http://www.ksl.com/?sid=23343018&nid=1012&title=time-in-nature-increases-creativity-u-researcher-says&s_cid=queue-12
I've always felt this to be the case. Now research is showing it. Get OUT THERE!
Thursday, December 13, 2012
Monday, December 10, 2012
The Dipper
I wonder if the Ouzel sings? If so, I don't know if I'd recognize his song. I have watched him hop from rock to rock along the stream. I've watched him dive into the water and come out as dry as he went in. I've watched him squat to the rhythm of the cascades. I've watched him catch and eat aquatic insects, but never have I witnessed his song. He must sing. He has to sing. He has to be happy; spending all his days along the river's edge. He looks happy.
I've shared the water with him. He's as good a companion as one could want. He minds his own business and I mind mine. My goal is to find out if he sings. Most birds do. A while back I was thinking about the Dipper's antics and wrote the following poem:
Ouzel
I've shared the water with him. He's as good a companion as one could want. He minds his own business and I mind mine. My goal is to find out if he sings. Most birds do. A while back I was thinking about the Dipper's antics and wrote the following poem:
Ouzel
The constant squatting,
a dance to the gurgle
of minature waterfalls;
the Dipper disappears
by diving, then bounces
up out of the water
dry as charcoal.
He hops from rock to rock,
and checks moist mats of moss
for meals of midges,
stoneflies, caddis, and mayfly nymphs.
This bird, like an aquatic insect
emerges from the water,
sprouts wings, and flies away.
Monday, December 3, 2012
Cold Reflecting
It's cold. But not the bitter kind.
Breath in morning
warms by afternoon.
Voices invisable.
Along the river,
frozen tracks melt.
Textured trunks
hold stonefly skins.
Midges stagnate
on a conveyer belt
of liquid gray.
Some cluster.
Insignificant images.
Breath in morning
warms by afternoon.
Voices invisable.
Along the river,
frozen tracks melt.
Textured trunks
hold stonefly skins.
Midges stagnate
on a conveyer belt
of liquid gray.
Some cluster.
Insignificant images.
Saturday, November 10, 2012
SNOW!
Every time we have our first substantial snow of the year, I get the urge to read "Winter, Notes from Montana" by Rick Bass or "Arctic Dreams" by Barry Lopez. In the cover flap of :Winter", is this description of the book:
"In this celebration of winter in a remote valley of thirty inhabitants, the valley in Montana without electricity, Rick Bass describes the wildness and the freedom of the valley people, the slow-motion quality of life as if it were one hundred years ago.
Impressions abound; trees popping like firecrackers in the dead of winter; white rabbits as large as cats; bull elk eating hay along side cows; the Dirty Shame Saloon, where the people gamble, drink beer, gossip, and watch football on TV. Rick Bass describes the physical dangers of wilderness life: getting lost in a blizzard; how a chain saw can rip open your leg; the omnipresent threat of fire. Winter is a book about the excitement of matching landscape to life, about how one man and one woman have searched for and found that place to call their abiding own."
I suppose the reason I like to read this book in the winter is because, I too feel the slow-motion when the snow lands here in Utah. I have to admit that snow and winter are not my favorite things. I tolerate winter. The snow really puts a damper on the things I enjoy. I know that there are many outdoor activities that can be enjoyed in snow and cold, but to me it's not the same as my warmer season outings.
In winter, my mind also turns to the Bear Lake Valley. My ancestors settled in that valley back sometime in the 1860's. What I find fascinating about that valley is the harshness of winter. Winter comes early there and stays late. On the Idaho side of the lake, the population of the towns has not changed much since the first pioneer communities were set up. Many of the families were "called" to settle that area by Mormon prophet Brigham Young. Living there was tough back then and even with modern conveniences, it is somewhat tough today. I once read or heard someone say that the people that are descendants from the original pioneer stock that still live there are tough. The saying is something like this: Brigham Young sent families to settle the Bear Lake Valley. Some families stayed and died, some families left, so only the tough ones remained. I can sense that attitude with descendants of the pioneers today. If you do a search you can find the names of the families Brigham Young sent to that valley. Even though many of their children have grown and moved away over the years, some have stayed and some have returned. Some have historical lands that are now summer get-a-ways. There are also those who have no attachment to the place other than they like to recreate on the landscape and have purchased summer retreats and to a lesser degree winter retreats for that purpose. As you interact with the different people in the valley, you can tell which ones have a connection to place over a long time versus those whose connection is not as long or as strong.
The reason my mind turns to Bear Lake in winter, is one of fantasy. I envision myself as the lonely writer holed up in a wood stove warmed cabin, typing out stories of wild outdoor adventures. A writer who has all the spring, summer, and fall, experiences of hiking, fly fishing, mountain biking, camping, and exploring pouring out of his mind and onto a page of blank paper.
Years ago, I told my mom I could spend all winter in our families summer home in Bear Lake. She gasped and said, "Why would you want to do that? And what about a social life?" I told her that I would write articles and books and would only have to go outside to handle chores and maybe do some snowshoeing, or ice fishing. I told her that social life would be taken care of on Sundays by attending the local Mormon church. That was pretty much the end of the conversation. I think that some people acquaint being alone with loneliness--and sometimes mental illness.
So I've reached for "Winter" and found "Arctic Dreams" on the bookshelf. I've looked out the window and calculated the depth of the fallen snow. My mind is slowing down and I'm wondering if this will be a long winter. These early snows indicate that it might be a long one.
I've promised a neighbor that I will take him winter whitefishing on the Weber River this year. I haven't done that for a while. It's one way of getting outdoors. I actually enjoy it when the sun is out.
I think I will spend some of my winter "free time" tying up some flies to use on the whitefish and maybe store up some patterns for summer use.
Cabin fever is starting early. I know why bears hibernate through winter.
