More Rivers an Stuff

So how cute are these kids?! They were incredibly well-behaved to boot, and not in a nauseating weenie way either- they were characters. It's awesome to see kids excited about rivers and beaches and sticks and things. They both took turns and rocked it in the inflatable kayaks. My job is a blast. Of course their parents were likewise, awesome and grateful and fun-loving; and the week went by in a flash.

Once we got Ungrateful Hell Demon Succubus Wench Biatch out of the way on the first trip, our summer guests were insanely gracious and enjoyable and incredibly complimentary. One father said to me, "I see a lot of Mother Theresa in you." Ha! (the brown hair maybe???) But sheesh, the ultimate flattery huh?

One lady commented, "You're such a diplomat. You don't even curse." and another, "You're so collected and unflappable." (can you believe that? who says that?) to both i couldn't help but think, where have you been all week? and/or you must have me mistaken for one of your other river guides. Wow.

I've actually visited a few since the river trip. How cool is that, to have guests you'd actually care to hang out with on your own volition? I'll have to tell you more about my recent excursion to the coast in a future post. But seriously, they were top-notch, appreciative, adventuresome, good-natured folks for whom i'm forever grateful. 

We all survived despite the capricious nature of the seizure gods. I think it turned out to be the second best summer, neurologically-speaking, in all the years i've guided. (I think if some of my friends were reading this, they'd be flabbergasted to hear me volunteering any seizure-related info any time ever, but, hey, i'm learning.)  And in general, all the not-so-carefree moments when you couldn't pay me enough to be in charge (like the week we had a group of 20 and no camp reservations), and days hitch-hiking to make rig-outs and all other frustrating behind-the-scenes snags and annoyances considered; it was the best summer i can remember. 

Not perfect, like i said, but it went wrong as well as it could've. I wasn't without at least some baseline level of anxiety about the ever-looming worst-case-scenario. The little knot coiled up in my stomach over it nearly exploded when i heard myself in a fog, what did he just say? We'd been playing bocce ball in camp and i realized one of my guests had just asked me, "Do you have narcolepsy?" His hand streaked a few inches in front of my face. Fuck. I just smiled at him trying not to appear startled, failed to address his query, and tried to play it off. 

A calm pool just before the voracious Black Creek Rapid.
Mr. Greenshirt was my summer flame (gasp, yes, there was one.)

But i was shaken up by it. It was a glaring moral-dilemma squaring up with me like a gorilla linebacker in the NFL. I'd known at one time in my life that i'd had absence seizures, but they'd pretty well fallen off my radar entirely. This blew my whole justification for guiding again totally out of the water. I have a warning for bigger seizures thanks to my dog. With her, i have almost too much time to prepare for an impending neurological assault. 

It still sucks, but having advanced notice eliminates most all of the dangers associated with a condition that unpredictably derails or wrecks a person's streaming train of consciousness. Even though seizures themselves can pose a threat, especially in the wilderness, i'm confident i can guarantee the safety of our guests.

In the instance of absence seizures i'm not even sure when and how often they happen these days. They might be brief, but what i know of bad things leads me to believe they tend to happen pretty fast. 

Alder, one of our first big rapids.

So, f*@#, i was unsettled. For the next while i was fairly convinced it was my last trip and i'd have to call it quits. As much as i was certain from the start this would all be a disaster and i'd be sent packing, i wasn't really emotionally prepared for it. 

I talked with the rest of the crew and they were a perfect balance of concerned and casual about it. They were all first-responders of varying degrees and claimed they were prepared to deal with whatever happens. I vacillated again and again as to what was the right decision. 

Soo maybe these guys don't *look* super credible,
but I'd count on em any day of the week.

Just as i'd eased myself into a que sera, sera mode (because really there was nothing i could do about it in the middle of the trip), one of my guests, a mom and elementary school principle from California, approached me as i was down at the boats scrounging for something and she called me on it.

I probably would've thrown up or fallen over or tossed everything in my arms into the air and sped away like a cartoon character, fast and maybe forever if she hadn't been one of the kindest, most tactful ladies i've ever met. Also, she prefaced the conversation with, "My son has epilepsy." 

Purportedly she wouldn't have known were it not for the fact that my voice cuts out and you can see the scars and marks on my neck from the VNS. (You can see them in the first picture in this post and in my profile picture, i noticed.) Have i mentioned the the whole VNS thing yet? Maybe not. More on that in the future perhaps.

I was stunned. Running was no longer an option. My legs had turned to jelly so i parked myself on the nose of my raft.       It was never something i planned on divulging with clients, but shittlesticks, the cat was already out of the bag, and i desperately needed some advice, so i asked for her opinion.

Sometimes i wonder if epilepsy isn't really The Sacred Disease after all. While it seems like the antithesis to what we'd normally deem a god-send (unless you're talkin Old Testament, then it's totally god-sent), there is this underlying theme of people snagging me out of mid-air, sometimes literally, when the odds were overwhelmingly that i should've eaten shit and maybe died. 

The chance that somebody with all the right amount compassion and empathy and knowledge would enter my life at just the right moment were probably not good. Of course i cried. Thankfully, it was already getting dark. Nonetheless, someone stumbled upon us given the intimate size of some of our camps, and maybe a little of that mom/woman hocus-pocus, it just so happened to be another one-in-a-million guest of ours i'd gotten to know that week whose company i'd enjoyed considerably.

