dreamer

I want to scream.

Yell.

Curse.

For getting my hopes up yet again.

Needless to say, I did not get the job at Camp Cuyamaca.

I was meant to impart a love for nature to young folk

And to enable them to find Nature to be a mirror in which they can see the best of themselves.

I am an educator: whether it is teaching the joy of literature or a deep appreciation of the outdoors, I should be teaching someone, somewhere, these things.

When will I be able to do what I was meant to do?

Until I find a place that will take me in and see my worth as a teacher, I am moving to Joshua Tree. Starting this Monday I will be full-time at the Nomad Ventures there.

My optimism still works: I will be moving in with Jacob! Climbing! Joshua Tree!!

....but no Camp Cuyamaca.

Jacob

I love that you can ride waves to shore

The white roaring mass moving you

To whoop and holler and that dashing smile

Your hair stuck up on one side

You jog slow-motion through the breakers

To me, waist-deep in the strong current

You high-five me and eyes shine bright

Like a child. If I have faith in anything

It is in the joy that we share here together.

Morning in August

I finally drifted off to sleep last night, heavy with the need for rest. This did not last long. I woke to trilling, screeching, purring raccoon kits playing: little balls of fur tackling and rolling about just outside my window. A smile found my sleepy face. How could I be mad at such cute critters? But after a few minutes I knocked on my window and kindly asked, "Hey, guys? Could you keep it down?" They scampered further off, creating a muted ruckus further down the yard.

Next I know Mom is prefacing the question of whether or not I'd like some coffee with, "I know this is a dumb question, but..."

Roll from bed. Coffee. Sugar. Too much sugar. Add more coffee. 7am? Enough time to sit back and read Climbing magazine. Find a bit of motivation. Sip on bean juice. Wait--is it trash day? I've been waiting to clean out the fridge for two weeks. Pause... clean... gross... okay, done.

As I read a randomly pulled back issue I think about how little I have climbed. I do consider myself a climber, though not a very good one. My grip strength is improving; I am getting myself out on some easy leads (both trad and sport); I've been reading John Long's Anchor books; talking rock with Jacob; and finally been dreaming about more vertical granite than I can shake a stick at. I'm a climber at heart and am slowly following in action.

My Honda Civic died. The clutch gave out and I sold it all in one day. My savings plus the few measly bucks I milked from the car sale is not enough for a down payment on a new or even a certified used car. So I rock the Momobile CRV (thanks, Mom!). Wait. Save. Search. Buy?

I've had my teaching credential for just over one year now. I have just four years left to find a job in the classroom. I still want to teach. One day, I will.

dwell

It is late.

I am always doing this;

waking with the sun,

staying up with the moon.

The water rushing outside

my window is not the

Tuolumne River.

I pull out my sleeping bag

and pretend

that I am Out still

beneath the approving stars.

Father's Daughter

Father's Day always reminds me how lucky I am to have Dad as my dad. For instance, if Dad weren't my dad, would I be excited to rummage through the owl pellets beneath the owl box up on the hill? A mouse skull here, a gopher skull there, rodent bones, hair, and, look! a feather! A Barl Owl feather, to be precise.

The wild things sustain me. I have found, though, that I have a need to share these wild things with the ones I love.

I follow a road that becomes a trail that becomes a game trail that leads to a sudden drop-off into a canyon. I smell the sage, nibble on buckwheat, and stare back at a sharp-shinned hawk. But there is one man in particular I wish were besides me. He could also identify the plants, the birds, the animals. He is 115 miles away, on his own hike in a canyon behind his house in Joshua Tree.

I smell Pearly Everlasting and look down at my feet. A few pieces lay on the ground and I gather them up, make a bouquet. Next to my toes I find a sun-bleached snail shell with a hole through the center. I cinch the stems of the Pearly Everlasting with the shell and continue walking. What appears to be string is actually coyote melon vines, partially dried in the sun. Round and wound it goes, to finish off my bouquet, which I give to Dad for Father's Day.

