The Artwork of Friendship

Pier One has been running a series of commercials featuring various women walking past quirky items that inexplicably start talking to them. After pausing to listen to the items, the women decide they must have them. The tag line is, “Pier One. Find something that speaks to you.”

My buddy, Jim Cooper, passed away a few years ago from pancreatic cancer. He was a good friend and an amazing man who endeared himself to all who knew him. He had many passions, one of which was cycling. Recently, the Greenbrier Valley Bicycle Club from Lewisburg, WV, his most recent home, wanted to honor his memory by installing a special bike rack in the city. To raise money for the bike rack project, Mark Blumenstein, a local artist, donated one of his sculptures for a raffle.

I saw a photograph of the sculpture on Facebook. It was made of black iron and featured a wild creature with an extremely long snout, long, curly tendrils of hair snaking out of its head and back, tongue lolling out the side of his mouth, popping a wheelie on a bicycle. One hand was waving magnanimously while one of its legs stuck straight out from the bike, ready to flatten anyone who got in his way.

“WOOHOO!” it said. “WOOOOOOHOOOOOO!”

I had to have it.

I have to admit that at first, I wanted it because of the hair-- it so resembled my own (except for the back hair). But the more I looked at the sculpture, the more I saw Jim. Jim had an aura of joy. He was kindhearted and caring, and was passionate about trying to make the world a better place for everyone. But he was crazy fun! A group of us would take trips with Jim and his wife, Carolyn, and he would keep us in stitches the whole time. He had such an unassuming sense of humor. He would pick his moment, quietly deliver a statement, and suddenly everyone would be peeing their pants from laughing so hard.

Jim and Carolyn in the Wind River Range

In the summer of 2009, a group of us, including Jim and Carolyn, went backpacking in the Wind River Range. Jim decided that he wanted to summit one of the smaller peaks in the range. He read his guidebook, picked out a peak called Mt. Hooker, a 12,000-footer that was supposed to be an easy scramble, and set out for the challenge. The rest of us were less motivated, so we lounged on some rocks and watched his progress. Soon all we could see was a tiny patch of the red shirt he wore, stark against the gray rocks of the mountainside. The scramble looked harder than the guidebook description, and sure enough, Jim had to turn back before summiting. As we headed back to camp, we passed a couple of hikers who were very familiar with that part of the Wind River Range. We mentioned Jim’s failed attempt to summit Mt. Hooker, and pointed towards the peak. When we looked back at them, they were pointing at a different peak. Seems that Jim had spent all day trying to summit the wrong peak! We teased Jim mercilessly about his mistake, but ultimately agreed that we would return another time just so that Jim could summit the real Mt. Hooker.

Jim's attempt to summit "Mt. Hooker"                         photo by Dave Merrifield

We never had the chance. Jim was diagnosed with cancer in 2011 and passed away in January, 2012. He was a special man.

So when I heard about the bike rack project in Lewisburg, I knew that I wanted to support the effort. The fact that I had completely fallen in love with the sculpture made the raffle that much more intriguing. I bought my tickets and waited impatiently for Carolyn to call and tell me that my name had been drawn as the winner.

Of course, I never win anything, so I wasn’t surprised when she told me that someone else had won. In fact, John Francis, one of the people who had worked the hardest to organize the raffle, had won it. I was glad, because I knew that someone who loved Jim would own the sculpture that so reminded me of Jim’s spirit.

A few days later, I received a mysterious package in the mail. I opened it—and there was that gorgeous, quirky, crazy, wheelie-popping, lunatic-on-a-bicycle sculpture! It was perfect.

I called Carolyn to find out the story. Seems that after John won the raffle, he had decided to auction the sculpture, and since Carolyn knew how much I loved it, told John that she wanted to bid on it for her “friend from Kentucky.”

I had actually met John a few years back at Jim’s birthday/retirement party. Attendees were encouraged to write a poem in honor of Jim’s retirement, and during the party we would all compete in a Poetry Slam with Jim as the judge. I wrote a poem that mentioned Jim’s failed attempt to summit Mt. Hooker, and decided to dress in a costume that best represented the peak in question (you can view the performance here).

Carolyn explained who I was, and for some reason, John remembered me, my poem, and my *ahem* outfit. His reaction? “The girl who recited the poem wants it?? Here Carolyn, just take the sculpture and give it to her.” Payment for entertainment value from that party? No, just a thoughtful gesture. Still, I love the story behind how it came to be mine.

