweezers, storage compartment, hoe, and planter. Early in the harvest the bird eat the pine nuts, as the season progresses he caches them miles in all directions. He will fill the pouch under his tongue with as many as 80 seeds and travel to select a cache. One bird was seen hiding 35,000 seeds in 9,500 different places. The Clark's nutcracker has an incredible spatial memory--all winter he's travels back to the places he cached seeds. But in a good year, he won't eat every seed he stored.

Two years pass.

Then, fully matured and with enough moisture in the soil, a new whitebark pine seedling will sprout. Because the seeds are often plucked from the tree before they are fully grown. It will take another year or two for the embryo to develop completely and then for the seed coat to get worn down for germination. Whitebark pine is one of the few trees that has "seed banks". In other words, because it takes a couple of years for seeds to germinate there can still be a lot of new seedlings after a year of low pine cone production. Often many trunks grow from the same spot--one of the 9,500 places a mouthful of seeds was hidden. Without the Clark's nutcrackers, the cones would remain closed and the seeds locked inside the cones.

Today, there are concerns about the future of whitebark pine because of climate change (warming makes other trees able to grow in high elevations pushing whitebark pines out), the invasive white pine blister rust (infecting 20% of the whitebarks in the Greater Yellowstone Area), and the native mountain pine beetle (30-40% of mature whitebarks in the area are dead). The Yellowstone area is one of the last strongholds for whitebark pine. It is a keystone species in the ecosystem providing life to its plant and animal neighbors nearby as well as those--including humans--far down from its rocky slopes.

I didn't know all of this when I fell in love with the tree. I only saw the graceful five-needle clusters and a tree growing in the toughest of conditions. I still love those clusters, but each time I learn a new piece of this pine's story, I am amazed by how it survives, thrives, and provides for all organisms near it. And I haven't even gotten started on the role fire ecology plays with it...

Sources: http://fwp.mt.gov/mtoutdoors/HTML/articles/portraits/nutcracker.htm
http://www.fs.fed.us/database/feis/plants/tree/pinalb/all.html
http://www.whitebarkfound.org/Nutcracker.html
Retrieved on June 9, 2011
CFLRP Proposal Greater Yellowstone Whitebark Pine Restoration

"I was born under a wandering star."

2011-06-01T19:04:00.000-06:00

My sister is incredible with anniversaries. She can remember what she was doing last week, month, year, and so on. I tease her about it mercilessly. Secretly though, I'm almost as bad. Which is why I am announcing that I have been here in the same place, job, and home for six months. I get the itch to make a change after about four months--the length of a standard college semester. I guess that isn't bad scar to bear from eight years of college. Now, if you'll join me in reminiscing, I need to reflect just how I got to this place.

11 years ago, almost to the day, I graduated from high school and began college where I began my now well-honed skill of switching careers. From dance education I moved to communication and then to sociology. I spent four happy years in sociology. Well, most of my time was spent climbing the stairs to and from the Richards Building where my dance classes were, but I graduated in sociology. To my surprise, I chose to stay and study it for another two years of graduate school. I finished that a mere five years ago. After just one year I came happily back to the welcoming arms of academia. Two years ago I quit my PhD program and came to Yellowstone on a seasonal position. In one week I went from grading my students finals to receiving minimum wage. I was so very happy here. I was also nervous about my future. "Two years," I told myself. "Try this for two years and see if you can get a real job in two years." After spending most of a year in Yellowstone I returned to Salt Lake City where I taught kids for ten months. Just one year ago I was frantically working, scrimping, and saving to attend certification courses for this field. Eight months ago I interviewed. I remember very clearly the warm October day when the position was offered: I had just finished a field trip hike and my phone rang. I stepped outside of work and sat on the curb unable to really believe that the choice was now mine. I hung up the phone and turned back towards work. To my surprise, Adrienne, the woman who opened my eyes to environmental education, sat not far away after a phone call of her own. We came together and discussed the class that brought her to the garden that day. Telling Adrienne about the job seemed like I was coming full circle. In six weeks I was unpacking boxes here in Gardiner.

It's still hard to believe. Is this what putting roots down feels like? You stop counting the days and weeks and instead suddenly wakeup and realize months or years have passed? I ask myself if I have any regrets for choices that I've made--friends or other career opportunities I've left behind. It's hard to know. But I don't think so. I'm too busy admiring the new green carpet covering the foothills after the recent rain. I can't think about regrets because the birds wake me up in the morning singing outside the window. And it's difficult to focus on what I'm missing because I am overwhelmed by all that brought me to this time and place. I can't help but wonder what will happen next?

"If you dance you'll never grow old."

2011-05-23T21:49:00.000-06:00

There was a time in my life when the world revolved around dance. Not because I was particularly good at it. The technique of dance was anything but natural. Becoming a part of my university's beginning team took three years of training prior to beginning college, nine college classes in dance, and three auditions. But the love of moving and music was much, much easier.

Growing up my family owned a cassette tape with the music from Disney's Aladdin. I would put on the tape and dance to it all around the living room. In eighth grade I spent an afternoon in a friend's garage where there was space for her to teach me all the leaps and turns she was learning in ballet. Within a week or two I was enrolled at a local studio. After a few years of ballet and jazz dance I began looking for a better teacher, but there weren't any in my small town. At college I spent many more hours dancing than studying. I became part of the International Folk Dance team and did my best to learn to clog, tap, Irish dance, and every other kind of dance from around the world. I loved every single moment of it. Through dance I made some of my closest friends, had most of my romantic relationships, and experienced some of my most bitter disappointments. The time came when I put my dancing shoes away and pulled my books out as I worked my way through four years of graduate school. Dance became a social hobby rather than a performance driven pursuit. Around the same time I experienced a painful injury in my foot from running that has curtailed all activities that involved my feet. Now, after two and a half years, I am able to again stand on my toes, do turns, and walk. I find myself bumping into my furniture because I don't have enough room to dance to the music playing in my little house.

There are many things I love about living on the edges of Yellowstone: no stoplights, quiet nights, small towns, good people, a sky as big as the outdoors, and the pine trees that whisper my name when no one is around. My dance studio is different now. When no one is looking at work, at home, or when I am alone on a mountainside I find myself reaching for the sky and spinning down the trail. I dance under the blue sky and I have to be careful that I don't turn an ankle in a ground squirrel hole. I have no audience and I need none. This time I dance simply because it expresses so much that I feel and cannot say.

This came to my mind because I recently found the following animation. It reminded me of all that I have and do love about dancing.

A question sent out into the Universe

2011-05-19T18:58:00.000-06:00

Why do skinny, puny teenage boys drive big, jacked up, loud, annoying pickup trucks?

"Oh, Montana, give this child a home."

2011-05-16T13:24:00.000-06:00

A few pictures from being out and about walking around town.

There are moments when I am overwhelmed by the fact that this is home.

Gardiner with the sun setting on Sepulcher and Electric Peak

The Roosevelt Arch: if you look closely, there is a coyote crossing in front of it

Sunrise on Sepulcher and the Arch (dedicated by Teddy Roosevelt in 1903

A mama bison and her new baby resting in town, safe from predators

Looking back at Gardiner

A bighorn sheep ram not far from town

Investigators at church

Spring in Montana

Who Is My Neighbor?

2011-05-08T17:45:00.000-06:00

It is funny the things that make me feel like a grown up. In the past decade I've graduated from college twice, worked in positions that could have been career choices, lived in four different countries, and all over the United States. But none of these experiences, including purchasing and paying off a car, made me feel like a bona fide grown up. This past winter, however, there's been a change. Nothing makes me feel more adult than a utility bill and a 401k in my name, shoveling my own porch, purchasing non-essential decorative home items, talking about and planning my career path, and going to the dump. For those of you who live in cities here is some news that make surprise you: in rural America people load up their garbage and take it to the dump. There is no such thing as curbside pickup.

Growing up in rural Idaho, I remember trips to the dump. It wasn't that we were rednecks--everyone took their trash to the dump. "Going to the dump" was fun. It meant that the kids rode in the back of the pickup (the only time we were allowed to) to keep the cans from falling over on the 1.5 mile drive to the dump. The dump was on the shores of the Blackfoot River. While my dad handled the trash I'd watch the canal-like river flow under the bridge. At some point the big bins near my home were removed and now my parents wheel a large garbage can to the edge of the road once a week. But here, in Gardiner, Montana, the dump tradition lives on.

Unlike the dump of my childhood, these dumpsters are surrounded by a tall chain link fence. After 4 pm the main entrance is locked, but there is a small gate I enter on the side. It is held closed with a few rocks. I have no difficulty moving those rocks, which is why I think they do little to prevent other guests from doing the same. The sign hung on the gate reinforces this idea.

It is a little creepy to be there alone. There are a dozen ravens picking through the trash and at each other. They perch on the dumpsters and seem confident in their ownership of the place. The call loudly to each other and bicker over the choicest kitchen scraps. Usually, I quickly toss my bag and cardboard in the appropriate bins and scurry back to my car before my imagination gets the better of me.

I like ravens, but those at the dump somehow seem very different than their cousins in the park. Perhaps I am uneasy because this is the place where humans and animals interact. The dump represents so many of the conflicts that occur as humans and animals meet on the fringes of each groups territory. I drive home thinking of development, bears looking for food after a long winter of hibernation, mountain lions who need room to roam, and my own desire for a home and land to claim for my own. In taking my trash to the dump I am acutely aware of my role in these clashes and that I cannot divorce myself completely from being part of the conflicts. At the dump, I cannot ignore that I have a very real impact on the places and creatures I love--they are my neighbors too. What I see at the dump is only a very small piece of a much bigger puzzle.

Being all grown up isn't anything like what I imagined it would be.

A Good Samaritan

2011-04-28T19:54:00.000-06:00

Saturday I took my first trip to Billings. Billings is 170 miles away and a three hour drive. The day was beautiful and I filled it with errands and an Easter service. As the sun began its journey towards the horizon, I loaded the last of my groceries into my car and turned toward the freeway. As I turned onto the on ramp I noticed my car wasn't driving right and a strange noise came from underneath. There was no shoulder until I was fully on the freeway so I kept driving until I could find a place to pull over. A quick walk around my car revealed a flat tire.

I've never changed a tire. I can hike with bears, but I've never changed a tire. But that wasn't the biggest problem: it was 5 pm on the night before Easter and there would be no business open to get a new tire. I was all dressed up from the Easter service. I was three hours from home. As the cars rushed by me at 80 miles an hour, I began to mull over the situation. A large truck pulled up behind me and a man hopped out. He wore a grease monkey's uniform with "Sean" stitched across the lapel. Sean explained he had been headed the other way on the freeway, saw a car pulled over, got off, and came back up my way to see offer his help. He worked for a local tire shop and was just headed back to the shop to end the day. He'd been out on a house call that went five hours longer than it should have. Sean put on my donut and then offered to take a look at the tire at the shop. I followed him back where he determined the original tire was ruined. He searched through all the used tires at the back and found one that fit my car. He checked my rims, put on the new tire, and wished me well on my drive back to Gardiner.

In Luke chapter 10 Christ tells the parable of "The Good Samaritan" in response to the lawyer's question, "And who is my neighbor?" I felt like the man in the story who was on a long journey and injured on the side of the road, unable to continue. An unlikely man, a Samaritan, came to his rescue and took care of the injured stranger. As I drove home I thought of the Savior's words to the lawyer as he closed his lesson, "Go, and do thou likewise."

