Everyday has it surprises

Winter and Spring are also in a state of war here in Boise, Idaho. From my porch, a procession of trees in peak white blossoms dotted with chirping birds. In the distance the foothills remain a starchy white. It feels like winter. Its cold, too cold for the first day of April in the high desert. Yesterday’s rain edged on sleet and hail, unforgiving and ignoring the boundaries of my patio rails to wet my rug and chair. There is a hosta in a pot that has sprouted small purple horns, like a juvenile male deer or tiny devil children. Its too cold to be out on my patio before nine in the morning but here I sit. I like the shadows on the hills at sunrise and the ruckus the birds make. The white trees remind me of wedding season.

I haven’t felt particularly emotional about any of this until yesterday. Its didn't come about due to some major life event being thwarted like nuptials or prom, rather sadness arose for me in the vegetable section at Winco. A gentleman in his mid to late 50s was stocking boxes of spinach and bagged salad. It was nearing ten in the morning and imagine he was at the end of his early stocking shift. while he worked he kept most of his attention on us, the shoppers. He looked worried, on alert, keeping his stack of boxes and cart between his body and us. He was so full with stress and fear he couldn’t even see me looking at him. I hated that he was having to work, to put himself at risk, while I picked through apples and bananas. Why aren’t older people the ones laid off and all the young unemployed service people called to action? It felt wrong and if I could’ve signed up to trade places with him I would have done it on the spot. There were quite a few older people shopping and slowly wandering the store, which was relatively quiet at that time of day. One older man in a mask kept appearing on the same isle as me.. He seemed in contrast from the man working, unaware of the people around him and unconcerned for space. Rather than pass him, I would just pretend to be I don’t know, taking a long time to decide what soy sauce I was gong to buy. A coulple of times I gently turn my cart and walked slowly in the other direction, not in a way that belied any frustration or annoyance, like I might have before if I was in a hurry and someone was blocking the isle. I think that while we are mandated to give each other six feet of space, it it important to do so from a place of care and concern for each other, rather the than fear or skepticism I have seen a lot of.

Yesterday was a massive, exhausting day. Grocery shopping took the better part of the morning and then there was the dealing with the groceries, which I sort of forgot also takes. How did I used to do this just as an errand in between things? I guess I wasn’t shopping for multiple weeks, preparing to get sick or take care of someone else who could get sick. This was shopping on steroids. Everything is exhausting in a crisis. As I mentioned in a previous blog, rather than make a “to do” list, at the end of each day I make a “done” list. This helps to not pressure myself into productivity, listen to my body and do what feels best in the moment. Lots of advice on the internet says to develop a routine right now and while I think that for some people that may help, it might not help for everyone. Part of me has always resisted a routine and when I try to force my body into it, I just end up stressed and unproductive. I’ve learned that I respond best to lose guidelines and a trust in myself to know what is best. That doesn’t mean that I still don’t exercise even if I am not feeling it, because I know there are somethings I need to do even if I don’t feel like it. I just don’t lock myself into doing them at a certain time, which is how I interpret a routine.

Yesterday I knew I should get outside and go for a walk but after the earthquake, thats right, I said earthquake, I did not feel like walking. My knees had buckled with fear as I gripped my bathroom door jam and the world wobbled and my cats scrambled toward the bedroom. I was shaken and disbelieving and had to call some people and touch my arms and face a lot for reassurance. It was a 6.5 and it made all the old ladies that live around me poke their heads in a temporary suspension from isolation which was actually very comforting. One disaster gives way to another, its only natural. Instead of going for a walk, I poured a gin and lime lacrioux and I danced like I was in a music video montage for a sold half hour. I started a batch broth in the crockpot and finished up my second attempt at homemade rice milk (it was successful!) I made a fresh salad for dinner and warmed up some gifted enchiladas which I ate as I watched the sunset, all pink and gold and grey clouds and the start of a what felt like it would be one of those long slow dusks. I suddenly longed to be out in it and to the city at night, again. I took a walk through our abandoned downtown. Some business still played music, even though they were closed. All the building were empty besides the few who house residents and I looked up and made long eye contact with someone five or six stories up, looking down. A few young men with buffalo wild wings take out bags, hurried up 8th street, normally the busiest part of downtown and probably of the state. It felt like four in the morning, but it was only eight or nine at night. The only other place open was Pie Hole, a pizza place, still serving slices. A young man looked out, slightly hopeful at some movement and then dropped his head as I continued to walk. I made a note to get some pizza there soon and headed home, imagining nights at the club and people gathering again.

Water and Fire and Wind, oh my

I wanted to go back before we even left. In the desert, the rust colored canyons and dead yellow grass offered no protection from the cold wind; even at a mild whip, it went right through clothes and skin. I want to be exposed like that again and again. I want to be in open spaces where there are no other people for miles and where focus lies best on breath. I want to be hungry when I eat and so tired when the sun goes down, I drop dreamlessly into sleep. I want walk and walk and walk, away from everyone and everything. What a perfect time to check out, now would be.

And that is what we did, for two. whole. days. We took the liberty of a weekend, once a right readily accepted by the masses, now a practice for the privileged- those with the resources, equipment, or knowledge coupled with the mental and moral ability to release from this societal riptide. Either by ignorance or a willful re-direct, families fished the reseviour for crappie and young couples walked the meadows, hand-in-hand and Kate and I hiked. We all carried on out there as if it were life as normal. In the outdoors, friendly distance is the way of things. You respect each others’ space in the absence of competition for it and in the shared appreciation for it. The outdoors culture is well suited for social distancing.

