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.

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.

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?

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.

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.

Rain in October

3:38am. It starts to rain; I always wake when it starts to rain in the night. My window is ever open so that I never miss such miracles.

Smiling, I think about how the wind changed today and how a small wisp of cloud told me to expect this weather. A young girl in my Oak cabin had run up to me today and said, "Mr. Jeff said that we might get some dry lightning tomorrow!" I had smiled and replied that Mr. Jeff (my internship supervisor) knew how to read the weather well; I had also noted the clouds and their meaning.

The rain continues. I close my eyes again and picture the girls in their cabin being lulled to sleep by the water. One girl turns on her flashlight: it's bright! *CRRRRBBOOOOOM* I can hear the thunder as it echoes from one end of this valley to the other.

Jeff was right about the lightning.

Adrenaline rushes in, opening my eyes in anticipation for the next flash. When it comes, it comes from behind my room (which faces West). The storm will be quick tonight.

It's 4:10am. Tomorrow the earth will smell sweet, the bird will sing with appreciation, and I will tell that girl, "See? Jeff was right... except for the 'dry' part!"

Stormy weather

It began raining at 4:22am. I woke to hear the raindrops hitting the upturned oak leaves, the dusty pine needles, and the metal table just outside my window. Tink tink tink tink.

This would be perfect if it weren't for that darn table...

So I stand up on my bed and look out my window to see if I could move the table in the morning.

CRACK! gggzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzt!

Lightning struck very, very near. Near enough where I could hear something buzzing and humming in response.

I love storms. I told my boss today that I was sorry for being so flighty; I am storm-deprived. Our All Day Adventures were scheduled for today and we decided to break up that "all day" into two parts. For the first part we hiked the kids out to Rock Canyon, where bedrock forms a series of pools. With the help of the rain, these summer-time-dried-up pools were slightly filled. We saw a cute little toad that was only as big at my thumb, the same thistle-down velvet ant, and a few hawks. The kids were a bit noisy, but they were pretty cool this week. One of them attached himself to my walking staff and would do anything to carry it. Pretty darned cute.

The storm came in waves, showering us in light rain, then a downpour while it was sunny, and the occasional thunder and lightning show. It was marvelous. I haven't been so giddy in a long while. I mean, hiking in the rain while it is sunny with thunder overhead: what more could I ask for, really?

Mornings with Mom

Woke up early to meet Mom in Julian. I am fighting off a sore throat. Needed cough drops and EmergenC.

Mornings are made of peace here.

I drive down the road snapping shots out my open window. It smells like it wants to rain.

Mom has an entire care package for me; I'm 24 and I still could not survive without my mom. This makes me smile because I am trying to get back in touch with my childhood.

It's working.

Apple boysenberry crumb crust pie. Apple cider. It's for the other interns and other friends at Camp. I see my boss in town, then again at work. We joke about me "shadowing too closely."

I help the kids with rock craft today. Take a ragged stone, turn it into a gem: this is not an easy task for impatient children. But they manage. They succeed. They smile.

My staff has become something of a sacred thing to carry. I normally let the quietest, the nicest, and the shiest kid carry it as we hike. The red tailed hawk feathers twirl on the wind at the end of the staff. It seems to enable children to fly.

Week two

I feel progressively stronger. And taller (though that may be due to the fact that I tower over most sixth graders). I am so used to high school boys being at least as tall as I am, but these guys are short--and if there are tall ones it is normally the girls.

These kids are amazing; they know more than some college students I have met. They are also much friendlier.

I am also learning "six grade appropriate language" here at Camp. Let me demonstrate:

Non-appropriate term: Fart

Camp Term: Butt-crickets

Non-appropriate term: Butt (but, crickets! I know.)

Camp Term: Rear, bottom, G.M. (gludius maximus)

Non-appropriate term: Shut up

Camp Term: Shhh! Quiet, you squirrels!

Non-appropriate term: Oh my god!

Camp Term: Hokey smokes! Geez la weez!

Non-appropriate term: Poop

Camp Term: Scat

So it's not much of a list, but I am pretty tired and my brain has shut off. 10pm is far too late for me to be up.

Yet I am so, so happy!

Night Hikes

Camp Cuyamaca gives some kids the kind of gifts they have never received before: like a night hike during a full moon. Many of the kids who come to 6th grade camp have never been camping, let alone spent five whole days submerged in the beauty of nature.

I've been told that some kids have never seen a clear night sky--they have never seen the Milky Way. And so I take my stand as a part of Camp Cuyamaca and I try to combat this nature deficiency disorder that appears to be all too rampant in children now-a-days.

I finished my first week and I am now heading into my second; I am excited, better prepared, and anxious to help these awesome kids get to know nature.

Watch! Students are suddenly ecstatic to be surrounded by trees, by fresh air, and by wild animals; they find themselves in awe of that which they used to overlook.

There are six months of these miracles ahead of me; I love this job.

Night Walking

Walked to Denny’s with Tyler and Jared tonight.

Flip flops on side walks. Street lights and humming telephone pole wires.

Three stars. One, two, haze.

Sprinkler stains on dilapidated fences. White and grey.

Cars race by--screaming, screeching. Loud.

The city is loud. Loud in my ears.

I brace myself against the abrasions.

Sounds cut like a hacksaw.

I feel alien. I feel alone. I know where I belong, yet

I fight against that urge. Fight against myself and what

I know is truth.

Why must it be about me?

Why can’t I be happy leading the normal life?

Why am I so selfish in my desires?

I sketch pictures of granite walls and blue-backdropped trees in my mind. A quite, contemplative scene where I can retreat and recall. There is peace in the quiet of my mind, the solitude of my recollection. In reflections. In memory. In sounds only I can hear.

A pack on my back. Boots on my feet. A ringed fire with the smell of burning pine. Dirt under my fingernails. Melted snow cascades and finds its way into my water bottle--sweeter than honey. The static lightning that flashes as I slide into my sleeping bag. Home.

But I’m not home, leastways not in the deepest sense of my meaning of “home.”

There must be others like me. But I hope not.

Thunderhowl

The call the call

The howl

The tear of clothes to hair too teeth gnash

No more orange clouds night!

No more no more stars!

Why why why?

And the thunder in my ears

Is the only truth I know

So no wonder why I run run

After my headsound as it thunderfades

Back.

Retreating to a place I cannot go

Want to go want to go cannot go.

It is the green of the shade, of the ground

of the air, of the moss on the side of the stream.

It is the blue of the sky, of the wind in the leaves

of the shade in the evening.

It is the white of the sun in the hot of the sky,

of the feathers of breast of the beat of the bird: Fly.

Why can’t I go

Why can’t I leave

Why can’t I howl

And clutch at the stars like

the sound in my head?

Neverend neverstop--the peace in the silence

of thundering with my howl.