I no longer feel the pressure to be someone I am not. I am not ashamed to dissect owl pellets, find scat as informative as a newspaper (and less depressing), and deem a bouquet of dried up wildflowers more intoxicating than any rose. Daddo, thank you for teaching me to be who you taught me to be, confidently, and without need for compromise.

Happy Father's Day, Daddo.

sleepyhead

There is no real reason for me to be awake right now. I guess I enjoy the silence that this time of night brings; I can only hear the hum of my laptop and the crinkle of leaves under the paws of raccoons just outside my window.

The reality that I won't be working at Julian Jr. High has settled. I'm moving on. I've applied to other jobs, but without all the gung-ho I had for JJH. I must continue to look forward. Until then, I will keep working at Nomad Ventures. Too many of my friends do not have jobs. I know I am fortunate to have one.

Also, just so you know, sometimes I laugh because I have a blog. Fifteen years ago that word didn't exist. Blog.

As for the photograph: I took that (while driving) on my way up to Idyllwild via the 243, just after passing under the 10. I think my camera has an infatuation with train tracks. They're so full of symbology (only a real word if you've seen The Boondock Saints).

It's nearly 1am. I'd best get my sleepface on.

waiting

My friends tell me that I should stay busy while I wait to hear the news. Instead I eat left-over Thai food in bed while reading webcomics.

Clare and I discuss ideas that some people have died for. The thought of a perfect world, where one didn’t have to chose between food or gasoline. Eating from your garden. Picking sweet peas and bell peppers and putting them in your salad. Laughing with your best friends. Not having to compete with them for a job that will underpay and overwork you. Revolution is the thing that everyone wants but is so monumental that no one will die for it anymore. All the revolutionaries are dead.

Our three-car garage is filled with artifacts that would either show our love or our contempt for each other. Which artifact would you throw into the dumpster?

I heard that the self-storage industry is doing remarkably well.

Why is it that we cannot enjoy the moment? We either cling desperately to our past or we hurl ourselves into the future.

Why don’t we know ourselves? We fear who we might be, so we refuse to give up who we were or strive to be what we might become.

I found a lump. I thought I was too young, but there it is--quite visible. It is in the shape of contempt. Anger. Indignation. I thought I could easily forgive, but here I am struggling to not yell while throwing red bricks at the blue sky. Four years and you deny it meant anything. A waste of time? I am still reeling from that--from your wall, from your words, from your ability to sweep away what I thought you might have understood, but had hidden. I am currently unable to cope with the way I feel about the way part of me died when I left you. How has anyone coped with such burning anger and unanswered questions? How has anyone found a way to wade through such hurt?

I told Clare that I suppose this is how a tree feels when it has been pared. It must feel very unnatural at first, what with sap running over its bark and all. But I have started to grow. My old heartwood was exposed and now new shoots are beginning to bud. It is Spring, isn’t it?

Some may wonder if my loving him so soon is such a good idea. But, you see, I’m going to offer you a few reasons why it is.

I love who he is. Rough around the edges. Intelligent. Possessing a native intelligence that rivals my own (while I am in my neck of the woods). Strong and confident. Thoughtful and intuitive.

He knows I am still wounded. Yet, he allows me to love. This love is not a salve, it is not a band-aid, it is not a fix-a-flat (though I did once flatline). This love is hope.

I have to hope that I am able to fully love again. And I have to hope that there is someone in this world would can take my love for what I want it to be: a gift, a gem, a wooden heart-shaped puzzle box that I want him to unlock.

Good thing he loves puzzles.

San Jacinto

Flecks of light drift through the air between the towering pines. Each branch, every needle is encased in pristine white; My feet stop moving and my heart expands in my chest. I break the silence with laughter because the joy inside me demands manifestation; I am overwhelmed.

