24 hours and counting

That’s how long it’s been since I’ve sleep. It’s not insomnia (despite the slightly depressed sound of my previous post, which I intended to end on a positive note – don’t know if I pulled that off). Rather, the day-long vigil sprung out of chain of unforeseen events fed by my soft-spot for puppies and (unrelated to puppies) a need for money. Having not gone through the joy of an infant waking me in the wee hours of the morning, I had no idea how much I’d suffer from three consecutive days of being woken by wimping and yelps at 3:30am followed by early rising at 6am. A bit of lost sleep while puppy sitting wouldn’t have been too concerning if I hadn’t gotten a call from work at 3pm asking if I might be available to cover a graveyard shift for a co-worked who’d called in sick the day before. I agreed, begrudgingly. When I hadn’t heard from work by 7:30, I had begun to think I was off the hook but decided I should call in to make-sure they were covered . . what a mistake that was. So here I am, pushing 25 hours of wakefulness. Kind of gives the day a surreal feel.

It certainly has given me time to think – both focus and wondering thoughts. Strangely enough, the wandering thoughts kept chasing around plot-line and character sketches for new stories and those that have been on the back burner. And by back burner, I’m talking years of simmering. Blogging has certainly helped get my mind back into writing mode. Maybe its time to see if I can jot down some fiction.

 

The best things go first

If we make time in our busy schedules to enjoy ourselves . . .

This sentence can end one of two ways (1) rationally: If we make time in our busy schedules to enjoy ourselves we will feel more energized, relaxed, and ultimately be more productive and content. (2) the catch-22: If we make time in our busy schedules to enjoy ourselves we feel guilty for not attending to “more important things” and worry that we won’t have enough time to get things done.

Since my husband and I moved to town three months ago I have found many justifications for my lack of getting out to explore the plethora of surrounding mountain peaks, passes, and valleys. Namely that I’ve busied myself with as much work as the company I am a “causal worker” for could offer or when not working, I’ve been overwhelmed with self-imposed guilt for working less than part time. That is not to say that I have been wasting my work-free time.  This June my husband and I relocated from several hundred miles away, so I spent a good month making our rental property feel like home and then figuring out where I’d put various odds and ends in the fluster of unpacking. Then there were the daily tasks – such as banking, washing the dog, calling customer service lines and waiting on hold, registering vehicles, changing and washing bed linens – that usually make up a never-ending to do list; only I had time to get them them done. Which reminds me of an interesting article I came across on CNN.com about a growing trend of stay-at-home wives (not moms). After having the chance to take care of all the errands, phone calls, house maintenance, and even cooking good, complete meals without the added demands of a job, I can agree with the couples interviewed in the article that my being home took a layer stress off of the marital relationship. Evenings were a time to unwind not take care of household business. However, I happen to be one of those individuals whose productivity increases in direct proportion to the demands placed upon me. In other words, working is good for me. Staying home is not. I found that as items got crossed of my to-do list (which never ended), my wish-list of places to hike and bike grew with little accomplished. It didn’t take long before leaving the house to do anything for myself seemed unreasonable, selfish even. I mean, if I didn’t have full-time job should I really be allowed to go wondering into the mountains for a day of bliss?

I plunged into a state of tunnel vision, fixated on the stress of unsteady employment; blocking out the fact that the bills were getting paid, my husband kept saying I should get out and enjoy my time, that I’m still in grad school and will soon be working for 30 hours a week as an unpaid intern and won’t have free time to fret about. Yes, all of these sparkling details failed to enter my mind. Instead my summer explorations sunk into a pool of dismal, listless thoughts.

Why is it that people tend to give up what they enjoy most, the things they find solace in, the things they call fun, when stress strikes? Studies show time and time again that indulging in the little things that bring you joy is one of the best ways to counter stress and depression. In fact, a popular homework assignment given to clients in cognitive behavioral therapy is called “pleasant events scheduling.” There is no secret to it; this highly effective therapeutic treatment boils down to taking time to do something enjoyable which can range from taking a hot bath to allowing yourself 30 minutes of reading the newspaper while still in your pajamas on a Sunday morning. Yet people pay big-bucks to therapists for such a prescription. After all, if they have to have fun in the name of therapy it’s okay, right?

So here I am, nearing the end of my ramble with biting sarcasm and faced with a sobering question: why have I allowed my justifications, fears, and stress to take over my fun and perpetuate negativity? I’m a therapist, I should know better!