So when she asked if i was okay, in the spirit of disclosure and wanting as much input as possible, especially from someone with a guest's perspective; i solicited her opinion also. She actually had detected a state of space cadetery a time or two but didn't identify it as anything super disconcerting. They were both nearly effusive in their accolades for me and the rest of the crew. They maintained they felt nothing short of safe and assured in our capabilities. I was a little taken aback actually at their praise. They're both highly intelligent women. 

Maybe they were just braver than most but i came away from the conversation with loads less apprehension and a Texas-sized helping of reassurance. I knew if i was going to survive, i couldn't stress about it. So we took everything in stride and lo and behold those ladies were right. I had some full-blown seizures, but one was on the drive around and the other was in between trips, and nobody reported to me again that i ever seemed out of it. Was it negligent? Maybe. Did it turn out okay heckfrickinyes it did! Was it the right choice? Who knows? But phew and hallelujah.

So, that's the recap of the summer from the standpoint of my central nervous system; just shy of ideal. I wish seizure kids of all ages everywhere could be so lucky as this. I'm insanely grateful not only for fewer bouts of neuronal misfiring, but for all the people and dogs, and whoknowsmaybeGod/gods/goddesses watchin out for me.

Ahoy and Lo Sientos

Gahl dang, last i posted it was still sunshiney, swimming weather and now it's blooping snowing. I didn't mean to leave you hangin (not that it was a real hardship for anyone ha), but my computer is gonzo (depressing) and also, i accidentally developed a Sudoku addiction so i've spent the last few months filling numbers into squares.

Not really, but i did learn to like Sudoku and i thought i never would. (Numbers fun? Who knew?!) I've been meaning to post forever now, but my life feels sort of adrift and jelly-fishish. It's been pretty great, relatively, but i'm job-searching again and that's always a little stressful. 

Just kidding- it's really f-in stressful! I mean, where does service dog fall into the realm of reasonable accommodation? It seems like every other job out there requires a valid driver's license (mine's valid, but i rarely drive). And, in all honesty, some days i sure wouldn't hire me. I'm a decent employee, but epilepsy can pile-drive productivity into the ground and mop it around the floor like a rag doll. I'd give anything to be a reliable, dependable, boring adult. Seriously.

And i have to go into interviews and assert myself and hope i can skirt the incriminating questions. And then i have to feel all bad and mildly deceitful if i actually get the job and have to disclose all that gobbledy gook after the hiring process. 

That said though, on the seizure front things are good. Not perfect, but i'm averaging a full-blown, ginless tonic-clonic every 2-3 months. If i could be assured this frequency would persist for the rest of my life, i could probably be almost stoked on that. 

Who knows what it is though. Sometimes when the rug gets pulled it turns into a wicked, gnarly, vicious cycle. (Seizures themselves render you more susceptible to more seizures, anxiety about having had a seizure can result in having more seizures, seizures can disrupt your sleep [lack of sleep is a huge trigger], work that you missed while you were busy carpe-dieming snowballs on you, etc., etc., so on and so forth.) Maybe the combination of the river and eliminating the school environment and related stress factors has done it. I'm nearly heel-clicking grateful for it, but at the same time tip-toeing around eggshells.

It may have been a nearly sub-conscious factor in my not posting for so long. I was so afraid to jinx it all. Since i last posted i've had 3, count em 3 seizures, and i know we haven't hardly gotten to know one another yet, but i've had weeks the past few years where it was so bad i was in the ICU for 6 days and remember almost nothing; where i was averaging 4-5 full-blown, generalized seizures a day. So *whisper* hooray! zippy bloopin doo! Fo rizzle my frizzles; not shizzling you.

My dear friend Elli and me rockin out on the carrot mic
as we prepare for a wilderness picnic. It was a
happy summer, albeit a bit smokey.

Anyhow, I have some river pictures and maybe a few more anecdotes from the past few months that i'll get up here. I just wanted to say howdy and sorry for the hiatus magnus. Sorry for such a me-centric post. Thanks a million for the listen. 

Trip Two

Welp, heck, i don't even know where to start. My brand new computer went kaput, so though i've been hankering to entertain my admitted blog addiction, i've been deprived of the means to do so. (Woeisme right?) On the other hand, it's been nice to be unplugged for a bit. It's been a whirlwind last few weeks with little time to sit and write even if i could have.

(We launch every eight days and we run five or six-day trips so it gives us barely time to roll up and load the boats and the rest of the gear, drive the eight or nine hour journey home, scrub everything, shop, restock, repack, load up the next batch of guests and do it all over again. It's an awesome lifestyle if you're in to that kind of thing.)

But the drive is scenic so I can't really complain. These are the Sawtooths 
where my mom was a ranger back in the day.

Anyhow, i'm home for a bit in between trips. We had a launch that didn't book, so i have a whole eight or so free days to hang out with my sister and her new dog, Bodhi (a Louisiana Catahoula Leopard dog mix), in our new digs. As much as i'm enamored with Middle of Nowhere, Idaho, it's so, so good to come home to my dear town of Moscow. I love it here.

Reed: one of my favorite camps on the Main Salmon

So, anyhow, back to where i left off- Trip 2- it seems so long ago now, but i still want to tell you about it. It was tough, but we had a gang of competent guides and, save for one creeper, a lovely bundle of guests; the difficulty was far different in nature than the trip before. It was emotionally exhausting on account that life can be a real heart-breaking, abysmal, hurtful old broad.