"In this celebration of winter in a remote valley of thirty inhabitants, the valley in Montana without electricity, Rick Bass describes the wildness and the freedom of the valley people, the slow-motion quality of life as if it were one hundred years ago.
Impressions abound; trees popping like firecrackers in the dead of winter; white rabbits as large as cats; bull elk eating hay along side cows; the Dirty Shame Saloon, where the people gamble, drink beer, gossip, and watch football on TV. Rick Bass describes the physical dangers of wilderness life: getting lost in a blizzard; how a chain saw can rip open your leg; the omnipresent threat of fire. Winter is a book about the excitement of matching landscape to life, about how one man and one woman have searched for and found that place to call their abiding own."
I suppose the reason I like to read this book in the winter is because, I too feel the slow-motion when the snow lands here in Utah. I have to admit that snow and winter are not my favorite things. I tolerate winter. The snow really puts a damper on the things I enjoy. I know that there are many outdoor activities that can be enjoyed in snow and cold, but to me it's not the same as my warmer season outings.
In winter, my mind also turns to the Bear Lake Valley. My ancestors settled in that valley back sometime in the 1860's. What I find fascinating about that valley is the harshness of winter. Winter comes early there and stays late. On the Idaho side of the lake, the population of the towns has not changed much since the first pioneer communities were set up. Many of the families were "called" to settle that area by Mormon prophet Brigham Young. Living there was tough back then and even with modern conveniences, it is somewhat tough today. I once read or heard someone say that the people that are descendants from the original pioneer stock that still live there are tough. The saying is something like this: Brigham Young sent families to settle the Bear Lake Valley. Some families stayed and died, some families left, so only the tough ones remained. I can sense that attitude with descendants of the pioneers today. If you do a search you can find the names of the families Brigham Young sent to that valley. Even though many of their children have grown and moved away over the years, some have stayed and some have returned. Some have historical lands that are now summer get-a-ways. There are also those who have no attachment to the place other than they like to recreate on the landscape and have purchased summer retreats and to a lesser degree winter retreats for that purpose. As you interact with the different people in the valley, you can tell which ones have a connection to place over a long time versus those whose connection is not as long or as strong.
The reason my mind turns to Bear Lake in winter, is one of fantasy. I envision myself as the lonely writer holed up in a wood stove warmed cabin, typing out stories of wild outdoor adventures. A writer who has all the spring, summer, and fall, experiences of hiking, fly fishing, mountain biking, camping, and exploring pouring out of his mind and onto a page of blank paper.
Years ago, I told my mom I could spend all winter in our families summer home in Bear Lake. She gasped and said, "Why would you want to do that? And what about a social life?" I told her that I would write articles and books and would only have to go outside to handle chores and maybe do some snowshoeing, or ice fishing. I told her that social life would be taken care of on Sundays by attending the local Mormon church. That was pretty much the end of the conversation. I think that some people acquaint being alone with loneliness--and sometimes mental illness.
So I've reached for "Winter" and found "Arctic Dreams" on the bookshelf. I've looked out the window and calculated the depth of the fallen snow. My mind is slowing down and I'm wondering if this will be a long winter. These early snows indicate that it might be a long one.
I've promised a neighbor that I will take him winter whitefishing on the Weber River this year. I haven't done that for a while. It's one way of getting outdoors. I actually enjoy it when the sun is out.
I think I will spend some of my winter "free time" tying up some flies to use on the whitefish and maybe store up some patterns for summer use.
Cabin fever is starting early. I know why bears hibernate through winter.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Saving and Wasting Time
Tomorrow is the end of Daylight Saving Time. I get an extra hour of sleep. Or I guess I do if I decide to use the time for sleeping. I'm not going to sleep that extra hour away. I'm going to ride my mountain bike in the morning. I have a ski mask and goggles to wear this winter as I ride. I'm riding the bike to see how it affects my hip joint.
On June 9, 2012, I ran a half marathon. During the training for the half marathon my left groin area started to hurt. I took some time off but knew I needed to train to be prepared for the thirteen miles. As I posted in a previous story, my groin tightened up at the four mile mark of the race and I had to bear pain for the remainder of the run. Since then, I have only run one other race a 5K in my hometown. I've tried to keep running but each time I do at about two or three miles my groin will tighten. Lately, I have a very light popping feeling periodically in the inner hip area around the hip flexor. I have also had a slight catch in the hip when I move a certain way. All of my research indicates that I have a hip impingement. I'm not sure if it is a cam impingement or a pincer impingement. I suspect it is caused from tight muscles, I'm guessing the psoas. Either that or a labrum tear. I haven't been to the doctor yet. I've been holding off and resting and doing some stretches and exercises hoping it will help. My greatest fear is that when I start riding my bike, the symptoms will get worse. If they do, then for sure I will be seeing the doc. I want to keep running and stay active, but have a feeling that running may be a thing of the past. Time will tell.
Time tells us other things as well. I'm not sure how the change in time will affect what I see on my way to work in the morning. Lately, I have enjoyed looking at Ben Lomond summit. The first snow of the season had it covered. At about 7:45 AM it is illuminated with sun light. What I find interesting is that the sun has not risen above the Wasatch Front. I'm sure physics could help me understand how the peak of Ben Lomond can be illuminated with sun light even thought the sun is still behind the other mountains. I'm sure it's a pretty simple explanation--something to do with angles and heights--but I'm not so interested in that as I am in just enjoying it. The sun light makes the snow so bright. The fact that the sun is not seen but its effect is, draws my mind to some metaphors for life. Seeing is believing. Believing is seeing.
