by susan | Apr 10, 2023 | Uncategorized
the Captain George Vancouver expedition explored the northwest coastline of North America in the 1790’s, mapping the often rough and wild landscape from Baja, California, all the way to the Cook Inlet of Alaska. they gave name to numerous areas and features, most of which remain with us today. one of those names is Mt. Hood.
this volcano reaches 11,239 feet above sea level and is more than 500,000 years old; it is also a hundred-plus miles east of the pacific coastline, yet Vancouver’s team bestowed a name upon the mountain that we today use, honoring British Admiral Lord Samuel Hood.
according to legend, this iconic mountain has another, previously bestowed name, though: Wy’east. this name has its origins in the Multnomah tribe of the Columbia river valley, who tell the story of the great spirit’s two sons who quarreled and battled with each other so often and over so many issues that the great spirit eventually turned them into mountains: what we know as Mt. Hood is known to the Multnomah as Wy’east, and the mountain we call Mt. Adams is known to the Multnomah as Klickitat. (some say this story may or may not be true; the first documented use of the name Wy’east is in a book of fiction published in 1890 by F.H. Balch.)
a month ago my partner and I traveled to the Mt. Hood area, and spent a few nights in the tiny town of Government Camp, at the base of Mt. Hood. the address of our cabin was on Wy’east Trail, and it was there we learned the story of its other name.
it snowed as we drove into town, it snowed the next day and night, and it snowed the following day. occasionally the sun broke through, but Wy’east consistantly hid behind clouds. after we skied on that third day, we cleaned up and went for a drive up to the Timberline ski resort, whose famous lodge was built in the 1930’s by Roosevelt’s WPA. the sun had broken through, but the upper region of Wy’east remained blanketed by cloud. we parked, and as we walked to the edge of the lot to admire the panoramic view, the clouds at the top of the mountain began drifting away, bit by bit, until the entire mountain was stunningly visible! awestruck, we stared, took pictures, gloried in the fact that it had cleared.
within twenty minutes Wy’east’s top was again covered in cloud.
whether Wy’east, Mt. Hood, or some other name, none is able to do justice to this iconic reminder of the tumult our earth experienced all those hundreds of thousands of years ago. may you be as astounded by its beauty as I am.
by susan | Jan 21, 2023 | Uncategorized
round valley is tucked in between a few lines of hillocks on the eastern side of park city. a trail system winds around the valley, with three trailheads, and over twenty-five kilometers of groomed nordic track. it perches at about 7200′ of elevation, and is primarily multi-use, open to the public, and well used by skiers, walkers, runners, and dogs. there are also many kilometers of single-track trail for fat-tire bicycles, snowshoers, hikers, and runners to utilize.
there are two sections of “ski only” track–hanscom’s hollow, and the land of oz–where dogs, bikes, and walkers are asked to stay off the track. (dogs, bikes, and shoes all leave impressions on ski tracks that negatively impact the quality of the track; as well, dogs add an element of uncertainty to one’s skiing experience, as their behavior can be unpredictable!)
for the past two years, the land of oz has not been open to anyone, due to lack of snow.
and thanks to the bountiful snow this season, all four kilometers of this beautiful meadow are groomed and open for business.
the other morning I was the first to ski it after its morning grooming. the meadow rests on a gradual slope, and the track loops up and down and up and down and again and again. a third of the time you’re flying downhill, a third of the time you’re working your way back up, and the rest of the time you’re on a perfect track of very slightly up or down which is where I can best work on my form. the goal is efficiency, and over the years I have inched toward that place, but all too often I find myself getting up the hills any way I can. gradual ascents allow opportunity to focus on how I do what I do.
two years ago I was terribly disappointed there wasn’t enough snow to open oz. last year I was more resigned to its continued closure. and this year, it feels like everything is falling back into place.
the ascents and descents of the land of oz are a microcosm of the ebb and flow of its ability, over the years, to be groomed and utilized, which is, in effect, reflective of how life presents opportunities to us. sometimes we receive what we want, and other times we don’t; however, the overarching theme of impermanence reigns.
what is here today will eventually shift into what’s here tomorrow.
and this, too, shall pass.
