To Be Continued...

The Art of Getting Lost in a Box Canyon

For those who are unaware, a box canyon is one that dead ends. Some can go on for miles before you find yourself marooned at the base of a dry waterfall or a sheer cliff wall. I got lost in one that was a little over a quarter mile long. How is it possible for a fairly sensible, active outdoors-woman to find herself in this situation? Simply throw common sense out the door in four simple…

After a summer of glorious, unbridled freedom, I started reaching a little too far into my savings to fund a lifestyle that was quickly losing its shine. I wanted to earn that Friday night feeling again. It was time to get back to work.  Starting a new job in the middle of a pandemic is … weird. While my new agency’s physical doors are open, only 10 coworkers can be there at the same time.…

My friend Eugene and I were sitting around a dying campfire talking about my recent trip to Milwaukee. I complained about how something as familiar as walking into a neighborhood bar with my brother felt completely wrong.

There were only a handful of people inside, but nobody was wearing masks, keeping their distance or acting like they should do either. I wanted to stay all night and catch…

What Brings Me Home

What is it about ‘going home’ in the summer that feels so pure, so childlike in its innocence? It’s been over 12 years since I moved away from Wisconsin. Yet every July, I long to be in my backyard on Burleigh Street.

I miss biking through the alley with my brothers. I miss sitting in the back seat of our station wagon with my sister, eating burgers and custard at Gillies every Sunday night.…

Mother Nature’s House Rules

I’m not the first to complain about the increased crowds flocking to state and national parks this summer. Trust me – I get it. We’re confined and seeking a bit of relief from the chaos surrounding us.

Spending time in nature sustains my spirit, but it also robs me of my faith in humanity. Small, senseless acts are not committed solely by the people hiking on the trails or camping for the…

The Upside of Downtime

It’s the Fourth of July weekend and not a creature is stirring in Portland. For all the people have departed in one mass exodus to the natural spaces within a two-hour radius of the city. Things tend to be crowded on this, the holiest of summer holidays. But now, e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e is looking to trade their “new normal” for a few sleeps beneath the stars. 

Being free from the shackles of steady…

I haven’t quite mastered the bidet

It’s my duty as a storyteller to eavesdrop on the conversations taking place around me. Lately, the most popular topic has centered around resetting life’s great expectations. We are living in a time of historic change. It’s painful, but struggle leads to growth. 

When faced with a legitimate challenge, my instinct is to throw my full weight against it and fight like hell. But if the opponent…

  Living in the shadow of Mt. Hood has bitch-slapped me into reality. 

It’s already claimed the lives of three backcountry skiers this year. High winds and heavy snowfall create instant white-out conditions that skew your sense of direction if you dare stray from the marked trail.

But it does have a hidden sweet side. 

Presently, I’m doing my best to follow Phil’s mandate to “keep the bamboo on my right” as the last hints of daylight fade early from the January sky. My braid is an icicle frozen to the hood of my parka. My feet, strapped into a pair of snowshoes, shuffle slowly and steadily uphill. My eyes search blindly through an opaque sheet of white hoping to catch their first glimpse of Oregon’s most remote cabin. 

I received a last-minute invite to spend the night at the Silcox Hut – a historic cabin buried into the side of Mt. Hood. The person responsible for organizing the trip secured the reservation nearly two years ago, confident he could round up 24 willing participants. I knew only the six people presently hiking with me. A handful of others were skinning up. The sane majority opted to ride the snowcat and were enjoying a lovely cheese board around a warm fire right now.

Night is falling fast and we’re seemingly no closer to the hut than we were an hour ago. Moments after discussing the option of calling the cat to come rescue us, we spot a faint hint of light less than a football field ahead.

 Our host Phil greets us at the door. He is thrilled we opted to put in the work to get here. It offers hope we won’t be like his previous night’s guests, who were more interested in binge-drinking wine than appreciating their unique surroundings.

The Silcox Hut is low-slung and sprawling. A rugged, yet cozy fortress made entirely of cedar and stone. There’s a large bunk room partially buried underground, four toilets and a hot shower. Up a short flight of stairs is a great room with an open kitchen on one end and an open fireplace on the other. In between is a long, wooden table lined on either side by a row of ice-coated windows. 