I apologize, but before i continue, i have to interrupt this broadcast with a public service announcement:

According to Tufts University School of Medicine psychiatry professor, Nassir Ghaemi, Both Ghandi and Martin Luther King Jr. attempted suicide at various points in their lives (http://www.yaledailynews.com/news/2010/nov/12/prof-diagnoses-mlk/). Imagine what the world would be missing today if they'd succeeded. You never know what great things you might contribute along the way. You may live to inspire millions. Thus, I encourage you, with all of my heart, to keep on keepin on. You're amazing, after all, but that goes without saying...

(This was my facebook appeal after a member of our small community took his own life only days after the outfitter and family friend who gave me the opportunity to pursue my dreams of rowing boats on The River of No Return had died, also by his own devices.)

I've known his two kids since they were born. Dave (the outfitter) told me later that my sister and i were major factors in his deciding to become a dad. (Ludicrous, really) and now, yuck, he's left them both at such a vulnerable time in their young teenage lives. For that, some days i struggle not to shake angry fists at the sky and curse and spit and holler him an earful, but my ire is drowned out by the mind-numbing, intense sadness of it all.

This was this past April 28th; it was devastating. He was my river dad. Altogether i'd spent more than seven summers camped out in his backyard or basement and working on the river under his direction and/or taking care of those kids. He certainly didn't have to, but he gave me a chance. He wasn't perfect, but he was pretty damn good. He was a character. He ran a tight ship and a slick outfit until the divorce, alcoholism and self-imposed isolation got the better of him. He may have run aground and adrift in his personal life, but he knew how to run a stellar river trip. For that i'm forever indebted.

It was months ago, but it weighed on my heart the whole trip. Being on the river in general conjures unavoidable memories of the man who introduced it all to me. Plus, his son ran our cargo boat that week and to boot, we borrowed some of his equipment. It was bizarre to go back and, while i knew we were only borrowing and doing it in the most observant, respectful spirits, it felt eerily like pillaging from the quiet, unnaturally tidy shop i'd once known so well. I rode in the bed of the pickup on the way to the put-in so i could bury my face in the load of bags and let the wind suck away my tears before anyone could see them.

It wasn't the only time i cried. I was running the paddle boat one of the last days and one of the guests had pieced together by now that Logan's father was the outfitter that taught me to row boats. They inquired further details about the man which i could only field briefly before i found myself caught in a sob; a face-contorting, paralyzing sob that rendered me unable to reply. They realized i'd lost my composure and apologized to me profusely in comforting tones. They were a bunch of sweethearts, but i felt stupid nonetheless. Nothing conveys confidence and professionalism quite like your trip leader bawling inconsolably off the back of your boat.

Oh yeah, did i mention i've been appointed trip leader? Kinda scary, stressful and hilarious simultaneously, but we're goin with it, and so far nobody's been maimed irreparably. Our guests were phenomenal. We had some female correctional officers from Canada that were a blast. They don't get tasers or mace or even so much as a billy club up there. They were smokin hot, which is sort of irrelevant and inappropriate to mention, i suppose, but i was super impressed. I wished they could stay longer. They were a ton of fun.

Everyone happy and alive at sunny Maxwell camp

I was a little nervous because i hadn't run the river commercially for a few years, but my runs were as good as ever, even while some of the guys lost oars and had some rough rides through a few of the bigger rapids. Phew.

Then the trip ended on a sweet note, which for anyone else could've been a more unfortunate circumstance. One of our first stops in civilization is to the Scat Machine (!) where we're lucky enough to have machines that are designed specifically to clean out our groovers. Mid-way through the cycle an employee came wandering in with a roll of tape and a sign that said "Out of Order". And says, "Yeah, the latch hasn't been working. You might not be able to get that thing back out."

Sure as shit, when the cycle ended, our groover was stuck inside. This is a town on the other side of the state from where our outfit is based. It could've been a real headache, but of all our groovers (we bring more than one a trip), it happened to be the one with the pain in the A lid. I let out a whoop of joy, left our contact information at the front desk and drove away from the confounded thing, a cloud of dust and a spit of gravel behind us and all ten of our spinning tires as we pulled out of the parking lot and headed home.

Trip One

Well, whew, we survived two trips so far. They couldn't have been more different. 

Trip number one felt something like a journey through a butter churn. Physically it wasn't terribly strenuous, but mentally it was taxing as feck. The first trip of the year is always more difficult on account that things need to be gathered and checked and rid of dirt and dust and whatever funky patina has accumulated over the off season (in our case, in some of the boats, worms had taken residence- :oP ) 

We were stoked to deadhead (float down without guests) the first 50 miles, but our outfitter decided we'd jet-boat up with them instead. So we get to drive 9 hours to the usual take-out. Naturally, we get a flat tire which is usually no big deal, only the jack doesn't go high enough and it's dark. After an hour or so of scrounging, we finally find some log rounds to wedge between the trailer and the jack and get the tire changed. By the time we get to the river and find some place to camp we're already greasy and exhausted and the trip hadn't even started.

Thank God my fellow guide was extremely, incredibly, competent and a top-notch, grade A bad ass. I think of all the guides i've ever worked with and struggle to think of one that wouldn't have just lost it. In fact, i'm sure anyone else would've snapped and murdered the hell bitch of a guest we ended up with. I'd still be out there waiting for the coroner. It was a case of our first impression being oh so very, very wrong. On first take our guest seemed fun, adventuresome, athletic and up for a good trip. While she may have been fit, she turned out to be awful, wheedling her way quickly under all of our skins.