Jacob and I are going for the summit of San Jacinto, 10,834ft: the highest peak in Southern California. Our feet are clad in insulated boots and crampons--there is roughly two and a half feet of packed snow, and one foot of fresh powder on top. Jake leads the way (having hiked this trail numerous times) and we follow the boot prints of only a few other crazy hikers. We pass through meadows and up hills, through forests of ponderosa pines that smell so sweet I feel intoxicated. The sights, smells, and sounds are so invigorating that I don’t notice how sore my legs and back feel. Nothing precedes the wonder and awe in which I am joyously drowning.

Jake tells me that John Muir hiked this mountain and had said that, “The view from here is the most sublime in the world.” In the world! If John Muir said it, it must be true, right?

When you are in the mountains you forget about the menial and unnecessary stresses in your life. You are able to focus on the here, the now, the present: this moment, and this moment only. As Jake said, you reach a kind of Zen, a focus and meditation, that would take a Buddhist his entire life to reach. Each step taken is made with purpose and precision. Point being, if you need to find yourself, challenge yourself, or simply re-focus your life, go to the mountains.

This whole snow and ice thing is new to me. Jake had to show me which way to strap on my crampons, which way to hold his ice tool, and a few time-tested ways to walk on steep, icy snow. I worried that I wouldn't enjoy the below-freezing temperatures or the ceaseless incline--but I loved it! I was never hot while hiking, but I wasn't cold, either.

And being surrounded by clean, bright snow gave me a sense of hyper-innocence. Jake and I were both all smiles, all laughter, and filled to the brim; this is what Joni Mitchell must have meant when she said, "I'm going to camp out on the land, I'm going to try and get my soul free."

I could spend any given time outside with a friend, but this... this brings my expectations to a whole new level.

"People travel to wonder at the height of mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars; and they pass by themselves without wondering."

-- St. Augustine

restoration

Having my back thrown out at only 24 years of age is disheartening. The pain, however, gave me a fresh appreciation for my working body. While I waited for my back to heal, I was able to focus on other things on my visit to Joshua Tree. I was unable to climb, but I could cheer on my friends who were able. As they climbed, I took some time to revel in the beauty in which this place is soaked; red adobe buildings crumbling in the sunset, cactus wrens making a lovely racket, and warm, smokey breeze kept me captivated.

Each time I return I feel more connected, more invited, and more at home in Joshua Tree.

I wonder if I will ever have just one place I call "home"?

allowing It to be

"Don't bend; don't water it down; don't try to make it logical; don't edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly."

-Franz Kafka

It changes

It rises and falls and shows

Itself as a fog shows the oak trees

It may be unexpected

It may render you down to a feeling of hopelessness

It will always be there to remind you that

It cannot be controlled

It will not be tamed and

It is exactly what you need

It is and

It will continue to be, just as

It has always been

(Courtney Style) Today I...

Today I...

Woke up in Ramona at 6:14am

Drove up to Julian and stopped in at the Julian Coffee House (Lou's)

Quad mocha and a breakfast croissant with sausage

Smile on my face and in my heart as I see my mountains again

4, 5, 6 does and 3 fawns cross the road in front of me

Try to convince Jake via text to come down and climb Stonewall with me

Staff meeting: the Monday grumpies

Staff meeting: I am the peanut gallery

Lisa got a haircut!

New kids, new energy

10 minutes to take my shoes off, lay down on my bed, and relax

Burritos!

3 minutes to crawl up onto a rock and watch the thin clouds drift past

Cabin time with the boys: never giving boys free time again. Structured activities only

Boys + burritos = massive flatulence during cabin time

Camp fire! My voice came back (nearly) enough to sing Boom Chicka Boom

Kids leave. Teachers stay. Enjoying the fire under the ring around the moon.

It's 9:30pm and I am going to bed.

relaxation, blood, and a Harley

Blurred.

The landscape is a blur of browns, tans, and stubborn green.

I'm smiling irrepressibly while on the back of Jake's Harley Davidson. An orange, black and chrome piece of fury roars beneath us. So this is the freedom of the road, freedom to be force-fed air, freedom to be thrilled.