Our group is a bunch of 30-something-year-old, minor-league adventurers. Everyone is heavy into mountaineering, skiing, trail running, etc. We even have a semi-famous #vanlifer among us. I pretend to not know the name of her dog when meeting her.

We’re dressed in base layers, flannel and slippers. Small, get-to-know-you conversations are taking place across the room. Bursts of laughter often overpower the classic rock playing overhead. 

Phil serves us heaping plates of salad, bread, chicken, roasted veggies and two kinds of dessert. After the dishes are cleared, he entertains us with jokes and ghost stories until we’re falling asleep at the table like children exhausted from playing outside all day.

I curl up in a top bunk along the outer edge of the room. To my right is a rough stone wall; to my left is my friend Eric, snoring softly above Ashley and Laurel lying on their sides, whispering to each other. 

I turn away from the ancient spiderwebs embedded in the rock and drift off to sleep beneath a heavy wool blanket. The wind will pick up overnight, making our hike back down the mountain somehow colder with zero visibility. But first, there will be waffles.

It’s safe to say we’re all feeling uneasy right now. How could we not? 

We’re collectively staring into a gaping black hole of uncertainty that gets wider every day. Our personal freedoms are shrinking along with our ability to connect with other humans in a way that feels normal. We’re all looking at each other through the lens of fear and bias. I’m healthy. are you? I’m hunkering down; are you? 

Two years ago…

I watched him take his last breath.

I saw his soul leave his body.

I started learning some painful lessons.

The biggest and hardest-earned one is the realization that nothing will kill me except what’s actually going to kill me.

It’s forced me to stop holding myself back out of fear.

It’s led me to make decisions that are considerably more bold and reckless than I’ve ever been…

Exploring Pendleton’s Wild Side

Brightly patterned wool blankets.

The Dude’s iconic sweater.

A traveling rodeo queen.

All three represent Pendleton in well-known ways. But little attention is directed at the actual town that bears its name. For starters, drop the “d” if you want to sound like a local.

This cowboy town has a past that’s distinctly Wild West in origin. Huge boot, saddle and hat shops line the faux boardwalk in…

A new year, a new life in the PNW. The past eight weeks have been disruptive; I've never felt more tired, yet more alive. Nearly everything I do presents both the challenge of the unknown and the reward of a new discovery.

  I was sitting at a picnic table at a brewery in Bend watching the sun set behind the Three Sisters. Inspired by the perfect combination of tacos, IPAs and warm summer air, I made the promise to the universe and myself that the next time I was in Oregon, it would be on a one-way ticket.

The ball started to roll shortly after stating that intention. Suddenly, a friend had recommended me for a…

As a naturally athletic person, I tend to pick up new sports easily. I've never known what it's like to be considered the lowest common denominator. This trip to Iceland taught me what that feels like.  

Fellow riders (l-r): Rick, Lisa, Vicki, me, Aunt Nancy

If you’re going to do a week-long mountain biking trip in Iceland, it’s wise to ride a mountain bike, at least once, before you go. 

It’s uncharacteristic for me to do so little preparation prior to visiting a new country, especially one I’ve wanted to visit for years. But it was a much different trip than the kind I’m used to. This one was…

Nudity in the North Nudity is fine, as long as it doesn't involve family. Iceland taught me otherwise.

I don’t have a problem with nudity. I’m not shocked by strippers, flashers or nip slips.

I’ve seen them all and simply thought, “body parts.” 

It’s always my Mom who comments that, perhaps, my shorts are a bit too short for the grocery store. They’re not, but my Mom was raised Catholic, so a puritanical level of modesty is to be maintained at all times. 

While I don’t have a problem with nudity,…

What happens in the dry suit, stays in the dry suit.

What’s the last thing you imagine doing in Iceland?

If you said snorkeling, you’d be surprised to learn it’s one of their top tourist attractions. 

You don’t go into the seas surrounding the island for this experience. Instead, you head inland to Þingvellir National Park located 45 minutes east of Reykjavik. Here the Earth is ripping itself apart at the rate of two centimeters per year,…

I travel to make human connections. My deepest memories center not around new landscapes, but around new relationships.

Post-swim hot dogs with Rob and Adam. They took us snorkeling earlier that day.