"I Wanna Check You For Ticks"

2011-04-18T20:33:00.000-06:00

No one likes mosquitoes. I've seen people curse, swat, spray, itch, and find cover. But ticks are much, much worse. There is something absolutely creepy about a bug that buries its head in your flesh for an extended period of time to suck your blood. And ticks don't tend to go for arms and legs. No, adding insult to injury, ticks go for personal, private places and carry nasty diseases. Here's a pretty basic description of ticks, courtesy of an entomologist at UC Davis, "Ticks are blood feeding external parasites of mammals, birds, and reptiles, throughout the world." Just reading it makes the hair on the back of my neck prickle.

Ticks, like other bugs, go through several changes as they grow from larvae, to nymphs, to adults. At each stage in the life cycle a tick feeds once on one host. With each change they choose a progressively bigger host to feed on (lucky you and I). An adult female, after her final feeding, will then lay thousands of eggs. More goosebumps prickling on my skin. Ticks stand around on bushes and the tips of grass hanging on with two of their eight legs and waving the remaining six in the air so that they can easily grab onto a passing animal. It might take them two years to complete a life cycle--only three meals in two years. They can wait in the right place for months for an unlucky host to walk by.

This week I got up close and personal with a few ticks. It began as just a normal office day. Just after I arrived a friend rushed in and I confirmed for her there was a tick buried in the back of her neck, just below her hair. A slow, steady pull with tweezers removed him and I took him outside to give him a chance to say his last words. I didn't give him long to think of some. A few minutes later she found a second tick buried in her hair with his head in her scalp. Another slow pull with the tweezers and another trip to the guillotine outside. I wish I had a great, happy ending for this story. Yes, ticks are a marvel of natural adaptation and survival, but I still get the shivers when I think of little heads buried in sucking blood. I was going to post a picture, but just seeing them magnified a hundred times gives me the creeps. It's high season for ticks until at least June.

Sources: http://entomology.ucdavis.edu/faculty/rbkimsey/tickbio.html, www.theticknipper.com/howticksfeed.html

A Voice

2011-04-07T18:13:00.000-06:00

I heard it! Walking out of work I heard the raucous trill of a red-winged blackbird. These shiny birds, the males with their fiery red mantle, are possibly the most abundant native bird in the United States. In Yellowstone, and many other places, they are the herald of spring. Until my late teen years I thought red-winged blackbirds were birds of myth and legend. The kind of bird that heroes went in search of to pull the magic red feather from the wing and take back to a witch or healer. Do you remember the last time that a the unbelievable became possible for you? I remember noticing this glossy bird in the backyard, looking it up in a book, and being delighted to learn that there really are red-winged blackbirds. They still seem like a magical bird to me. Their call isn't particularly beautiful, but it is unique to them. It is beautiful because it is theirs, it cries of marshes and cattails, it announces a coming spring, and speaks of fulfilling a difficult quest.

This week I'm teaching a course certifying others to be guides. It is incredibly rewarding to offer another person new tools, perspectives, and confidence. Today we discussed the the importance of creativity and self-exploration. At age eight each of us felt that we could run, dance, sing, and paint pretty well. We were funny, smart, and good storytellers. I asked a room of successful adults who could do these things today and I received only silence and lowered eyes. What changes from eight to twenty-eight to fifty-eight? Too often we come to believe that if our paintings aren't the most beautiful they are not good. In a similar vein, if we are not the fastest runner, highest score in the class, or have the most beautiful voice we should be silent. What a tragic loss! Each voice matters because it is yours and what you have to say, sing, write--what you create--could only come from you. That makes it beautiful. I remember a quote that hung on a teacher's reading, "Use the talents you possess: the woods would be very silent if no birds sang except those that sang best."

It was snowing here in Gardiner this morning, but I don't mind. Yesterday I heard the call that only a red-winged blackbird can make and his song is beautiful to me. No one can speak of spring like a blackbird.

Sources: http://www.allaboutbirds.org/guide/Red-winged_Blackbird/, http://djbsphotoadventures.blogspot.com/2009/04/crazy-weather-with-some-moisture.html, http://www.flickr.com/photos/dbaron/519203903/

"Never were there such devoted sisters."

2011-03-30T16:00:00.001-06:00

I am taking a break today from my normal theme of how much I love trees, mountains, and wilderness. I've been in the city for the past few weeks and am now enjoying a few days in my hometown. Staying at home always provides lots of fodder for thought as well as a chance to get around to projects that never seem to get done. Today's is backing up my currently sluggish laptop. In the process I found a file of pictures entitled "Sisters!". I have two sisters, one older and one younger. My first thought as I looked at the pictures was, "She looks so young!" And the second was, "I look so young." One woman once said, "A sister is a little bit of childhood that can never be lost." That seems right. We aren't peas in a pod or three of a kind, but from where I sit in my childhood home I feel the need to pay homage in an ode to my sisters, mostly in pictures.

Beth, Eve, and I cheering in & for Germany in the 2008 Euro Championship

Beth is my older sister. I remember watching her get ready for dances, make oboe reeds, and move away to college. We tease her about how she psychoanalyzes her pets and how much she likes chocolate. She also bought me makeup when I turned fourteen and showed me how to put it on. Beth likes pink so much that I don't wear pink at all. I visited her at college where she showed me around campus and let me attend her classes. I visited her when she lived in Germany. She is my confidant when I have a truly sticky problem.

Discussing directions in Germany

Eve and I were the last two at home. We played dress up together well past the point when we would owning up to such behavior to our peers. I stood right behind her every year on Christmas morning as we paraded out to see what Santa brought. We harmonized around the piano and she wore my clothes when I didn't want her to. When we went shopping the saleswomen thought we were twins. I moved away for college before she started high school. I didn't come home much for the next four years. I graduated from college a month before Eve graduated from high school.

Eve, me, and my mom when I finished my undergraduate work in 2004

Eve graduating in English in 2009

I had never planned on staying at my same university for graduate school, but as events unfolded it became my best option. That remains one of the best choices that I've ever made. Not because I spent several months in London conducting research, fell in love with running, or lost fifteen pounds that year. But Eve and I became roommates and Sunday evenings found us singing along with her guitar and becoming friends again. People still got confused who was who. That was seven years ago. I now live several states away and she is deep into her career as an English teacher. Only our nieces and nephews get us confused now. I spent an evening with her this weekend. She taught me a few chords on the guitar since without her I need to learn to play myself. She once drove eight hours to come backpacking with me.

Trading foot rubs in the tent

Of all the things I miss in moving to Montana--I miss Eve most of all. After all, there are very few people who think it's fun to do this:

Yes, sometimes we just smile pretty for the camera.

Thanksgiving 2010

If we ever start a band this will be our album cover

"A sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves--

a special kind of double."

-Toni Morrison

"Everyone Has Days Like These."

2011-03-23T09:02:00.000-06:00

I'm spending a week or two in the city taking a wilderness medicine course. It is strange to be back in a place that was my home for the past few years. It's much bigger than I remember; its noises seem strange. I am surprised by how many emotions being here brings to the surface. It is wonderful to see friends and my sister, but also bittersweet. The class itself is all-consuming and sometimes I feel a little overwhelmed. I'm sure that these factors influenced the following chain of events.

6:30 am My alarm beeps and I roll in my sleeping bag to turn it off. I'm staying with a few previous roommates, but today I'm relocating to a different place. The day before was 13 hours of class, another bittersweet social call, and not enough sleep.

7:15 After snitching a bowl of someone's cereal I load all my stuff in the car and drive off with my hand drawn map to my new three day home. The goal: park the car out front and catch a bus to campus. I'm running late.

7:27 I park the car, run to the bus, and it drives off leaving me in a cloud of toxic fumes. I choke back tears. I have a firm policy not to run for or cry over public transit (I had a bad experience).

7:32 I chase the bus trying to get in front, park, and then hop on board. I try, but miss it again.

7:39 I give up the leapfrog technique and just follow the bus to campus looking for a place to park where I won't get a ticket.

7:45 I find a place to park only a 30 minute walk from my class which starts at 8. I shoulder my large backpack full of stuff for the woods and start off through the falling snow.

7:52 I convince a university shuttle to pick me up and drop me off a little closer, even though it isn't part of his route.

7:57 The shuttle drops me off. I run across an intersection and almost get hit by a car.

7:58 I choke back tears again.

7:59 I walk into the building and take my seat in class.

8:00 A slideshow with pictures of dislocations and bloody lacerations begins.

I think I'll be okay. Tomorrow is another day.

It Might As Well Be Spring

2011-03-11T08:08:00.000-07:00

In C.S. Lewis's novel The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe the magical country of Narnia is ruled by a cruel White Witch who makes it always winter in the land. Always winter and never Christmas. The past few months there have been times when I wondered if I'd moved to Yellowstone or moved to Narnia. It was my first Christmas alone and I worked through both Christmas and New Year's so I felt that Christmas never really came as it always has in the past.

But in the last month I've finally started to feel more at home. I know the names of most of the mountains and we are beginning to get acquainted. I've also learned the names of my neighbors and I like them too. In the past week it has become very apparent that Aslan is coming and that even here, winter cannot last forever. I woke a few days ago to a new sound: small birds talking to each other from my lilac bush. They called to the world and it is beginning to answer. There is a change in the air: the wind blows with a hint of warmth and the sun's rays are stronger. The birds and I aren't the only ones to have noticed. Bear tracks were seen on the interior of Yellowstone on March 1. Skiing while carrying bear spray is a first for me.

As the snow melts and the earth appears like blocks in a snow-mud patchwork quilt, the bison search the ground for available grass. Their ribs and hips show prominently. It has been a difficult winter for my hoofed friends. I've seen animals sleeping right on the road rather than spend valuable energy moving through deep snow.

But now, there seems to be hope again. The elk have come out from the trees where they spent much of the past month and are seen on every windblown slope. It is good to see the animals on their feet and with their heads down eating again.

It is strange to see bare pavement and soil. The snow that is left has lost its powdery consistency and is developing a hard crust. There are potholes everywhere I look. Road crews are out filling them one by one. There are so many I doubt they can finish before Labor Day. There are no wildflowers or lilies peeking shyly through the snow. But there is lots, and lots of mud everywhere. In fact, a road was closed today not due top snow but because of mud. The Yellowstone River was blue this morning as I walked to work, but walking home it looked like chocolate milk because of the snow-melt carrying sediment into the water.

These changes translate into the human world in different ways. Unlike the bison, my diet hasn't changed. But as their winter coats start to look a little ragged I change to a lighter jacket. My long underwear hasn't been worn in a week. The park hotels have closed; spring comes quietly here. I find myself in my office sorting through a three month high pile of papers. But I look outside at the wind and sun and think to myself, "This would be a great day for a run." Instead, I keep skiing, but I'm the only one out now. With the warmer temperature I quickly get too hot. Soon I'm left skiing with a pack full of clothes and my skin soaking up the sun it hasn't seen in a long time.

I Heard the Owl Call My Name

2011-03-09T22:30:00.000-07:00

I went out for a ski today. Winter is losing its death grip, but there is still plenty of snow for skiing. I was all alone climbing high up the Blacktail Deer Plateau.

Electric Peak in the distance

The sky was bright blue and I felt so close I could reach out and touch it. At some point, always too soon, I had to turn my skis towards home. It's always hard to leave the mountains and return to life and home. I am reminded of Wordsworth's Ode--Intimations of Immortality. He wrote, "Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own." Earth's pleasure's are so different than those of my small home. I stood and watched another's skier's tracks disappear around the bend. Today, I chose to follow my own back. Softly I quoted the wise hobbit Bilbo Baggins, "It's dangerous business...going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don't keep your feet, there's no knowing where you might be swept off to."