We were already spread thin being there were only two of us to do absolutely everything. Then, much to our chagrin we were faced with a conundrum of the sort you strive to avoid at great costs. On our trips we practice leave-no-trace camping so we pack and haul everything out- ashes, food scraps, turds, trash, everything. So i'm setting up our fecal receptacle box dealywhopper (which we call the 'groover'), and i come to realize the lid is stuck. Crazy, fricking, stuck. I try everything i can including banging on the thing with rocks and a rubber mallet, to no avail. One of the guests asks Iris, my fellow guide, "is that banging i hear up there in the woods?" Ha. So Iris comes to my aid. She's never experienced anything like it either, so we began to worry something was really wrong and maybe the contents were under pressure. Being it was the first trip, we feared perhaps it sat all winter and festered itself into a terrible, volatile mixture. We pulled down our shades and prayed as we pried our ever-loving hearts out, but we still couldn't get the sucker off. So i'll be damned if we didn't acquire (he offered before we solicited) the help of one of our guests. Oh. my. gosh. It took the three of us grunting and sweating and cursing to finally, finally get the confounded lid off of the can. By the grace of God it was only stuck by mechanical forces, and the box was only holding a bit of water and no horrid, biohazardous materials.

So an hour later, we're able to commence with the normally-scheduled program (all this following a two-hour delay on account a couple of our guests arrived late) So we're, waaaay behind at this point and we still need to feed these people. Fortunately we have some snacks and appetizers to appease them in the meantime. When it's all said and done, we find ourselves feeding them in the dark (which is really saying something up here in Idaho a few days away from the Solstice). It was at least ten. We go to bed exhausted, sure that tomorrow will bring better things.

We start around 05:15 knowing in addition to preparing breakfast and the usual camp stuff, we still have boats to blow up and rig. The outfitter sent us with one dinky hand pump and a foot pump. Suffice it to say we satisfied our morning's worth of calisthenics. 

Of course nothing went together smoothly as they tend not to when feeling rushed. Our guests were antsy and the boat-rigging chore that usually takes 90 minutes turned into a 2-hour ordeal. Our favorite guest, Ms. Snatchy McSnatcherson continually expressed her desire to be out on the water, yet refused to lift a finger in order to expedite the process. She did however, stand in the shade and do bicep curls with her day bag. Later she told me, "I've done all this before. I'm really tempted to help you girls, but i'm just having too much fun watching."

We pushed off at basically lunch time. Iris told me when McSnatch situated herself in the back of her boat she expressed her gladness in reclining back and watching Iris' muscles while she rowed. We doled out snacks and apologized, but a head wind had already kicked up and we had to make a few more miles. Snatchy McSnatch declined our trail mix and various snacks, saying she'd wait until lunch to eat and proceeded to point out every last sand bar they passed along the way. Later she explained she has undiagnosed hypoglycemia so she needs to stop and eat every two hours. I'm not sure how Iris suppressed an eye roll in reply on account she has verified hypoglycemia as a result of her cancer and the lady had turned down everything we offered. We ended up camping at a toasty, rocky beach even while a shadier, sandier one existed nearby, so that we could placate our antsy McSnatcherson with a hike.

It gets hotter and drier as the river drops lower into the canyon. Where we camped it was basically sage and Ponderosa pine country, yet just up a creek nearby it's a lush, shady oasis of ferns and thimble berries and stands of endangered Pacific Yew trees (a species that's been over-harvested for a chemotherapeutic agent found in their bark).  We set up the kitchen and the groover (which, thankfully, after a lubing and a scouring was less of a bear to open back up) and got our guests set and chillin out in the shade with drinks at the mouth of the creek. It was a couple hours since we'd pulled in, but we still had plenty of daylight. I got the meat goin low and slow in a dutch oven and asked Iris if she'd mind fending for herself in camp for an hour or two while I hiked whomever was interested. She knew McSnatcherson would be into it and said, "YES, please take her."

So i scored the sweet hiking gig. Everyone else was content relaxing so McSnatchy and I slipped on some shoes and headed up the trail. It was a delightful reprieve from the sun we'd endured in the open canyon. Cool air wafted up from the riffles in the creek as we made our way up the narrow drainage. A new care-taker (one of my friends) lives in a cabin three miles up and had the trail in the best condition i've ever seen it. McSnatcherson kept lamenting that i should've just let her go by herself earlier so she'd have time to hike farther. I'd already explained to her that we couldn't in good conscious let her go alone. (Although now i realize it may have been in the interest of the common good if she met her fate with nobody to save her out in the back country of the second deepest canyon in the U.S.) We trod out a good six miles round-trip and headed back in time for me to help Iris serve dinner. I felt bad for stranding her and foisting everything but the meat detail on her, but she's a superhero and had everything under control.
When we plodded in Iris asked her how the hike was. "It was alright. Kind of overgrown."
"How were the Yew trees?"
"Okay. Kinda barky. It was sort of dark- hard to take pictures."
After she walked away we both exchanged looks of mutual sentiment- Oh my God. Forget this bitch.

Thank the lord our trip wasn't the usual 5-6 day duration because neither of us were equipped to spend another minute with this woman. Every morning she stripped down and stood shin deep in the river and scrubbed her buck naked body in front of everyone, even while it was possible to do so around the corner out of view. She tried to convince me to cut my hair short, "It's so easy. My hair is really soft. I'll only charge you a dollar to pet me." Oh boy! 