Albert Einstein said, "Look deep into nature, and then you will understand everything better." Scientists are looking deep into nature and trying to explain the what, where, why and how of things, giving us a better understanding. I'm grateful for that. I'm also grateful for being able to enjoy nature without having to know all the scientific reasons for some things existence and behavior. Sometimes, I like to enjoy nature for how it makes me feel. When I see a Kestrel hover over a field looking for prey, I can smile and enjoy watching without knowing the aerodynamics of its hovering. When I see trout dart up or down stream when I think I had put the perfect sneak on them, I marvel that the lateral line can sense such subtle movement and vibrations without having to know exactly how it all works. When I look at the colors on trout, I know that some of the markings and color are for camouflage, but I like to think that a creator might have added a crimson dot, a blue halo, or a red slash under the jaw to add beauty to the work of an artist.
I'm hoping my hip will be okay. Maybe my running time will be replaced with more hiking time. So far hiking hasn't caused pain. There are those who feel the time I spend outdoors is wasted time. I love when we go to Daylight Saving Time in the spring. It gives me more "light" and time to be outside doing the things that bring me joy. To me it's precious time.
Monday, October 22, 2012
Fall Fly Fishing Finally
I've posted some pictures from my latest fly fishing trip.
The weather is supposed to turn more like winter this week.
I'm glad I was able to get out and enjoy a great Fall day.
Check out the pictures on my fly fishing blog:
www.troutseeker.blogspot.com
The weather is supposed to turn more like winter this week.
I'm glad I was able to get out and enjoy a great Fall day.
Check out the pictures on my fly fishing blog:
www.troutseeker.blogspot.com
Sunday, October 14, 2012
Good Timber
I've always liked this poem by Douglas Malloch.
"The tree that never had to fight
For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing.
The man who never had to toil
To gain and farm his patch of soil,
Who never had to win his share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never became a manly man
But lived and died as he began.
Good timber does not grow with ease:
The stronger wind, the stronger trees;
The farther sky, the greater length;
The more the storm, the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow.
Where thickest lies the forest growth,
We find the patriarchs of both,
And they hold counsel with the stars
Whose broken branches show the scars
Of many winds and much of strife.
This is the common law of life."
My dad turned 80 years old this past week. He's an amazing man. He's a manly man. He's been the strong tree in my life, a forest king, good timber. Though a little worn with age with branches that show scars, he holds counsel with the stars, and I do, and always will look up to him.
"The tree that never had to fight
For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing.
The man who never had to toil
To gain and farm his patch of soil,
Who never had to win his share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never became a manly man
But lived and died as he began.
Good timber does not grow with ease:
The stronger wind, the stronger trees;
The farther sky, the greater length;
The more the storm, the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow.
Where thickest lies the forest growth,
We find the patriarchs of both,
And they hold counsel with the stars
Whose broken branches show the scars
Of many winds and much of strife.
This is the common law of life."
My dad turned 80 years old this past week. He's an amazing man. He's a manly man. He's been the strong tree in my life, a forest king, good timber. Though a little worn with age with branches that show scars, he holds counsel with the stars, and I do, and always will look up to him.
Monday, October 1, 2012
Added Some Pictures to my Fly Fishing Blog
Here's a link to my fly fishing blog:
www.troutseeker.blogspot.com
www.troutseeker.blogspot.com
Monday, September 24, 2012
Tackling Timpanogos
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| Phyllis, myself, and Kiele Nelson near the start of our hike. |
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| Small waterfall on the way up Aspen Grove Trail. |
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| Our destination Timpanogos Peak in the far background. |
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| Working our way through some rocks. |
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| Myself, Phyllis, Kiele and Kevin--old people pretending they are young. Give us credit we're out doing something! |
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| The summit saddle.Timpanogos Peak in background. |
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| The end of the trail about 11,500 feet or so. |
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| Starting back down the Timpooneke side. |
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| Looking back toward Timpanogos Peak on the way down. |
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| We dropped off several high meadow plateaus on the long hike out. |
I knew I was not going to the peak. My mind was made up. My wife was disappointed to come this far and then not reach the summit. I felt bad for her. We discussed several options that would enable her to reach the peak but in the end it was not to be. She hiked to the corner where the trail started a series of climbs to the peak and had her picture taken by some friendly hikers from Florida. I felt good for making it to the summit saddle. It was a long hike uphill for the most part. The views along the trail were majestic and beautiful. I was satisfied. The thought of being within a mile of the actual peak and not going to the top will probably haunt my wife for a long time.
We hiked with some friends who were very strong hikers. I felt bad for dragging them down. It was nice to hike and talk with them. The plan was to leave a car at the Timpooneke traihead drive to the Aspen Grove trailhead, hike up the Aspen Grove trail and then back down the Timpooneke trail to the shuttle car and then drive back to the Aspen grove trailhead. This would mean we would be hiking approximately 14 or 15 miles. We would attain an elevation of around 11,000 feet.
Utah had one of the driest years on record in 2012. The lack of snow and precipitation made an impact on the size of snowfields in the drainage. The usual springs and waterfalls were almost all dry by the end of September. Still the scenery was fabulous with the fall colors starting to abound.
This hike had a little of everything--elevation gain, rocks, boulders, quakies, pines, a few late season wildflowers, a herd of mountain goats, and distant vistas. It was well worth the effort and as Gregg Witt writes in his book, 60 Hikes within 60 Miles of Salt Lake City: "Some hikers make their ultimate destination one of the many waterfalls, meadows, or lakes, while others go as far as the saddle, less than a mile from the summit, and consider the view from the saddle as a worthy reward for their effort."
Saturday, August 11, 2012
Quick Trip to Big Cottonwood Creek
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| Little Brown on Big Cottonwood Creek |
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| Beautiful, Wild Brown Trout with Orange Spots |
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| Wary, skittish trout are fun to stalk. |
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| Wildflowers are in bloom. |
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| A side trip to Hidden Falls. Not much water in a drought year! |
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| Little creeks like this are my specialty. |
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
EXPLORING ON PIONEER DAY (SURVIVING)
The 24th of July is Pioneer Day in Utah. In other states it would be referred to as "Founders Day" or something similar. Most Utah businesses shut down and let their employees celebrate. My wife and I took advantage of the time and went exploring.
