Backcountry Action

"Free your heel, free your mind"

Seven am soaking wet thick rain. Big ol' fat rayun. Car loaded, skis in, poor excited dog about to be disappointed. This is a trip for men only. Wife stays sleeping, dog stays moping. Drive until the rain turns to slush, then keep going until it is honest-to-goodness snow. Park, kick at pathetic piles of ankle-deep good stuff. Barely enough to cover the ice. We drove this far, it's worth a try. Boots on feet, skins on skis, skis on boots, too many clothes. Stop in ten minutes to peel layers so everything is not soaked at lunch time. Climb through trees, across glades and up, always up, always looking down. Snow deepens as we climb out of the clouds. More clothes come off, try to drink enough water to replace the sweat. -15C and we're down to the last layer, still sweating. Sunglasses stayed in the car, of course. Lunch on the lea side of the summit, in the bright sun. Dig the pits, cut, saw, scrape, pound the columns until they give up the secrets of every snowfall in the last month. Avalanche not likely, sun still shining, snow deep and stable. Bellies full of lunch and butterflies, ready for the descent. A solid morning of climbing, a blissful 20 minutes of deep, knee-straining turns. Take me home, I'm spent.

Dinner with the Ugly King

Istanbul. The most interesting place I've visited yet. Ancient and modern and all points between. The locals were friendly, even when they weren't trying to sell a guy a carpet. Maybe they were just always angling for the carpet. Good food, good wine, good weather, good views, yes I bought a carpet. Shut up, it's a kilim.

We had discussed before we left how "other people" always seemed to effortlessly meet people and stumble on adventure while travelling, and would it be the same for us. As it turns out, it really is easy. We had booked our first accommodation in a hostel in a room with 4 bunk beds, so we were forced to meet the people we were sharing quarters with, and they all turned out to be lovely.

A funny thing happens to a man when travelling with his wife. In the eyes of other female travelers, he is as good as neutered. Numerous times, Rosie's Mama and I were sought out as companions for female travelers because I was a man with all the benefits and none of the risks. Even if I were the type to wander, women could assume I wouldn't do so in the company of my wife, so, I was the neutered protector. I certainly didn't mind, and I would recommend this strategy to any women travelling in uncertain territory.

So it was then, that after a day of touring the palace and harem of the sultan for a day, two of our roommates invited us along to explore the city and find a "non-touristy" place for dinner. Two charming girls from the opposite side of Canada as ourselves, they had already had a few uncomfortable encounters with unenlightened men that week. We picked a direction and started walking, comparing notes and swapping stories about our first days in the city. We stopped at a little shop with a few tables on the sidewalk and an old man who spoke no English. We couldn't read the menu, but managed to convey that we just wanted some food and drink. He bustled in and out bringing plenty of drinks and rice and salty meat. It seemed like a slow little place until the taxis pulled up.

A large group of 20-somethings came and filled most of the remaining tables. Their leader introduced himself and immediately insisted that we join them. Tables were scraped together and we were now dining with the Ugly King and his crew of entertainers. They were on their way across town to perform at a club. We should come along. Would we like to see a magic trick? Where were we from? Someone in the group produced a guitar, from where I don't know, and started playing Hotel California. We all tried to sing along, but we didn't really know the words. His Ugliness spoke in rhyme most of the time. Of course, my horse. He wore a red silk shirt dangerously unbuttoned and somewhere I have a picture of his Gene Simmons tongue. We laughed and drank and sang there on the sidewalk through the evening.

I don't take my role lightly as the neutered protector. If you agree to be creeper repellent you are probably usually a passive presence, but it may also require action, so don't agree if you are not willing. I was one man with three women, and I could tell Mr Ugly King was trying his level best to determine who I was with without offending me or ruining whatever chances he imagined he had with either of my companions.

Finally, he had to ask. "Which one is your girlfriend?" I smiled and leaned forward, "All of them. I am the sultan!" His friends all laughed, and he looked as excited as if I had offered him one of the girls right there. "Can I be your brother?!" I never did tell him which girl had my leash. We finished our meal, paid too much for it, and found our way back through the old city. As it turns out, adventure isn't that hard to find after all. Just pull up a chair.

4 Types of Facebook "Friends"

I finally did it. I deleted my Facebook account. Ironically, it was in the same week as I began posting on this blog. At least you can't call me a complete attention-whore. I signed up sort of by accident anyway and then stayed too long out of habit. I had nearly 300 "friends" that I can group into four basic categories:

1. Terminally annoying:
I added these people out of guilt because I like to think of myself as a nice person. They initiated the "friending," and I couldn't hit ignore. These people, their pictures of their supper, and their constant whinging about baby poop, hangovers, and their shit lives were quickly hidden. I could present myself as a nice guy who is friends with everyone I ever met, and I didn't have to read their bullshit.