I am now the proud owner of my very first sculpture. I’ve named it “Cooperpelli” in honor of Jim, and when I look at it, the spirit of joy and wild abandon emanating from it shouts “WOOHOO!” as it careens through my memories. So thank you, John Francis, for parting with your treasure. And as for you, Jim Cooper: maybe we’ll make it back to the Wind River Range one day to summit the REAL Mt. Hooker—in your honor.

Unexpected Outcomes

The unmistakable sound of large animals crashing through the woods froze me on the trail, and I turned just in time to glimpse the white flag of a deer tail disappearing through the brush. But the second deer, more curious than her buddy, stopped and stared back at me. She was only a few yards away.

Slowly I pulled out my camera, the deer staring me in the face, unmoving, waiting for me to take that perfect wildlife photo we always dream about. I found her in the viewing window, posing majestically. I zoomed in…

Dangit! My camera was focusing on the twigs between me and my subject. As the deer waited patiently, I zoomed back out and slowly tried to zoom in, willing my camera lens to focus on what I wanted to shoot. I knew the deer wouldn’t wait forever. Dangit! There just wasn’t enough contrast between the color of the deer and the winter tree bark. I took the picture anyway, just before the deer scampered off to find her buddy, disappointed with the missed opportunity.

That evening when I looked at my photos, my favorite one turned out to be…the blurry deer photo. There was a twig in the foreground, perfectly focused, as if I had taken great pains to record every crisp detail of it. The background was consumed by a fuzzy, wide-eyed deer. To look at the photo, you’d think I was intentionally shooting the twig, without even noticing the deer in the background.

There was a story in that photo—a lesson—that I knew I had to find. At first I thought the lesson might be about focus, that sometimes we might be so focused on what’s in front of us, that we forget to step back and look at the big picture. But that story didn’t feel right to me because, well, I was trying to focus on the deer, but it just didn’t work out.

Then I realized that the lesson was this: sometimes things don’t turn out the way we want. But that doesn’t mean that the result will always be bad.

One of my favorite movies is “The Natural,” with Robert Redford playing Roy Hobbs, a very promising and talented baseball player. The beginning of the movie shows Hobbs starting to break into professional baseball, when his life takes an unexpected detour, and suddenly we find Hobbs 20 years later playing for a minor league baseball team. He is reunited with his first love, and when she asks him what happened to him all those years, he replies, “My life didn’t turn out the way I expected.” Still, in the end Hobbs’ life seems to reconcile for the better, and though it wasn’t the life he had expected, it was a good life.

When I was in college, I imagined that I would eventually find a job that I loved, get married, and have about five kids. But my life didn’t turn out exactly the way I planned, and though I have a job I love, I have neither husband nor children. But though my life is different from what I would have chosen 25 years ago, it’s still a good life, full of joy and blessings. Sometimes it takes a photo “mistake” to remind me of that.

The Beauty of the Rain

A photo in my bedroom shows me sitting on a rock near Colorado’s Kite Lake, surrounded by thick fog, squishy bowl in hand, with a shit-eating grin on my face. I happened to glance at the picture recently, and was immediately transported back to that exact moment in the Weminuche Wilderness, when I had just taken what turned out to be my very last bite of maple brown sugar instant oatmeal. We were only on day 3 of a 6-day backpacking trip, and I knew at that second I would not be eating any more oatmeal for the rest of the trip. I had just forced the last spoonful of the vile concoction into my mouth when my buddy Dave whipped out his camera and asked me to smile. Thus, a true shit-eating grin was captured, nestled within a magnificent backdrop of fog, forever reminding me of that special moment in time. I almost gag again just looking at the photo.

But it also reminds me of how amazingly different, and surprisingly beautiful, that trip turned out to be.  We loaded ourselves and our backpacks onto the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Train, and followed the tracks along the Animas River to our trailhead at Elk Park. When we reached our destination, the conductor stopped barely long enough for the attendants to throw us and our packs off the train, before it continued down the tracks.  I felt an overwhelming sense of abandonment as I watched the caboose disappear around the bend. Thus began our unexpected adventure.

 The next six days would produce more rain than all of my other backpacking trips combined. I would discover that my tent floor was no longer waterproof, my rain jacket and pants were no longer waterproof, and my boots were no longer waterproof. I would learn to be thankful for leaky shacks that provided at least a little respite from a downpour. I would learn to be thankful for brief periods of no rain that allowed us to set up and take down our tents. I would learn why it’s called the “monsoon season”, even though the Weminuche Wilderness is nowhere near India or Asia.