A few years ago, I had heard about a couple of small, brushy creeks from a UDWR fisheries biologist. I'm sure when I asked him where some semi-secluded unknown small creeks with small colorful trout might be located, he wondered about me. I'm sure most people asking for secrets pose a question about where one might go to catch BIG fish. I was glad that this UDWR biologist was gracious enough to mention a few of these places. It took me a few years before I took the opportunity to locate these little gems and to cast a fly upon their waters. They are not places even I would travel to as a "destination location" yet, it was well worth the effort to find them and spend some time there. And I can see myself exploring them a little more some time in the future when in their vicinity. Both of the creeks are classic little mountain trout creeks. The rocks in the creek bottom are colorful. The trout are skittish, quick, and colorful. I'm assuming the trout are planter Rainbows, but wouldn't be surprised to find that some of them are holdover survivors from previous years. The water looked good and I fully expected to catch a native cutthroat or two but didn't. I also assumed that the creeks may have held a few "wild" reproducing brook trout but never caught one. As I mentioned, going back sometime and fishing different stretches in search of natives is in order.
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| A beautiful little Rainbow. |
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| Very small water--especially this drought year. |
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| Hungry little Rainbow caught on a Twisted Foam Hopper. |
These types of creeks are hard to fish. It takes patience. It's easy to get frustrated when your fly ends up in a tree or bush every other cast. One has to approach this water knowing that you will get hung up a lot. With that in mind, you have to accept it and deal with it as part of the experience. This is all easier said than done, but I find that trying to keep a positive attitude helps keep the frustration down a bit. Be prepared to lose a fly or two and spend some time reaching to untangle a fly or stop to tie on a new tippet and new fly. My wife and I decided that both of these creeks would be fun places to tent camp on. Tent camping involves a few tin-foiled trout for lunch or dinner. The planted Rainbows would be perfect for dinner. Most of the time these planters are a put and take proposition. I found it rewarding that these Rainbows were starting to act like a wild trout. They were somewhat skittish and would dart out quick to take the fly. When I missed a take, they wouldn't come right back after the fly and I would have to rest them for a few minutes. I have a pioneer heritage. Some of my ancestors were homesteaders within a mountain range from where these creeks are. They had small creeks like these to fish and provide water for their needs. I always feel like I'm following in their footsteps when I fish areas like this. They fished as a means of survival. I fish as a different means of survival. I honor them and their lives.
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| Little deep holes like the one under this log held a few jewels. |
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
ADAMS CANYON HIKE (JULY 4TH)
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| Top of the switchbacks at mouth of canyon. |
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| Who put the big log across the trail? |
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| Small rock slide with a surprise. |
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| Hurry mom I'll hold the log up so you can go under it! |
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| Pointing at the surprise (rattlesnake!!) |
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| Leaning trees. |
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| Walking toward the sunset. |
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| Waiting to watch the fireworks from the foothills above Layton. |
Sunday, July 8, 2012
LEWIS PEAK HIKE
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| Starting up the rocky switchbacks. |
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| Skyrockets. |
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| Along the top of the ridge. |
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| slowly climbing to the ridges. |
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| Follow the dusty trail. |
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| My babe at the summit marker. |
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| Heading back down. |
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| At one time I wanted to paraglide off a ledge like this--now I'm too chicken. |
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| We made it! |
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| Looking toward Ben Lomond Peak. |
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| Lewis Peak. |
Thursday, June 14, 2012
Bear Lake Half Marathon
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| Running around the beautiful waters of Bear Lake |
All the participants of the Bear Lake half marathon were either standing around talking and anticipating the run, stretching, or waiting to use the bathroom. I looked across the lake and found Garden City, our destination for the finish line. It looked a long ways off and a bit intimidating by visual perspective. I calmed my mind by self-talk: It's only 13 miles away. You have trained for a few months. You can do it. Run your race. Run your pace. Finally, all 375 participants were called to the starting line. We had previously placed chips on top of our shoes that would activate a GPS tracking system as soon as we crossed the starting line and shut off as we went through the finish line.
I had looked forward to this run for over a year. Bear lake and the surrounding mountains are in my blood. My great, great, great grandfather was called by Brigham Young to settle in Bear Lake Valley back in the latter 1800s. My grandpa Williamson lived and worked in Paris and St. Charles, Idaho his whole life. My dad was born in Paris, Idaho and has a summer home in St. Charles. As a family we spent many weekends camping and fishing in this area.
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| Lean on me when you're not strong |
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| Looking pretty good after just running 13.2 miles Mark took 1st place in our age division |
I had followed a ten week training program to prepare for the run. I started it a couple weeks early so it was more like twelve weeks. During one of my early training runs, I felt a spasm in my left groin area. I ran through it but noticed the muscles in that area were tightening up. I ran through the dull ache. Each time I did a training run I would feel the spasms come to that same area after running about two miles, then the tightness, then the dull ache. Each time I would run through the slight discomfort. I tried stretching more before and after my training runs but nothing seemed to work. I didn't want to miss the half marathon--I'd looked forward to this for over a year. I took two weeks off and didn't run. I thought that was enough as my leg started to feel better. I did a couple of two mile "easy" runs to see how I felt. It was no good. The tightness would still come. It wasn't enough to stop me, I figured I could run through it.
Anticipation at the starting line was building. I took another look out across the lake. The turquoise water rippled with the breeze. It was a partly cloudy day. White clouds migrated across the sky casting dark shadows on the lake surface that looked like large whales just below the surface. The clouds were having their own race as they moved from northwest to southeast some in bunches and others as lone runners trying to find a finish line.
I had tapered off my running the last week of training, just like I was suppose to. I felt good. I knew I could cover the distance but in the back of my head was the nagging question of whether my injured leg would cooperate.