We never stopped going. At one time one of our guests asked when we got to take a break and Iris and i both agreed it was when we were out on the water rowing our boats. We'd be busy preparing a meal or setting up camp and McSnatcherson would ask us to catch crickets for her to fish with. We'd be slicing vegetables for lunch and she'd come ask for the Gatorade mix which we gladly set out for her and she'd say, "I'd like 3 scoops please." So we'd scoop the mix into her water bottle for her. She'd shake it up and if it wasn't to her liking, she couldn't possibly add another by herself, so she'd ask us to scoop her one more. (We're not a fancy schmancy outfit. The trip was sold as an affordable wilderness adventure with cowboy coffee and rustic camping accouterments.) At the next lunch we had granola bars out at the end of the sandwich bar and we both stood and watched as she crammed handfuls of them into her pockets until they bulged out like she was wearing a pair of chipmunks. Twice around the campfire she tipped her chair over into me blaming the sand for the instability as she out-and-out mashed and groped me. 

I'm just so grateful she didn't ever ride on my boat. I have no idea how Iris didn't kill her. Once the trip was over and all the other guests had departed, McSnatcherson puttered around the ramp for what seemed like forever before she tipped us with her hand-made twig and dental floss fishing pole- cricket and all (because, she said, she knew we'd want something to remember her by).

As we de-rigged, Iris told me that all day the lady sat behind her and criticized her rowing. The last section is full of big eddy lines, whirlpools and boils that toss our big 18' boats around mercilessly at this high volume of water (running about twice what the Colorado is right now  in the Grand Canyon). Even the very best boatmen are going to get swirled or sloughed inadvertently into at least one or two of the eddies. The hell bitch would tell Iris she could see it coming from a mile away each time they were going to get caught by one of them and maybe they'd get there faster if she would just stop rowing. The girl is my idol. There's no way in Hell or Heaven i'd have the kind of self-restraint not to hurl the vile woman off the back of my boat and watch one of the whirlpools suck her down and shut her up forever. I'm sorry, but i really mean that. 

I felt so bad that all our other great guests had to put up with her. Two of them were teachers and i could've kissed them when they lined her out at one point in time for being a petulant wench. It's so sad how just one person can be so poisonous even while the overwhelming majority of the group is pleasant and gracious and easy-to-please.

I thanked my lucky stars again and again i didn't end up with a dud of a partner in the deal. We're like B.F.F.'s now. When i revealed to one of the guests, they were shocked to learn we'd only just met. We made a really great team. I kept having visions of what a disaster it would've been, in addition to the rest of it, if we hadn't gotten along. I can't imagine her concerns though, at the potential of having to deal with everything and a seizing crew member. I'm sure it crossed her mind. It definitely crossed mine. Fortunately, it was so stressful, it may have served to prevent anything from happening. (Which isn't to say stress isn't a trigger, it's just the coming down from it that gets me. I don't ever have issues during tests or high-pressure situations, but later i can almost count on it when things aren't dialed in well pharmaceutically.)

Plus, nothing of great consequence went wrong. Our runs were solid, the weather was prime, the stars were spectacular and the high volume water was big and awesome. We didn't run out of beer, the groover didn't explode and i can be ever grateful i'm the kind of person that can experience neat places and cool things and find joy in them. I'm so glad to not go through life constantly underwhelmed and disappointed like our snatchy, vicious, sociopath. 

I have more pictures, but they're stuck on a camera i forgot to pack the USB cord for. I apologize for the bitching and moaning. With any luck i'll get a post up about trip number 2 along with the pictures off my camera. Here's a phone pic of the sunset from last evening near our trip headquarters.

Hi-ho hi-ho

We're driving now. I love, love, love Idaho. Save for the first forty minutes of the trip and a jag or two here and there, we meander alongside the river the entire way. It's a scenic son-of-a-gun. It's a long drive on account that i'll be guiding in what was (until a year ago) the largest wilderness area in the lower forty eight. Now the title belongs to Death Valley, California, but it sounds like a bit of a suffering place that could use a title to boost it's poor little (big) Death Valley spirits, so i'll let them have it. we have to drive about 8-9 hours to get from the end of the river trip to get back where we started (only a couple hundred miles as the crow flies). But there's hardly a mile that isn't breathtakingly beautiful. I've done the drive maybe a hundred times now and i never tire of it.

I especially enjoy it with my sister and her girlfriend Tami (which reminds me I still have yet a cast of characters to introduce you to, but in due time, assuming i keep with this still-fairly-daunting blogging endeavor.) but i'll grant you just about any is preferable to the company of a bunch of grubby river guides.

***

Well, i guess blogging in the backseat didn't last for long. I ended up driving for most of the trip when my travel buddies decided sobriety was a bit overrated. I still enjoy driving on account that i rarely do it, even with the dog. But the trip was great. I'm back in the Middle of Nowhere, Idaho. We got some stuff at the boat house sorted and the dry food goods packed. (Holy crap, i'm river guiding again!)

I have a swarm of stuff and things i'm eager to share, but i don't have internet where i'm staying, and my computer is running out of juice.

I've already run into old family friends and river buddies. It's a great little town to come back to.

I already spieled the guides i'll be working with on the trip this week. I'm always reluctant for seizure 101 to be the first impression, (i'm not so sure my stellar personality is enough to overcome such an interesting attribute) but the outfitter initiated the conversation and it needed to happen at some point or another, and it turns out i'll be guiding with a cancer survivor who's attaining her masters in special education (there is a god, methinks).