My arms are in a knot around Jake; I duck my head down behind his shoulders to breathe on my own terms. I laugh: he accelerates.

Red tailed hawks in their winter color phase reel above us in a sky fit for dreams.

We climb in the shade of a boulder that could hide a house. A massive crack runs through the center, splitting the rock, and its very existence challenges us to climb it. We hang upside down from our [taped] wrists, our [bare] fingers, our ankles, our toes. He moves with precision and power. I falter and chuckle as the rock rejects my efforts. He reaches for his water bottle and drinks. Two deep red smudges of blood remain on the sides of the bottle and dry there. We comment on the happy insanity of masochistic climbers. The athletic tape on my hands smells of sweat and chalk.

Cactus wrens call out in the yucca-studded distance.

"I live not in myself, but become portion of that around me; and to me high mountains are a feeling, but the hum of human cities torture."

-Lord Byron

I like the juxtaposition of riding a Harley and then climbing boulders in the middle of the desert. Both exude freedom and something uninhibited, yet one is natural and the other mechanical. Each is an expression of the human spirit. The spirit of ambition. Born to be unrestrained. Born to remain untamed. The bike; the climb. The biker; the climber.

I love that Jake exposed me to something new, something I did not expect. I will always crave the wilderness, but from now on I can say that riding on the back of a Harley is a different kind of release--a new way to feel wild.

wealth

A friend of mine at Camp Cuyamaca, Andrew, and I had a few minutes to sit back and talk today. As we munched on Girl Scout Cookies (Samoas and Thin Mints: the only GS cookies that matter) we spoke of our future plans. He might have enough saved up to simply live as a bum near the ocean. A fantastic choice! Especially in San Diego. I told him my only plan was to hike about 50 miles of the John Muir Trail with two of my best friends, Camille and Tyler, this upcoming summer.

He surfs. I back pack. And our conversation wove in and out between things that make us happy and why. I've been studying the things that make me smile recently. People always tell me how happy I look, and I know I am more than happy; I am joyful.

I finally said something to Andrew that solidifies what I have been observing in my life:

"Well, I live to experience life, but there is more to it than that. There is a time and a place to be alone and to see things on your own, but the most important thing to me is experiencing life with others. That is how I define being 'rich': the more experiences you share with a person, the more memories you have with someone, the wealthier you are. I like to get rich every day."

I went on to rant as I always do about media-fed materialism and how it eats away at the values that this current generation has... but the heart of the conversation was this: I am rich. I am wealthy in my own definition. I am filled with a joy that comes from the interactions I have with these amazing people around me.

The road I walk is only as bright as I allow it to be. It would be completely dark if I shut my eyes. Or it could glow and shimmer with the radiance of those who give my life meaning.

I walk a road lined with memories and experiences worth more than gold, and it shines even truer...

Courtney

She'll be gone this time tomorrow.

The day I've dreaded, tried to forget and ignore.

It's here now, knocking.

And it's raining as if to emphasize

how we'll all be crying tomorrow at the airport.

Embracing.

She's been more than my sister;

She's been my mentor, my laughing friend.

Two years

is a long while to wait

to see my sister, Courtney, again.

Godspeed.

reading the rain

My eyes close in pleasure as I bite into a salmon lox bagel outside of Signature Bagel in Escondido. Swallow, sip of coffee, sigh. My eyes wanter to the line of cars parked at the curb. I note the cars that come and go. Which drivers match their vehicles. Which restaurant they will choose. Which item they will order. So many wear suits and dress shoes. Cell phones and keys in soft hands. Manicured finger nails. Combed, pinned back, washed hair. Busy. Financially well-off.

I wonder about what makes them tick.

Two well-dressed men step out of their Mercedes into the cloudy weather. They carry yellow pads of paper and an air of arrogance. I want to walk up to the older one and ask him, to his red face, “What gives your life meaning?”