I suppose our task is simply to keep working on our form–how we move through the world–for the more efficient we become at flowing with what is, the easier it is to ride the ebbs and flows. a friend of mine talks about the importance of “looking up,” and he is spot on. at the top of the last ascent this morning, I turned around and looked up, and the picture you see here is what I saw.
ah. more wonder, please.
by susan | Dec 31, 2022 | Uncategorized
on this last day of the year 2022, I went skate skiing. the forecast called for snow all day, with temperatures hovering right around freezing the entire time. some snow had fallen during the night, but the overnight temperatures barely slipped below freezing.
this is not ideal for the ski track.
nevertheless, I (quelle surprise) was determined to ski, and headed up the canyon, hoping to be skiing by the time the track was groomed.
this past year has brought me tremendous personal growth, and tremendous personal pain. I don’t remember much about who I was a year ago; I do know that the me who types this today is wiser, more capable, more accepting, and more able to connect with those who ache because of how much I’ve ached these past ten months. I thought I’d known loss and grief, but what I’ve learned is that each new experience of them has the opportunity to take one even deeper into pain and open up new places within. these new places offer opportunity to understand, connect with, and perhaps even silently speak to fellow humans who have similar, internal pain-created reservoirs.
the ski track this morning was less than ideal. the first thirty-minute stretch I skied hadn’t been groomed, was covered in a few inches of heavy, wet snow, and had been walked on and skied on a little, leaving a surface that was hard–tiring–to traverse. okay, exhausting. I then stayed on groomed trails which were much better, but still heavy and wet and soft ~ not things we love a ski track to be (we like smooth, firm, fast!).
it sleeted on me. the wind was fiercely in my face at times, and I felt battered.
and I kept going.
I grew up skiing, alpine, at ski resorts. my family would ski at night because passes were inexpensive (think colder than you can imagine). I skied when the family skied, and conditions weren’t always perfect.
then after college I became a spring skier, a nice-day-only skier. forget the freezing, blizzardy days. no way. I might go ski if it were nice out and someone I liked invited me.
and now, I find myself out there whether the sun is out or not, whether the track is great or not, or whether it’s zero degrees or thirty-five. I ski, I take what comes, I learn, I grow stronger. I let those less-than-ideal conditions work to help me become a better human.
as I was nearing the end of my session this morning, approaching the long stretch of trail back to my car that is a gradual descent and ever-so-appreciated, I was drawing the comparison of today’s ski with this past year. each has made me a better human. today, because I toughed it out and experienced our amazing world in its glory. this year, because I toughed it out and remembered to experience our amazing world in its glory.
life is sacred.
this year I haven’t always been at peace, or happy, or even content, but I know I’ve grown. my heart has been working to repair itself, and has, I believe, put itself back together even better than it was before. it feels bigger, and even more genuine, if that can be.
none of us know what this next year will bring us.
however, I hope you all are able to join me in letting go of the one at its end, to thank it for its lessons, to thank it for keeping us tethered to this earth, to express gratitude for its commitment to helping us become better humans.
namaste.
by susan | Dec 8, 2022 | Uncategorized
the snow gods have been generous with us so far this winter. the conditions of the skate-skiing tracks I’ve been on have ranged from fair to glorious, which is delightful this early in the season.
and there I am, out there pushing and sweating and panting, same as I always am: working so hard that I neglect to focus on how to be more efficient. this is the key to nordic skiing (and, perhaps, everything): learn to be more efficient. and this involves getting oneself to slow down.
slow down.
this seems to be the theme of my life these days. I’m constantly impatient, wanting things to happen now (or yesterday, more often). I am constantly urging myself to take a breath, pause, and accept that what is, is.
and that maybe I don’t know why things are as they are, but perhaps they are supposed to be the way they are.
learning to balance “what to push” and “what to accept” is one of the most difficult things, I believe, that we humans must master, if we want to be at peace. and the only way we reach that point is to begin by slowing ourselves down.