Another shot i snapped along the way. We thought it was smoke at first, but it was just some low-lying clouds. I think it captures my emotions pretty effectively- blue skies, i'm so stoked, but i can't quite shake an ever-present veil of fear clinging to my thoughts like a brisk, grey blanket. I don't know if i have it in me to fail right now. I'm still a little bit brittle. It all seems too good to be true.

Because I Can't Get Enough Laura Marling

***

***

Miss Olive B. Jackson

Olive Dog

It was almost a fluff post day. I'm trying to pack everything i own so i can schlep it to my next humble abode, while keeping the current house clean enough to be shown, plus i have to figure out which things i'll need for the summer and everything that needs to get done before i leave. Then, i found out my step-mom's dog died, so rather than fluffy, we're goin with furry today.

Hobie was a great dog. I don't have any pictures of him, but i'm sure my mom has elevendy million. It's always so devastating, the loss of a dog. They are true companions. Some people don't understand how we can mourn their deaths like that of a human, but scientists have found we develop intense oxytocin bonds with these creatures; the same chemical connection shared by moms and their babies. Learning this, i guess it makes a lot of sense, really.

I try not to think of losing my dog. I've had her about a year and a half now and i can't imagine living again without her. The notion makes me queasy. It's a major gripe i have with that real or theoretical intelligent designer- the huge discrepancy between dog and human life spans. It's cruel and unusual. She's already six (at least) and she's the best dog i will ever have, without a doubt.

I never thought i would have a service dog. I'd entertained the idea, i'd grown up with dogs and all, but i wasn't about to broadcast the fact that i had some kind of disability. Ack. Pretty much unless you were a lifeguard, my physician, or standing over the top of me wondering, What the Fuck?! I wasn't about to admit to anything.

But a bushel of serendipity tumbled out of the life tree, and we learned of a dog that a lady could no longer keep. We also learned of a training agency who does some work with seizure detection canines and they agreed to help us out.

It turned out the dog was already pretty remarkable behaviorally, in terms of public access, so we just needed them to help us train her in the whole seizure alert deal. Except, come to find, on account they don't really know yet what it is the dogs pick up on, they can't actually train them how to do it. So they just place them with people in faith that they'll figure it out.

So she went everywhere with us, and we hoped for the best. I was definitely skeptical. It was my impression it was some kind of Discovery Channel phenomenon, but she was pretty cute so what the heck.

It took about two months despite the fact that we'd even discouraged it initially. The warning she's able to offer was way further in advance than we ever imagined. So far, that it took us an embarrassing number of times to even associate the behavior with the seizure. We'd scolded her fearing we couldn't have an anxious, vocal dog out in public. Finally, we realized, duh. She's been doing it all along!

And has been, basically without fail now, ever since. One time she was in the stands and picked up on it while i was out playing ice hockey, so we were separated by some distance and a thick sheet of plexiglass. (Pretty impressive if it's an olfactory cue, that she could detect it over the pungent eau de hockey.)

Anyhow, she's saved me a gazillion in E.R. bills, and who knows how much bodily damage. She's a piece of mind, really. I can function socially with way less anxiety just having her with me, knowing i'll have enough time to find somewhere that's not amok with cars or people and save myself all sorts of dangerous and awkward. I can take her to the swimming pool and that alone is gold.

She's really the only reason i could even consider the river guiding gig. There's no biscuit-sniffing way in Hades i'd ever dream of rowing guests in my boat without Olive. I'm still floored about it. I'm no longer the most frequent flyer in our local E.R.. How freakin cool is that?! And she's adorable to boot. Who would've thought i could love a goofy, slobbery, furball, doo-doo factory so dang much?

Jellyfish Brains

Things are kind of swimming and bobbing around like a bunch of jellyfish in my  head. I feel like a frayed nerve, to be honest. I hate to be melodramatic, but i think i'm still reeling from my Adventures so far in 2012.

I'm just out sporting my snorkel and my ping pong paddle, bouncing back and forth like a boxer on my toes, trying to shake the nerves from my limbs, waiting for shit to hit the fan again. I'm ready to lose the goggles and cast aside the pitiful shield forever, but i'm afraid to get my hopes up. It seems like this year has just been that way; i get my feet back under me, things go great, i'm elated and WOOSH! the rug gets yanked, or rather the magic carpet, and after a fall like that, you can't help but question whether it's a good idea to ever fly again at all.

I'm braced for the worst. I want to address my current status concerning the frequency of neuronal misfiring, but i'm afraid it's so tenuous, if i mention it, it might just stir the sleeping monster.

It's always a fine tight rope to walk- giving it consideration always, especially boating and biking and long, hot summer days; but trying not to fixate on it so as not to manifest anything undue. Akin to living in a garden with a tiger, always lurking, always much too close; much too close for comfort. 

Some days he's stealthy and invisible, hidden in the reeds and the lush. Others, he's out basking, lolling about seemingly docile, a presence that's distracting, and tiring, but ultimately not much worse than an unsettling reminder, a chill down your spine, a disconcerting glint of teeth in close proximity from the corner of your eye.

But then, there are days when the tiger's appetite returns, and the harmless kitty becomes a vicious, snarling and insatiable Mephistopheles. A beastly, evil monster, robbing all the best of you. Stealing your trust, stripping away your sense of security and breaking it's spine with a violent shake. Merciless jaws crush and puncture and clench away life between clamped teeth until the writhing abates.