A frightening variety of scenarios could follow. But I decide that I did not feel like making a grown man cry today. Or make a man question his current position in life. Or man a human wonder about why he is here. Here.

I re-open my book. The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. It has become my obsession. I read this book like I would eat a feast after fasting for an age. My mind is hungry. My spirit is being fed.

I read under an umbrella intended to block sun, not rain. And as the rain hits my back, I am thankful for my Mammut rain jacket. The pages curl due to moisture in the air, but is not hit directly by the drops. I read on.

How is it that we, as humans, allow ourselves to wander from who we truly are, originally? I see the personality of 6th graders at Camp, and they are full of wonder, full of questions, full of imagination. Well--most of them. I have seen the deterioration of wonder in some students. It is sad; it is like watching a flower plucking it’s own petals and tossing them to the ground. Children need to imagine and to be free to think of their dreams as a possibility.

When do we lose this ability?

I assume that it is different for each person. I assume that there are events that cause us to try to become more “adult” and less of a child. But, why must we lose wonder? And why must we start to give up our individual identities before we have even let them form completely?

Why do we struggle so vigorously with self-respect?

Too many people simply cannot look themselves in the eyes and feel proud of who they are. Or they don’t know who they are, so they are afraid to look deeper to find out; they are afraid they will not love who they are, so they don’t even bother. Why do we do this to ourselves?

I am more than happy with who I am: as a human, as a friend, as a woman. I am content. I am secure. I am proud. And it has taken me years to reach this standing. I’ve fought to come here, to come this far. Yet, I am only twenty-four years old. There are people, as I have said before, more than twice my age who do not know how it is to look and love yourself for who you are. I don’t feel guilty; I feel honored, privileged.

The Human Condition. We must fight self-hate, self-loathing each day. We must realize our potential and then jump for it. Go for it. Run for it. Become it.

It is raining steadily outside my house in Ramona. I drink homemade Thai tea and listen to water falling around the walls and windows. Each drop of water has a single dust particle to which the water molecules have desperately attached themselves. As the drops fall, I can’t help but think about how We typically view rain as pure, cleansing, and renewing. Yet, each raindrop contains a fragment of dirt.

No one should see that particle as a fault. There would be no rain if there was no dust. Instead, we should allow ourselves to be whole, and to fall, and to be as we were intended to be: a life-giving rainstorm that knows what it is and fulfills its purpose without a series of painful, doubt-laden questions.

I say, be who you are and be joyful in it!

cherish

When we walk down granite covered hill sides we talk about the Earth.

When I look down at my boots, I notice a shard of pottery.

Clay, dust, water; shaped by skilled hands; fired and hardened.

But this was hundreds of years ago.

A place a fragment of history in the upturned palm of my student's hand.

This is how you can tell it is pottery and not just a rock, some bark from a tree.

She starts to see and pick out pieces from among dozens of rocks.

I smile.

This is how my father taught me to see the Earth: the things of Nature and then the things of Man.

There is a distinct difference. When trained, your eye will be able to find that thing that does and does not belong.

A kid from the other village came up to me today and said, "Hey! You're Kat! Your group said that you can see anything!" He puts a hand behind his back. "How many fingers am I holding up."

I looked him dead in the eye. "Three."

His jaw dropped and his eyes bugged. "Oh my gosh!"

Today I spotted six red tailed hawks, one barn owl who was fleeing an hawk, two ticks, three grasshoppers, one jack rabbit, and three vultures. One of my students said that I had amazing eyes. I grinned; I do have my father's eyes.

returning

I don't run away to the wild places as much as I return home to them.

shelter

We saw our breath as it was torn from our mouths. All noses and cheeks were ruby ruddy red; all hair tousled when not bunched beneath beanies.

Up, up to the top of the hill, where the wind is the strongest, the coldest, the sharpest. If we follow the trail, we will continue to be blown about like leaves. If we drop down, forget the trail, we will find what I am looking for...

I teach my students that when you drop down the side of a mountain, you can find a shelter from the wind.