2. Mostly annoying/occasionally interesting:
Not bad enough to hide completely, these people still monopolized the News Feed with food and diapers and requests to please join them in some bedazzled online game. But, they were cousins or old friends whose off-line life I actually care about (or yes, I just wanted to creep their profile periodically). On the off chance they did something interesting, it was nice to have them around.

3. People I like who don't post anything:
The people I care about are the ones who have off-line lives where they do real things. Things I hope invite me along for. They have a Facebook account, because, really, who doesn't? They just don't live there. An irregularly annual photo album or profile picture to demonstrate that yes, they are indeed alive and out there, living. Without Shitville or Sparkly Turd Mafia Hunter. These are not the people who are online 15 hours a day and really believe that being a stay-at-home mom in the 21st century is the hardest thing anyone has ever done.

4. Interesting people I don't really know:
I went to university with some cool folks. Since I was married already, and you know, old, I didn't live in the dorms or go to keggers, but I still managed to have people in classes I could talk to and enjoy social interaction with. Some of them remain interesting, some remain drunk, a few are still both. Some post articles and commentary on Facebook constantly, and manage to not be annoying about it.

Obviously, if Facebook was all 3s and 4s, I would have stayed on indefinitely. Since it is primarily 1s and 2s, with a whole flock of ads now thrown in, especially on my phone, I'm done. I'm still not sure why I was ever friends with the guy who recommended I like Walmart.

"Dust the refrigerator yourself if it bugs you so much. Nobody else can see it."

People I don't know make comments about it as I pass on the sidewalk. New acquaintances generally assume their "witty" comment will be a welcome change from the usual small talk opener they usually inflict on strangers. I've heard them all before, about basketball, the weather up there, or the rather bald "You're tall!" Apparently, my exact measure should be a matter of public record, and people I've never met will demand to know my exact height. Asking their weight in return is usually not well received.

There is an assumption among most people that their life would be better if only they were a few inches taller. And generally, if a little is good, lots must be better, so I must be super pumped all the time about having my feet so far from my head. These sorts also seem to think I've never realized before that I exceed the normal range. Somehow being three standard deviations above the average has escaped my notice, and I must be informed immediately. It is completely appropriate at this point to gawk open-mouthed as though they are at the zoo before imparting this new information.

I am aware of my difference. Every time I shop for clothing. Every time I get into a vehicle. When looking for a bike, a pair of skis, or boarding an airplane. Every doorway and parkade I duck through is a reminder. I'm not saying it is all bad. I just wish I could go two days without the same tired old comments.

A word about sports in general: To be successful in a sport, a person must have several things at the same time. Inclination, coaching, coordination, the right body, and perhaps some natural ability (if you believe in that sort of thing). It is true that certain body types lend themselves naturally to some sports. I could never be a successful wrestler because I am too long and thin. I've never had the inclination for most team sports, and no one ever forced them on me. As for coordination, tall people tend to experience fewer growth spurts, instead growing slowly over a longer period. This was certainly the case for me. The thing about growing is that it plays hell with your coordination. I did it until I was 19. I've been the same height for over a decade, so I'm doing just fine now, but I could barely dribble or throw a ball as a teenager. For every pro athlete taking advantage of his/her extreme height, there are hundreds of us who could hardly make those knobby knees and awkward elbows cooperate to get dressed properly in the morning, let alone put a ball into a hoop from the top of the key.

The real down-side to being tall is clothing. Jackets are the worst, then long-sleeved shirts, then pants. If I could gain about 150 lbs, I could shop at Big and Tall stores (curse you ampersand), but since that isn't an option, it takes a lot of looking to find decent fitting clothes. You'd be amazed at the sweat pants you can buy in a place like that. My tent has less fabric. Plenty of stores have "Tall" sizes, but since they generally recommend those clothes for up to 6'3", I'm still out of luck more often than you'd think. Seriously? 6'3" is barely "above average." Not Tall.

For a time, if people asked about basketball, I would respond with a question about mini golf. I've been tempted, but never brave enough, to spit on people who ask about the weather and announce it is raining at lower elevations. For the most part though, it isn't something that takes up much mental energy. I'll catch a glimpse in a mirror when I'm out with Rosie's Mama (she's bang-on average height-wise), or I'll duck under something the person ahead of me didn't even see, or I'll see a picture of myself in a group, and I'll realize again how odd it looks. Maybe it's no wonder people say something.

The Man in the Sky (Watching)

Whenever I consistently exercise, I find myself outside in the dark, sweating into the night, staring at Orion. I'm neither astronomer or astrologist, and I only know two constellations, but I have a favourite.  Growing up in a northern town, he was only visible during the winter months in the southern sky, but now I've moved further south and he sticks around all the time.