Eventually he tires of you, and retreats, leaving you sprawled on the ground again with your tattered, lifeless confidence. Eventually your awareness and senses return. Eventually you'll recognize your familiar, beautiful garden. Probably people you love are already there. Some small part of you for an instant wonders why am i this monster's meal of choice? But it's eclipsed a millionfold by their sad expressions. The source of the pain is so plain on their faces- it's you in a sense. Your mother's eyes reveal nothing less than heartbreak. Your sister is scared. The bravest souls you know are afraid. The souls you've seen laugh in the face of their own demons are afraid of this unpredictable tiger thing.

I hate him for it. I resent the way the monster hurts my family more than all the rest of it; all the disappointment, pain, embarrassment and sacrifices combined.

Because while i'll call it nothing less than a beast, and a ghastly one, in my opinion, that i'd never wish on anybody, the real pain is endured by everyone else that has to deal with it. Tigger's a-hole alter ego is a pouncy, jerkface motherfucker, but he does at least have the decency to knock you unconscious for the brunt of it. He might leave you maimed and bloody, but you at least are unaware of the gnarliest parts of the assault. Your family and friends and innocent bystanders and your dog, however, are left helpless and distressed and fearing for the worst.

So i hope i don't regret saying, i'm overdue. I leave this weekend for my guiding gig and i feel like i'm hovering over the brakes, semi-daunted by this stale green stoplight. I'm afraid i'm gonna show up and boom, right away i'll eat shit and be sent packing with another armful of dead dreams and high hopes to mourn and bury.

I feel like i'm only marginally succeeding at the whole be-here-now rama-rama business because i have still yet to recuperate from all the schmeg (gross, i know, sorry) that 2012 has dealt, and i have so much intertwined anticipation and anxiety for the future. (I also just learned i get to move this summer now so that's some unadulterated pleasure to look forward to yeah?)  So kumbaya, gusfraba, ohm my darlin Clementine. I know everything is gonna be fine-ish, regardless, and worrying is counter-productive and i don't mean for this blog to be all catharsis, but thanks for bearing with me while i herd my duckies into rows. I feel like i should pay you for listening. I have a paypal account. Maybe we could work something out.

To the River and Back

We survived. We didn't even huli (flip), which was good, because the water's still plenty cold. We had a fairly competent crew, at least in the paddling department, but camping with them the night before, it was antics all around.

Despite my protests, we spent the night on an island. The water was on the rise and the channel was knee-deep when we arrived. The Dodge Sport pickup we drove down in doesn't have great clearance so the three of us agreed we'd find another camp nearby. But, our friends were already set up there, and they eventually goaded us into making the crossing. (26, and still succumbing to peer-pressure- woop woop!) We made it, as we figured we would, but worrying we might not be able to get back over in the morning.

About an hour later another member of our boating party arrived. We saw car headlights appear on the far side of the island and immediately assumed it was another couple of our friends in a Subaru. We were all shocked when we realized it was in fact, another guy in an Audi TT. He has a PhD, but it didn't serve to suffuse the dude with a whole lot of common sense, apparently. He said it even stalled half way when the wake broke over the hood, and he and his friend had to push it the rest of the way. Morons, geeze.

Luckily i was able to roust my travel mates and we broke camp early. Despite our rapid exodus, the water had risen about two or three inches. As the pickup hit the deepest part of the water, steam came billowing up from the engine block. It was nerve-wracking, up to our headlights, but we made it across okay. I thought for sure, though, the Audi would be there for at least another week til the water dropped.

Lo and behold, with the help of our other friends in a pickup and a tow rope, the Audi forded the channel successfully, yet again.

Sort of irritating to watch people with nice things be idiots with them, but to each their own, i reckon.

I was relieved the drama was confined to the camp site because the river was  running about 47,700 cfs which translates to about 3 billion pounds of water rushing by every second (3-4 times the average flow of the Colorado in the Grand Canyon). Even in the calm stretches, we were cranking right along at about 13-14 miles an hour. The waves were huge and curling, large enough to bury the whole front end of our 16' raft. The eddy lines were still formidable, grabbing our tubes and sucking them down suddenly like a massive river monster had taken hold. Without the weight we had in the boat to pile onto the opposite tube, it would've flipped us right over like nothing.

I love this river at high water, the same way i love a good thunderstorm. It's the greatest testament to the power of Mother Nature i've ever observed. I spent 3 springs working at a ranch on its banks and i'd spend my days out pruning, or in the flower beds watching floating logs and trees get tossed around like toothpicks. At the peak, the water races by at more than 20 miles an hour. The surging fills your ears, a low roar in the background punctuated every so often by the crack of boulders rolling into one another at the bottom of the frothy brown torrents. It's almost imperceptible, but if you stop and stand still, you can feel the tingle of the vibrations in the soles of your feet. It's hard to believe.

On our way home as we passed through a podunk town we saw a man digging holes in his yard wearing a Speedo. Thankfully, this is definitely not customary here in Idaho. It was terrible. Every time he jumped to bury the spade, the motion rippled through his gelatinous soft tissue like a million tiny waves. We circled back around to get a snapshot, but to your great fortune, we couldn't do it without being seen. While more likely he would've chased us down in a vehicle and shot us, i couldn't eliminate the image of being tackled by an old, sweaty man in a banana hammock from the list of possible worst-case scenarios. It's just not the way i want to go.

Hip-hip-hooray, Let's Hear it for May!

Phew, well, finally, i made it through a month this year without a major catastrophe. Thank you, thank you May. True to it's name, (yes i may, and don't mind if i do); unlike April, which was way too sweet a name for the month i experienced. It should've been named Barb, or Ralph, or Spike or Dick or Heavens to Betsy.