The good news: I couldn’t come up with an answer to the above question, so after staring at the screen for several minutes trying figure out how to end this post, I hit “save,” closed my laptop and picked up my hiking guide to the San Juans.

Keep a checking in, I should have pictures (and commentary of course) to post after my hike tomorrow.

P.S. Went for a lovely bike ride this evening on a trail I hadn’t been on before. 30 minutes of fun for myself.

 

A&W

A week after my husband and I took an impromptu right turn onto Route 550 S headed toward Farmington, NM in search of reasonably priced dog food, a giddy feeling still lingers along with the timeless taste of an A&W root beer float. Some people might say I lead an awfully boring life if a spontaneous trip to a Sam’s Club on the outskirts of a city of 38000 and a stop at a fast food restaurant energizes me and feels indulgent. I like to think it’s a testament to my abilities to revel in the small things and live beyond the boundaries of my day-planner (which has become my phone now that I’ve gotten the hang of the keyboard). Besides, Sam’s Club has everything including a people watching forum that can entertain me for hours.

The idea of a trip down to Farmington formulated itself on the 4 mile drive between a local pet supply store  and Walmart. I would much prefer to support a local business but the $20-a-bag price difference we were facing is half a week of groceries for this student; around this destination town, supporting local businesses requires a graduate degree. As we approached the right turn lane that snakes down to the enormous Walmart parking lot, I voiced my longing for a Petco at which we could use our rewards discount (a leftover from our city-living days in Utah just a a few months ago). That longing quickly turned into the decision to head to the Farmington Petco, which led to a sharp swerve out of the turn lane. We soon realized that the reward had not be “activated” but by that point, we had already rationalized many other reasons driving forty-five minutes out of our way made sense and off we went.

I watched in fear as the temperature displayed on my car steadily increased and the landscape around us changed from green mountainsides to dry, brown mesas. I was headed into the desert in late July wearing jeans! While that added some discomfort, it also added to my giddiness in being spontaneous, and eventually my uncharacteristic enjoyment of Sam’s Club’s air-conditioning. Without a doubt, it added to my craving for an A&W root beer float.

As we drove across the New Mexico state-line and through Aztec, I noticed a lot of mom-and-pop restaurants lining the road. A particularly disturbing restaurant sign showed a pig holding a knife and fork with a napkin tied around its neck. You can make you’re own interpretation of the sign but the way I see it either they were suggesting their patrons eat like pigs or that they serve delicious pork chops. I’ve been told a bit further down the road there is a great milkshake joint; it will certainly warrant a stop on our next trip through Aztec. Last Monday however, I was captivated by a fast food restaurant: an old fashion A&W drive-thru complete with window trays for your curb-side dining convenience.  

classic A&W in Aztec, NM

It was clear the facade of the restaurant had not been changed in decades. My mind got to wondering: When was it built? How many generations of Ford pick-ups has it served? Did the waitresses serve you on roller-skates when it first opened? I chuckled as I handed my debit card out the car window to our waitress – how long had it been since I stopped carrying cash?

As I developed stories about the old A&W and it’s former patrons and employees in my head, I couldn’t help but think the rest of Aztec probably hadn’t changed much in appearance or character over the last fifty years either. As with any place in the American Southwest, I’m sure it’s a bit denser in population and buildings but life still seems to move at a slightly slower pace than on the country’s coasts or in any city. Dust is an excepted part of life. Hard labor still earns a living for many but more money is always needed to pay the bills. I doubt it would take too long before you came upon a person whose family had lived in the town further back than records were kept; a person who could tell you who wasn’t at church on Sunday (and why) and the best place for a cup of coffee or a good burrito and what stool to park yourself on to overhear the latest town gossip.

I speculate these things based on the small town where I grew up in West Virginia. There, you went to someones home for a cup of coffee (there were no restaurants or cafes) and no-one ate burritos but you could – and still can – get fresh cut or ground meat for dinner or a great deli sandwich and all the town gossip at Chamber’s General store.

 

A measure of nerves and nails

About a month ago I broke a nail for the first time in years. And I’ll have you know that when that bit of nail ripped off it exposed a very sensitive patch of skin just beneath my fingertip and I suddenly understood why breaking a nail is such a big deal. After I finished nursing my finger, I stared at my hands and realized the nine remaining nails were quite long and inexplicably smooth. It didn’t seem quite right, so I gave my hands a second scan and sure enough, white tips extended over the rounded skin capping my fingers. I stared for a while longer pondering how this had come to be and further lamenting my broken nail because if not for it, I would having started digging through my archaic selection of nail polish for the perfect color with which to celebrate. Now I would have to wait at least a week and hope I didn’t break another nail.

