Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Writing. Show all posts
Monday, June 11, 2012
Falling
(This is the truth, and also more than the truth.)
It sure does feel like falling. If you try to fight it things just get out of control. That's how you end up hurt. It's best to just let go, tuck up, and wait it out. Of course, sometimes you do everything right and things still get broken.
 |
| Letting go and tucking up on Metlako Falls, Eagle Creek, OR Kate Daniel Photo |
It's always a choice, too. Whether it was a spur of the moment decision with a convenient pool at the top or a missed takeout where you ended up gorged in at the lip with no choice but to fall, there were a series of choices that led to the moment you tip over the edge.
 |
| One of the ones without many options. Brokeback Gorge, NY Taylor Krammen Photo |
And once you've made that choice, it's all what you make of it. Things accelerate quickly. Changes are hard to react to. Sometimes, even letting go doesn't work as well as you had hoped.
 |
| Reacting. Pixley Falls, NY Brian Murphy Photo |
When you're falling, that's all that exists. For some it's natural. Others feel their stomachs drop out. Everyone takes some time to wonder how they got there in the first place. Inevitably you start to wonder how long it's going to last. Above all, it seems bigger than it really is.
 |
| Metlako Falls, OR Kate Daniel Photo |
So you hang there.
In ecstasy or agonizing anticipation.
 |
| "Remember, this was a choice." Metlako Falls, OR. Ethan Smith Photo |
And just pray you don't hit bottom.
 |
| Kate Daniel Photo |
And now for something completely different.
Labels:
2012,
Brokeback Gorge,
Eagle Creek,
Kayaking,
Metlako,
New York,
Oregon,
Pixley Falls,
waterfall,
Whitewater,
Writing
|
0
comments
0
comments
Monday, March 19, 2012
The Illis[t]nois[e]- A Triptych in Literary Form
I.
We wake. The
patter of rain we fell asleep to has eased to a steady and subtle hiss. It
casts an ominous haze over the burnt and broken hills. Globes of water settle
on our skin. They trickle and drip deep into the thick layers we wear to ward off the chilled, pre-dawn air. The rain has a voice; it whispers, I’m here to stay.
We don drysuits,
skirts, and lifejackets. The bright splashes of color do little to cast away the
depthless grey. We drain our boats. We check the level. It’s rising. He said
he’d never put on this river in the rain. He said…
What he said is
drowned in the insidious hissing. Our thoughts are drowning, too. The weight of
the rain shrouds the clarity of our minds just as it shrouds the clarity of the
river.
 |
| An not-so-bright, but still early start on the Illinois -Michael Gordon Photo |
II.
You’re in deep
now, deeper than you’ve ever been before. Deeper than you know. You left all
signs of humanity at the put in, and there’s a full day of paddling before
you’ll see one again.
Though the
current drags you inexorably forwards, time is lost between the canyon walls.
It wells up and swirls in the eddies, allowing your senses to absorb every
ripple as it passes. The river displays an infinite array of colors as it casts
rainbows in the mist, the chill of winter lurks among the snow coated pines
that cap the mountains surrounding you.
More
striking than the sights of the untouched wilderness is the melody of the river
in it’s most natural and wild state. The crashing wave is more dramatic than
any climactic cymbals, the melody more dynamic than a symphony. The roar of the
river resonates through every inch of your being.
 |
| Michael Gordon Photo |
III.
Have you ever
been in love? No, not with a person or a place. In love with a moment; a brief slice
of time, flitting in nature but remembered for a lifetime.
Everything just fits; any more and the world of your heart might explode. Nothing’s missing. It’s a moment when everything feels right that should, and you move past confronting what feels wrong and just accept it.
Everything just fits; any more and the world of your heart might explode. Nothing’s missing. It’s a moment when everything feels right that should, and you move past confronting what feels wrong and just accept it.
In this moment,
I am in love with the great cresting rollers dashing themselves against the
rocks, with the warmth of the sun-not-quite-setting, the rumble of tires on
pavement. I am in love with the exhaustion begging my eyelids to close, the
ache of 33 miles of whitewater nestling into my shoulders, and the smell of the
river stuck in my clothes. I am in love with the silence settling on my soul.