The race official placed some starting cones down, raised his hand and then dropped it to start the race. I started off slow so I could warm into the run. It usually takes me a mile or mile and a half to get my breathing and settle into my running rhythm and pace. So far, so good! As the runners started to disperse, I increased the volume on my Ipod. I was running to classic rock from the 70s and early 80s. It was the same music me and my friends called cruising music back in high school--Styx, Boston, Fleetwood Mac, Journey, and a few other bands would carry me to the finish line.
About three miles into the run, my left groin had a slight spasm. Four miles in and the muscle was tightening. I was now having to deal with a mental aspect that I feared. With nine miles to cover, this run, that I had looked forward to for a year, was going to go from fun to funny.
I had started out with a long sleeve shirt covered by a sleeveless running vest. I had run from the east shadowy side of the lake to the west sunny side. I was warm and needed to get rid of the long sleeves. I removed the vest while still running then tried to remove the shirt. It's not easy to run when you have a vest in one hand and a shirt pulled up over your face. I ended up dropping the vest and having to turn back to pick it up. I finally got the shirt off and put the vest back on. I could feel the coolness of the morning air on my arms. Much better.
I glanced at a sign that said eight miles to go. There was an aid station table set up every two miles. I decided to take a drink of Gatorade and walk as I drank a couple of sips. Two sips and I was back in stride. The left groin was very tight and the dull aching had turned to a pain. The pain was increasing and I wondered if I was doing damage. I played a mental game at this point. With a little over seven miles to go I ripped the headphones out of my ears and put them in my vest pocket. The music was actually frustrating me. I knew that it wasn't taking my mind off of the pain. I knew my focus mentally had to be the pain. I know that sounds contrary but it is how I was going to deal with my situation.
I considered for just a split second quiting. I really didn't want to do damage to my groin or hip. I started to repeat in my head a quote from General Patton: "You have to make the mind run the body. Never let the body tell the mind what to do...the body is never tired if the mind is not tired." With every set of strides I would repeat Patton's quote.
With six miles to go I walked a few steps as I drank some water. I thought to myself, This is not the run I wanted. Why did this have to happen? Why couldn't I have a healthy run? With these questions going through my brain, I decided I was going to finish this race. I remembered watching the Ironman races on television. There are always men and women who are spent, who are injured , who are mentally drained crossing the finish line--some staggering in complete exhaustion. I was not running that strenuous of a race. I could make it.
I placed my left hand down on my hip area and started to squeeze. For a moment it seemed to relieve a little of the pain. It was an awkward way to run and I soon tired of it. There was nothing I could do but just slow down, take smaller steps, and tough it out.
With four miles to go, I was being passed by a lot of runners. Some of them would give an encouraging remark as they passed, others passed in silence. I could hear some of them coming up behind me with loud breathing. I noticed that I was not struggling to breathe at all. I still had stamina and wind. The only thing that had slowed me down was the pain.
I looked ahead and saw the three mile sign. I was down to a 5K race. I had run a couple of 5K races over the last couple of years. I could do a 5K I told myself. With about a mile to go I noticed a lady sitting on a fence watching the race. As I approached she said, "Keep going, you're almost finished!" I replied back, "Oh, I've been finished!"
I turned the last corner and headed for the finish line. The cheers from the crowd helped kick in a little adrenaline. When I saw the finish line, tears started to well. Then they began to pour. I took my sunglasses and hat off and raised my arms skyward. I made it! After I crossed the line, I put my sunglasses back on to hide the tears. I took some deep breaths and composed myself. Soon my bro-in law (who also ran this race and took first place for our age division), my sister and my wife came to congratulate me.
This is not the run I wanted, but it is the run I was given. I've had a week to think about it. To be honest, it has caused a slight depression in me. I sometimes place a lot of importance on things that may seem trivial or unimportant to others. This run meant a lot to me--not that I wanted to necessarily win it, but I wanted to enjoy it. I have been running on and off for the last seven years now. I've learned to enjoy it. The life lesson I come away with from this run is this: life is not always everything we plan it to be. There will be difficult times. The most important thing is that we still move forward on whatever terms we are given. There are many finish lines in life and I need to be proud of having a participants' medal hung around my neck. You only get the participants' medal for crossing the finish line. I'm not even sure that crossing the line is all that important "all" the time. Maybe more important is that you show up and give it your best. I know people who are struggling with life threatening illness, addictions of all kinds, depressions, inferiority complexes, and other serious conditions. To pull up a little lame in a run has to be put in its proper place and viewed with the proper perspective.
I'm not sure what is wrong with my hip and groin area. I plan to lay off the running for a month. I've studied up on exercises and stretches to rehabilitate. I will be working on healing and strengthening. If I get the clearance to run again, I will be on the starting line of the Bear Lake Half Marathon next year.
Saturday, May 5, 2012
"OVERNIGHTER!"
I just woke up from taking a nap after spending the night with the Boy Scouts on an "overnighter."
The word overnighter has a survival tone to it--and if I analyze the adventure, I'd say it fits. I left straight from work at around 5:30 PM and drove to the camp location about 30 minutes away in the Wasatch Mountains. We camped on some private cabin property, which was nice. The fire was already going when I arrived. The Scouts already exploring their new environment.
The other two adult leaders were getting out the evening meal: hot dogs, chips, cookies, and punch. I slid a hot dog on a roasting stick and watched the skin bubble and brown. I placed it in a bun, threw on some mustard, and savored the flavor. I ate two dogs and a handful of chips and chased it down with bottled water. Later, the Scouts roasted some marshmallows and placed them in between a couple of chocolate covered cookies for a treat. I stuffed a cold marshmallow in my mouth, bit off a piece of cookie, leaned back in my camp chair and glanced up at the darkening sky with the thought that dessert was served.