This morning I gave my fingernails a quick trim and filed down some rough edges. I’m thinking I might go with a shimmering torquise but also like the idea of keeping it plain and versitle with a warm brown that will also hide the dirt that keeps getting caught under my nails. I’m still a bit clumsy if my nails get too long; opening a can of soda can be tricky, as can typing. How do secretaries with half-inch nails do it? That remains as mysterious to me as women who can walk in silettoes for hours and get up and put on another pair the next day. For my own sake, I stick to flip-flops and try to keep my nails trimmed even with the tips of my fingers; but the nail upkeep is all so new. Taking the time to trim and file still feels like a strange weekly addition to my hygiene routine but  I just don’t have the nerves to bite them anymore.

After over a decade of nail biting and futile attempts break the habit, it simply disappeared without any thought or effort. So what changed?  Most notably changes in where I live and what I do, which have slowed down daily life to a pace of living I find more comfortable.

This morning after my nails were trimmed, I went out front to water my flower bed and struggling tomato, pepper, and squash plants. When finished, I watched three humming birds chase each other around the feeder and through the tree. I was so close to them that I could see the multiple shades of green on their heads, the 3 cm wide fuchsia band on the male’s throat, even their feet. I didn’t know humming birds had feet. On the other side of the yard, I watched as my golden retriever toss himself from left to right, belly-up with a stick in his mouth getting in a good back scratch in the sun. “This is my life,” I thought, and felt a smile spread across my face.  Back inside, I sat with my coffee and a magazine and let my mind wander over tentative plans to run the river and go for a bike ride today. Plenty of time and little pressure to do both.  Being able to take time to have fun and not feel like I should be doing something else – that has helped my nails grow.

I also like to think that I’m doing a better job of managing the stress that is still around, mostly by practicing mindfulness but also acceptance and an assortment of strategies that I often suggest my clients try but have only recently tried myself.  Every day I working on taking deep breathes, acknowledging and accepting that I can only do one thing at a time, not thinking too far beyond the present, looking for the little things that calm me, letting go of what I can’t control, and most importantly finding quiet moments to sit and be still.

Thus I’ve reach the real point of this ramble – my nails are one measure of many that show that I have started to shed stress and anxiety that I have carried with me for many years. And that I have done so and noticed it through the simple things that so often get forgotten in the rush of daily life.

 

Mosquitoes

Unsolved Mystery: What is the function of mosquitoes? Why do they exist?

The biological/evolutionary/ecological value of mosquitoes escapes me. They may play role in pollination and certainly provide many animals with a source of food; but many other species accomplish both of these tasks. In the case of animals who eat mosquitoes, it is estimated that the mosquitoes only make up 1% of their food source.  What then is so special about mosquitoes? Surely they must have some redeeming factor that has left them in the evolutionary pool. What that factor is, I can’t tell you.

When it comes to an encounter with a mosquito, I view it as a battle of fittest; self-preservation if you will. I swat, clap my hands in an attempt to kill them in midair, and if need be I will engage in bizarre dancing, hopping, and running behaviors. I even go to such extremes as to use Deet to keep these beasts at bay despite the fact that this chemical substance once melted part of my shoe and a leather knife sheath when it spilled in my bag. I would rather put a plastic-eating chemical on my skin than have a mosquito land on it. After a battle with mosquitoes, I retreat to the great indoors, survey my wounds and reach for the Benadryl. As I drift into an antihistamine-induced slumber, I can’t help but wonder, “why do mosquitoes exist?”

 

Technicalities

For the first time in my Generation X life, I picked up one of the many manuals that came with my new cell phone and started reading. Maybe it is a right of passage. Perhaps it is a sign that I am ready for parenthood; for kids to walk into the kitchen, grab whatever new gadget has arrived and have it programmed and upgraded within minutes while I sit back, exasperated from trying to pry the gadget out of layers of adult-proof packaging. Sign or no, what this incident has confirmed is that technology has rounded a bend that surpasses my technological intuition.