Inspired by the Illinois-In-A-Day expedition, composed of Ben Orkin, Harrison Rea, Michael Gordon, and myself. Special thanks to "other" Ben and Chloe for driving shuttle and allowing the whole adventure to happen. For a detailed description of the 33-mile overnight section that we paddled, visit the Oregon Kayaking page and check out the Illinois River.
Inspired by the Illinois-In-A-Day expedition, composed of Ben Orkin, Harrison Rea, Michael Gordon, and myself. Special thanks to "other" Ben and Chloe for driving shuttle and allowing the whole adventure to happen. For a detailed description of the 33-mile overnight section that we paddled, visit the Oregon Kayaking page and check out the Illinois River.
Sunday, February 5, 2012
Motivation
Sometimes it's hard: to do the things we said we would, the things we promised we would, the things we want to do. First there are the other things we've been meaning to do, then the distractions, the excuses, the other-other things we've been meaning to do. Finding motivation can be a difficult task, especially with social-media-sharing so popular. That's why this essay is late.
Unfortunately, motivation is an elusive creature... more of a rock, really, because once found it's usually pretty hard to keep with you or shape into something meaningful. For that reason, I'd suggest searching for a goal first; they get passed around faster than your 80-year-old grandmother in her Model T Ford. Most goals are fleeting, but with some focus, you can stop reading for a second, find a pen and paper and write one or two down. If you're still struggling at this point, your goal should be to accomplish finding a goal... yes, that's it...write it down...
Goals can be big or small (like people, giraffes, and mistakes), but it's important to make them reasonable. If you "smoke weed erryday" you're definitely not going to outswim Michael Phelps in the... ok, that's a bad example, but you get the point. Shooting for the moon with the idea that at the worst, you'll end up with the stars is an awful idea. Do you know how much space there is in SPACE?
With a reasonable goal in mind, you have to move on to the difficult part: discovering a source of motivation. Some people pray, listen to '80s movie monologues, and spend lots of money on multiple self-help books. I usually choose to work a nightshift on an assembly line for a few nights to get my motivation really pumping; it makes me appreciate how easy it is to write that 6 page lab report. Ultimately though, that doesn't always do the trick. If you're having trouble thinking forward, try thinking backward.
I find this works particularly well in the context of sports or fitness. Anyone that has competed has achieved a peak experience where everything just seemed to happen the right way for them. For most, there's also been someone better or another level of competition that could be reached. These things weren't even on your radar then, you were tunnel-visioned on the win that day, but looking back, you know there was someway you could have done better, moved on to that next level, dropped that extra hundredth of a second. That's where I find my motivation: Within lost potential. No matter how you view the future, the past is gone, irrevocably passed. Are you willing to have another memory you later realize is steeped in squandered potential?
If you can't find the motivation you need after that, you may need to rethink your objective. Motivations should drive us to our limits. It's there that we must begin our the difficult part.
Editor's Note: Although not in formal essay form, this does count towards my weekly essay promise, as it began in true essay form. The second to last paragraph is all that remains of said essay. I found the topic more interesting to approach with the perspective of humor as inspired by the Sum 41 video linked below. I really encourage clicking all the links...
Unfortunately, motivation is an elusive creature... more of a rock, really, because once found it's usually pretty hard to keep with you or shape into something meaningful. For that reason, I'd suggest searching for a goal first; they get passed around faster than your 80-year-old grandmother in her Model T Ford. Most goals are fleeting, but with some focus, you can stop reading for a second, find a pen and paper and write one or two down. If you're still struggling at this point, your goal should be to accomplish finding a goal... yes, that's it...write it down...
Goals can be big or small (like people, giraffes, and mistakes), but it's important to make them reasonable. If you "smoke weed erryday" you're definitely not going to outswim Michael Phelps in the... ok, that's a bad example, but you get the point. Shooting for the moon with the idea that at the worst, you'll end up with the stars is an awful idea. Do you know how much space there is in SPACE?
 |
| I dare you to try... |
I find this works particularly well in the context of sports or fitness. Anyone that has competed has achieved a peak experience where everything just seemed to happen the right way for them. For most, there's also been someone better or another level of competition that could be reached. These things weren't even on your radar then, you were tunnel-visioned on the win that day, but looking back, you know there was someway you could have done better, moved on to that next level, dropped that extra hundredth of a second. That's where I find my motivation: Within lost potential. No matter how you view the future, the past is gone, irrevocably passed. Are you willing to have another memory you later realize is steeped in squandered potential?