As I turned, a large grey bird silently dropped from a tree and dove head first into the snow. After a moment on the ground it stretched its wings and returned to a nearby fir. I knew the instant it left the tree that I was watching an owl hunt. I skied to where it had dove into the snow and marveled at the feather tips marked in the soft snow.

Again the owl swooped from tree to meadow and then returned to the very top of a tree. I came closer and we examined each other. I saw its rounded face and knew I this was a Great Grey Owl, also called the Great Grey Ghost or the Phantom of the north.

I had the rare opportunity to watch the largest (though not heaviest) of the owls in the world hunting for mice and voles under the snow. Owls have ears that are not even with each other. This enables them to pinpoint an animal's location under up to two feet of snow. They are large birds, with an average wingspan of 4.5 feet. Their wingtips are softened so that they can fly silently. Indeed, the first time I ever saw an owl I was sleeping outside and what I remember most was how every small creature grew quiet when the own slid noiselessly by. He or she watched me scooping its head to get a better look. I stood and marveled at this rare moment. Time slid by as silently as the owl's flight. It began ignoring me completely, gradually moving from tree to tree.

The sun dipped below the rim of the hill and my fingers began to tingle from the cold. Reluctantly, I left it to hunt and glided across the glorious expanse of the plateau in the fading light.

Sources: J.R.R. Tolkien Lord of the Rings, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Great_Grey_Owl,

Climate Change

2011-03-09T10:12:00.001-07:00

I walked out the front door of my little cabin/house this morning and was faced with a problem. All winter the plow has been driving by and creating a big pile of snow next to the sidewalk. I have dutifully shoveled a pathway through it after each storm (more on the pride of shoveling my own walk another time). Now, however, the air has a different quality and the snow is beginning to melt. What I am left with is a shrinking pile of snow and a growing pile of loose gravel. Each time the plow pushes the snow aside it also scrapes loose rocks and moves them with the snow. As the snow melts the rocks are left behind. But what do I do with the sediment? As I pondered the problem on my commute to work (a seven minute walk), I had a moment of brilliance akin to the apple falling on Sir Isaac Newton's head. "Eureka!" my inside voice exclaimed (I've learned not to talk to myself while walking around Gardiner--it's a small town and people might start to talk). My inside voice continued, "I have my very own terminal moraine."

Glaciers carve and landscape much as a plow scrapes snow off a road surface. As a glacier slowly moves it also pick up rocks from the landscape and carries them embedded in the snow and ice. When a glacier retreats, or melts, all the sediment that it has picked up along the way is left behind in a pile of loose soil and rocks--this is called a terminal moraine. They mark the maximum advance of the glacier and can be quite big. One of the largest moraine's is in Norway. It is so big that local legends tell of how giants built it to keep invaders out of Norway. My own terminal moraine is quite small. I am proud to report that the glaciers in Gardiner, Montana are retreating until the next ice age (which should begin around Thanksgiving). Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd better go skiing before this changing climate catches up with me.

Sources: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Terminal_moraine

I Can Do Brave Things

2011-02-13T16:45:00.001-07:00

This may be difficult to believe, but I'm afraid of going downhill on skis. I'm not afraid of the dark, hiking alone in bear country, complicated recipes in cookbooks, traveling alone in less developed countries, or singing and dancing in front of thousands of people. But yesterday found me at the top of a steep downhill grade and my throat became dry, my legs stiff, and I began having serious conversations with myself.

"Rachel," I told myself, "there is nothing to be afraid of here. You have gone down lots of hills like this and you aren't that bad at it."

"You're forgetting," I replied, "that little knee incident last winter that resulted in a long drive to the nearest medical facility for stitches. And now that you mention it, that old running injury in your left foot is cramping up and really might cause some problems. Besides, you know you're muscles are a bit tired so they are more likely to get injured if you fall."

"The only falling your doing now is falling further behind," the first voice noted. "The others are out of sight. There is no other way. You climbed up the mountain just fine and to get home you have to go down. You should have thought of that earlier. So you better get down there because it's going to be embarrassing enough as it is to have everyone waiting for you."

So, screwing up my courage, I slid my skis over the edge.

It wasn't always like this. I used to gladly throw myself off of every incline while complaining loudly that the flat stuff was boring. But then some little demon got inside of me and should my confidence. First, a nasty spill trail running that got infected and oozed pus down my legs for a month or two, then a running injury that has kept me from pounding pavement for the past two years, some stitches from the first ski of the season last year, and a series of needles and injections in the left foot have changed my perspective. For the first time, I am aware of my own mortality and I don't like it. When my family went cross country skiing when I was growing up there was an infamous "Ridge Trail" that was sort of a right of passage. It was a long, all-day affair with a big climb up a mountain and a long, treacherous descent. I realized that the ski yesterday, that the current trail was of a similar nature. I wanted to put off facing going downhill for another day. But being brave isn't something one schedules--it's an immediate call to arms.

I gulped as my skies pointed down and the world began to slant. I snowplowed like there was no tomorrow, fell preemptively a few times, and tried to act natural when my companions (both of whom are women a decade or more my senior) were waiting at the bottom of the mountain with extra jackets on because they'd been there for awhile and were getting cold. Once I got over the pure panic, I learned that I still can go downhill without hurting myself. I can fall and at best get snowy and at worst get bruised. I recognize that this is a small and silly triumph, but sometimes it feels good to do battle the small parts of ourselves.

"Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear--not absence of fear. Except a creature be part coward it is not a compliment to say it is brave." -Mark Twain

Just Another Day in the Office

2011-01-27T20:36:00.000-07:00

I was walking to work in the dark yesterday morning when the dogs in Gardiner started whining and barking. I paused to silence the crunching of my feet in the snow and heard the distant howling of wolves. And did I mention that a deer has been on my porch eating my lilac bush? I saw her tracks in the new snow. In the past week I have traveled hundreds of miles by bus, van, snowcoach, skis, and snowshoes. I have been amazed at the beauty of the earth.

Here are a few of the highlights:

For the beauty of the earth,

For the beauty of the skies;

For the love which from our birth,

Over and around us lies.

For the wonder of each hour,

Of the day and of the night;

Hill and vale and tree and flow'r,

Sun and moon, and stars of light.

or the joy of ear and eye,

For the heart and mind's delight;

For the mystic harmony,
Linking sense to sound and sight.

or the joy of human love,
Brother, sister, parent, child;

Friends on Earth and friends above,
For all gentle thoughts and mild;

Lord of all, to Thee we raise
This, our hymn of grateful praise.

To Hear A Wolf

2011-01-23T16:43:00.001-07:00

I leaned against the van with my eyes closed, soaking up the winter afternoon sun to warm up after leading a group skiing. My group of 10 students, all old enough to be my parents, eagerly crowded around a few scopes set looking on the top of a bench across the Lamar River. They watched six wolves wake up from a nap and begin to work their way through the deep snow. As a guide and instructor it is a relief to find the ever-sought, often-elusive Canis lupus. Despite the excitement of the sighting, not a word was spoken. In fact, everyone held their feet still in the crunchy snow to listen. The wolves turned their noses to the sky and filled the air with their howls creating the magical harmony of singing wolves--no two on the same pitch. I closed my eyes and relished the moment, not as a guide, but as one listening to a symphony. I know that wolves howl for many reasons: pack unity, excitement and hunting, to locate each other when spread out, happiness, loneliness, birth of pups, etc. But for me, hearing a wolf is also a powerful cry of wildness.

When I was eleven years old I came to the Lamar Valley with several other 6th graders to spend a week learning ecology from Rangers Chet and Jane. It was just a few years prior to the 1995 reintroduction of wolves. I returned to visit the Lamar Buffalo Ranch in the summer 2009. I arrived in the dark and rolled out my sleeping bag in one of the small cabins there. I opened the door to view the stars before going to sleep. Out of the darkness rose the unmistakable call of a wolf: it was a sound missing when I had come as a kid. I stood in my doorway, alone in the darkness, with the hairs on the back of my neck tingling. A wolf's song is an unforgettable reminder of untamed places and animals that exist beyond human settlements.

The sun moved toward the horizon. The chill of night comes early in the winter months. The wolves moved through the snow and into the trees, lost from view. We quietly put away the scopes and drove away--the call of the wild still ringing in my ears.

"Were you raised a Mormon?"

2011-01-09T09:16:00.001-07:00

"Yes, and I still am," I reply. I am with my group of 11 students for the week and we are seated around a table taking a break from scouting for wildlife to eat lunch. More questions come in the days that follow. Did you serve one of those missions? Where do you go to Church? Not all of my students nor all of my new friends in Gardiner ask these questions. Most stop asking after finding out I went to Brigham Young University and that I have five brothers and sisters. I can see the wheels turning and turning when I do not order an alcoholic beverage with dinner. "Aren't women sort of oppressed and held back?" one man asked. I explained that women in the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints are not second class citizens. Rather, we are full and equal partners in every way. Another inquired, "Do you want a family?" and "Are Mormons Christian?" Affirmative to both. The questions don't bother me. In fact, I am glad to be able to answer a few and (hopefully) be known as a good Christian.

For I do believe in Jesus Christ. I do believe that He was born of a virgin, lived a perfect life, and suffered and died for each person's sins. I do believe that He rose from the tomb on the third day giving the gift of eternal life. I believe in eternity. I believe in this church to which I belong. I believe that Joseph Smith did see Heavenly Father and Jesus Christ. I believe the Book of Mormon is true and it tells of Christ. I believe in prophets today. I believe that God knows and loves each person. I believe in prayer. My faith is the heart of who I am and who I strive to become. It lights my way--it is the star I follow. Like C.S. Lewis, "I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else."

"As if you could kill time without injuring eternity."

2011-01-05T17:10:00.001-07:00

I've always liked Thoreau. I love the idea of moving out to the woods, building a modest cabin, and thinking deep thoughts. Yes, I know that Thoreau had a few personality quirks--like Ralph Waldo Emerson having to help pay a few bills on occasion or that he thought the ladies found his neck beard attractive. Gentlemen: they didn't then, they don't now, and they won't ever. I remember studying Thoreau in high school and learning that he had hoped to be a poet, but it turned out he wasn't actually good enough to make a living as a poet. His writings gained much of their popularity after his death. Nevertheless, there is something that is still just a little bit magical about his life. Lately I've been reminded that at the age of 28 he stepped away from his Concord life (although Walden was barely 2 miles away from Concord) to "experiment" in living simply. For the next two years Thoreau wrote, thought, and searched himself to understand what truly matters most. A little over two passed and he returned to Concord. His experience did not gain him fame or fortune. Indeed, he spent the next nine years making pencils at the family factory while rewriting Walden. I clearly remember standing on the foundations of his cabin in Massachusetts. A sign nearby read, "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I have not lived." I remain captured by the idea of living deliberately. To take recognize and seize those things that matter most. I wonder if after he returned to Concord and began making pencils if he ever took a walk back to Walden to remember what he learned there? Did he ever sigh for those quiet days near the pond? Did he love Walden the way that I love these woods?