Ducking beneath mountain lilac; hopping over downed pines; tunneling between manzanita; there it is: an open, sloping meadow on the sunny-side of the hill.

I toss my bag and jacket aside and show my kids just how marvelous a nap in the sunshine can be. "Everybody relax. Warm up. Feel free to lay down and curl up like a deer in the grass."

They are exhausted from the wind and the cold. Their little bodies have used up so much energy shivering.

Nearly half of my group fell asleep in the sun.

I love having the honor of teaching children how to find shelter from the frigid weather, how to find a sunny mountain meadow, and how to fall asleep to the wind howling just above them in the tree tops.

friend

please stay

please please fight

please please don't give in

please find more

without looking

waves of moments that connect you

and them to your life

which is worth living.

please stay

please keep fighting

unsaid

If the apostrophe stands for what is unsaid, then:

''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

for the kids

Yesterday I took a group of new arrivals out on the trail. They seemed wild and unfocused, so I decided to teach them about some of our local flora.

"Does anyone know what this plant is? This green, serrated leafed plant is called stinging nettle. If you look at the underside of the leaf you will see that it is indeed covered in tiny needles. When these needles pierce your skin, it secretes folic acid, which is the same kind of acid that bees and red ants use. You want to see what it looks like when it touches my skin?"

"No! No!" they screamed. I was surprised; most sixth graders enjoy watching other people endure injury. "Please don't! We can just youtube this when we get home!"

They got louder as I brought the stinging nettle closer to my skin, and finally a crescendo when it made contact with the underside of my wrist.

"Ahhhhh!"

I had never actually felt stinging nettle before, but I knew what to expect.

"Wow! Already I can feel a burning sensation--like someone is poking me with about 20 red-hot needles!"

"Eeeewww!"

There is a plant called mugwort that lives right next to stinging nettle, and this plant is a nearly instant solution to stinging nettle. When you crush mugwort between your fingers, a few droplets of salve can be made. When you apply this mugwort salve to your stinging nettle, it will ease the burn and you'll feel 100% okie dokie in about 10 minutes. However, this helpful plant is dormant during the Winter months. I told the kids if they were to ever land in stinging nettle, please do so during Spring or Summer.

Anything for the outdoor education of our children :)

warrior teacher

Beneath my watch is a layer of dirt and sweat.

From my shoes pour pebbles and grit.

I shake my silver brown hair and mica flies into the wind.

Tongue to my lips and I taste the dust of the earth, the sage I picked.

This will not last forever. At least, not yet.

This is a gift: being able to open the door to the outdoors for kids.

Impressionable young adults.

At the beginning they were squeamish about walking through mud.

This week I taught them to allow themselves to be dirty--hands on fun.

By the end of the week they were playing in streams, watching hawks, writing poetry.

"A Warrior of the Light shares his world with the people he loves. He tries to encourage them to do the things they would like to do but for which they lack the courage." - Paulo Coelho, Warrior of the Light

This is my calling in life: to share the beauty of nature with the youth so that we may all have a deeper appreciation and love for it. If it is not appreciated, who will stand before the bulldozers and concrete and log cutters and engineers and roads? Who will fight for the few pristine and beautiful places we have left in this world? Who will be able to look at a mountain and see themselves reflected in it? Who will be able to stand on that mountain and look upon their world with awe and inspiration?

Coffee!

Today in our Pine Village meeting, our Village leader gave us French Pressed Coffee! Coffee!! That I had to stir with a spoon because I kept chewing the grinds at the bottom. Everyone in Pine Village is now bouncing off the walls: Literally. No really--look at the picture of Holly and I bouncing off the hallway walls!

I love this place!

Peace

The sound of water through a granite canyon may be better medicine for my Being as a whole than anything prescribed by a doctor.

Growing Leaves

There is a tree inside

When I breathe it grows

I find its leaves at the foot of my bed

Drifting towards the edge of the pools

of my eyes

When I slept last night

My arms became branches

There was a bird’s nest in

the crook of my elbow

The downy feathers under my head

I had scrambled eggs this morning.

