Thursday, March 29, 2012
Hucking, Swimming, and Shredding
When Sam left me with the keys to his house and E-350 Van, with the words "Take chances" as the last thing he said to me, I knew it was going to be a great week.
The following day, I ganged up with Steve Cameron and crew to catch Hagen Gorge. It's flashy, shallow, and has a bunch of great slides and ledges... The PNW equivalent of Woodhull Creek in NY, or maybe Patterson for you Vermonters. Except it's way better because it's in the PNW...
Hagen Creek ends after about a mile and 260 feet lower than where we put in. It joins the North Fork Washougal, doubling the flow and immediately falls off Teakettle Falls, a really fun slide to waterfall combo that requires a strong ferry halfway down. There's a stellar playhole at the base of the waterfall...and by stellar I mean uniform and sticky... and backed up by another identical hole just behind it. I forgot the gopro, but these guys put together a great edit from another trip.
The next rapid that's really of note is sometimes called Double Drop and sometimes called Crack In The Earth...which is confusing because later on there's another one alternatively known as The Portage and Crack In The Earth. Anyways, I screwed up the line in the runnable CITE, boofing into a curtain and then flipping in the slot that gives the rapid it's name. I still consider it a success though, since I've always wanted to boof into a curtain...
After several fun class III-IV rapids and a couple weirs with serious holes, we joined up with the Main Washougal, probably tripling the flow and changing the character yet again from pool drop to play. As I cut into the eddy servicing the best playspot, I dropped into another great playspot. It's great because it's super retentive! With a reminder that my surfing abilities are definitely lacking, I slid into the eddy with a sigh of relief.
It was a great day, starting way up in the mountains with snow falling and eventually ending on a river several times larger than the one we began on in the typical lush mossy greenery with sun shining at the takeout. Thanks to everyone that made it such a great day!
The next day, Harrison Rea rallied to get me on the Wilson River with some LCers for a great day of playboating. Unfortunately, I was in a Jackson Fun, a boat designed for someone approximately a foot shorter and 50 pounds lighter than me.
At some point in my unexpected introduction to squirtboating, we had a swimmer on our hands, and the three of us remaining in boats piled into a large recirculating eddy. It took a few minutes to get the boat to shore because everytime we reached the top of the eddy we were stern-squirted and sent to repeat the process.
After ensuring our rescuee was alright, I made the comment "if you're not swimming, you're not trying" and peeled out of the eddy. I proceeded to try, really really hard. As I peeled out, I stern squirted as expected, but my momentum carried me to river left and I splatted a point of rock. The point happened to be the downstream end of a rather hideous pocket (complete with depressed whirlpool) that also happened to be the perfect size for a Fun.
I'd love to say that I made a valiant effort to extricate myself while in my boat, but really, I missed a few rolls, reached for the green water, and felt the boat starting to pin up against the rocks. I decided it was time to say goodbye to my impromptu squirt boat, pulled the skirt, and in the same motion grabbed the shore and pulled myself up.
I stared in horror as my borrowed boat was sucked out of sight, straight down into the whirlpool. My borrowed paddle followed immediately after. When the river regurgitated my gear about 10 seconds later, I wasted no time getting it up on the rocks with me. The whole self rescue probably took less than a minute, so I don't think I need to be practicing that any more...
After a few days of working, I rallied out to Mt. Hood for my first day of snowboarding in the West. Although it wasn't the champagne powder of Idaho, the snow conditions were great, and it was bluebird for the first half of the day.
Great (new) friends made the day even better, showing me down some lines I wouldn't have tried on my own, and providing some great material for my first edit in a while...
Saturday John and Kate plus way more than eight showed me down the Upper Wind while we set safety and ended up prviding safety for other members of the safety crew. The Upper is great fun, pushy, with some pretty big holes. After paying the appropriate tribute to the river gods and bribing some other new friends, I headed over to Hood River for the premiere of "Slippery When Wet" to watch the schweet footage and bro down with Shon Bollock.
With plans laid to paddle Canyon Creek the following day, I headed home fairly early to get a good night's sleep. I helped Kate get her Sandy River float trip together and set a backup plan to paddle Bull Run with her since it was close to the Sandy. I then settled down to wait...
and wait...
...and wait...
and then finally, I waited some more.
At 1, I had given up all hope on paddling something gnarly, so I headed out to Bull Run for a quick lap on some class III.