The fire was warm. I could feel the heat as it glanced off my face and toasted my clothes. We talked about the weather and how cold we figured it would get. We decided it would be in the high 30s by morning. Dark clouds were bunching up against a bright moon casting an erie back-glow to the surrounding trees. The Scouts had gathered around, eaten their quick dinner, and waiting for a few spooky stories. I started with a couple of old classics I like to tell. In my day, they were the kind of stories that kept us young Scouts in our tents at night. I've discovered that they are not as scary to today's Scouts. I guess with the things they see in the media, and on electronic games, a story about an old wide-brimmed hat wearing sheepherder's ghost still wandering the very hills where we were camped in, and seen just last week, isn't all that frightening to them. I had to resort to secretly tossing a few large rocks out into the trees to get a few of the Scouts wondering what lurked in the darkness and getting their adrenaline and imaginations stirred.
You can learn a lot from just sitting around a campfire at night and just listening. I learned a little more about the young men as they told their own stories and interacted with each other.
We were going to break camp early as some of the Scouts needed to be back to get to ball games and other activities. All of us were in bed by 11:00 PM. After laying in my tent listening to the noises of the forest and trying to figure out what the repeated sound of footsteps approaching my tent and then stopping could be, I finally fell asleep. I don't think I was a sleep long when I hear a loud distressed yell of a man. At first, I thought I was dreaming, but as my heart pumped I heard the yell again: "Help!" I sat up and waited for the yell again. "Help!" The voice was now closer. I grabbed my pants and prepared to put them on. The voice was down near the paved road and I heard it yell again. This time it yelled a name, "Adam!" This person was definitely in some distress. Just as I was trying to get my legs into my pants, I heard a car pull up, stop for a second, and then drive off. The yelling stopped. I lay there assuming that the person in distress had found his ride to safety. Still, I lay there and tried to figure out what could possibly been the person's problem.
As I thought about the different situations a person could be caught in, the sky flashed with lightning and a roar of thunder bounced off the canyon. Then a slight drizzle started to tap the rain-fly on my tent. Another bright flash and boom was heard and the rain began to fall more seriously. It was an isolated shower and lasted about fifteen minutes. Slowly, I began to fall asleep--then the wind started up. First, it shook the rain off the tent and splashed it on the groundcloth periodically. Each time I closed my eyes and wished for sleep, the wind would rush through the trees, shake the tent, and startle me awake. I layed there thinking about a wide-brimmed hat wearing sheepherder ghost who kept walking up to my tent.
I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have for a couple of hours. The next thing I heard was the birds chirping. I figured it was about 5:00 AM. I rolled over, realized the air in the headrest of my air mattress had leaked out and tried to squeeze one more hour of sleep out of a very sleepless night. Too many birds chirping. It was no use, I layed there waiting to hear the noise of the others raising from what I assumed was a peaceful nights rest for them.
When I climbed out of the sack, and emerged from my tent, a fire was going and two Scouts and one adult Leader were warming themselves. Soon others joined us. I asked if they had heard the guy yelling and everyone did. We talked about what his problem might have been. Someone suggested he was drunk or high on drugs. That seemed like a possible scenario.
We then ate some breakfast and started to break camp. A very light snow began to fall. By 8:00 AM we were on the road to civilization. We had survived the "overnighter!"
The word overnighter has a survival tone to it--and if I analyze the adventure, I'd say it fits. I left straight from work at around 5:30 PM and drove to the camp location about 30 minutes away in the Wasatch Mountains. We camped on some private cabin property, which was nice. The fire was already going when I arrived. The Scouts already exploring their new environment.
The other two adult leaders were getting out the evening meal: hot dogs, chips, cookies, and punch. I slid a hot dog on a roasting stick and watched the skin bubble and brown. I placed it in a bun, threw on some mustard, and savored the flavor. I ate two dogs and a handful of chips and chased it down with bottled water. Later, the Scouts roasted some marshmallows and placed them in between a couple of chocolate covered cookies for a treat. I stuffed a cold marshmallow in my mouth, bit off a piece of cookie, leaned back in my camp chair and glanced up at the darkening sky with the thought that dessert was served.
The fire was warm. I could feel the heat as it glanced off my face and toasted my clothes. We talked about the weather and how cold we figured it would get. We decided it would be in the high 30s by morning. Dark clouds were bunching up against a bright moon casting an erie back-glow to the surrounding trees. The Scouts had gathered around, eaten their quick dinner, and waiting for a few spooky stories. I started with a couple of old classics I like to tell. In my day, they were the kind of stories that kept us young Scouts in our tents at night. I've discovered that they are not as scary to today's Scouts. I guess with the things they see in the media, and on electronic games, a story about an old wide-brimmed hat wearing sheepherder's ghost still wandering the very hills where we were camped in, and seen just last week, isn't all that frightening to them. I had to resort to secretly tossing a few large rocks out into the trees to get a few of the Scouts wondering what lurked in the darkness and getting their adrenaline and imaginations stirred.
You can learn a lot from just sitting around a campfire at night and just listening. I learned a little more about the young men as they told their own stories and interacted with each other.
We were going to break camp early as some of the Scouts needed to be back to get to ball games and other activities. All of us were in bed by 11:00 PM. After laying in my tent listening to the noises of the forest and trying to figure out what the repeated sound of footsteps approaching my tent and then stopping could be, I finally fell asleep. I don't think I was a sleep long when I hear a loud distressed yell of a man. At first, I thought I was dreaming, but as my heart pumped I heard the yell again: "Help!" I sat up and waited for the yell again. "Help!" The voice was now closer. I grabbed my pants and prepared to put them on. The voice was down near the paved road and I heard it yell again. This time it yelled a name, "Adam!" This person was definitely in some distress. Just as I was trying to get my legs into my pants, I heard a car pull up, stop for a second, and then drive off. The yelling stopped. I lay there assuming that the person in distress had found his ride to safety. Still, I lay there and tried to figure out what could possibly been the person's problem.