I would also have the privilege to experience the beauty of the mountains as never before. We hiked under stormy skies where mountain slopes and peaks vanished and reappeared as clouds rolled through the passes. 

We hiked above valleys blanketed in thick whiteness, puffy as a king-sized down comforter. 

We hiked through clouds that billowed behind us like jet contrails and gawked as the darkening skies cast eerie shadows on alpine lakes. And the fog at Kite Lake? Carl Sandburg writes of fog coming in on “little cat feet.” The Weminuche fog stampeded through the valley like a herd of bison, consuming the lake and hillsides completely in a matter of minutes.

We were miserable. We were amazed. We were so blessed.

And now, when that photo of the foggy breakfast at Kite Lake catches my eye, it reminds me not only of how hard it was to swallow that last bite of oatmeal, but how incredible the mountains were during that week of rain. We often hope for sunny skies and perfect temperatures on our outdoor adventures. But there’s something special about the beauty of the rain.

Make Me

“Maybe that is what I like best about him, the way he makes me. Not makes me feel, just makes me.”

I was reading “Gone Girl”, a novel by Gillian Flynn, and this line made me stop and think. I love it when that happens. Sometimes I feel guilty when I read fiction, instead of reading a self-help book or a career-oriented book, so gems like this help to justify my indulgence. I read this line and thought Yes! That is it. That is what I’m missing.

I have an incredible circle of friends who are not only smart and talented, but who are also some of the best human beings I know. They are probably unaware of how much I look to them for examples of how I should be conducting my own life. They are honest, hard-working, positive, compassionate people. When I am in a lazy funk, an encouraging word from any one of them can bring me out of it in a snap. I am a better person for knowing these friends; in this sense, I love the way they “make me.”

But seeing good examples is different from having someone who will confront those things about you that you won’t or can’t admit are, shall we say, less than stellar. Occasionally I am blessed with a heart-to-heart talk with one of my friends who will call me out when I am being inconsiderate, or who will help me to change a bad habit. But an occasional reality check with a friend is not the same as a lifelong commitment with someone who knows you inside-out.

One of my good friends told me that when she and her husband decided to get married, they made a promise to help each other be better people. Though that may sound like a version of your typical wedding vows, I am convinced that they live that promise daily, even though the day-to-day commitment to do so is tough. Sometimes—probably most times—it’s easier to just let bad habits or behaviors slide rather than get into a confrontation with your spouse. And let’s face it: sometimes it’s downright irritating to hear criticism, especially from your spouse, when you just don’t think that what they’re saying is true. I guess that’s why they call it a blind spot.

But here’s the thing: if there is deep love and commitment between you, the promise to help each other be better people can truly be life-changing. One of the best gifts I can imagine would be to have someone who can help me work on exterminating all the ugly gremlins of my personality while convincing me that they love, respect, and want to be with me in spite of them. I think I would love the way that would make me.

One final thought: I’m not so naïve to think that having a significant other would be the final answer to all of my angst and bad habits. Sometimes things don’t turn out the way we imagine. I’ve had friends—good friends—who have inexplicably stopped speaking to me, presumably over something I said or did that they found hurtful. I guess I’ll never know why, unless they decide to tell me. So it’s possible that “I love the way you make me” can became “Oh yeah? Make me!” But the great thing about hope is that it allows you to imagine the best possibilities. I believe that I can be a better version of myself. I would love to have the help of someone who loves me. So go ahead. Make me.

My Kind of Beauty

On a recent hike I paused to admire a field of grass. Yep, grass. Many would think it odd, but I found that field of grass quite beautiful. The sunlight was streaming through just right, and the blade tips feathered out so delicately, shivering with the slightest breeze. I felt a little silly as my eyes teared up with the magnificence of that grass. That’s when I started to think about beauty, and how extremely personal it is to us all. In fact, we will vehemently disagree with another’s idea of what is or isn’t beautiful, and many times we even end up contradicting ourselves over our own definition of beauty.

After pondering this, I have decided that beauty is not a label that you place on things (or people) because of the way they look, but a description you place on things (or people) because of how they make you feel. Declaring that something (or someone) is beautiful isn't based on fact, or even on opinion; it is based on emotion influenced by perspective and context.