Imitation of Claudia Rankine's “Don't Let Me Be Lonely”

Written for LTWR 475, Professor Sandra Doller, 5.1.2009. All italicized quotes are by Edward Abbey, from "Desert Solitaire."

I feel like the roots of a tree, trapped beneath concrete. They are not seen by those who walk above, but the roots are alive (and growing) non-the-less. Were we to fast forward time, it would appear that the roots explode from the ground in insurmountable fury—overthrowing the concrete, and retaking the land. But we cannot move time, but must remain under that, also. I look forward to my mountains, but they are shrouded in a thick, polluted haze. I look out my windows but all I see is traffic—it's tumultuous tremors haunt my ears at night and every waking moment.

I am here not only to evade for a while the clamor and filth and confusion of the cultural apparatus but also to confront, immediately and directly if it’s possible, the bare bones of existence, the elemental and fundamental, the bedrock which sustains us.

Most people can live their lives in the cities and not think twice about it. Camping is a diversion. Hiking takes effort. Back packing takes too much time. And those strange people who hike the Pacific Crest Trail, six months start to finish, what are they thinking? I wish I could be one of the strange ones on the PCT. I wish I could have my food waiting for me at the next post office. I have to work to get it—not like most of us Americans. Westerners. Lazy! But even I cannot live out my dream, at least not yet.

I'm so tired of asking people for money. Asking for food. Asking for this or that. I am so far from independent. I am so far from being my own woman. I am so tired.

I hit the bottom of my bank account with each purchase I make. I can't buy a shirt without having to do the math in my head: is it worth it? Is it worth it to buy a $7 shirt? Do I buy groceries or do I get my oil changed in my car? Do I get my tires rotated or do I renew my AAA membership so if I am stranded on the side of the road I have free towing?

I once got into a fight with my boyfriend. He insisted that I could go my whole life without being out in the “wilderness”. I fought back because, as I have found out, all my heart and spunk leaves me when I am not renewed every now and then. “Renewed” means that I am out somewhere away from the sound of cars, people yammering on, televisions in the background with people I've never seen trying to sell me something that will better my existence. Not being able to give any logical reasoning behind my need for rejuvination, I fought back with a poem:

I can't believe you. I thought you knew:

I am the breath of pines

The sight of oaks

The voice of cedars

I am the laughter of brooks.

I can't believe you. I thought you saw:

I am the beat of wings

The pad of paws

The cry of wild things

I am the fear of Unknowns.

I can't believe you. I thought you heard:

I am the death of summer

The come of dawn

The sheen of snow

I am the covering of night.

I can't believe you. I thought you felt:

I am the falling of leaves

The shawl of fog

The lull of streams

I am the impassible of mountains.

I am sorry. I thought you knew.

Wilderness. The word itself is music. Wilderness, wilderness . . . We scarcely know what we mean by the term, though the sound of it draws all whose nerves and emotions have not yet been irreparably stunned, deadened, numbed by the caterwauling of commerce, the sweating scramble for profit and domination.

I look at my poem now and see my pulse in the format. I have a specific picture in my mind for each image presented in the poem. Self-analyzing can bring you a certain kind of insight. I know I was not wrong. And as my time away from the mountains and deserts lengthened, my boyfriend soon saw what I needed to remain stable.

And then I get a notice from CSUSM. You owe us $608. Funny, they sent me a check for $607 last semester saying that I overpaid during summer. Now they charge me after their mistake? And what are they doing with that extra dollar? Charging me for the fucking stamp?

It is not without strong will that I stay in this concrete cage. I couldn't just up and leave my friends, family, boyfriend... well, I could. But I don't. People say

You could get lost out there! You could get injured! You could die!

And I say

Good. It is not any different from living a life here, among millions of other people, all working day-in-and-out. I could get hit by a car. Mugged. Raped. I would much rather meet my end in the wilderness, where no one is watching.