Winter after the 2009 Arnica Fire

This is my Walden. It is the place I come to be centered and to learn for myself what matters most to me. I come to learn to live with the rhythm of nature and to share that heartbeat with others. Thoreau might express this feeling differently saying, "If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away." This is my time to face the essentials in life and boil it down to the few things that matter most. I moved here one month ago and find much to reflect upon. I find that living deliberately is about family, friends, and faith. I am an instructor and Yellowstone is my classroom. But I have learned much from watching my students. They come to this place to take a special trip and they come with the people that matter most: spouse, children, or a close friend. I see that it is not enough to experience it alone, the things that matter most must be shared with others. I just returned from two days with my family and find that greatest happiness is in human relationships. After all, "Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eyes for an instant?" Faith, I find, is my constant companion. Faith in things I cannot see and hope in the unknown. One of Thoreau's earliest memories was lying awake at night "looking through the stars to see if I could see God behind them." I remember standing in the hayfield as a child wondering which star was heaven.

West Thumb Geyser Basin

I do not know how long this season for reflection and deliberation will last. But, like Thoreau, I am learning that, "If one advances confidently in the direction of his dreams, and endeavors to live the life which he has imagined he will meet with success unexpected in common hours." That's quite a brave belief for a man who earned a living at the family pencil factory. Perhaps he did learn something about the "essential facts of life" while he was at Walden.

Hayden Valley

Sources: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_David_Thoreau, http://www.vcu.edu/engweb/transcendentalism/authors/thoreau/, photos of Yellowstone National Park by Michael Justice

I am Glad for Many Things...

2010-12-30T19:43:00.000-07:00

...today especially:
- a hot shower after a cold day
- a space heater in the bathroom right after the shower
- an apartment so small that I can carry said space heater to every single room without ever needing to unplug it
- a down coat
- a down vest
- down mittens
- a down comforter
- hand warmers tucked in each coat pocket
- the toe warmers that stick right to my socks
- the wool socks under the toe warmers
- let's not forget those great boots outside of the package (incidentally, everyone notices and asks me about my boots and I can't figure out why)
- hot chocolate in a thermos when it's o'dark 30 in the morning and cold
- hot tea in the above situation and at any other time
- hot soup in between the cocoa and tea
- the heater in the bus
- I pay homage to radiators in general
- my Rudolph-red long johns (I've never had red underwear before)

And that wonderful stupor that sets in after a long day outside in the cold when all the hot food and drink finally gets me warm--even my toes, nose, and fingertips. I feel like the little mountain chickadee who lowers its body temperature 20 degrees at night to survive by spending less energy staying warm. Except that I have a lower body temperature during the daytime and at night I thaw out and come back to beautiful 98.6.

Did I mention that a north wind is blowing and tomorrow's windchill prediction is 20 to 30 below zero?

Come Away With Me

2010-12-29T10:08:00.000-07:00

I've spent much of the past few weeks scouring the northern range of Yellowstone looking for wildlife. I've never devoted so much time looking for animals. Although I am no stranger to Yellowstone, I am still amazed by the diversity of the wildlife in an ecosystem with very little human interference. Before lunch on Thursday I had seen a 5 point mule deer, a golden eagle, a bald eagle, bison being hazed back into park boundaries (that's another story), coyotes, a trophy elk resting in a pasture among some horses just outside the park, pronghorn antelope pawing away the snow to reach grass, and three bighorn sheep rams battling for mating privileges with a young ewe. The days that followed added to that list multiple foxes, a wolf pack, and an assortment of birds. Not to mention Dasher and Dancer were hanging out by my door this past week. I've learned that if I pull over with a scope and search carefully, something will be out there going about its life. I spent yesterday snowshoeing up a ridge with overlooking a glacial carved valley contrasted with a canyon created by a river. I felt all alone at the top of the world, until I came over a rise and found a few bighorn sheep looking back at me. I detoured around three separate groups. It isn't easy to survive the harsh winters here. I watched kids born in the spring paw at the snow to reach the dead grasses underneath. Sometimes it takes more energy to get to the grass than is received from eating it.

As I trudged (which is the only form of movement that can be done on snowshoes) back towards my car I thought how difference between an excursion in Yellowstone than other places: the animals here are as much a part of the landscape as the thermal features and rivers. It is easy to imagine myself as a mountain man like Jim Bridger, or even a pioneer. They saw the West filled with life around every corner. To take a walk alone here is to step back in time and catch a glimpse of life before Europeans fulfilled their "manifest destiny". It takes more effort to live near wildlife. If there are deer or other ungulates around having a garden or planting new trees can be difficult. If there are predators it changes how we care for our pets and where we put our garbage. I have been impressed by the community here that has learned to do some of these things.

Coyote taking the easiest path to his destination.

Yellowstone is a place where wildlife can live essentially without human involvement and that's not the best choice for every landscape. But in every landscape we can make small changes in our lives that improve the situation for our furry, feathered, and pollinating friends. A backyard can easily be made into a bird habitat. Do you know which plants are native to your area? Try growing a few. Nature isn't just thousands of miles away in a designated state or federal facility. It can also be in each town or city, if we make a place for it.

"Conservation is a state of harmony between men and land." -Aldo Leopold

A Sunday Walk in the Park With John Muir

2010-12-12T19:42:00.000-07:00

“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread,

places to play in and pray in,

where nature may heal and

give strength to body and soul.”

“How glorious a greeting the sun gives the mountains!”

“Take a course in good water and air; and in the eternal youth of Nature you may renew your own.

Go quietly, alone; no harm will befall you.”

“Between every two pines is a doorway to a new world.”

“In every walk with nature one receives far more than he seeks.”

"The clearest way into the Universe

is through a forest wilderness."

There's No Place Like Home

2010-12-05T22:23:00.000-07:00

In C.S. Lewis's The Chronicles of Narnia Aslan tells the Pevensie children that they cannot come back to Narnia. They go back to their own world and live their lives, never forgetting the magical land of Narnia where animals talk and they have wonderful adventures. Then, in the final book, the children are suddenly snatched from their world to Narnia--this time to stay. I feel a little bit like that. This week I moved to Montana. "Moving to Montana" sounds like it ought to be on a bumper sticker. Starting tomorrow I will be an instructor for the Yellowstone Association. Yellowstone National Park, like Narnia for the Pevensie's, is now my permanent home. Most people tell me that I'm "living the dream". If you should wonder what the dream is like, let me tell you a little bit about Gardiner, Montana.

It's located on the edge of the northwest corner of Yellowstone only a few miles north of Wyoming and the 45th parallel. In other words, I am closer to the North Pole than the equator. Sociologist that I am, I can't resist demographic statistics: population of 742 (counting me), pretty even gender ratios and married vs. singles, ranks in the 98th percentile for air quality, the unemployment rate of 6.6%, the crime rate is half that of the U.S. average, the mean temperature in July is 86 degrees and in January it's 13, and the elevation is 5,285 feet. I went to church today where there 21 people (8 under 18) and 3 deer in the parking lot.

I have 400 square feet, not counting the front porch, to myself. For the first time I have no roommates which means I don't have to label my food anymore. I've already learned that I talk to myself more than I realized. I take my garbage a few miles outside of town to the dump where I was thrilled to discover that they have recycling! The lone grocery store is called The Food Farm and I can walk there in three minutes. The only chain restaurant in town is a Subway. The closest stoplight is 51 miles away. And what of my neighbors? I often see residents walking down the street. About half of the time these residents are human; the other half are deer working their way down from high elevations that are now filled with snow towards lower ground for the winter. There was a five point elk in the post office parking lot yesterday. There is a pile of deer scat on my front porch, which was where I was standing for the following:

I feel the immensity of the change as much as if I really had stepped through a magical wardrobe and heard the door close behind me. Even good change can be disconcerting. I tell myself, "I can do brave things." I remember being part of a discussion about the meaning of the word home. Is it a childhood house? A college apartment or a car packed for a long road trip? For me, home is the place that I think of while falling asleep at night and where I want to be in those moments before I first open my eyes in the morning. I think of a place that is quiet with few people. I imagine beautiful pine trees. There are stars twinkling above and I can see the Milky Way. I must be home because now when I go to sleep I cannot wish myself in any other place.

A Reluctance to Die

2010-11-04T08:56:00.002-06:00

On the alpine slopes of Wheeler Peak, on the eastern edge of Nevada, there stands a grove of bristlecone pine trees. Bristlecones are the oldest living organisms on the planet. They are twisted and grow slowly in the harshest of conditions. There are short growing seasons, harsh winds, and brutally cold temperatures. They grow slowly and have very hard wood. In fact, their wood is so hard it is resistant to disease and bugs. When such a tree eventually dies it continues standing for thousands of years. It does not decompose, it is so hard that it erodes. Slow growth and their unusual ability to adapt are the keys to their long lives. An interpretive sign read, "...[The tree's] ability to stand for centuries after death is directly related to the adversity of its life."

The sun was setting early behind Wheeler Peak as I stood in the grove of pines. I looked at the "grotesquely beautiful"tree in front of me. It was 3,200 years old. It's always a danger to anthropomorphize something, but I couldn't resist. What would such a tree say if it spoke? What is it afraid of and what does it hope for the future? What advice would it give me?

It awoke from dormancy as a seed at about 1190 BC. That was four years prior to the Trojan War. There are Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. This mighty pine is older than all but the Great Pyramid of Giza.

When the famous Hanging Gardens of Babylon were built, the pine had seen about 600 years pass by. It was already 900 years old when the Lighthouse of Alexandria, the tallest of man's creations for many centuries, guided sailors into the Egyptian harbor. It was alive and well when the great statue of the Greek god Helios which formed the Colossus of Rhodes was sculpted.

This tree had lived through the creation and the destruction of such mighty wonders as the Statue of Zeus at Olympia, the Mausoleum of Halicarnassus, and had lived through the earthquakes, fires, and mobs that destroyed them as human civilizations came and went. Indeed, this tree and the Great Pyramid of Giza are all that are left on that list. And there are bristlecones older than even the pyramids. These trees live far from human civilizations so they do not see the wonders man built or their passing away. But what would this venerable pine think about the swift passage of human history? What would it say about political parties that come and go, the wars won and lost, or all the changes that mark human life? I imagine that this tree was more like Treebeard, the ancient ent from Tolkien's Lord of the Rings. Treebeard was concerned about the health of his forest and the constant earthy elements of water, air, and sunlight. The bristlecones have seen centuries upon centuries and have survived against all of nature's challenges. The biggest threat that these trees face at this point is climate change. They already live in the harshest, coldest climates. As the planet warms, they (or their seeds) have no where to go to find a suitable habitat.

In the shadow of the mountain, under the branches of such trees, I was awed by the tenacity of the trees. The harsh conditions these trees grow in give them the strength to persist.

Sources: http://www.lhaasdav.com/timelines/timeline_30000_1000_bc.html, http://www.nps.gov/grba/planyourvisit/identifying-bristlecone-pines.htm

Endemic: it only happens in one place.

2010-09-14T16:20:00.001-06:00

At the beginning of 2nd grade Mrs. Clinger gave us homework: look on ditch banks for milkweed. It has long, silvery leaves that are three or four inches long. The leaves are soft to the touch. We recognized the plant by its seed pods bursting with seeds hanging from silky parachutes. I broke a leaf, and found a white, milky juice inside from which the plant gets its name. Once we identified the plant, we were to look for a black, white, and yellow striped caterpillar. Put the caterpillar in a jar with a milkweed cutting and bring it to school. In a matter of days each caterpillar hung upside down like a J and a pale green chrysalis formed around him.

At school I checked the chrysalises daily, eagerly awaiting the end of the metamorphosis. Finally, beautiful monarch butterflies crawled out. We did our best to resist the temptation to touch those beautiful orange and black wings while we waited for them to dry. I learned the hard way that the butterflies whose wings were touched would never fly.