Or so I thought. You see, Kate is a rally-er, despite her reluctance to admit it. When I suggested a game of EDDY (think HORSE for basketball, but for kayaking), things got real, real fast. We were a pretty even match, and made some pretty spectacular moves out of the usually mellow river features.
In an hour, we made it approximately 100 yards from the put in. It was the most fun I've ever had in a single rapid.
And that pretty much sums up the awesomeness of last week!
At some point in my unexpected introduction to squirtboating, we had a swimmer on our hands, and the three of us remaining in boats piled into a large recirculating eddy. It took a few minutes to get the boat to shore because everytime we reached the top of the eddy we were stern-squirted and sent to repeat the process.
After ensuring our rescuee was alright, I made the comment "if you're not swimming, you're not trying" and peeled out of the eddy. I proceeded to try, really really hard. As I peeled out, I stern squirted as expected, but my momentum carried me to river left and I splatted a point of rock. The point happened to be the downstream end of a rather hideous pocket (complete with depressed whirlpool) that also happened to be the perfect size for a Fun.
I'd love to say that I made a valiant effort to extricate myself while in my boat, but really, I missed a few rolls, reached for the green water, and felt the boat starting to pin up against the rocks. I decided it was time to say goodbye to my impromptu squirt boat, pulled the skirt, and in the same motion grabbed the shore and pulled myself up.
I stared in horror as my borrowed boat was sucked out of sight, straight down into the whirlpool. My borrowed paddle followed immediately after. When the river regurgitated my gear about 10 seconds later, I wasted no time getting it up on the rocks with me. The whole self rescue probably took less than a minute, so I don't think I need to be practicing that any more...
After a few days of working, I rallied out to Mt. Hood for my first day of snowboarding in the West. Although it wasn't the champagne powder of Idaho, the snow conditions were great, and it was bluebird for the first half of the day.
 |
| funny that it's called bluebird when my skin gets SO red. |
Great (new) friends made the day even better, showing me down some lines I wouldn't have tried on my own, and providing some great material for my first edit in a while...
Saturday John and Kate plus way more than eight showed me down the Upper Wind while we set safety and ended up prviding safety for other members of the safety crew. The Upper is great fun, pushy, with some pretty big holes. After paying the appropriate tribute to the river gods and bribing some other new friends, I headed over to Hood River for the premiere of "Slippery When Wet" to watch the schweet footage and bro down with Shon Bollock.
With plans laid to paddle Canyon Creek the following day, I headed home fairly early to get a good night's sleep. I helped Kate get her Sandy River float trip together and set a backup plan to paddle Bull Run with her since it was close to the Sandy. I then settled down to wait...
and wait...
...and wait...
and then finally, I waited some more.
At 1, I had given up all hope on paddling something gnarly, so I headed out to Bull Run for a quick lap on some class III.
Or so I thought. You see, Kate is a rally-er, despite her reluctance to admit it. When I suggested a game of EDDY (think HORSE for basketball, but for kayaking), things got real, real fast. We were a pretty even match, and made some pretty spectacular moves out of the usually mellow river features.
In an hour, we made it approximately 100 yards from the put in. It was the most fun I've ever had in a single rapid.
And that pretty much sums up the awesomeness of last week!
Labels:
2012,
ENRG,
Hagen Gorge,
Hood River,
Kayaking,
Mt. Hood,
Oregon,
Snowboard,
Swim,
Washington,
West,
Whitewater,
Wilson River,
Wind River
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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.
Monday, March 5, 2012
Manifest Destiny
I've been fascinated by the west and the west coast for as long as I can remember. Last summer, I was inspired to take my own odyssey to work at eNRG Kayaking in Portland, Oregon. I had no plans beyond having a sweet job kayaking... no idea where I'd stay, or what to expect, but I had a tent and a lot of optimism.
I was fortunate enough to develop a great relationship with owner Sam Drevo right off the bat, and ended up crashing in his office for most of the summer. The other instructors turned out to be awesome as well, and at the end of the summer I was pretty bummed to be leaving.
It should come as no surprise then, that I've returned to the place that sometimes feels more like home than the area I grew up in. But first... an account of my final days in the North-East...