The only other warm-blooded beings we saw in our day and night out on the trail, besides healthy and very alert free-range cattle, was a couple, also on their way to the hot spring. After a day of searching, we had been unable to find it. I had done some research but not enough and when we saw their human forms come down the trail into the little valley where our campsite was hidden in the sage brush, I rushed out to meet them. They showed me their map and told us that there were some other hikers who also couldn’t find it but that there was a man with a blue canoe, equipped with a outboard motor, who was offering rides in and out for trade. I had seen that watercraft on our way in and salivated. It is just the kind of boat I dream of growing old in. We were only about a mile away from the hotspring, we learned, but we luxuriated the morning away reading and had scouted up the trail for a couple of hours already. It was early afternoon by the time we ran into that couple and with only one box of Mac&Cheese, one packet of salmon, a top ramen and a handful of bars we followed our bellies, and good sense, and headed out.

The first part of the trail was a two-mile exposed stretch, very high up from the reseviour, with washouts and at times, a completely unreasonable grade. Certain points required scrambling on hands an knees, and slow and delicate descents. For Kate who lacks trekking poles and a center of gravity, but thankfully not a sense of adventure or tendency toward high spirits, the safest way at certain steep points was a good ‘ole dusty butt slide. I will say that I take full responsibility for not knowing where we were going and thus not making it to the hotspring but I had set my expectations for this trip as first and foremost a hike and training for the season. So it was. I learned, or I guess re-learned, that it is helpful to at least look at a map of where you are going, if not carry one. Bring more food, then you think you will need always, just in case, and because you get hungry carrying your home on your back over mountains. Also I think I am old enough for a pack pillow, this neck will not suffer one more night’s rest on a lumpy stuff sack. Kate noted the ridiculousness of her having bought a pack pillow before trekking poles, seeing their value on this particular trail. But after having slept terribly for two nights, and watching her genuinely enjoy sliding down trails in wool gloves and carharts, I am not sure she was so far off. In these ways we sort of exchanged patience for one another- me for her beginner hiking pace and she for my lack of knowledge as to our destination. At one point we even climbed over a cattle gate and walked about a mile out of the way so I think our respective lack of competence if not compliments each other, tips slightly toward me.

Back at the car, we set up camp and peed behind the outhouse when possible. When our fire ran low I asked the couple at the campsite next to us for some wood; their smiles lacked any wariness prevalent in stranger interactions of the todays and they warmly handed over a generous armful while their gorgeous light-eyed pups danced and played at my feet. Once the sun went down, Kate settled into her crossword book and me into my chocolate cupcake and novelty packet of Nutella. Our fire was a conservative warm pile of coals and a few slow burning logs, which I was proud to have made completely out of kindling off wood I’d brought and split. But apparently it wasn’t good enough for our neighbor who, deeming it too small, took it upon himself to “help us.” He was part part of a crew staying in one of those RVS that are bigger than some people homes, and had obviously gained some liquid courage by that time by late evening. Nowhere to be found when I was splitting wood for an hour to get the kindling, he saw two young women in clear need of assistance and brought us way too much unrequested dead sage brush. He then, without permission, added it to our fire in heaps so it became so hot we had to back our chairs up. This obviously really pissed me off. It was an act that betrayed the previously mentioned culture of friendly distance, and just respect in general. “We took a vote and you can come join our fire,” he yelled when he was back at his campsite. Yeah we took a vote and decided you’re an asshole. That was rhetorical, I do not represent Kate in my distain for this man’s obvious display of sexism and lack of boundaries, as she appeared to appreciate the gesture, much to my further annoyance. Multiple days in isolation with someone can really test a relationship, I don't know how everyone who lives with people is doing it, I would lose my shit.

But we have our books, and our love of reading and its hard to find a friend who shares enthusiasm for the written word, so our friendship can weather some wrinkles. One unexpected benefit of this trip was that I could actually concentrate on reading, which I find difficult in my house. At home, I read to go to sleep and if I am reading on my couch instead of before bed, I still fall asleep. But after we ate breakfast that morning on the trail, we laid our sleeping mats out next to the small stream and I read a whole chapter and a half in my other book, The Hobbit. What an incredible experience it was to see the Dwarfs rescued from the Wood Elf King’s dungeon via wine barrel and a river. Bilbo perched atop one barrel, wet and sneezing for the entirety of their escape, narrates the moment they break through the forest. After months of being in the dark, lost, starving and almost eaten by giant spiders he see the trees break, the valley before them and the sun again. I had also left, “We took to the Woods,” in the car as it is bigger and heavier than The Hobbit, and that very night I read a whole chapter in that book too! Louise’s writing about her one and only fearful encounter with an animal while living in the woods- “the Miller’s cow” and tales of her pet skunk gave me pure delight and a deep feeling of satisfaction at the day’s and subsequently the trip’s end.

As we drove back through the rolling grassy, cow spotted hills and canyons Sunday morning and into the small rural town of Marsing, we took a big breath and prepared ourselves for whatever changes in the crisis we would confront. I was secretly eager to be home, to my cats and my bed, with its various pillows, but also to be back in touch with my friends and family who are all feeling this in their own ways. The more I check in with those people and with my community, the less I want to check out, though I do still think this would be a good time for a long hike and a great time to experiment with backpacking food, given its nonperishable nature.

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