For example, I could proclaim the beauty of the grassy field that I saw on my morning hike, and later that same day, hasten to mow down the ugly blades on my own lawn. On a recent hike, I spied a marbled orb weaver spider, its beautifully intricate markings reminiscent of a Chinese pagoda sketch. If I had found that same spider in my dresser drawer, I would have screamed like a banshee and pounded it to smithereens. How could I think of something as beautiful one minute, and then the next minute be repulsed by the same thing? Wildflowers, spiders, and other creatures may be beautiful in their natural settings, but move them into your personal living space and they become weeds, pests, and other undesirable things that should be eliminated. That’s beauty according to context.

A person who loves the hustle and bustle of fast-paced life, with man-made entertainment and lots of stimulation, might see large cities as beautiful, while a person who dislikes crowds and tight spaces might see cities only as invitations to claustrophobia. Some might find mountains to be visions of beauty while city-lovers may see them as foreboding, dark, and dangerous. Different perspectives. 

This definition of beauty fits people, too. For instance, take my friends and family. To you, they may be overweight, too skinny, wrinkled, have crooked teeth, have no teeth (like my newborn great-nephew), have sagging body parts, liver spots, acne, scars, or too many bad hair days. But they are precious to me. The feeling that I get when I look at them can only mean one thing: they are beautiful. That’s my perspective.

"There is beauty in everything, but not everyone sees it." --Confucius 

Backpacking: Yes We Can

Imagine the following scenario: three backpackers have set out on a 12-mile overnight hike in the Daniel Boone National Forest. They are hoping to find a place to camp along the Narrows section of the Rockcastle River. The morning is cool, but the sun is dazzling, and a torrential rain that had fallen the day before has caused the cliffs along the trail to weep waterfalls. Hearing the tumbling waters, the backpackers go off-trail and bushwhack down to the creek, proclaiming the catch pool at the base of the cascade a prime swimming hole for a future trip.

The group comes to a 30-foot falls and one of the backpackers slides along the cliff ledge to get a better photo. Eventually the river comes into view, and several in the group lament not bringing their fly rods with them. The dark pools along the bank are prime trout hangouts, and there’s no better eating on the trail than fresh fish.

The backpackers find a camping spot with a great view of the rapids and easy access to the beach, so tents are pitched,thermarest chairs are pulled out, and the group chills until time to make dinner.

In your mind, you are probably picturing young 20-something men trekking along the trail. In reality the three backpackers in this scenario are women, all over 50 years old.

I am a backpacker, and I am a woman. I’ve gone on many trips with all women, and even a few trips by myself, and I’ve never considered either a big deal. Yet people I’ve talked to seem surprised to find out that I’ve backpacked without men along. I recently ran into another female backpacker who enjoys backpacking in co-ed groups, but when she tried to organize an all-women backpacking trip “just to show women that they can do it,” all but one woman from a group of 8 cancelled on her at the last minute.

Why do some women think they can’t go backpacking without a man? Why does society in general think that a group of all-female backpackers is odd? Let’s look at what’s involved and see if there’s some important reason why women need to have men along on a backpacking trip.

1.You need the right gear. This is true no matter who you go with. If you don’t have certain necessary gear, borrow it from a guy. He doesn’t have to be there in person.

2.You need to be able to follow a map, or be familiar with the area where you’ll be backpacking. What makes women think they have to have a guy along to navigate through the woods when everyone knows that most men are directionally challenged?

3.You need to be able to set up your tent. Everyone should practice this at home before taking the tent into the woods, even men.

4.You need food and water.

5.You have to be willing to get dirty, knowing that you likely won’t be able to shower and wash your hair for several days.

6.You have to be willing to do your business in the woods.

That’s it. Is there anything on this list that requires manly wisdom or brawn? No.

I will concede, there are a few advantages to having guys along on a backpacking trip. Men are usually physically stronger than women, and at times that comes in handy. Plus, all of my male backpacking buddies are taller than me, which helps when you’re setting up a tarp. But extra strength and height are luxuries, not necessities.

Additionally, I’d like to point out one distinct disadvantage when backpacking with guys. They fart. All the time. On the trail, at camp, around the fire, overlooking a beautiful vista—guys just aren’t shy about expressing themselves through this pathway. Bring a guy along backpacking, and you up the group’s fart production dramatically. You might as well just pull their finger every five minutes or so and get it over with.

There is one thing I’ve observed that women do better than men on a backpacking trip. Women are better cooks. On my last all-women backpacking trip, our dinner consisted of tomato and cucumber salad with miso dressing, and fried falafel patties with fresh spinach on a thin sandwich bun. Dessert was cheesecake pudding topped with strawberries. If a guy had been responsible for dinner, we would have eaten a dehydrated meal from Mountain House or a couple of Clif bars. Which would you rather have?