 By no means did I ever describe myself as a techie, or even believe that I was technologically savvy. There are many aspects of blogging that are still out of my league; yet I got a blog up and running. For the most part, if a new computer, printer, dvd player, cell phone etc came into my life, I had it up and running with basic features without having to read a page.

That all changed yesterday when I had to open the “quick start guide” to figure out how to turn on my new cell phone. It reminded of the Sarah Jessica Parker’s character, Carrie, in the recent Sex and the City movie, when she is handed an I-phone and responds, “I need something with buttons.”  I was desperately searching for a way to make familiar buttons appear on the gigantic, blank screen as I talked to a very patient – and no doubt amused – Verizon Wireless customer support operator.

Stack of manuals and box of software and accessories for new phone. Picture take with new phone!

Once I found the on/off button and figured out how to display the number pad and navigate the menu on my phone I was off and running. As of this morning, I have downloaded all of my contacts from my old phone to the new one, set my ringtone back Earl Scrugg’s Foggy Bottom Breakdown, checked my e-mail, sent two text messages, and made and received phone calls. Yet I am certain there is more bewilderment to come. I have only read the Quick Start Guide and a few pages into the thinner of the two thick manuals. A USB cord and a CD-Rom that apparently have some significant relationship to my phone still lay in the box, swaddled in packaging. I think I will save those for another day when I have to time to wade through more technical writings. Today I will savor my successes.

 

one step at a time

My husband and I began our hike to Crater Lake chatting about the previous night’s camping experience and the twelve miles to come on our journey to and from the lake. Before I write more, I should clarify that our destination was a small, alpine lake nestled at the base of Twilight Peak in the San Juan National Forest of Colorado; least it be confused with the geographic phenomenon in Oregon that warrants national park status.

My husband and dog stand at the lake's edge.

We spent the night before our hike about five miles from the Crater Lake trail head, car camping off of Lime Creek Road – a delightful dirt road with historical value and stunning views of the Twilight Peaks. Minutes after we rolled into camp, the thunder and rain began in the distance and the mountains were soon shrouded in clouds. With a storm on it’s way, we jumped into action. The tent – or our “gigantic portable shelter ” as my husband decided to call it – was soon up. Light sprinkles of rain were upon us as we clipped the rain-fly into place and staked the shelter. By the time the sprinkles had turned into a steady rain, we had moved all the night’s necessities – collapsible camp chairs and table, wine, Snickers bars, and books – into the vestibule and had the futon mattress made up with sheets and quilts inside the tent, a lantern positioned above it for some night-time reading. You may be thinking this night of “camping” includes quite a bit of amenities. And you would be right. If it helps, we also had our light weight backpacking stove (though it saw no use because we forgot to bring a pot), headlamps, long underwear, camelbacks, and BPA-free water bottles. But for my husband and I, a night of car camping 45 minutes from the house is a treat, and we reveal in our little luxuries. You see, for us a night in a creek-side tent with mountain views trumps a five-star hotel on most occasions. A bit of history may be helpful in understanding our feelings on this matter.

For our wedding, my husband and I asked for a honeymoon tent rather than a honeymoon suite. For roughly the same (or less) in cost, we figured the tent to be a good, reusable option. A bit unsure but in-keeping with our wishes, my parents conceded and bought us a tent of our choosing. We choose the Agnes Big House 4 – a four person tent that stands almost six feet tall. But we did not stop at that: we opted to get the detachable vestibule, an appendage that dwarfs our backpacking tents in size. The vestibule serves as a wonderful sleeping place for our tw-year-old, a one hundred pound puppy named Dillon. It also makes a great sitting, cooking, and dining area during rain. After surviving epic flash flood conditions on our wedding night (a story for another time), we felt confident in the tent’s capability in rain. And so, we settled in for the evening listening to rain falling on the tent, sipping our wine, and reading The Princess Bride aloud.

Our campsite off Lime Creek Rd

Camp chairs and Dillon in the vestibule.

 

A view of the rain falling from inside the tent

We awoke early to clearing skies and quickly broke down camp so as to be on the trail with enough time to beat the afternoon storms that frequent the mountains this time of year. While the night’s efforts to avoid rain had been out of the desire not to get wet, the morning’s attempt to beat the storms had to do with a desire to avoid lightening strikes in high alpine terrain. As a woman we passed on the trail aptly stated, “I don’t care if I get rained on; I just don’t want to get struck by lightening.”