As I thought about the different situations a person could be caught in, the sky flashed with lightning and a roar of thunder bounced off the canyon. Then a slight drizzle started to tap the rain-fly on my tent. Another bright flash and boom was heard and the rain began to fall more seriously. It was an isolated shower and lasted about fifteen minutes. Slowly, I began to fall asleep--then the wind started up. First, it shook the rain off the tent and splashed it on the groundcloth periodically. Each time I closed my eyes and wished for sleep, the wind would rush through the trees, shake the tent, and startle me awake. I layed there thinking about a wide-brimmed hat wearing sheepherder ghost who kept walking up to my tent.
I don't remember falling asleep, but I must have for a couple of hours. The next thing I heard was the birds chirping. I figured it was about 5:00 AM. I rolled over, realized the air in the headrest of my air mattress had leaked out and tried to squeeze one more hour of sleep out of a very sleepless night. Too many birds chirping. It was no use, I layed there waiting to hear the noise of the others raising from what I assumed was a peaceful nights rest for them.
When I climbed out of the sack, and emerged from my tent, a fire was going and two Scouts and one adult Leader were warming themselves. Soon others joined us. I asked if they had heard the guy yelling and everyone did. We talked about what his problem might have been. Someone suggested he was drunk or high on drugs. That seemed like a possible scenario.
We then ate some breakfast and started to break camp. A very light snow began to fall. By 8:00 AM we were on the road to civilization. We had survived the "overnighter!"
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Stories
I've been going over to the river on my lunch hour. I walk the path and stop in places to stare at the water. When the water is clear, I look for trout. The area I've been going to is in the middle of Ogden. It's a place the city has spent time and money revitalizing. It looks to be cleaner. It looks to be a place of contemplation. Just last week there was a group of students ( middle school age) who were sitting on the rocks near the river. All of them had notebooks and pens. Some were in close groups while others had spread out to find their own spot. I heard the teacher explaining to them that they could write whatever came to them--whatever they were feeling. I didn't find it all that surprising that they were at a river to do a writing assignment. Rivers can say a lot, but sometimes, they just listen.
I've been reading David Duncan's book, "My Story as Told by Water." Here is an interesting quote:
"At the age of twenty-five or so, I consciously chose a life of rivers, words, and contemplation over, among other things, any real possibility of a large income, instead making it my habit to walk in water as often as I could. I used to call such walks "fishing trips." For diplomatic purposes among those sacred of pagans--or, worse, mystics--I still do. But I've spent thousands of days now, in the waders I call my "portable sweat lodge," simply strolling, or standing in, running water. I possess no deed to any creek or river I traipse--because I need no deed. I bring almost nothing, in the way of food or memento, home afterword--because the rivers are home. I possess no friend or family member, not even the closest, with whom I've spent more time than I have with rivers. And I daresay that--in their hard-to-describe way--rivers have befriended me in return. They're very serious and cool in their friendships, incapable of sentimentality or preferred treatment, and would always as soon drown as coddle you. Yet if you touch a river's skin with the least tip of your finger, it visibly reconfigures what it was doing in instantaneous response. Is there a better name than friend for something this ceaselessly vigilant, this ready to respond to your most nuanced touch?"
Like I mentioned earlier, I didn't find it surprising that students were at the river learning to write. I did wonder, however, about the teacher. I saw her walking from each small group and to each individual repeatedly giving her instructions, "You can write whatever comes to you--whatever you are feeling." It occurred to me that this river was the teachers friend. Somehow, in the past, it had talked to her and she to it. Maybe she had placed the tip of her finger on its skin and watched the instantaneous response as the river reconfigured. Maybe that simple touch had reconfigured the teacher. It had to have affected her. She was changed and wanted to share that change with her students. Maybe the teacher could sense that our world teaches that success is measured in what we have (large incomes and material possessions), and that we are bombarded with electronic media to the point of losing our ability to really communicate, that in someway, by taking these students to the river, she could add to some one's list of friendships. Even if only a few of the students came away reconfigured and with a new friend, then this teacher has done her job.
I've been reading David Duncan's book, "My Story as Told by Water." Here is an interesting quote:
"At the age of twenty-five or so, I consciously chose a life of rivers, words, and contemplation over, among other things, any real possibility of a large income, instead making it my habit to walk in water as often as I could. I used to call such walks "fishing trips." For diplomatic purposes among those sacred of pagans--or, worse, mystics--I still do. But I've spent thousands of days now, in the waders I call my "portable sweat lodge," simply strolling, or standing in, running water. I possess no deed to any creek or river I traipse--because I need no deed. I bring almost nothing, in the way of food or memento, home afterword--because the rivers are home. I possess no friend or family member, not even the closest, with whom I've spent more time than I have with rivers. And I daresay that--in their hard-to-describe way--rivers have befriended me in return. They're very serious and cool in their friendships, incapable of sentimentality or preferred treatment, and would always as soon drown as coddle you. Yet if you touch a river's skin with the least tip of your finger, it visibly reconfigures what it was doing in instantaneous response. Is there a better name than friend for something this ceaselessly vigilant, this ready to respond to your most nuanced touch?"
Like I mentioned earlier, I didn't find it surprising that students were at the river learning to write. I did wonder, however, about the teacher. I saw her walking from each small group and to each individual repeatedly giving her instructions, "You can write whatever comes to you--whatever you are feeling." It occurred to me that this river was the teachers friend. Somehow, in the past, it had talked to her and she to it. Maybe she had placed the tip of her finger on its skin and watched the instantaneous response as the river reconfigured. Maybe that simple touch had reconfigured the teacher. It had to have affected her. She was changed and wanted to share that change with her students. Maybe the teacher could sense that our world teaches that success is measured in what we have (large incomes and material possessions), and that we are bombarded with electronic media to the point of losing our ability to really communicate, that in someway, by taking these students to the river, she could add to some one's list of friendships. Even if only a few of the students came away reconfigured and with a new friend, then this teacher has done her job.