Butterflies migrate from Mexico all the way to Canada and back--up to nearly 3,000 miles. This journey occurs over four generations of monarchs in the course of one year since most live only 2-6 weeks. No one knows how each newly hatched caterpillar-turned-butterfly knows to continue the multi-generation migration. The monarch I hatched in 2nd grade was the final generation of the year. It was headed south towards Mexico for the winter.

Milkweed doesn't look like much. In fact, it's toxic if you eat much. But that is what protects the butterflies from predators. The milkweed chemicals it eats as a caterpillar remain inside and make many of its predators sick. Milkweed seeds, with their silky parachutes, were used in early colonial days to fill pillows and comforters--their structure is similar to down. During World War II, when other supplies were short, milkweed pods were collected and used to stuff life jackets for soldiers.

I thought of these things as I stood by the milkweed in the garden. I don't see much milkweed anymore. Building houses, diverting water, and replanting with exotic plants has made milkweed harder to find. The first seedpod had burst and I reached down to gather the seeds with their weightless white sails. Milkweed is the only plant that a monarch butterfly will lay its eggs on. It is the only plant that the caterpillar will feed on before forming a chrysalis. I held the feathery seeds cupped in both hands and watched the breeze pick one from the top. It soared above my head and away to the west. I looked at the city filling the valley below and wondered if the seed will find a place to grow. The migratory pattern of monarchs is threatened because of habitat loss. Love a butterfly--grow milkweed. I lifted my hands up to the sky and let all the seeds fly on the invisible breeze to find a place to wait for spring.

Sources: http://www.monarch-butterfly.com/, http://www.worldwildlife.org/species/finder/monarchbutterflies/monarchbutterflies.html

"All children, except one, grow up."

2010-08-20T20:33:00.002-06:00

On Monday, the first day of camp, Rebecca's mom pulled me aside. "Rebecca has mild autism," she told me. "She has been to Red Butte camps before and loves them, but I wanted to let you know she may need to hear things more than once." I noticed this week that Rebecca--a tall, slim 4th grader with shoulder length brown hair--was often in her own place. She had a good time with whatever we did, but didn't talk with the other kids much and was happy on her own.

This afternoon all fifteen of us found a shady place the courtyard. I brought pipe cleaners, pony beads, string, and jingle bells and watched in amazement as the kids turned them into incredible creations. Anklets, bracelets, rings appeared instantly. Headbands, pipe cleaner scissors, and baseball cap decorations evolved later. For forty-five minutes the kids didn't want to move, even to go and eat. They were mesmerized by the beads and their own creativity. They sat on the ground in tight circles searching the bowls for the right colour choices. I sat on a bench watching them work and preventing fights over the few precious glow-in-the-dark beads. I watched the blue sky behind the red foothills.

Rebecca finished after only a few minutes. She made a pipe cleaner bracelet strung with sparkling beads and one jingle bell. She stepped out of the shade and into the sun and smiled as the beads caught the light. She skipped and giggled as the bell tinkled. She jumped, leaped, and twirled in her green summer skirt. She swirled her arms above her head and down--always watching her bracelet in the light. She laughed out loud as the small bell jingled with her jumps. She danced free and without form. Her eyes and face were open, happy, and enraptured by the miracle of beads and bells moving in the sunlight. Her happiness was simple and pure. Rebecca was everything that childhood embodies. I wanted so much to join her! But this dance was hers, not mine. She filled the courtyard with her dancing until the others finally finished their projects.

"You must have been warned against

letting the golden hours slip by;

but some of them are golden only

because we let them slip by."

— J.M. Barrie

"Why, if I picked a day to fly, this would be it!"

2010-08-10T20:33:00.000-06:00

The barn swallows fledged today. They built the entire nest--a small mud cup above the boys' bathroom door in the Children's Garden at Red Butte--in less than twenty-four hours. One day it was just a small blob of mud and the next day it was complete. Usually I think of natural processes as being very lengthy. How long for a stream to carve the slim, twisting slot canyon or a glacier to carve the u-shaped valley? But nature moves quickly as well. Summer still reigns, but already all over the Garden seeds are growing. Some are fruit, like pears. Others, like the service berries, have already gone to the birds. The oak trees have miniature acorns and the milkweed has fluffy pods under each leaf. And only a month or so ago a pair of barn swallows built a nest. I saw the female sit on it each day as I used the bathroom and hundreds of the children I teach discovered it and eagerly led me by the hand to see their discovery.

I've been watching another nest as well. The Cooper's Hawks rebuilt last year's nest and this time they were successful in raising two chicks. For the past few weeks, while the parents were hunting, its' two occupants frequently peeked over the edges. I stood underneath the nest and high above me one would stand with his white baby feathers. He stood silhouetted in the sunlight. I was always the first to end the staring contest. Mom or Dad sometimes sat nearby on a branch. Recently, when I come by no chick peers down at me. But today while walking across the Wildflower Meadow four hawks flew across to land in the trees at the edge. Four hawks with the characteristic banded tails of the Cooper's Hawk.

Meanwhile, the barn swallows hatched and grew. Nakedness was replaced by feathers and the nest became more and more crowded. This morning they seemed to be standing on top of one another. The parents flew constantly to and from with food.

About midmorning I noticed an unusual number of swallows zipping and diving high above the Children's Garden. I checked the nest and only one bird remained--not ready to go. But every other swallow in the Garden celebrated the day of flight as the new birds flew acrobatics all afternoon. I wished to be one of them! I rushed a boy to the bathroom for an emergency trip this afternoon (he didn't make it all the way) and while he used the bathroom I watched the last bird . It stood at the edge of the nest stretching its wings, but not ready to test them. Other swallows flew in to chirp at the last chick, but still it didn't go. I wanted to be there when it flew. After all, what could be more magical than a bird's first flight? At last I left the nest to go to other places in the Garden. But when checking it this evening the mud nest was empty and quiet, as was the air above the Garden. What a wonderful day for flight! Clear sky, strong sunlight, and a wind blowing up the mountain.

Meet the American Dipper

2010-02-09T23:08:00.002-07:00

One of my favourite creatures of Yellowstone is this dark greyish-black bird that is seen in shallow rapids and fast moving water. The American Dipper (also known as the Water Ouzel) is about the size of a robin and rather unremarkable in its outside appearance. The Dipper can be found in mountain waters from Panama to Alaska. It doesn't really migrate so in Yellowstone it is seen in the dead of winter, standing on rocks in icy waters, "dipping" at the knees. These birds sing year-round to claim a certain patch of river as their territory. The Dipper lives entirely off of aquatic insects and occasionally a tadpole or small fish. To get these it must go into and under the water. Dippers have special nostrils that close underwater and an extra eyelid that allows it to be able to see. They have strong enough feet that they can walk on the bottom of the river while completely submerged by gripping rocks with their feet. Even more amazing, they dive into the stream and "fly" underwater by flapping their wings. In fact, Dippers can even fly/swim upside-down. It can be a dangerous life at times. Because of their underwater habits, sometimes this little bird becomes prey to a salmon or some other large fish it may encounter. The presence of Dippers shows good water quality. They can't survive near a polluted stream.

I am always amazed to see this plucky little bird standing in the middle of rivers surrounded by snow doing its characteristic "dipping" at the knees. Long after everyone else is bored, I keep watching it dive in and out of the icy waters. I think about persistence. Sometimes smallest, most unremarkable looking creatures do the most incredible things when we can’t see. We could a lot from the Dipper.

Source: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_Dipper

Never a Dull Moment

2010-01-25T21:56:00.000-07:00

A few thoughts and observations over the past week or so.

About guests:
- Tip. Please, when in doubt: tip. In fact, if you can afford to vacation in ritzy places you can afford to spare a few dollars for the underpaid waitress, bellhop, or driver
- Please, please pack light. A 21 person ski club came and we couldn't figure out what on earth they brought. But we dutifully stacked their luggage on top of the coach until the pile was as tall as I am. Imagine a body-bag size duffle, smaller duffle, a cooler of alcohol, a pair of skiis, and a pair of snowshoes for each person. I found out later they came to the lodge and went snowmobiling. That's some kind of ski club.

About driving:
- There is no time to use the restroom when you're the driver. When I drop off the guests to use the facilities I go get gas and by the time I'm back they are ready to go. Probably wouldn't make much of a difference. I'm amazed how long I can hold it when the temperature is -11. I'd be worried that if I sat on that cold, cold toilet seat I might stick like a tongue to a flagpole.
- Speaking of gas, one day this week I drove 100 miles and put in 43 gallons of gas. That means about 2.33 miles per gallon.
- My boss called me Carl on the radio. Every driver in the park heard. No wonder I never feel like a girl here.
- Meet "Turd Girl". That's what 50 California retirees know me as. We were wolf watching and I took the opportunity to show them what we can learn about wolves by looking at their scat. So I picked up a frozen piece and they guests couldn't believe it. Whenever I walked through the lobby in the days that followed they all cried out, "Hi Turd Girl!" But at least they e-mailed me the picture.

About Life Here:
- I'm flattered, I heard through the grapevine that another Old Faithful employee said about me, "I'll marry her, she's got morals." Until he found out that I am over 21. I'm too old.
- I asked a few coworkers about how they met their girlfriend or wife. One met his 800 miles into hiking the Appalachian Trail. The other met her when he tried to race her in their hometown in high school and she beat him off the line. Then he took her on a shooting date and she showed him up at that. They've been married for a long time and have grown kids. Now they are both snowmobile guides.
- This past week there was a swarm of earthquakes--over 900, but most couldn't be felt. The strongest was about 3.8. They are the first earthquakes I have ever felt. My friend from California kept running to the doorway without even thinking while I was still laying bed trying to remember what one is supposed to do in an earthquake. I vaguely remember something about crawling under your desk.

Don't Quit Your Day Job.

2010-01-18T14:52:00.001-07:00

Sometimes my life reminds me of stories of up-and-coming musicians--the ones that wait tables during the day to sing in jazz clubs at night. I spend my days, as you know, driving mini-tanks over the river and through woods around Yellowstone. The stars of the show are the buffalo, eagles, wolves, and elk. But at night, when everyone returns to the lodge and relaxes in the lobby, all that changes. My friend George is a retired vocal professor who is hired to play piano in the lobby in the evenings. He owns an impressive collection of music and a couple of times a week I stand behind him at the piano to sing along. Each night has a different musical theme: jazz, Gershwin, Broadway...Strangely, guests are usually more impressed with my ability to carry a tune than carry their luggage. Obviously, they haven't carried their luggage recently. Believe it or not, people ask questions like these: "Have you sung on Broadway?", "Are you going to be a Broadway star?", and "Is she a professional nightclub singer?" My fellow transportation workers have offered to turn the bellhop desk into a bar, let people smoke, and transform the lobby into a club. Unfortunately, I didn't bring the slinky black dress to really bring it off. Besides, the lighting really isn't right.

Usually I pick the music, but sometimes there are requests. Last week a group of 50 retirees were visiting and we all sang "Red River Valley" and "Puff the Magic Dragon" together. Tonight a woman stopped by to join in on "Summertime" and "Some Enchanted Evening". My favourite was a girl, probably about 8 years old, who sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" with me tonight.

Tonight is also significant because it marks the first time that I've ever been paid to sing. A little girl gave George and I $1 each. The funny part, is that this happened while I was singing songs from Beauty and the Beast. So I guess doing that play has finally "paid" off.