Well, i did get firedish from that gardening job that i liked pretty well, but it was another case of employers being jackwagons. They wanted us to work 8 hour days with only a 5-minute lunch break and two fives on either side. Um, yeah, no. We're doing physically-demanding labor in the heat of summer. Being intimately involved in the food-production process, i'm going to sit and enjoy and appreciate my meal and all that it took to provide it, thanks. Plus, gahl dang, i'm either bending, lifting or stooping a majority of the time- don't force me to scarf my lunch with no time to digest. Sheesh.

We can stop and smell the flowers, but our employees can suck it.

And it's funny, because this is the sort of image they're trying to sell. (The product line will be available soon at a Fred Meyer near you!) At orientation (Where i also signed a confidentiality agreement, so we'll see if they come after me.) they go on and on about how they're 'like a family' blah, blah, blah. If my mother told me to work all day with only 3 5-minute breaks, i'd probably laugh in her face (i'd still work for her, but that's beside the point.)

After two weeks of it, i mentioned that at previous places of employment, where my job description had been identical, it was my understanding that federal labor laws required them to give us longer breaks. Later that day, the manager came down to talk with me about it and said, "This might not be the right fit." To which i replied, "You know, you're absolutely right."

So that was that. I put down my shovel and walked the eight miles back home. Which was way too far anyhow. (I make a point not to go farther than ten minutes from my house ever, seriously, if i can help it.) Working in a scenic location and being able to milk cows again, (which i love), wasn't even close to worth having to bum rides and dealing with higher-ups and their overt intimidation practices and power trips.

Whether or not there are different laws pertaining to farming or agriculture that allow employers to restrict breaks, i could give a flying fertilizer. It's really just the principal of the matter. I really don't care to be busting my butt for someone who expects me to inhale my lunch and labor away with only a pittance of a break throughout the day. I managed to score another farming job through the school which is within walking distance with flexible hours and cooler people besides. 

I leave for a week for the river. I'm still terrified, but i can't wait. Our first trip we'll be dead-heading (rowing without guests) for the first 50 miles, so that should be really, really nice. Tonight we're camping and rafting tomorrow in a big flip-fest called the 'Big Water Blowout' held every year during high water. I have Life Flight, fortunately.We'll see how it goes.

I'm looking forward to the rest of June. May was just the boost i needed; none of my friends died, i didn't spend a week (or even a day!) in the ICU, my girlfriend didn't get shot, my boss/family friend didn't commit suicide and i didn't get dumped without warning or explanation. So a mutually agreed upon parting of ways was, in comparison, chocolate cake.

Food + Art = Win

People never cease to amaze me. In all matters of brilliance, achievement, courage, resilience and stupidity.


But especially brilliance. We're dreaming up all sorts of amazing stuff. As long as we never program robots to dream, we'll always have that on them- the things that dreams are made of. Those things, born of an almost celestial spark that fell into our stream of consciousness by way of our dreaming minds. They spur us to do things robots would have no reason to; things that don't make a lot of sense; the dream is the reason.


Things like art; to paint something solely for the sake that you imagined it. But art may have a cyclic role in all of it, sending out it's own little spores into the universe that can result in those nearly omnipotent dream sparks. Maybe we should be wary of teaching robots art too.


Regardless, i'm in awe of the human's capacity to create beautiful things. We have a Renaissance fair here in my little town where everything's close enough to walk to, and you wouldn't believe the incredible things people have rendered with their own two hands to bring and sell there. Things so fantastic and intricate and authentic; lovingly brushed on with delicate strokes, molded and smoothed by gentle hands, precisely formed with expertly-wielded tools, dyed, sewn and crafted in endless, unfathomable ways. Amusing, breathtaking, awe-inspiring ways.


Anyhow, i'm rambling. It wasn't my intention to wax poetic. I really just wanted to share these pictures of Thai vegetable carvings, butter sculptures and other phenomenal amalgamations of art and food (art + food = WIN! in my book):

I don't know if it's reverse psychology- another thing that i probably shouldn't do (being its demand for extensive time spent in the vicinity of knives), but i definitely want to learn how to do this Thai vegetable carving business.

And there are the artists from Villafane Studios 
the self-proclaimed home of the most gourdgeous 
pumpkins on the planet. Unbelievably lifelike.

And this vegetable dress sculpture by 

Sarah Illenberger that i would totally wear.

Of course, i couldn't omit these butter sculptures:

Artist Jim Victor

Same artist- 'Cow Jumped Over the Moon'

Also by Jim Victor. This is like a favorite 

thing trifecta: art, butter and manatees. 

And Yoda eating yogurt by artist Olenka Kleban. 

Can you tell i had a hard time choosing my favorite ones?

Last, another by Jim Victor 

Surfer David - there are so many of my 

favorite things going on here, it's not even funny.

Butter sculpting is actually an ancient Tibetan tradition that originated some time around the 7th century.  One time when my cousin was one maybe two, (barely toddling, but not talking yet at all), she disappeared. We were beside ourselves searching the house high and low (mostly low) for this child. I remember my aunt had long since been in tears when, finally, finally, we found her hiding? behind the couch. eating sticks of butter. We don't know how she got a hold of them, or how she'd already learned to associate butter with delicious, or what gave her the notion that she'd better do it in hiding, but it was so bizarre and hilarious and precious i'll never forget it.