last sunday while I was skiing I crossed paths with a gentleman perhaps a bit older than I am, who skied as if he’d been skiing his entire life: smooth, graceful, powerful, efficient. on my way along the final track back to my car, I passed him again, as he stood on the side of the track chatting with a fellow skier. he soon caught up with me, made a friendly comment about the wind, and then as he passed me said, “looks like you’re getting the hang of it!”
yep, eight years in, I’m beginning to look like I’m getting the hang of it.
now if I could just slow down, pay more attention to what I’m actually doing, and learn to make the most of each effort I expend… perhaps, someday, I’ll be the one who is smooth, graceful, powerful, efficient.
perhaps.
and the place to begin is in my everyday life. to take more deep breaths, and simply slow down. care to join me?
by susan | Nov 2, 2022 | Uncategorized
a trail in teton national park takes off from a nondescript, dirt parking lot that one reaches only after traveling a mile or so of rutted, gravelly earth with occasional potholes the size of, say, a watering trough. this puts few travelers off: what lies ahead is well worth the dust, bumps, caution, and discomfort.
the lupine meadows trailhead offers options, and in the past, I have taken two of those: one to garnett canyon and onward to lower saddle, upper saddle, and then a climb up the grand teton; and the other, a less dramatic hike but a surreal ending at amphitheater lake.
a few weeks back I awakened in the early dark, packed my daypack, and drove into the park so that I could begin my hike to the lake by 5:30. headlamp lit, hat and layers and gloves on, I headed up the trail.
singing.
I wanted any and all bears in the vicinity to know I was coming, and to know not to mess with me.
I sang the song I’d awakened with, a song I’d not thought of for years but that had somehow played in my nocturnal adventures, a song from Cinderella whose main lyric is
I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.
I made up the rest of the words, because that was the only line I could recall.
and I sang, and sang, until the sky began to lighten and I eventually broke free of the cloud in which I’d been walking. below me spread the top of the cloud which nestled itself in the jackson valley, and from my new position I could now see mountain tops, clouds, and the sun which was just beginning to inch its way into the visible sky. I grew a bit warmer, and then colder as I neared the top of the trail where snow lay on the ground.
surprise lake comes first, a delightful, unexpected gift on your left, and then within another quarter mile you happen upon ampitheater lake, larger and more dramatic, as it reigns from the base of granite and gneiss mountains that reach far into the sky.
it was silent.
not another human was anywhere near.
the lake itself was glass, mirror-like, reflecting perfectly the walls of stone that shot upward, snow dusted, still.
I get to do this, I thought. my life contains moment after moment, experiences one after another, that, when I slow down to understand and let them in, are all reflections of this dream I live. a dream in which someone is always there, walking alongside me, whether visible or not.
I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream.
by susan | Sep 8, 2022 | Uncategorized
a few days ago I hiked to grandeur peak, a local favorite that begins with a steep-sided upward journey alongside a shaded creek, then moves through a series of switchbacks to reach a view-dripping saddle, and ends with a twenty-minute climb graced with unending vistas, a few brief scrambles, and finally a landing on a rocky, scrubby peak. the brief “scrambles” have toe-holds and often good handholds, and if you reflect, it’s evident that most of us who utilize this route experience the same thought process, the same decisions, and the same method of getting securely up (or down) the sketchier places. my feet seek out the exact same ledges those before me have.
one such place has a tree on the right of the trail, and after I grabbed one of its old, stunted, broken-off outshoots to keep myself upright on the steep slope, I turned around and went back to take a picture of that smooth, polished-by-thousands-of-hands-over-the-years branch. if you look closely, you’ll see how the branch on the left is darker, burnished over time by me, and by people just like me; the branch has been buffed by sweaty palms, gloved and mittened hands, cool grasps of those who hike in the chilled early morning.
as I hike such a traveled trail, I realize what binds us is much greater than what sets us apart. we each love, seek to be loved, strive to plant ourselves firmly wherever we are, and reach for that which might stabilize us.
I reach for the polished branch without much thought; it’s almost instinctual to grasp what can keep us upright.
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