Dear Clare,

I am finally in Joshua Tree National Park. It is beautiful out here with a steady wind and beaming sun. It has been a lazy afternoon in my tent. I mixed Bacardi Raspberry Rum with fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice. And a tiny desert chipmunk nearly licked my toe. Twice.

A good day. I just have to be more conscious of the beauty around me than of my cloudy, sad coma in which I am suspended.

There is a family, for instance, rock hopping. How can a mother always act with interest and surprise each time a different child makes a new discovery? I am impressed.

Cactus blooms with red, juicy-looking flowers.

Blue and yellow caterpillars crawl out of a maze, a ball, a wide cocoon of silk thread.

There is a unique distinction between the windsong of a pine tree and the windsong of a Joshua Tree.

Refuge was an amazing book. I can't recall how many times I cried while reading it. Which is good. I am going through my own change, my own process. Transition—choose your word.

It is everything. A grain of sand is relatively weightless. But laying under a sand dune makes each grain count.

And there is weight, here, on my chest. It sits there and taunts me in my trials. It laughs at my weakness and scoffs at my attempts at success. It is not my friend.

Small things. Like the quiet of the desert disrupted by a blaring radio, operated by a bunch of beer-drinking, horse-shoe-throwing loud-mouths. Every experienced climber in Joshua Tree hears and looks down on this behavior. It's rude. People are rude. Rudeness is the angry child of Selfishness. It does not know better. But I do. I came to the desert for peace and serenity, not obnoxious commercials and blaring music.

This is a desert, not a stadium.

I have five weeks left at school. Five weeks left to graduate. I wanted to go out strong. But I'm not. I'm going out run out, burnt out, and happy to be out. I hate being tired. My residents are tired and I need to be there. I won't see most of them after this. It will be facebook and that is all. Not personal. Not like the opportunity I had here.

Did I waste it? No. I tried damn hard to get to know people. Some people just would not be known.

Persistence

I breathe, but not to breathe.

I drink, but not to drink.

I let the cold numb my fingers

The sweat dry from my body

The chill seep through my tissue,

But not to wait for warmth.

I walk, but without destination.

I eat, but not for pleasure.

I live, but only to live, to live.

I am because I am, because I must be.

acorns

Tiny miracles make me remember why I smile my way through life.

Yesterday two women came into Nomad Ventures to try on climbing shoes. We chatted about shoes, harnesses, and the best places to climb. It turns out that these women hadn't been outside much; only to Joshua Tree.
I tried to shame them into climbing outdoors more and to get out of their plastic gyms. The taller woman paused as she was putting on a shoe, turned the shoe upside down, and out fell an acorn. One solitary, browned acorn.
"Wait... did that come out of the shoe?"
"Yeah. What is it?"
I gaped in disbelief: "It's an acorn. You know, from an oak tree?"
"I've never seen an acorn. I didn't even know that acorns came from oak trees. I thought this was one of those moisture-absorbing things they put in shoes."

How did this acorn get into a 5.10 climbing shoe box? How was it that I managed to bring out this shoe to this woman who had never seen an acorn before? How do people not know that acorns are from oak trees?

I smiled.
"You can keep that as a reminder to get outside more often. Go climb outside!"
My job at Camp Cuyamaca seems more important to me than usual now.

Frozen Washes

There is something particularly breath-taking about walking over a frozen wash in the Wonderland of Rocks area in Joshua Tree National Park. Ice groans and snaps underfoot; sand is glued together to form an unintended sculpture. Gray fox prints are filled in with hail. He sees me and glides over the rocks to a safe distance.

What is it about this place that is so magical that I am drawn back to it again and again? Each time I return I find another reason to smile; another memory is made that I will not soon forget.

The faces of climbers who live to be on the rock; the choir of coyotes at two in the morning; the never-failing falling stars; the ache in my limbs as I crawl into my sleeping bag after a day of climbing: what more could I ask for than this?

Someone to share it with for the rest of my life.