Really, it's been an awful winter, at least in terms of facilitating high activity levels and overall enjoyment. It didn't snow. Temperatures jumped from 50 degrees to -10 overnight. I was working 50 hours a week more often than not, just trying to make enough to pay for rent. The only good part about the weather was that I didn't feel like I was missing out on epic powder days all the time.
And then the northeast heard I was leaving.
Jay Peak got slammed with 2 feet of snow overnight, and I just happened to have a pass that weekend (Thanks for ditching me Cory).
But the thing about Jay Peak getting 2 feet of snow is that surrounding areas usually get at least some of that snow too, and my car was not making it up the access road on the spare. Fortunately, Kay offered to drive her car (affectionately known as Henry). Unfortunately, Henry uses all seasons, which is kind of like using flip-flops for an arctic multi-day expedition.
After an uneventful drive to Montgomery, things got a little steep, and Kay's car started getting less affectionately known as "The giant pile of german shit" as Subaru after Subaru swerved around the struggling vehicle. At the top of the first hill, Kay relinquished her seat as pilot willingly, while I slid in behind the wheel muttering about women drivers, gingers, and flatlanders.
While driving myself was less terrifying because I could at least feel responsible for my untimely death, I regretted getting behind the wheel immediately. I was as gripped then as I ever have been while kayaking. Maybe not as bad as SUPing, but definitely close. There was absolutely no traction, and bright lights kept popping up on the dash while the tires spun and the windshield fogged over from the heat of the engine. It seemed to take forever to reach the top of each hill, until finally, we made it past the last big one and just had a valley to cross before the home-stretch.
Oh yeah, that "valley" happens to be more of a ravine.
I would let off the brakes long enough to reach 4 mph and then lightly tap them, and then slide for another 5 feet. So really, I got to go snowboarding before I even put the snowboard on my feet. Henry likes to shred too.
When we finally made it to the mountain, it was all worth it. There were times when I'd step out of my bindings in the woods because it was too deep to move and sink down to my chest. And it kept dumping all day. We didn't take many photos that day, but I did hook it up with the Gopro as you should have seen above...
On the way back, Desi drove, smack talking the road and only slipping off once. Which was rather remarkable since we had to take the back way home. And they don't make roads very straight in VT. It took us over 3 hours to make the normally 1.5 hour drive because some frenchy(canadian) bus driver decided to rally and park it sideways across the road.
The next day, Matt Ide, Taylor Krammen, and I rallied up (on bare roads) to Bolton Valley for some great blue-bird powder. Definitely in the top 5 days of resort skiing.
Monday, I headed home. Tuesday, I unpacked and repacked. And Wednesday I was Portland bound.
It was to be my first time flying alone, and it was going to be flawless. After we got my bag checked, I said goodbye to the parental unit (dad), and headed through TSA without a problem. The first flight went well, no turbulence and a cool climber to talk to on my way to O'hare.
At the end of my layover, while waiting at the correct gate, the passengers from the previous flight unloaded. The ticket-checker announced that we didn't have a pilot.
I thought they were joking. They were not.
Almost 2 hours later, I finally reached an agent at the customer service desk and sorted things out. They booked me a room at The Hilton, conveniently attached to the airport, and flew me out at 5AM the next day. To Denver.
As excited as I was to visit the mile high city, I didn't appreciate the time of day I arrived there, or the fact that I had flown a few hundred miles out of my way to visit. After a brief layover there, I hopped aboard my connection flight only to be surrounded by 2 rather large men who didn't seem to be interested in making conversation.
At least I didn't have to drive.
A few hours after I arrived in Portland, I was introduced to Erik Boomer just before he presented a slideshow of his Arctic Epic, a circumnavigation of Ellesmere Island. The dude's one of the adventurers of the year... no biggie.
The next day, Sam and I rallied to Sahalie Falls with a few others to set safety and potentially run the 78-footer. Boomer ended up being the only one to drop it, and Sam provided the perfect toss to keep him from swimming the gnarly rapid just below. Forge Motion Pictures was there filming with their RED Epics, a camera worth more than my debt from school. It was a good first full day in Oregon.
Saturday and Sunday were quickly consumed by the ENRG Guide Training program, which I co-led with Sam and a few bros from last summer. A SUP on the Lower Clackamas provided entertainment for all, and the next day marked my first day kayaking on a river in 2012 with a double header from Revenue Bridge to Dodge Park on the Sandy and a quick lap on Bull Run. Plus I got to train with the PMI Reach System, which pretty much everyone needs to check out.