If you can't find the motivation you need after that, you may need to rethink your objective. Motivations should drive us to our limits. It's there that we must begin our the difficult part.
Editor's Note: Although not in formal essay form, this does count towards my weekly essay promise, as it began in true essay form. The second to last paragraph is all that remains of said essay. I found the topic more interesting to approach with the perspective of humor as inspired by the Sum 41 video linked below. I really encourage clicking all the links...
Saturday, January 28, 2012
White Noise
The topic suggestion for this week was "shredding pow," so I tried to take an interesting approach towards a sport I've grown to love. A sport with some incredible sights and often overlooked sounds. This essay is about a few of those sounds, and how they end up falling into my daily life like so many proverbial drifts of snow. I give you...
White Noise
Once you hear it, it never stops. You hear it on the radio,
in traffic, even in the rise and fall of voices at a party, and the longer you
go without hearing the real thing, the louder it gets. Sometimes, it’s all you
can make out.
The soft hiss of powder snow parting on the base of a
snowboard or ski will enchant you if you let it. It sticks with you and calls
you back to the winter woods.
That’s where the magic happens, where the symphony is
unleashed. It starts with the breath; a soft huff of air that grows evermore apparent with each step. Then the
crunch of snow beneath the snowshoes. It creaks and crunches as it compresses,
creating a steady rhythm for the ascent. The thump and rush of blood to the
head builds in tempo, reaching a rapid and deafening crescendo before winding
down for a dramatic suspension.
The drum roll of bindings being tightened hints at a new
beginning. The rhythmic pulse of breath slows and nearly silences. Replacing it
is the rush of air through your ears; a rush bringing new meaning to
wood-winds, rising and falling in a lilting melody that coincides with your
speed. The staccato snap of tree branches under heavy loads of snow provides a
drumbeat of percussion.
Some people never experience it, and experience is more apt
a term than hear, for backcountry shredding is something to be felt, seen,
smelled, and tasted. It establishes perspective, so that the finer melodies of
day to day life are appreciated in new ways. The blustery walk to work feels
warmer after dawn patrol on the wind-blasted peaks. The sandwich at lunch a
little richer after the granola bar on the trail.
It’s easy to tell who hears the music; they seem adrift in
its tonal shifts. In the hush that follows a heavy snowfall, you can sometimes
catch them humming along. The white noise grows inside of them, shaping their
facades: a slight tan starting just below the cheekbones and ending at the
neck, a slight smile as forecasters call for feet of snow, perhaps a scruffy
beard colonizing a usually clean shaven face. But the innocent tune whispering in
the back of their mind shapes much more than their physical appearance.
The true maestros and aficionados start behaving differently
the second the leaves begin to fall. They lose focus, drifting into endless
gazes towards barely visible peaks. A sudden interest in exercise or
willingness to walk the dog follows. People who couldn’t tell you when the last
time it rained if their life depended on it begin reading technical weather
reports, spouting off barometric pressure readings and following NOAA on
Twitter.
No matter who you are, though, there’s an inaudible music to
snow gently falling in the night. Those of us who ski and snowboard yearn to
magnify and lengthen our exposure to that music.
To us, there’s nothing more beautiful than the sound of
White Noise.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
A promise
 |
| Ausable Chasm, NY |
I didn't make a resolution this year.
I'm not going to, either.
Rather, I've been focusing on living as I should, simply because I should.
As part of that focus, I've decided to write... and that's my promise to you.
From this Sunday until the end of the semester, I'm writing a 500 word (min.) essay every week. It will be for your eyes only (you faithful readers, you)...
And here's the best part:
You get to choose the topic!
Send me an email, post a comment on my most recent post, or message me on the big FB and I'll consider your choice. Topics that receive multiple nominations from different users receive higher priority, but please, nothing obscene.