Tuesday, April 10, 2012
Some Place
My favorite trout is the Bonneville cutthroat. It has always been my favorite. It was my favorite long before I even knew that the little native trout, in the little creek (which seemed like a big creek when I was three), was a Bonneville.
What I've come to discover with age, is, I'm not that different from my beloved trout. The particular strain of Bonneville lives in a large natural lake of turquoise. It can grow large and in its large size likes to eat a couple of forage fishes--whitefish and cisco. When mature, the Bonneville will migrate to their birth place, the small creeks that feed the lake of turquoise. They will enter the creeks and swim to suitable "places" for spawning quite similar to Atlantic and Pacific Salmon. The stress of this endeavor will weaken some fish to the point of death, but for the most part, after spawning, the trout will migrate back to the lake. The fry will stay in the creek and as they get larger, some will migrate to the lake also. Some will remain in the stream and become stream residents. The fish that live in the lake take on a silver and blue color and are called blue-nosed trout by some. The stream trout are typically more colorful with green, red, and orange hues. Biologist say the color difference is due to diet and maybe to the availability of light or the difference of light in the different environments--natures way of providing camouflage.
I can remember back only so far--sometime in the range of age three. I remember standing on the banks of a creek in Southeast Idaho and looking into the creek's water. I remember its clearness, the color of the rocks, and the sound it made. The color orange stands out in my mind. I remember the reflected light glaring. I remember squinting.
I don't remember falling in. I don't remember fighting the current, or even being wet. I don't remember being cold. I don't remember floating face down. I don't remember being pulled out by my grandfather.
As I think back, and try to remember, I get the feeling that I didn't fall in by accident. Maybe I jumped in. Maybe I slowly walked in. Maybe I died in that creek and that I'm living in some alternate world. Sometimes, I hear the sounds of the river in my left ear. The constant sound of moving water. Sometimes, I get a spinning sensation in my head--a lightheadedness like I'm twisting and turning with the force of water. When this happens, I lay down and I close my eyes, I see the glare. With eyes closed, I float, I spin, I'm not here, I'm some place.
For the past 30 plus years, I have felt the need to see that same creek water, to look at it, to see orange, to hear it gurgle, to hear it churn, to blend the noise in my left ear with its voice, to realize that it is my voice-- my own voice calling my name. I go every year.
What I've come to discover with age, is, I'm not that different from my beloved trout. The particular strain of Bonneville lives in a large natural lake of turquoise. It can grow large and in its large size likes to eat a couple of forage fishes--whitefish and cisco. When mature, the Bonneville will migrate to their birth place, the small creeks that feed the lake of turquoise. They will enter the creeks and swim to suitable "places" for spawning quite similar to Atlantic and Pacific Salmon. The stress of this endeavor will weaken some fish to the point of death, but for the most part, after spawning, the trout will migrate back to the lake. The fry will stay in the creek and as they get larger, some will migrate to the lake also. Some will remain in the stream and become stream residents. The fish that live in the lake take on a silver and blue color and are called blue-nosed trout by some. The stream trout are typically more colorful with green, red, and orange hues. Biologist say the color difference is due to diet and maybe to the availability of light or the difference of light in the different environments--natures way of providing camouflage.
I can remember back only so far--sometime in the range of age three. I remember standing on the banks of a creek in Southeast Idaho and looking into the creek's water. I remember its clearness, the color of the rocks, and the sound it made. The color orange stands out in my mind. I remember the reflected light glaring. I remember squinting.
I don't remember falling in. I don't remember fighting the current, or even being wet. I don't remember being cold. I don't remember floating face down. I don't remember being pulled out by my grandfather.
As I think back, and try to remember, I get the feeling that I didn't fall in by accident. Maybe I jumped in. Maybe I slowly walked in. Maybe I died in that creek and that I'm living in some alternate world. Sometimes, I hear the sounds of the river in my left ear. The constant sound of moving water. Sometimes, I get a spinning sensation in my head--a lightheadedness like I'm twisting and turning with the force of water. When this happens, I lay down and I close my eyes, I see the glare. With eyes closed, I float, I spin, I'm not here, I'm some place.
For the past 30 plus years, I have felt the need to see that same creek water, to look at it, to see orange, to hear it gurgle, to hear it churn, to blend the noise in my left ear with its voice, to realize that it is my voice-- my own voice calling my name. I go every year.
Friday, February 24, 2012
SPRING FEVER
On my way to work today,
I saw a bald eagle.
Its six-foot wings strenuously flapping as its body
barley skimmed above the barren branches
of winter cottonwoods.
It followed the river corridor,
the water, trees, and brush,
a buffer to encroaching civilization.
I accelerated to the bridge
hoping to get a better view,
but lost the image in a backdrop
of snow-capped mountains
and dark exposed rock.
I wanted to follow the eagle down river;
find a place to perch, watch, and listen,
feel the sun warm the down in my jacket.
Instead, I drove down thirty-first street
catching green traffic lights;
promptness bred into my blood
by a father bent on being dependable.
Secretly, I know that he too
would rather follow the eagle.
I saw a bald eagle.
Its six-foot wings strenuously flapping as its body
barley skimmed above the barren branches
of winter cottonwoods.
It followed the river corridor,
the water, trees, and brush,
a buffer to encroaching civilization.
I accelerated to the bridge
hoping to get a better view,
but lost the image in a backdrop
of snow-capped mountains
and dark exposed rock.
I wanted to follow the eagle down river;
find a place to perch, watch, and listen,
feel the sun warm the down in my jacket.
Instead, I drove down thirty-first street
catching green traffic lights;
promptness bred into my blood
by a father bent on being dependable.
Secretly, I know that he too
would rather follow the eagle.
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