A Lesson in Ecology

2010-01-16T13:51:00.002-07:00

Lately, I've been thinking about the first law of ecology which states: everything is connected to everything else. Last week I stood in the Hayden Valley watching the Canyon wolf pack feed on a carcass. They had pulled a piece of winter-killed bison calf (winter kill is when an animal succumbs to some other ailment such as hunger, weakness, or injury and dies on its own) aside and the alpha female and male were eating while the big, black alpha male slept in the sun nearby. As soon as the two wolves moved off to nap the ravens descended. Later, when the wolves moved further away I'm sure the coyotes in the valley came to scavenge as well. Eagles and magpies may join them. Not mention a host of beetles and bugs that will finish the process. All the result of one bison calf dying—and that's only the beginning.

In the years since the 1995 wolf reintroduction there have been a number of ecological changes in Yellowstone that scientists are studying to determine the relationship between the changes and the wolves. Having wolves as predators appears to change where elk graze. Now elk stay out of streambeds because they are vulnerable to attack there. Willows are recovering in Yellowstone. With the growth of willows there has been an increase in beaver (who have been at low numbers). Because of the dams beavers build wet, riparian areas are increasing. With more marshy areas the moose population may rise, not to mention amphibians and song birds. The wolf return means fewer coyotes. Fewer coyotes likely result in more fox, more rodents, and more pronghorn antelope fawns survival. More rodents mean more owls, hawks, and eagles.

Sometimes the interrelationships tell a sad story. Trumpeter swans are recovering from near extinction in the middle of the past century. Hundreds of swans migrate from Canada to winter in and around Yellowstone. They come because thermal runoff into rivers keeps the water from freezing. Swans used to fly further south, but they have lost wetlands along the way. They migrate by memory and now that no swans know the way the restoration of wetlands will not restore their previous migration. Should Yellowstone have a hard, cold winter many will starve to death and threaten the existence of the year-round swan population in the area. I wonder how they lost their wetlands. Was it in the building of houses, suburbs, and cities? I like to believe that if a few ponds and marshes were preserved along the way that human society would reap as many benefits from them as the swans would. I believe that unintended consequences matter. Sometimes they matter most.

Garrett Hardin expressed the first law of ecology in these words, "We can never merely do one thing." Although humans have a tendency to view themselves as separate from nature, this first law applies just as it does to wolves, ravens, and swans. Each choice and decision has multiple effects, many of which are unexpected.

Sometimes, the end of a long day finds me driving through the woods watching the last rays of sun filter through the trees casting long shadows on the snow. I think about relationships. I chose to come to Yellowstone to guide and drive. I knew I would learn some mechanical skills and facts about the Park. I didn't fully realize the way the friends I make here would change my perspective. Or that being here would clarify my expectations of work that I would like to pursue. I value relationships with friends and family so much more. Priorities are different. I hadn't expected to learn about faith, trust, and patience. I am learning a bit more about prayer and to search and work for answers. As the sun slips behind the horizon I conclude that human life is as complexly woven as the natural environment that surrounds me.

All things by immortal power.
Near of far, to each other linked are,

that thou canst not stir a flower
without troubling of a star.

- Francis Thompson (English poet 1859-1907)

Sources: Decade of the Wolf by Douglas W. Smith & Gary Ferguson, http://www.trumpeterswansociety.org/swan-migration-project.html

"I love all trees, but I am in love with pines." Aldo Leopold

2010-01-07T21:02:00.004-07:00

Between every two pines
is a doorway to a new world.

-John Muir

I never saw a discontented tree.

They grip the ground as though they liked it..."

-John Muir

The tree is more than first a seed, then a stem,

then a living trunk, and then dead timber.

The tree is a slow, enduring force
straining to win the sky.

-Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

The true meaning of life is to plant trees,

under whose shade you do not expect to sit.

-Nelson Henderson

If I knew I should die tomorrow,
I would plant a tree today.

-Stephen Girard

"Stick shifts and safety belts, bucket seats have all got to go."

2010-01-04T21:57:00.002-07:00

Most days begin and end with two similarities: it's dark and it's cold. I usually have to be at work by 6 am which means the alarm goes off at about 5:45. First, I offer a very heartfelt prayer that I won't break down that day. That leaves just enough time to put on boots, socks, toe warmers, long johns, insulated pants, thermal top, turtleneck, fleece vest, coat, beanie, work, gloves, brush my teeth and walk to dispatch while pulling on my headlamp. I begin the day as a fledgling mechanic checking the Bombardier ("bomb") over and coaxing it to start. She's no more excited than I am about waking up in the cold and dark. These coaches are at least 40-50 years old.

Once the coaches are running, we take a break for breakfast, and then it is time to play bellhop and load luggage. So I stand on top of the coach and another driver passes luggage up in the "cage" where I play tetris to try to make it all fit. I have no idea what people bring here that is so heavy. But I can do anything with bungee cords--secure skiis, poles, or crates of alcoholic beverages. Forget diamonds, bungees are a girl's best friend. Once luggage is loaded I switch to taxi driver and guide, put in my ear plugs, and get rolling. There are, luckily, rare moments of glamour to the job. Most of these moments come from these awesome amber-coloured sunglasses I have that not only really help on flat light days, they also make me feel pretty cool. Case in point:

Some questions about the coach and the ride: Will my makeup freeze up on top? I reply, "I can't promise you that your makeup won't freeze. Yes, of course you can carry it on your lap if you would like." Is there power steering? This question usually comes as I throw my body weight into cranking the wheel and try to quiet my panting after a three, four, or five point turn. "Yes," I respond as I flex my arm, "The power steering is right here." Is there wi-fi in the coach? "Umm, no." Is there any other way to get there? "Umm, no again." Good news, the bombs are loud enough that I can hum to myself the whole way and no one ever hears. As long as my lips don't move they have no idea that I'm being my own radio.

Any number of adventures can occur throughout the day. For example, this week my throttle cable froze as I tried to turn a corner in West Yellowstone. The bomb doesn't steer well in West anyway because the streets are too slick and there's nothing to grip, but in this case because the cable froze the gas pedal was literally frozen halfway down to the floor. I had a coach full of passengers I'd just met and we were suddenly gunning it across the intersection at an alarming rate, not turning at all, and headed directly for a gas pump. I flicked the power switch and we sat blocking the intersection while I made a few radio calls and pretended to act calm. I decided to not mention in the call the fact that I was blocking the intersection--no need to announce that to my boss, all the other drivers, and every ranger in the Park. Got the cable thawed, did a three point turn, and got out of there as fast as possible. Just act natural.

On another day, I stood with guests and watched 15 wolves cross the Hayden Valley, sneak up on some bison, and chase them for a bit. The bison then decided they'd had enough of that running thing and turned on the wolves. So much for dinner for the wolf pack. I watched an otter swim in the thermally-thawed edges of Yellowstone Lake. Plus, of course, the usual assortment of elk, bison, trumpeter swans, and bald eagles. In addition, there's always a nice walk around a geyser basin in the fog that frosts everyone so we all age to about 70 years old by the time the walk is over. Fabulous sunrises and sunsets.

The days end as an evening glacial technician. In other words, it is now dark and I'm lying under my coach beating all the ice and snow build-up off with a hammer. After 30 minutes (give or take) of this I fill it up with gas (don't get too close to the fumes, they give you zits), park it, and plug in the block heater. I am not good at parking a regular vehicle and I'm even worse at a snow coach.

I did get a great compliment this week. One fellow who also drives remarked, "Girls who drive snow coach are tough chics." Normally I don't like being called a "chic" but in this case I couldn't agree more. Besides, it was the closest I'd gotten to feeling like a girl in a month.

What Should I Wear to Church?

2009-12-28T13:10:00.000-07:00

It's the question that single girls in Singles Wards ask on Sunday mornings to themselves and their roommates. I asked it of myself this morning as well, but with a slight variation in emphasis. What to wear to not at church. A lucky Sunday without work and a one hour ride on a snowmobile with the only other church-goer to West Yellowstone. The thermometer reads -17 degrees. Here was today's outfit from toe to head: -148 degree boots (still got chilly toes), wool socks, toe warmers, two pairs of long johns, running pants, fleece pants, snow pants, 2 thermal tops, fleece turtleneck, two-piece coat, neck gaiter pulled up to my eyes, sunglasses, beanie, and helmet. I am coming to see hot chocolate as it's own food group. Scarcely a day, much less a meal, passes without it.

"Sweet is the sound of a carol sung by a choir...And sweeter still is life to me."

2009-12-27T20:17:00.003-07:00

Some days are so perfect that they spill over into the days before and after. In this case, it began early on Christmas Eve. By the time the sun rose I was driving bomb #711 across Yellowstone. The day was clear and the air sparkled. At noon my first Christmas wish came true--a change in schedule meant I would get Christmas off.

Later, I picked up my parents and sister in West Yellowstone in the afternoon. We were lucky enough to have a coach to ourselves as we drove back to Old Faithful and watched the sun go down behind the Madison Plateau. The snow reflected the colours of the sunset and the half moon began to rise. It had been dark a long time when I finally finished cleaning the coach that evening, but Christmas was waiting in the dorm room I had reserved for my family. It was a little room with two beds with barely enough space for the four of us to all be in it at the same time, but Eve had arranged the presents under a paper tree my nieces and nephews in Japan had sent.

We walked through the cold night to the Snowlodge where George plays piano in the evenings. Music is a part of my family and a part of Christmas, so Eve and I didn't hesitate to step up and sing along with the carols he played. Before we had finished the first phrase a father and daughter joined saying, "We were just waiting for someone to start singing first." Soon so many stood around the piano they crowded together to see the words and filled the hotel with music celebrating the birth of our Christ. Couples stood hand in hand, sisters arm in arm, and children stood all around George.

I found myself smiling at strangers across the impromptu choir who were laughing and smiling at me as well.

We all became friends and as we celebrated this special holiday far from home. Some couldn't sing because their voices choked as their eyes filled with tears. One man stood on the edges of the crowd alone, rarely singing but with moist eyes. By the fireplace another man seemed to sleep in an armchair, but his lips moved silently with the words of the music. Time flew and eventually children were put to bed, families drifted away, and George ended for the evening saying, "That was a very rare evening." No one felt as alone in the woods on Christmas Eve.

Christmas morning found the four of us crowded in and sleeping in the same dorm room. For the first time in my life, we opened presents in our pajamas (I'm sure it will be the only time in the history of the Eddington Family). We went on a ski through and to nearby geyser basins. Every geyser seemed to be erupting and celebrating as well. Eve and I talked and talked as we skied about boys, jobs, dreams, New Year goals, and hair cuts. The talking helped keep our faces from freezing. There is no friend like a sister.

The highlight of the afternoon was removing my stitches (I got to "unwrap" my knee for Christmas). Soon evening found us in the lobby of the Snowlodge again for a little more music, reading, and lots more talking. It was a Christmas so different from any that I've known. This year I missed so many of the things that make me think about Christmas. There were no decorated trees--no decorations at all, no shopping, no parties, no Ward Party or Ward Choir program, no goodies to and from neighbors, no lights, and for most of my friends here there was no Christ. I felt His spirit in the beauty of nature, but even more in being with family and hearing from many friends far away (even if it is through mass-text). My family left the next morning.

This Christmas couldn't have been better. There were little blessings and miracles at every turn--some that I won't write online. The last was that on Sunday I had the day off and had a ride to church in West Yellowstone. In the parking lot I found my parents and a crew of nieces and nephews there for church during their stay at the cabin. I loved snuggling with nieces during church and warming my frozen fingers on their cheeks. Every Christmas wish, even those I didn't dare to dream, came true.