My only caveat is that topic nominations are subject to my interpretations. Therefore, any topic might yield a piece of fiction or nonfiction, satirical or serious, dark or humorous, etc. For example, I offer you my first entry titled:
The Battle of the Boxes
They roll forward in waves of
thousands, wending their way through the seemingly endless landscape of steel
and concrete. For years we’ve fought off aimless bands of rogues, but somehow
this is different. Never have I seen so many of these forces amassed in one
place, gathered together for one purpose. The purpose to overwhelm us. Their
onslaught begins just before daybreak, but our floodlights dispose of any
element of surprise they might hope to gain.
From the start, they press in close
enough that their tawny, thick hide rasps against mine, adding a subtle hiss to
the clamor of the battle surrounding me. The rapid-fire clash of metal on metal
plays a staccato beat against my skull through a haze, while the sound of my
blade stabbing into my enemies presses into my consciousness .
The
glinting blade is short, but razor sharp; a weapon designed solely for the task
of slashing through thick, dry skin, only to be sheathed seconds later. I take
no prisoners, nor any unnecessary risks; only a battered and broken exoskeleton
is left when I’m done, their treasured innards lay cold and still in the harsh
light of the battlefield. I push them away rapidly, desiring only to rid my
nostrils of their pungent, sickly odor.
The
periodic lulls in the overwhelming onslaught last just long enough for us to
clear the spent figures from around us. At times, the inexorable forces knock
me back to a seated position where I battle to regain my position. Our chief of
command circles the battlefield, urging us onward. Though we feel doomed, we
plunge onward, heeding his commands.
The Jamaican woman beside me breaks
from her destructive task to mutter at the hopelessness of our fate. Though she
never told me of her purpose on the battlefield, I can only assume she’s
proficient with voodoo… It’s the only way to account for her presence here. Her
dark skin bulges at her arms and waist, while thick beads of sweat sprout
across her brow. She’s not accustomed to battle such as this, yet with her
unintelligible grunts and curses she devastates as money or more of the
opposing forces as I.
The great resounding alarm for
retreat has pealed out twice already. We fall back into rank, have whatever
repast we will, and attempt to bolster our morale for our next offense. The
last one sounded ages ago, and my arms and heart grow heavy with hopelessness.
As I stab and slash in a skirmish, my blade shatters against the dust covered
exoskeleton, and I only receive salvation through a passing officer who throws
me her own weapon.
As I stand over the last corpse of
the latest wave, the slightest hint of a smile begins to spread across my
sweat-drenched face. Between gasps of air, I realize none have come to replace
the now collapsed wave. We are free from oppression. A bugler raises the
victory cry as my heart soars with triumph.
We are victorious.
The topic for this piece was "Work" and is based on my recent stint as a temporary employee in a warehouse unwrapping goggle cases. I kept my sanity (questionable) by writing brief notes for this essay on my ipod during breaks. Facts were skewed and/or hyperbolized, but nothing could be considered blatantly untrue.
Hope you enjoyed, now what's my next topic?
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
The High Peaks and A Portrait of a Reminiscent Youth
 |
| Who's probing? Lyon's Falls, NY |
I drove to Burlington, VT yesterday to begin a semester of work, work, and more work. Hopefully there will be some fun in there too, but no promises.
 |
| I don't think I've seen so much brown in january...ever... Not even while watching Demshitz videos |
I left bare ground and flowing water in Lowville and took the scenic route through the High Peaks where I was greeted with snow and frozen lakes.
 |
| This is more appropriate. Not to mention gorgeous. |
I took the opportunity to check out what a few of the Empire stars consider "The Promised Land" and would have to agree. Hurricane Brook in Keen, and several further east along Rt. 73 all look incredible, and they're well within reach of a weekend trip from Burlington.
Sadly, this was one of the areas hit hard by Irene in the fall, and the damage to rivers and homes alike was an unpleasant surprise.
 |
| Ladies and gentlemen, it is my misfortune to present to you John's Brook |
Despite the damage, I was happy to finally get a glimpse of some of these runs that I've heard so much (or so little) about. The Keen Valley area has definitely captured my attention.
As I transition into my new living situation, I find myself mentally escaping to the adventures I've had, and the ones I wish I could do right now. On one such adventure, I was inspired by a reminiscent youth.