We pulled into the parking lot at Andrew’s Lake at 8:15. A couple of fishermen hoping to take home a few trout for dinner pulled into the parking lot behind us. We guessed the rest of the vehicles belonged to backpackers who’d spent a rainy night by Crater Lake. 

Andrew's Lake, where we picked up the trail to Crater Lake

We ate a quick breakfast and reluctantly stripped off our warmest layers in preparation for the hike. Not having a pot in which to heat water, I skipped my usual am dose of caffeine and hoped for the best. Maybe it was the nip in the morning air, or being three miles down the trail by the time I’m usually pouring my coffee at home – whatever the cause, I did not suffer a withdrawal headache that morning.

After a few minutes of oohing and awing aloud at the scenery, about how much we loved were we live, about how good it felt to be on the trail, and how much we had enjoyed camping the night before, our chit-chat fell into silence until my husband asked the inevitable question, “What are you thinking about?” (Yes, men do ask this question of women on occasion) . It occurred to me that lost in thought though I was, I still had to think for a moment to figured out exactly what I was thinking. Many thoughts had entered my mind during our silence: mental comments and pictures of our surroundings, whether or not it was worth annoying my husband to stop to take yet another picture, my heavy breathing and rising heart rate as indicators that I need to work out more, what our dog was getting into, possible story lines, possible blog entries, and that this hike starting at 10,900 feet felt like a homecoming back to the mountains. These thoughts entered and exited as they pleased, some popping up repeatedly,  others making a brief appearance before disappearing altogether. “Thinking about writing; tossing around some plot ideas,” I decided on and answered my husband, choosing the most recent thought that had crossed my mind. “You?” I asked dutifully.  “The usual,” he replied, “Gadgets, phones, boats.”

His response seemed fitting for him yet for some reason I found it jarring. With a 360 degree view of mountain peaks and valleys at every turn, the smell of evergreens, and the colorful splashes made by Columbines and Indian paintbrush, distracting me from a steady train of thought, it was difficult to understand how he could be thinking about electronics and a river toy. I was indigent. We were in the mountains, away from technology – unless you count my digital camera (we’d forgotten our GPS). I huffed about this for a minute, then recalled my own thoughts, many of which had nothing to do with our surrounds – plot lines for example – and felt a bit humbled. While my mind was continually interrupted by the sights, smells, and sounds around me, what was interrupted where thoughts far from a mountainside.

Being in a place where so much of the present moment competes for my attention that it succeeds in pulling me away from endless chatter in my head is why I treasure hiking. Hiking for 12 miles in a day brings an even greater relief from the mental noise of everyday life. After so many miles, my mind reaches a point were it gives up thinking about all of those things related to home,from gadgets to responsibilities. It quiets itself. In fact, at times it becomes so quiet that I no longer think about my immediate surroundings. I simply take one step at a time. Those moments are rare and fleeting but a true bit of nirvana while they exist.

One of the many panoramas of San Juan mountain peaks

 

 

Zen and the Art of Vegetable Chopping

“You spend a lot of time chopping vegetables every day,” my brother-in-law observed during a recent visit to our house. I agreed. Upon further reflection, I decided that I spend a large amount of time peeling and then chopping vegetables, since fresh garlic and onion go into just about everything I make and both require a lengthy peeling process. My brother-in-law went on to make the very useful suggestion that I set aside a block of time at the start of the week and do all of the vegetable chopping for the week. The suggestion certainly makes sense and would save me time but something inside me was against it from the start.

My immediate write-off was that I like vegetables cut in different ways for different meals. Onions for example seem better when diced in some dishes and better as halved-rings in others. Bell peppers are another case in point – I prefer them in long slices for stir-fry but find that diced is best for burritos. And I could go on. It is for this reason – combined with my preference for a very precise way of dicing garlic – that my husband is scared to chop vegetables for our meals. And I don’t blame him. I’m picky. Thus the task falls on me. But to call it a tasks makes it sound tedious and unappealing which couldn’t be further from the truth. And while my meticulous, picky nature played a role in vetoing a day of weekly chopping, the real reason that I did not want to schedule all of my chopping on one day was rooted in what I get back from my chopping episodes.