Radio Call: 2905 this is 708. Frolic Fleet headed south to Old Faithful.

2009-12-19T23:16:00.004-07:00

There is a tradition that dates back to at least the early days of tours being given by car, if not earlier than that, called "Frolic". All new guides, then as they do now, would go throughout the park with an experienced guide to learn how and what to say and do.

From Tuesday until tonight at 9 pm we frolickers (11 newbie guides) reported to work at 6:15 where we banged all the ice off the coach under the direction of our guide and then headed to breakfast. We left Old Faithful by 7:30 and didn't return until after dark. We'd drive straight to the EDR and then after a quick dinner go bang more ice off the coach, fill it up with gas, and stumble back to the dorm. It wasn't always easy to climb in and out of vans and plod through knee-deep snow in geyser basins since I'm still pretty tender with the stitches.

But I have seen the park from top to bottom in the snow and have pages and pages of notes. I am now a repository for facts about Yellowstone--if I can just keep them straight.

- I have driven three kinds of coaches: Mattrack (15 passenger van with rubber tracks on all four wheel wells), Glaval (like a mini bus with four separate tracks), and the queen of the roads--the Bombardier (invented by the same French Canadian--Joseph Armand Bombardier--who invented the snowmobile, before he invented the snowmobile; it was meant to be a school bus for Canadian kids in the winter). She's affectionately called a "bomb". She's got a Chevy 350 V-8 engine (whatever that means). The coaches deserve an entire description of their own, but that will come later. Above is a Glaval (we were walking through the snowstorm in a basin).

- Bison chips have so much moisture in them that when they freeze they become like piles of steel in the road. If I hit one with the Mattrack or the Glaval I'll bend an axle.

- Don't get the Glaval near the edge of the road. No one knows for sure, but the mechanics think that if one track gets in the snow the entire thing will roll. The Glaval takes diesel. If I put in unleaded and then start the vehicle it will explode. Good to remember.
- Trumpeter swans pretty much mate for life.

- The Park Service prefers to call pit toilets "vault" toilets. Once someone asked a ranger why and was told, "Because it is a place where you deposit your treasures." Just don't make withdrawals.

- The leader of a bison herd (a herd is actually called an obstinacy) is the alpha female.
- All this touring stuff is a great idea, but the dispatchers (one of whom is German and gets large packages of sausages from home) told us, "Don't worry about touring too much for now. For now your motto should be: get 'em home safe."
- When a bomb starts to overheat, go to the back and bungee cord the door over the engine open so it gets more air.
- There is a lamp post in West Yellowstone just as you are driving into the Park. It's on the right just past the IMAX. Now I know I live in Narnia. This picture is the canyon and Lower Falls partially frozen.

- Road kill in Yellowstone is moved to certain areas in the Park because they still want the carcass to be available to other animals. So don't go hiking along those "Service Roads". Some of them are designated carcass dump sites.
- A small bird called the American Dipper hangs out in river rapids. It flies above water, dives below, and continues to fly through the water to catch the critters it likes. It can also grip the bottom with its feet and walk along the bottom of the river.

- Coach drivers never pass gas. We learned this the hard way (the bombs don't have gas gauges). This is me, standing by my bomb after it ran out of gas.

Luckily, it was just around the corner from the gas station. I guess that new tank doesn't hold as much as the mechanics thought. By the way, there's no power steering either.

- Duck Lake was caused by a steam explosion, unlike the West Thumb area of Yellowstone Lake which was caused by a magma explosion. So, in other words, Duck Lake is just a "quack in the earth".

- Boiling point at sea level is 212 at Old Faithful it is 199 degrees F.

On Friday afternoon we finished at Mammoth Hot Springs where we dropped of our guide/teacher and then piled into the three vehicles we were to shuttle down to Old Faithful (two bombs and a Glaval). We don't have mechanical training, but we didn't have any tools anyway so we crossed our fingers and headed south. Doing radio calls are kind of tricky because they are mostly numbers. For example: 2905. 708. 1029 Madison. 1017 Norris. 708. KNFK 912. When coaches travel together they have a name (north fleet, south fleet, etc.). The last coach gets to make the calls to dispatch. We called ourselves "The Frolic Fleet". I start my own tours on Tuesday. And Wednesday, for the first time in nine days I'll get a day off.

Goofy Learns to Ski

2009-12-13T16:13:00.003-07:00

This week we moved down to Old Faithful. It is nice to be back in the trees and it has also been a lot warmer here (in the 20s) which feels so nice! This week has been about skiing. The best way to get to meals is to ski and the only thing to do when not at meals is ski. Luckily, I am no stranger to cross-country skiing. To quote myself, "I grew up cross-country skiing." Friday after lunch another driver agreed to show me Fern, a 3-mile loop that leaves from near the dorm. Remember that old Disney movie about Goofy skiing in the Alps?

It was an absolutely beautiful day! The sky was clear blue without a cloud and the sun sparkled on the snow. The snow muffles all sound and it is difficult to even carry on a conversation with your ski buddy. The first half on the trail climbs up the hill for a view of the valley. At the top we had to go off course a little because a bison was on the trail and showed no inclination to leave. The second half of the trail goes downhill.

The very last hill isn't very steep, but it is long so a skier keeps picking up speed. Zac made it down without difficulty and I hoped to do the same. I was flying along the long downhill and around curves at a speed that was both exhilarating and also a little concerning. I came around the last bend and saw the level coming closer. At the point of maximum speed something went seriously wrong. I flew forward and face planted. Embarrassed, I rolled over as quickly as I could, pushed my snow-filled sunglasses onto my head, and tried to shake most of the snow off my face. I got myself up and the pain in my right knee suggested I would probably have a bruise there. After getting my breath back and limping a bit down the hill I assured my guide that I was just fine and we continued to ski. After a few minutes I glanced down and noticed a tear in my new fleecy sweats. Rats! Then I noticed some reddish stuff at the edges. I peeked through the tear and saw a V-shaped gash. After getting back to the dorm we took a closer look and it was definitely a rather meaty mess. I rolled up my pant leg and Zac and a fellow from personnel helped me clean it up a bit. I haven't really been into shaving my legs here, but I probably would have made time for that if I'd known anyone would be seeing them, especially up close. Later, I had a ranger take a gander and he immediately advocated some "professional" medical care. Luckily, the roads aren't completely closed yet and my good friend Pete (a semi-retired engineer from Ogden) had a truck and agreed to drive me to the nearest open medical facility.

So we raced against the clock and made it to urgent care one minute before they closed. With some tweezers to pull fleece bits out, numbing, a tetanus booster, a scrub brush, and seven stitches (lucky number seven) I limped back out. In two weeks I'll take out the stitches. It's swelling up now, but in the next few days that should go down.

In the meantime I am back in the Park and it has finally started to snow here. Everything is covered with a new white blanket and hopefully more is on the way. From my room I can see it falling against the trees. I'll be ready to ski again before Christmas.

I have learned firsthand that Lord Mancroft was right when he wrote, "There are really only three things to learn in skiing: how to put on your skis, how to slide downhill, and how to walk along the hospital corridor."

"Baby it's cold outside!"

2009-12-06T22:55:00.001-07:00

I'm gradually adjusting to life again in Yellowstone. I'm here at Mammoth Hot Springs for training until Thursday when we'll all move to Old Faithful. Mammoth is still on the edge of civilization so it is a nice way to ease into the season. Here is an assortment of observations from the last few days:
- I am so very grateful to birds who willingly (or unwillingly) gave their feathers to keep me warm. I would happily hug and kiss whoever figured out bird feathers belong in coats.
- New skill: judging the temperature +/- a few degrees by how my nose hairs freeze.
- The employee cafeteria is called the Employee Dining Room (EDR). I didn't miss it and it hasn't improved since I've been gone. I ate oatmeal for the first three meals in a row. There is a disease called EDR-dia (say it out loud and it will make sense). Beware the day they serve "Chinese".
- Getting my work uniform was an ordeal. Filling out the uniform request was a cinch until they asked what size pants I needed--in waist and inseam inches, which isn't how women's pants come. I don't know my measurements and they had no tape measure. I finally, through trial and error, got my size down (while all the other drivers waited in line for me to figure this out) and learned the uniform office didn't have it. Correction, they had pants my size, but they weren't insulated, is that okay? I quickly responded I would be happy to wear bigger pants. In my mind fashion is optional, but insulation is an absolute essential. So I held the pants up while a lady marked the hem. I decided to add a belt to the list of my requested uniform pieces. Good news--they have my size!
- What is that noise? The fellow in the room on the floor below snores.
- Last night my roommate Kristine and I wanted some ice cream after the guide pizza party in Gardiner. The only place open at 7 pm was the grocery store. We were met by containers there that were much larger than we needed. What to do? We couldn't eat that much ice cream and don't have a refrigerator in our room. However, given the temperature rating taking with my nose hairs, we decided to store it outside without any danger of it thawing. We came back to the room and ate it out of my titanium cup with sporks and put the rest out on the railing.
- We drove two hours today through a snow storm to the Wal-Mart at Bozeman. It took four Wal-Mart employees to help me find a shower caddy. One woman also offered us some dating advice while her boss was far enough away to not hear, "I would never date a man like that. Look at how high he wears his pants! Girls, don't date guys like that."
- Had CPR training yesterday. I did a little sociology during the training. Of the men in the room 75% had some kind of facial hair (9 of 12). Picture for a moment our instructor Dave: about six feet tall, solid build and a stomach that hung over his jeans. Now, from the bottom up: Sorel boots, dark blue Wranglers, long sleeved long johns sticking out from underneath a Sesame Street T-shirt reading "I was raised on the street", bright red suspenders, and a Yellowstone baseball cap. Under the hat was a head of curly blackish-brown hair. Most impressive, however, was Dave's beard. He must have had two hair follicles where most men have one. He had a full, bushy beard that covered his face, under his chin, and down most of his neck without losing any of its thickness.
- My Jiffy Lube sticker that tells me when to get my oil changed won't stick to the windshield when it is this cold. It falls right off.
- I went to the Gardiner Branch today. There is something special about branches. They were excited to see me there and quickly offered to transfer my records to the branch just so the Ward Clerk would have something to do, they invited me to dinner, invited me to pray, and really made me feel at home. It was a really wonderful testimony meeting.
- The Chapel in Gardiner has frosted windows, but it didn't used to. Once the Relief Society made beautiful silk floral arrangements at an Enrichment activity. On Sunday the arrangements were in the small chapel. A bison wandered by (I think it was winter) and really wanted at those flowers. He started sucking on the window and apparently a bison can make very loud sucking noises. The congregation and the speaker all turned and just watched the bison suck at the window trying to get in and eat the flowers. So now the church has frosted windows. That is the story told to me by the Branch President and his wife and they were there or else I wouldn't even believe it.
- I'm giving the Branch President's son a trumpet lesson tomorrow night since there's no one in the area that knows anything about trumpet.

Driving to church: Can't the elk read? This area is only for sheep!

Driving home from church

A Sunday morning walk when the temperature is 0

Sunrise over Mammoth Hot Springs

"A beautiful sight, we're happy tonight. Walking in a winter wonderland."

2009-12-02T20:24:00.004-07:00

It was 25 below this morning at Old Faithful. Luckily, I wasn't there. Yet. I left Blackfoot and watched the world around me change. Towns gave way to fields, then to trees and snow. I drove to West Yellowstone and made the final left-hand turn towards the Park. I quickly checked the rearview, and once I ascertained that no one was there to see, I finally took my picture with the "Yellowstone" sign.