A Portrait of a Reminiscent Youth
The remains of my chocolate-strawberry pancakes dry and
crust to my plate in the early-summer morning. We sit bare-chested on the
porch, basking in the shriveled and spent fireworks containers that litter the
streets.
“I miss my childhood, is what it boils down to. Those were
the best days of my life,” he says.
There was the heat, the immovable blanket that kept him in
bed until noon. There were long nights spent in galaxies very far from here,
defending earth from alien invasions with friends. There were hiking trails lit
by the green-tinged hue of sunlight cascading through a canopy of ancient
douglas firs and prehistoric ferns. These are the things he tells me of summers
past in the State of Jefferson. These are the things he tells me of the best
days of his life.
His tone isn’t morose as mine would be, knowing the best
years of my life had already been lived, but there was no gleeful recollection
of some punch line to a joke either. Instead he continues reassembling his
childhood before my eyes, tapping into memories like so many kegs he had tapped
so many summers ago. Dutifully.
A thousand-yard-stare sweeps over his visage as the Illinois
River flows off of his tongue and he remembers the steep black gorge walls and
crystal cold water. The bridge was seventy feet high, but that wasn’t enough.
The rope would arc beneath before swinging up, up. Up he would fly before
whirling through the air, dancing in gravity. And then the pumice of icy water
would scrub the summer heat from his body. It couldn’t be colder at the source,
and even now in the heat of the summer sun, goosebumps spring up on his arms
from the thought.
Then there was the beer, the cold, crumpled cans of beer
that piled up in basement corners and burnt out firepits. And the camping
beneath the stars with the snow-capped peaks hanging in the distant darkness,
and hours spent gazing into a dancing bonfire. The road trips too. Waking up at
dawn and arriving at the coast, just in time to smell the salt in the air and
see the great yellow orb of sunlight dip below the horizon. And then pack back
into the car to retreat, like the tide. For him, it was never about the
destination. All that mattered was the road, the people, and heat of the
summer, driving him to explore.
Slowly, his eyes focus, rising up from the depths of the
river of time. There’s new hope dancing in his voice.
“A full tank of gas, and all the time in the world…that’s
all you need.”
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Double Whammy!
 |
| Tandem bridge walking, it's that big... |
Two rather big developments in this post:
1. I finally broke my first paddle
2. I've reached the halfway point of my novel.
So first, let me just say that I've had my $170 AT for 3-4 years now. I can't say that I intentionally mistreated it, but I certainly didn't baby it either. But hey, everyone uses their paddle as a baseball bat every once in a while, right? ....right?
Ok, so I didn't ever do that, but I did toss it on shore, use it as a depth meter, and crank really huge boofs with it.
 |
| Even when boofing might not be advised... -Brian Murphy Photo |
As those of you who have paddled with me know, it was really only a matter of time. The blades had been worn down at least an inch on the edges, and sometime last summer it started sinking in the water. It had a lovely tendency to fill with water and then leak out on dry clothes. At some point I had this fixed with a little duct tape, but at Gauleyfest this year the problem returned. I noticed a little more flex than usual and began avoiding more committing runs (except the Oswegatchie, that's just too good to miss). In the end though, it happened on one of the rivers that gave it the most abuse.
 |
| Ahh, Fowlersville, moments before the break. |
The paddle finally gave out on the Bottom Moose. It more or less folded at the joint on impact at Fowlersville. In this case, I think the tuck did more harm than my typical plug, but I guess we'll never know. Either way, I was glad it happened here instead of further down. For one, I was closer to the cars so I could drive shuttle if necessary, and two, I wasn't halfway down Powerline or Crystal trying to C1.
 |
| Not so tasty... Note the "reshaped" blades... |
Fortunately for me, Jim was too lazy to take his breakdown out of his boat from our last paddling trip, and he had it assembled by the time I could hand off my broken paddle. It flexed a lot, but at this point it probably had more surface area on the blades than mine did. I finished out the day enjoying the unseasonably late warmth with good friends and a few new ones.
 |
| One of my favorite views from one of my favorite rapids. With my favorite breakdown paddle, for that matter, too. Crystal, Bottom Moose |
Ok, now for the boring part.
I just reached the halfway point in my novel, and because all of you are such faithful readers, you get a little sneak peak, inspired by the Moose!