For me, chopping vegetables is kind of like fly fishing. Just like following the rod’s rhythm from 10 to 2 as you cast a fly line, I find myself following the knife across the cutting board and my mind settling into a repetitive task in which I lose myself. It is a time when I am undisturbed and can processes thoughts weighing on my mind that I have pushed aside in the day’s rush. Once my thoughts quiet, it is a wonderful exercise in mindfulness. I simply enjoy the smell of freshly chopped basil, or I notice that I am being more brutal in my attack on a carrot after a frustrating day. Time may pass slowly or quickly and becomes arbitrary; dinner will be ready when it is done.  We all have our vices, our “pick-me-ups”; I guess chopping vegetables is one of mine.

 

A new perspective on rain

Growing up in wild, wonderful, and wet West Virginia, I did not gain an early appreciation for rain. As a child, one of my responsibilities was to empty the house’s dehumidifier when its bucket was brimming. These days I sleep with a humidifier by my bed. Ah, the irony.

West Virginia sees as much yearly rainfall as the Pacific northwest. Living there, I had no lack of grey, clouded skies either threatening or fulfilling their promise of precipitation. I didn’t know that cracked heel cream existed, or that such a condition would plague anyone. Lotion in general served as a gentle way of perfuming my body, not as a needed moisturizer. In addition, the hillsides and roadsides of West Virginia were always green when they weren’t covered in snow. I held a grudge against the rain when it smoothed me in the summer and when it chilled me to the bone in the winter.

Those of you who live or have lived in humid climates know that no matter how pleasant the smell of rain evaporating off of pavement can be, that rain brings little relief from the summer heat. Instead, a warm rain hangs heavy in the already muggy air that renders your skin’s evolutionary function as a coolant useless and instead turns it into an evil form of glue. You stick to everything – restaurant booths, leather car seats, park benches – and in turn everything sticks to you. The only relief to be found is in air conditioned buildings; a clever idea with so much potential for abuse. If it is 85 degrees with high humidity outside, I find it a bit jarring to walk into a building that is a mere 65 degrees.  As a result, I learned the art of layering not by hiking in the mountains but by enduring hot and humid West Virginia summers among neighbors with a love for air conditioning.

So what does my rant about air condition have to do with a new-found appreciation for rain? If you know what a swamp cooler is, maybe you can see where I’m going with this. When I moved to Moab, UT four years ago I nervously awaited summer, which I was told would bring regular highs in the 100s, little to no rain, and relentless sun. My anxiety was heightened by the lack of air conditioning in my home. I had yet to learn two important facts. First, that sweat really does cool off the skin if the air outside is dry. And second, that my house had a swamp cooler – a common feature in many homes in the arid West. I’ve mentioned it twice now, so for all those who are wondering what a swamp cooler is, listen up: it is a devise similar to an air conditioner in function – i.e. it cools a building- but it goes about the task in a drastically different manner.  A swamp cooler actually adds moisture to the air rather than taking it away. And that brings me back to rain and humidity. Those vary elements of weather that plagued me as child now delight me.

I watch, giddy, when the rain falls here. I know that with each drop, the flora and fauna that are wizards at storing and conserving water are hard at work. As rain drums on my roof, I start to dream that the grass in my yard may turn green and not crunch underfoot and that my garden will flourish. I want to run outside and dance in the rain, knowing that it will cool my skin but that the warm air will keep me from feeling a chill. If I notice that I’ve left something outside, I don’t feel the same rush to rescue it. It will dry quickly once the storm passes. Rain in this mountain town is cause for celebration and brings its own fireworks, lighting up and crashing through the sky. Lighten flashes highlight the silhouettes of mountain peaks and mesa in a eerie neon purples and blues as they dance across the skyline. Thunder booms. If you are outside, you start counting the seconds between lightening strikes and thunder as way of gauging how close the storm is to you and knowing when to drop to lightening position (another thing I was unaware existed until I moved to the Rockies). These storms are magnificent, powerful, and even frightening. And then, they are gone. The air losses its humidity before evening falls, the ground soaks in the moisture and is dry to the touch, and I grab another bottle of lotion to sooth my dry skin.

 

Baby steps

So I take my first steps beyond my spiral-bound notebook and teeter into the world of blogging; a little unsure, yet full of conviction. I hope to find a place to share some ideas, dust off my writing skills, and display some of my favorite pictures. I am certain my spiral notebook will still see its share of action; no matter how small and light technology gets, I cannot fathom hiking into the wilderness and pulling out anything other than a pen and paper to jot down my thoughts. However, I hope that as I develop the habit of blogging I will be able to gather those mountain rambles into some presentable thoughts to share here.