Then I got back in the car quickly and tried to act natural. I drove to the gate--locked. But I had the combination! I've had Top Secret government clearance, but nothing felt as significant as turning the combination lock and opening the gate to Yellowstone. It's like having your own magic wardrobe into Narnia.

It really is a different world inside. Not a cloud in the sky and the sun made the snow sparkle. I didn't see any fawns, but about seven miles in I came upon two skate skiers headed out. I wonder how long it would take me to work up to that...I only saw three other cars. But in the drive to Mammoth Hot Springs I did see several trumpeter swans here for the winter, four bison, a herd of elk, and a lone coyote. The coyote crossed the road in front of me, waited until I had passed by, and then returned to the road headed towards Norris. I stopped and got out to get a good look at him. He stopped and looked back at me. The bison were pushing at the snow with their heads to dig down to the grass. The waterfalls are frozen. Listened to lots of Christmas music. I love my down vest.

I arrived safely in Mammoth. Nothing is open: no restaurant, no hotel, no general store. I am now tucked into my dorm room for the next two weeks for training until we all go to Old Faithful. My roommate and I will check in tomorrow and receive all the important stuff--namely, the ID card that lets us into the cafeteria. She ate crackers for dinner and I a cold can of soup (in a titanium cup with my spork, of course). The bathrooms and showers are down the hall. Through the window I can just glimpse one tall pine tree that has been hung with Christmas lights.

In my Defense

2009-12-02T20:12:00.000-07:00

I don't blog for two reasons. First, I humbly don't think I have anything to say that would be either humorous or profound. Second, my ego tells me that I am above posting online. However, since I failed miserably at staying in touch this past summer working in Yellowstone and family and friends have requested that I do a better job this winter. In other words, that I blog. My ego is flattered, I have selected my text colours and now there is naught left but to write. If you should feel pressed by traffic, cubicles, or social pressures step through the wardrobe and join me in Narnia. Let your imagination wander. I'd love the company.

A New Place to People Watch...

2009-01-30T14:25:00.000-07:00

I haven't been running for three weeks. I think that is a record. In fact, in the past five weeks I've been out only once. I did it to myself, of course--I pushed an injury too far. Fear not! All is not lost. I have been doing my swimming and biking duty and the nearby community rec center. This morning as I kickboarded my way up the lane I got a good look at some of the people sharing the pool with me and decided that rec centers are much better places to exercise.

First, the fellow at the front desk knows my name, and not because he wants a date. He probably has several grandchildren. But Dan (I finally asked his) is excited to see my and says, "Good morning Rachel" every day. And at 6:30 on a dark, cold January morning hearing my name means a lot. Especially since he may be the only person I talk to until 5 pm that evening.

Furthermore, the gym-rat crowd is missing. Instead, there are moms, dads, and a lot of retired folks there. It is nice to feel like a normal person instead of the biggest wimp at the place. In fact, sometimes I feel downright Olympic compared to others there. It's nice to lift weights after a 90 year-old great-grandmother. It's probably the only time I'll ever get to move the weight machine to more weight after someone else has used it. It's nice to sweat alongside real people.

I watch the people in the pool around me. There's the fellow in his late sixties that kick boards very slowly up and down the lap lane--for at least half an hour. A lifeguard warned me not to share a lane with him, he's grumpy. There are the ladies there for water aerobics with their goofy music and goofier moves. On Saturday morning a man in his 40s teaches and the entire pool is filled with women. Then there are the older ladies who are appear just to be hanging out in the deep end suspended by floaties just talking to their friends for the morning. They never seem to do anything. There is a lady doing some sort of water exercise who wears her hair in a snood! A small group also does laps in some sort of gentle river in the middle of the pool. My favourite is the couple where the husband walks backwards and the wife forwards so that they can face each other and talk. I guess after 50 years they still have plenty to say. Most everyone eventually cycles through the hot tub and chats there. Usually the on-duty lifeguard is hanging out with his feet in the water as well.

Really, could you ask for better company than these new friends?

After a nice, long break.

2009-01-13T15:01:00.000-07:00

Over the past six months I haven't felt very excited about this continuing road of education that I'm on. That's not just because it is still continuuing when everyone else has stopped. I've struggled with my plans, department politics, U of U's lack of funding and organization, etc. etc. But today things are different. I am thrilled to be here doing this. My friends are in offices with bosses and I am in a cushy chair by a window at the library reading an article titled "Demography, Feminism, and the Social-Science Policy Nexus". I mean really, who is so lucky that they get to stay in school 7.5 years with more to go? I have been dreading studying for this giant exam, but it isn't as bad as I have feared. Sometimes just starting is the hard part.

I love that I'm my own boss. I decide my schedule every day. Which means that I take walking breaks, eat lunch whenever I get hungry, and can pick any location across this big city to do my work. I really do like learning new things. Being a repository for social facts isn't particularly helpful in the social scene, but the daily push is a good feeling. I like that I can still come home each day and say, "Guess what I learned today?" I really love that I can where whatever I want each day. In other words, no heels and hose for me. Blue jeans and sneakers.

Sometimes I am sick of being poor. I get tired of still doing homework at night. I'd love good health insurance. Still wish I knew what would happen when this ends (assuming I pass that big exam). But I am all too aware that I am one of the very lucky few who get an education. Not just a minimal amount, but as much as one can possibly obtain. I study society and I know that if I was a woman born in a different time period, of a different race, to a different culture, to a different socioeconomic position none of what I do would be possible. That makes me even luckier, even more blessed. It's a good, new year.

So excuse me, because I still need to read "Historical Demography: Achievements and Prospects" and "Demography: Past, Present, and Future" before I can go home.

"It's the Spirit of the Season, you can hear it in the air!"

2008-12-09T11:08:00.000-07:00

I really love being a student in the winter. And that's not because the U doesn't shovel their sidewalks very well. Rather, it is because I get to wear all of my snow and outdoor gear, that most people only get to wear on occasional ski trips, on a daily basis. That's right, I get to dress like the abominable snowman every day. I wear my snow boots, the beanie, gloves, and giant puffy coat each day as I make the pilgrimage across Salt Lake to class. Did you ever see that Christmas movie about the kid who wanted the bebe gun for Christmas? You know, the one with the reoccurring "You'll shoot your eye out" line? He had a kid brother who had so many winter clothes on when he went to school that he couldn't put his arms by his sides. I get to feel a bit like that every day. And thanks to the fact that the Communist-bloc looking social science building was poorly designed as doesn't heat well I get to wear my coat and gear inside all day as well. I feel blessed because I really get my money's worth on every bit of winter clothing I have purchased.

Incidentally, I love the season for all the normal reasons as well. But one other thing I love about winter is running in it. There are no words for a run all by yourself in the quiet when all you can hear is the snow falling. I love the crazy looks and comments people give when they see me out on a frigid or icy morning. And I love that since it is so cold I don't sweat at all and sometimes I skip taking a shower afterwards. Shhh...that's my little secret.

Seasons Greetings!

"Go ye now in peace and know that the love of God will guide you"

2008-12-04T15:39:00.000-07:00

The week after Thanksgiving is one that means a lot to me. For several years it was the week spent rehearsing in the Marriott Center for the folk dance Christmas Around the World concert. I still find myself counting the days of the week by what is going on at rehearsals that day. Monday is decorating and setting it up, Tuesday is more set up and a run-through in the RB, Wednesday is the ever-disastrous tech rehearsal, and Thursday is dress rehearsal. That just leaves the elementary school show Friday morning and the three shows over the weekend.

I'm going to the concert this year. I haven't been in awhile. I'm surprised by how many memories come back. I am caught off guard by how much folk dance was and still impacts my life. For so many years my dreams revolved around the hope of touring the world with the team. It never happened, but I've been blessed in other ways. Lately, however, I've been really missing the chance that I never had. They are going to China this year. I looked at some team pictures online. I used to dance with the girls in the pictures. I dated the boys. Why am I missing when my teammates are there? My AP English teacher was right, life isn't fair. You don't get everything you deserve.

I remember reading a poem in high school that still strikes me. It is A Dream Deferred by Langston Hughes.

What happens to a dream deferred?
Does it dry up

like a raisin in the sun?

Or fester like a sore--

And then run?
Does it stink like rotten meat?

Or crust and sugar over--

like a syrupy sweet?
Maybe it just sags

like a heavy load.
Or does it explode?

What happened to that dream? And why won't it go away? I'm not unhappy with my life or the road that I'm on. But I can't forget the years and sweat that I put into that dream. I just never know if the dream was never realized because of macro-political decisions by the faculty or if I simply wasn't a good enough dancer. Funny that I still wonder. I think that it is on my mind now because of the upcoming concert, the quiet daily life that I lead that has no music or dance in it, and because I'd like to change that.

I don't know what happens to deferred dreams, but mine don't leave. I am making plans to do arts again. But it is so strange that I would still love to step into any girl on the team's little red boots and perform Hopak at Christmas Around the World just once.

A Case of Academically Induced Schizophrenia

2008-11-25T15:45:00.000-07:00

Part I

So a week ago on a Monday morning I woke up to my alarm after about 8.5 hours of sleep. Should be more than enough. I got out of bed, put on my running clothes, and then promptly crawled back into bed. I woke up again nearly two hours later. Then I looked at the clock and realized that I had exactly one hour and fifteen minutes before I was supposed to be teaching a class at Westminster College. I knew I wouldn't be able to fit my entire morning routine into that amount of time. So I went for an hour run, made my lunch, and made it to class. Great morning. You see, one of the benefits of winter running is that you just don't sweat much. It's probably the first time I've taught all semester without wet hair. Sometimes skipping a shower is like a little secret that you carry around with yourself and laugh at all day long. Except that now I've told everyone.

Part II

As I was sitting in class today listening to the economics professor talk I realized a nasty trick of academia. Allow me to demonstrate:
When I say "literature" what comes to mind? Shakespeare and Dickens? Even Tolkien and Harry Potter? That is not what professors mean. "Literature" refers to that massive body of knowledge/research about a given subject (such as whether or not race and crime are related). The trick is that academic "literature" is not interesting at all. It is a series of articles and books filled with numbers, statistical analysis, and citations of the previous "literature". I have a big exam in March to test my comprehensive knowledge of this so-called literature regarding population and health. But for some reason when I look at the 21 page reading list I can't seem to find Homer or Dante anywhere!

The products of a wasted hour online...

2008-11-17T13:21:00.000-07:00

I've never blogged before. In fact, I've made fun of it. Same this with text messaging. Except that lately I've found myself reading what my friends and family write. I see an insight into a moment of their day that I wouldn't have caught given the space and time differences between us. And sometimes they are witty or profound. I don't claim to be either, but since I've wasted enough precious homework time reading other people's blogs I have concluded "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em."

Do I have anything to say? In the past hour since class got out I have written e-mails from all three of my e-mail accounts (one for me, one for the U, and one for Westminster). I could spend my life checking those three accounts. I've priced plane tickets to several major US cities, just in case I decide I can't stay in Utah for Thanksgiving after all. I've looked at recipes. Wrote a few notes on an environmental justice paper. And last, but not least, signed up for my very own blog. At least I got something done. The internet is amazing! Next time you're bored google the phrase "What should I do with my life?" It is like one of those magic 8 balls, the answer is unique and useless every single time. I love it. And now ladies and gentleman, my books are calling to me so you'll have to excuse me.