My high school years were spent cross-country skiing through the long winters. I trained and raced and traveled and had a grand time doing it. No one was about to have me skipping school to train, so we went after. A mum would pick us up from the school, we'd change in the truck on the way, and we'd still have to ski by headlamps. Some days we'd park the cars strategically and ski up and down the parking lot, other times we'd strap on spelunker's lights and head out on the trails. Later the club was able to string lights along portions of the new trails so we could ski all evening. Skiing with no artificial light and just a full moon to guide your strides is a rare treat.

There was one section of track that led up away from the lake on a gradual slope to wear down your legs a bit, then a corner and a steep short down hill followed immediately by an even steeper up hill. It was a nasty little combination, and the lights didn't shine well to that spot. Many nights I would struggle up that little steep hill, staring at Orion seemingly perched on the snow at the top. The nights I remember best were the really cold ones, when the air sparkled as any humidity still left in it was frozen and slowly drifted to join the snow on the ground. The snow squeaked loudly, and if you spat on the ground, it would bounce, frozen before it landed.

Now I run with Rosie every morning. I plod along for a few miles while she bounds back and forth after rabbits into the underbrush. For a few months in the summer it is light out when we go. The sun even peeks around the mountain before we get back to the car for about three weeks. By September, we are running in the dark. Rosie's Mama bought me a new headlamp for my birthday this year, so she can have hers back. And, sure enough, every morning there is a big enough gap in the clouds that plague this part of the world, there he is, watching me run through the dark trees.

I know the stars have no influence over our lives and vice versa, but I can understand why people once upon a time did think such things. There are so many and they seem so profound. Even if it is all bollocks, it is comforting and inspiring to think of an ancient warrior supervising my training. 

A ritual life

Life is full of rituals. Mine is, anyway. Mostly little things that link together to get me through the day. I get up at the same time every morning, I run the same route, eat the same breakfast, make the same lunch, leave at the same time, every day. I get where I need to be, on time, and my mind is free for more important tasks than remembering to put on pants.

Some rituals are less utilitarian and more enjoyable. Every afternoon, weekday or weekend, I drink yerba mate. Fill the kettle with cold water and put it on the stove to boil. Pour the remainder of the previous day's water out of my black pump and stand it in the sink. Dump the previous day's leaves in the compost pail under the sink, and give the guampa a rinse. As a bachelor, I kept my supply of dried leaves in a rusty old coffee can I had hauled around college dorms, apartments, mountain tops, construction sites, and tree planting camps. As a married man, I keep it in a stainless container next to the brown sugar on the counter. Pull that out, fill the horn about 2/3s, shake it on its side, pack the leaves so they taper from the lip to the base, and insert the bombilla. Stand it up, fill with cold water, and let it stand until the hot water is ready. When the kettle makes its first peep, turn the element off and let the residual heat in the coil finish the job. Take the kettle off before the whistling gets shrill, and pour it into the waiting carafe. Ideally, I can take the water and the guampa and sit down at the kitchen table to finish what I didn't read of the paper in the morning. The first shot is just the cold water that isn't absorbed into the leaves in the horn. By the second "real" pour, it is up to full heat. Fill, drink, fill, drink, until eventually the leaves are leveled out and their frothy green goodness is drained. Put it to the side, and look forward to tomorrow afternoon to do it all again. If Rosie's Mama is home, the ritual takes longer, because she likes to be included, but can't handle it at full heat.

There is joy in these little rituals. Some people fear boredom from eating the same thing every day. To me, it is comfort. Every day, I know that I have enough food in my lunch. I know because it was enough yesterday, and the days before that. There are enough variables in a given day to create stress. Why add to that by not being sure you have enough food? Or the microwave might break. Or you have to leave the office for most of the day. My lunch does not need a fridge or a microwave, and can mostly be eaten while driving. Cheap too. My sandwiches, fruit and yogurt cost less than a wilted salad or lukewarm piece of pizza from the "convenience" store next door, and I don't have to question the provenance of fruit.

Pre-dawn bittersweet

Coherent thoughts are generally not something I create half an hour before my alarm. Elegant ones generally escape entirely, regardless of the clock. This morning I woke up early, and as I rolled over I briefly contemplated the beautiful tragedy of time. There is sweetness in looking forward to passing time, knowing it will be enjoyable and well-used, but there is a heart-breaking sorrow in the realization that time passed is lost forever, no matter how well spent.

I don't mean I shed a tear for having to get out of bed, or that each moment is filled with longing to go back in time, only that the passing of time, and my contemplation of it is bittersweet. There was great satisfaction at rolling over in the warm blankets, even while knowing I would shortly be crawling out into the autumn chill to run the dog.

Of course, as the day wears on, the profundity of pre-dawn musing fades to concern about thinking too much about nothing. Not to mention writing it down.