Full days with bigger plans each day... It's gonna be a good one!
I was fortunate enough to develop a great relationship with owner Sam Drevo right off the bat, and ended up crashing in his office for most of the summer. The other instructors turned out to be awesome as well, and at the end of the summer I was pretty bummed to be leaving.
It should come as no surprise then, that I've returned to the place that sometimes feels more like home than the area I grew up in. But first... an account of my final days in the North-East...
Really, it's been an awful winter, at least in terms of facilitating high activity levels and overall enjoyment. It didn't snow. Temperatures jumped from 50 degrees to -10 overnight. I was working 50 hours a week more often than not, just trying to make enough to pay for rent. The only good part about the weather was that I didn't feel like I was missing out on epic powder days all the time.
And then the northeast heard I was leaving.
Jay Peak got slammed with 2 feet of snow overnight, and I just happened to have a pass that weekend (Thanks for ditching me Cory).
But the thing about Jay Peak getting 2 feet of snow is that surrounding areas usually get at least some of that snow too, and my car was not making it up the access road on the spare. Fortunately, Kay offered to drive her car (affectionately known as Henry). Unfortunately, Henry uses all seasons, which is kind of like using flip-flops for an arctic multi-day expedition.
After an uneventful drive to Montgomery, things got a little steep, and Kay's car started getting less affectionately known as "The giant pile of german shit" as Subaru after Subaru swerved around the struggling vehicle. At the top of the first hill, Kay relinquished her seat as pilot willingly, while I slid in behind the wheel muttering about women drivers, gingers, and flatlanders.
While driving myself was less terrifying because I could at least feel responsible for my untimely death, I regretted getting behind the wheel immediately. I was as gripped then as I ever have been while kayaking. Maybe not as bad as SUPing, but definitely close. There was absolutely no traction, and bright lights kept popping up on the dash while the tires spun and the windshield fogged over from the heat of the engine. It seemed to take forever to reach the top of each hill, until finally, we made it past the last big one and just had a valley to cross before the home-stretch.
Oh yeah, that "valley" happens to be more of a ravine.
 |
| Like this, but going the other way. And steeper, definitely steeper... |
When we finally made it to the mountain, it was all worth it. There were times when I'd step out of my bindings in the woods because it was too deep to move and sink down to my chest. And it kept dumping all day. We didn't take many photos that day, but I did hook it up with the Gopro as you should have seen above...
On the way back, Desi drove, smack talking the road and only slipping off once. Which was rather remarkable since we had to take the back way home. And they don't make roads very straight in VT. It took us over 3 hours to make the normally 1.5 hour drive because some frenchy(canadian) bus driver decided to rally and park it sideways across the road.
The next day, Matt Ide, Taylor Krammen, and I rallied up (on bare roads) to Bolton Valley for some great blue-bird powder. Definitely in the top 5 days of resort skiing.
Monday, I headed home. Tuesday, I unpacked and repacked. And Wednesday I was Portland bound.
It was to be my first time flying alone, and it was going to be flawless. After we got my bag checked, I said goodbye to the parental unit (dad), and headed through TSA without a problem. The first flight went well, no turbulence and a cool climber to talk to on my way to O'hare.
At the end of my layover, while waiting at the correct gate, the passengers from the previous flight unloaded. The ticket-checker announced that we didn't have a pilot.
I thought they were joking. They were not.
Almost 2 hours later, I finally reached an agent at the customer service desk and sorted things out. They booked me a room at The Hilton, conveniently attached to the airport, and flew me out at 5AM the next day. To Denver.
As excited as I was to visit the mile high city, I didn't appreciate the time of day I arrived there, or the fact that I had flown a few hundred miles out of my way to visit. After a brief layover there, I hopped aboard my connection flight only to be surrounded by 2 rather large men who didn't seem to be interested in making conversation.
At least I didn't have to drive.
A few hours after I arrived in Portland, I was introduced to Erik Boomer just before he presented a slideshow of his Arctic Epic, a circumnavigation of Ellesmere Island. The dude's one of the adventurers of the year... no biggie.
The next day, Sam and I rallied to Sahalie Falls with a few others to set safety and potentially run the 78-footer. Boomer ended up being the only one to drop it, and Sam provided the perfect toss to keep him from swimming the gnarly rapid just below. Forge Motion Pictures was there filming with their RED Epics, a camera worth more than my debt from school. It was a good first full day in Oregon.
