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 | Jan 31, 2021 | Uncategorized
A clench, a tightening in my gut, and the sudden nausea, the scream inside my head, “no, no, I can’t hear this, please stop.” Rocky hillsides line the freeway, and although they are as familiar as they are unthreatening, I feel suddenly unsafe, at risk. Of what, I don’t know, perhaps a form of implosion, a caving in of my own structure. I can’t hear this anymore.
It contradicts—it attacks—almost every value I hold, it claws at my character, it eats away that which has held me upright my entire life. These conversations have taken too great a toll on me during the past four years.
We are in the canyon, ten minutes from the Nordic ski track, and I can barely contain my upset. I eek out the words, “this is hard for me to hear, I don’t want to be talking about this right now.”
“Right?” he says, then continues, more words flow past as we near the exit: QAnon, gun in her purse, committee, lawmaker, Georgia.
I can’t make eye contact. I must look as ill as I feel. I sense him turning his head to check on me—I’ve gone quiet—as comprehension dawns.
“So, Greg and Jeannie had a good ski up Millcreek last night, he got home soaked, but he’d had a great time—it snowed on them, they made it maybe two-thirds of the way to the top.”
My silent gratitude fills the car. the nausea recedes; a weak smile appears. I climb back out of the dread, the despair. Dust off my character.
Snow fell last night, seven inches, perhaps, and the parking lot holds few cars. We climb over the snow berm and follow deep boot tracks down the slope to the start of the track. It takes me longer than usual to clip boots to bindings. I work to dig snow from around the metal bar, and Tim uses the tip of his pole to assist. The bar can’t clip in if it’s surrounded by any kind of debris. Once the bar snugs down into the notch, I push down the lever and I’m in. Second boot, in. Snow flocks the hillsides, and lies thick on every exposed branch of the pines that line and dot the track. A coyote yips on the far hillside, then bays and yips his tale again. Thick gray clouds sit on the mountains to the south, to the east. Wind chills the air.
The track has been groomed, but it is soft and the few who’ve skied before us have churned more than firmed the snow. We glide, then pick up speed on the downhill and the gift of being here settles over me, the demand for focus to keep myself upright, to be efficient, to notice my poling, my knees, my breath. There is no room here for that which pulls me apart. There is simply beauty, delight, companionship. The drive to be the best I can be in these moments, while accepting that however I am, today, is just fine. What holds me together are foundational aspects of who I am: kind, compassionate, conscious, aware, able to see the big picture, willing to educate myself, able to hold two possibly conflicting thoughts at the same time.
The binding system for Nordic skis is incredibly simple. The notch, the bar, the lever pressed down to hold the bar in place. The toe of the boot is held firm, while the heel is free to move up and down to propel the ski forward on flat and uphill terrain. The system is well-designed, replete with efficiency and integrity. It’s a necessary foundation for skate skiing; I respect it and have learned to clean the bar. I know that without this piece I cannot experience what I wish to; I also know I must take care of it. I expect it only to do its job, but to do that job well.
So that I am then freed to do mine.
(title taken from an excellent article on cross country skiing in the Tahoe Trail Guide written by Jared “schoolboy” Manninen)
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