At 14, I traveled to the island of St. Thomas and heard a young boy pronounce my name with an accent for the first time. 

At 25, Luke and I shared a room with Teddy and Sierra in an Amsterdam hostel. They offered us their leftover mushrooms, then took us out for Mexican food. 

I can’t remember what I wore to work a week ago, yet these moments in time remain crystal clear.

Recently, I returned home from a bike tour across the southern coast of Iceland. It was organized through Trek Travel and our group consisted of five riders and two guides. 

Meet our bike gang: (l-r) Rick, Vicki, me, Lisa, Mike, Anna (not pictured – Aunt Nancy)

There was Lisa, a solo traveler from California. She was small and quiet, with intense eyes. Vicki and Rick were a married couple from Boise. She was a hard-driving attorney. He was a reserved bike mechanic. My other half was my Aunt Nancy. She’s the kind of person who looks good in red eyeglasses and lights up a room by simply entering it. 

Aunt Nancy’s personality is reflected in her top-notch outfits

Our guides Anna and Mike kept the stoke high even when we were acting like children who didn’t want to be on the family road trip. Anna was a native Icelander of nebulous age and incredible athleticism. She spoke perfect English through an accent that faded over the course of the week. Mike was from Oregon and had what I astutely described to him as a “hilarious mustache.” He was a badass mountain biker, yet graciously rode in the back with Aunt Nancy and me for a majority of the trip. 

Anna

We met the group at a hotel lobby in Reykjavik at our appointed time, then settled into Anna’s sprinter van – our mobile home for the week. Vicki and Rick claimed the front row of seats. Aunt Nancy and I took the middle. Lisa took the back. Her head was barely visible above the back of our seat. 

The group chatted casually as we drove to our first scheduled activity – a kayak trip into the Atlantic Ocean. Afterwards, our lunch conversation would have been awkward had Aunt Nancy not carried it. The group dynamics got a little more real after a somewhat harrowing ride down a steep gravel trail that was difficult to walk on, much less mountain bike on.

But it was the after-dinner vodka that really opened the floodgates. Mike warned us about the three topics that are typically off-limits on his trips: religion, politics and Lance Armstrong.

Still smiling even after I accidentally threw Vicki off her bike, causing her to rip her tights.

 After spending a few days in each other’s intimate space, I learned important things about each of them. 

Vickie and Rick never let up. They are driven to maximize every aspect of their lives.

Lisa’s politics don’t mesh with my own, but she ended up being the person I partied with in Reykjavik until 3am

Mike has metal in his head from a brain tumor he developed when he was 19 

Stoic and pragmatic Anna has a deep love for American cowboy culture and Dolly Parton 

Aunt Nancy and I got to the point where we could handle showering naked in front of each other at public swimming pools. We are both prudes. This was no small feat. 

We were people from across the US with various professions, political views and a 25-year age span. Yet, within days, we rode as one group. 

On the final night, we exchanged Instagram handles and email addresses. We promised to set-up a shared Dropbox for our photos. I told Anna I wanted to meet her in Nashville in October to see Dolly perform. 

A few weeks have passed and the Instagram likes from our photos have slowed. The “I miss you” texts have become even more sporadic. I don’t believe I’m going to Nashville any time soon. 

Space and time share a complicated relationship with human behavior. They compress and expand as needed. We packed a lot into a week. We spent more than 12 hours a day together, often in tight quarters. The only outside interaction we had with others was in a pool (where one goes only to socialize with one’s own people) and a family-style dinner table. Even then, we chose to focus on each other. 

Now that the trip is over, so are most of these relationships. Which is okay. Some things belong on a shelf to be looked at occasionally and remembered fondly. Vicki riding a full quarter of a mile ahead of me at all times is as sacred as experiencing the midnight sun for the first time. It’s all part of the experience I had that one time in Iceland. 

Heeeeeeere’s Johnny!

He’s exactly the type of person you expect to meet in Sedona, Arizona – land of the extreme free spirit. He’s had 20 years to shake off his “out east” (Illinois) upbringing and become one with the land and sky.

Luke and I were checking out Faye Canyon, a popular hiking trail outside the city. It’s an easy three-mile out-and-back UNLESS you encounter a knowledgable local who…