I will acknowledge one thing: women are usually much less tolerant than guys when it comes to creepy crawlies. I’ve seen a woman refuse to go into her tent when she saw a spider inside. And I observed a woman grab her head and scream bloody murder because she discovered a tick that had attached itself to her back.

In summary, here are the differences between men and women backpackers:

Men: taller and stronger, more farting

Women: better food, more screaming

The bottom line for me is this: I love backpacking with my friends, both male and female, and it doesn’t really matter what combination of men and women go on the trip, as long as we're getting out there and doing it together. If the group who wants to go is all women, so be it. On top of being able to spend time with great friends, I know the food will be yummy.

Earning It

One of my city’s outdoor retailers had an event in their store last fall that was billed as a “women’s night out.” Outdoor organizations, authors, artists, and brand-name outdoor retailers were invited to set up booths in their store to showcase interesting items and information. As I was wandering through the aisle, a framed photo of a mountain lake caught my eye. As I stared at it, I realized that I had been to that lake, and had taken my own photo while standing in almost that exact spot. The photograph, of Peyto Lake, in Banff National Park, Canada, had a price tag of $300. I chuckled to myself as I continued on to the next booth. My photograph was better.

At least, I thought my photo was better. But then, I was probably being deluded by a little psychological principle, eloquently explained in a book by Robert Cialdini entitled “Influence: The Psychology of Persuasion.” Cialdini explains that the more committed we are to an idea, the more time and money we have invested in something, the more likely we are to esteem and defend that idea. Even when our ideas are proven wrong, we tend to defend them even more vigorously, because we don’t want to admit that we wasted our money and effort on a losing cause.

For example, say a religious sect predicts that the world will end on a certain day. Proponents of that religion speak openly about the end of the world, warning people in their communities to prepare themselves for the world to end. Then the target day comes and goes, and the world has, in fact, not ended. In all likelihood, the religious proponents will make excuses about why the world didn’t end, rather than admit that they were wrong. They were completely committed to their idea that the world would end, they had invested a great amount of time and effort to convince others that they were right, so their mind would not allow them to reverse their thinking.

But the example Cialdini uses that really hit home for me was that of the beautiful vista. He describes a scenic overlook that can be visited in two ways: you can drive to the top of the mountain, walk 50 yards, and arrive at the overlook; or, you can start at the trailhead at the bottom of the mountain, hike up 6 miles, gaining 2,000 feet of elevation, and arrive at the same overlook as the folks who drove up. Both groups arrive at the vista, but the hikers put far more time and effort into the endeavor than those who drove, so when asked to comment about the beauty of the overlook, in general, the response from those who hiked up will usually be far more positive than those who drove. And to me, the odd thing about this is that the hikers truly believe what they’re saying. Because of the effort it took to gain the overlook, their mind has convinced them that the overlook is stunning, even when it may only be average.

In my group of friends, this is called “earning it.” There may be an easier way to get to the beautiful places in this world, but the more effort that we put into our treks, the more satisfaction we get at the end. We may have a certain destination planned, but the journey truly determines the outcome. Here’s why.

Say you choose to do the hike rather than drive to the overlook. You start on the trail with your buddies, pointing out the patches of delicate columbine and shooting stars, catching a glimpse of the piliated woodpecker that you heard knocking on a tree trunk. You rock-hop over a cascading creek and congratulate each other on making it across with dry feet. As the route steepens you pause for a snack where everyone shares their beef jerky, m&ms, and candied pineapple chunks. You hear a distinctive cry and look up in time to see a red-tailed hawk diving towards some unseen prey. As you continue to climb, you hike past more patches of wildflowers interspersed with hardwoods and pine trees that occasionally open up to reveal glimpses of the open canyon. And finally you arrive at the overlook, completely sated by the sights and sounds and camaraderie of the trek, so the added amazement of the overlook cannot be contained by a mere “meh.” You have to gush. And of course, you snap that picture, because (you think) the overlook is truly beautiful.

And now, back to Peyto Lake, and the reason my photo is better than the $300 photo. I look at the $300 photo, and I see a well-composed, well-focused, nicely framed photo of one of Banff’s most beautiful lakes. I look at it and think, “Meh. That’s nice.” And then I look at my photo of Peyto Lake, and I see my friends, wildflowers, birds, and beautiful trees. I smell the pine. My body remembers the time and energy it took to complete the challenges of the trail.

All of this I remember…from one photo. So yes, my photo is better. Because I earned it.