Cobb was already sliding before he realized what Sam had talked him into doing. He had nodded and smiled and laughed his way up the steep slope to the narrow plateau and tightened the back of his seat so he was snug in the bright plastic. And now he was flying down the ocean of pine needles, rocketing through the gauntlet of tree trunks. He leaned forward and reached across the bow of his boat, minimizing the surface area left to slam into a tree branch. He breathed the soft scent of crushed pine needles. The rush of air and soft shifting of plastic along the loamy soil rang in his ears like an orchestra. In a moment, the dusky blur was blasted into a faint memory by the golden sunlight of the open river. He hung in the air for a moment and remembered those cold car rides wishing he could fly.
He landed in the dark, cool water with a slap that brought his focus back into the present. He grinned. He knew that was only the beginning of the day’s excitement. He began paddling downstream, eager for the next rush of color and sound. Sam landed in the water with a whoop and caught up. They were junkies drifting between the small boulders, looking ahead at the edge of the world, their next fix. Treetops and empty space. The black conveyer belt before them flowed onwards, indifferent to the blank space ahead. A yellow leaf drifted listlessly over the edge. Cobb followed, falling, accelerating, disappearing. He popped up in the foam and swirling pieces of driftwood at the bottom and paddled into an eddy. Sam followed soon after, and Cobb counted ten mississippis before he emerged from the grasp of the white noise, grinning. And then they were off again, weaving their laughter between boulders and over more horizons.
Cobb and Sam never once stopped to scout ahead and find the route. This was their run. They had a responsibility to know where the big holes were and at what level the ledges were still ok to paddle. Together they had over 200 runs on this section alone. It was their training grounds. Some might say their confidence was justified. The one rapid that still made Cobb’s heart rise to his throat was Crystal. There was something about that coliseum of sandy-orange rock and the cascading whitewater within it that resonated with his soul. Interacting with something like that never came as easy as he expected. Instead, it created a challenge that left him breathless, unnerved, and wishing it would never end.
I also think the very middle word of the target word count (25,000 of 50,000) being "Rum" is important to mention. Some might say the entire novel centers around alcohol. Based on word counts, they would be correct.
And now the bonus material!
I managed to get outside between the terrible weather, paddling, and writing like a madman. I even got the family to come with. Well, some of them...
We spent some time hiking into a few drops on the West Branch of the Oswegatchie, which looks like a lot of fun, but also has a lot of flatwater. Here are a few shots.
The biggest reasons to try and get along with fishermen:
There are more of them than there are us
They have more influence on access to rivers
They know about lots of sweet waterfalls we might not
 |
| Sweet waterfalls like this... |
I found a piece of ice that looked a lot like Vermont, so I had Nicole snap a picture of me "In" an "Icy VT." The trails were all in really good condition and had some pretty sweet views at the end. They'd make some good picnicking destinations, and they're pretty easy to get to. I found all of them with directions here!
Monday, October 31, 2011
NaNoWriMo
No, it's not the name of the ultra-classic new creek I found in my backyard, although there are plenty of those in the region. Those have much stranger names...
 |
| A local's only classic... |
NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month.
Check them out here!
Basically, they encourage writers of all ages and skill levels to write a 50,000 word novel in a month. That's about 175 pages. Since I have approximately zero judgement skills, I've decided to take on this challenge.
Rather than giving away my super awesome plot and letting you all get a sneak peak at the totally original characters, this post is more of an apology for a potential lack of posts over the next month.
I'll be relying heavily on paddling and other outdoors adventures for inspiration/sanity maintenance, so all hope is not lost. I will continue to post as often as I can, but I can't promise my usual frequency.
 |
| Blog posts may be spotty, kinda like the sky here |
If you want to send your support, comments and emails are welcome! You can also accuse me of wasting my time and tell me not to quit my day job. I won't listen, of course, because I don't actually have a day job.
 |
| Getting views like this with day jobs is kinda tough, so I don't mind too much |
Cheerio!
Labels:
Brokeback Gorge,
Burlington,
Camel's Hump,
Novel,
Roaring Brook,
Sunrise,
Sunset,
Writing
|
0
comments
0
comments
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
About Me
- Eric
- I am a freelance writer and photographer, collector of experiences, adventure lover, and outdoor goer.