Saturday and Sunday were quickly consumed by the ENRG Guide Training program, which I co-led with Sam and a few bros from last summer. A SUP on the Lower Clackamas provided entertainment for all, and the next day marked my first day kayaking on a river in 2012 with a double header from Revenue Bridge to Dodge Park on the Sandy and a quick lap on Bull Run. Plus I got to train with the PMI Reach System, which pretty much everyone needs to check out.
Full days with bigger plans each day... It's gonna be a good one!
Labels:
2012,
Bolton Valley,
ENRG,
Jay Peak,
Kayaking,
Oregon,
Sahalie Falls,
snowboarding,
SUP,
West Coast,
Whitewater
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Monday, February 20, 2012
Step into Winter
So I broke my promise, but let's be honest. I'm ok with it, and so are you.
After one of my longest fun-droughts ever, getting a flat tire, and working full time at a real job, I was pretty sure the apocalypse was actually just around the corner.
 |
| When Burlington looks like this in February, the Himalaya probably look like this. |
And we all know it just gets worse when John Cusack walks into the room...
Fortunately, friends decided that, snow or not, they were going skiing and snowboarder or not, I was coming with them. They probably just wanted to see how good I was at skootching.
They also needed a guide. Since I was the most experienced backcountry enthusiast of the group, and I'd been to the zone a handful of times before, I took the lead. Unfortunately, I also needed a guide, but we'll get to that later.
The view speeding by through the window was disheartening as we drove through the foothills of the green mountain spine, bare except for a few patches of white in the deepest shadows. Worse yet was passing several rivers entirely locked in with ice. Apparently it's been just cold enough to keep rivers from running, but warm enough that no snow will last. Definitely an apocalypse.
Despite these conditions, morale was high, and there was just enough snow to convince us to strap the skis and snowboard to our backs and begin hiking up. That's when we discovered we were way out of shape.
 |
| I don't care what it looks like, it felt like climbing Everest. |
Fun-droughts will do that to you. At some point we started questioning whether the shredding would be worth the hike, and I think that's something we always do, but this time was way worse. We were hiking in t-shirts and still sweating, and the snow was crunchier than the girls in the Rubenstein School at UVM. Not a good sign...
 |
| Joe: Hey bros, I'm gonna grab some poutine, anyone want a snack? Taylor: Nah bro, I heard Tom Wallisch doesn't eat that stuff anymore because it's scientifically proven to make your toes get colder in ski boots. |
Then again, maybe I was the only one focused enough on the snow to worry about the hiking.
After several breaks and much complaining, we reached the top, which isn't actually the top. An extra 5 minutes of hiking along the ridge followed before we finally switched over to descend mode. That's kind of like when Optimus Prime transforms, except less noisy, quickly, and not cool at all. After nearly descending into super dense spruce hell, we cut out into some open glades and had a generally fantastic time.
Since the slope was north facing, the snow was significantly less crunchy, and in some cases even powdery.
 |
| No, not that kind... |
There was a heavy (if thin) base beneath the fluffy stuff that kept things covered well enough, and I didn't even fall. Well, not on my first lap. Stepping into the backcountry in uh, variable snow conditions is always a little sketchy, at least for me, since I'm not any of these people. I took a few diggers on the second lap, but nothing consequential.
After a long hike back to the top, we began hiking along the ridge towards our initial trail up, but soon realized we were very, very far away.
Taylor saved the day, spotting a nice cut line that we followed down straight to the cars. And by straight I mean traversing for a long ways and then kind of zig zagging for a while. The snow was super fast, crusty, and hard to carve into. There were also bare spots, which are not to be confused with bear spots.
So overall, conditions weren't great, but I'm just glad I made it out this winter with some good friends.
(Even if my snowboard's base hates me for it)
Shred on my friends!
After a long hike back to the top, we began hiking along the ridge towards our initial trail up, but soon realized we were very, very far away.
 |
| I'm not exactly sure how we did it, but things got very strange, very quickly |
 |
| "Guys, I spotted Bear Grylls and he's drinking his own.. Don't make eye contact!" |
(Even if my snowboard's base hates me for it)
Shred on my friends!
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
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| 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?
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About Me
- Eric
- I am a freelance writer and photographer, collector of experiences, adventure lover, and outdoor goer.
