Heartbreakingly Blind to Blatant Beauty

Sometimes people who live in small towns spend hours daily dreaming of escaping the dull confines of underpopulated living. They spend 48 weeks sitting behind their desks planning and imagining the fun they'll have on their 4 weeks they'll be given free as a reward for their invested time. They label someone who has travelled beyond the next two towns as unique, bold, and mysterious. A soul simply plagued with wanderlust is an intrigue, and treated as such. They coral the bold adventurer and fire question after question about experiences. Which place was the best? Where were the people the most eccentric? Why did you go to THIS country, why did you visit THAT one? Were they racist there? Did you drink the water? How do you FUND this? Aren't you scared to travel alone?

They quip about the doldrums of small town living. They scoff at the scenery from their windows saying things like, "There's nothing worth seeing HERE," "You must have cabin fever being stuck in THIS little town after the things YOU'VE seen," "You'll NEVER find a view as beautiful as (insert random vacation resort/country here) in THIS shit hole." Day after day the adventurer listens to their complaining, all the while wondering why, if they are so discontent with their surroundings do they insist on remaining there in said small town? Is it the town with which they are truly dissatisfied or could they find flaws in paradise? The adventurer is perplexed, as her presence in this hole in the wall forgotten oasis was a deliberate decision, and over 3,000 miles had been driven solely to be there.

Further confusing the adventurer is the reigning dissatisfaction with local culture among certain individuals. The adventurer enjoys the friendliness of the young people working at the local cafe. After two days, they'd ask upon her arrival if it would be the "usual" or something different for the evening. She has been recognized as an out of towner, and accepted by the older community as well. There are not only many friendships to be had, but also many trails to run, hikes to take, rivers to see, mountains to climb, slopes to ski, movies to watch, salsa to dance, open mike nights to attend, and potlucks in which to participate.

Moments after being told how there were no beautiful sights, the adventurer walked outside and experienced an incredible sunset. The sky, set ablaze and chilled simultaneously in blazing crimson and icy blue, beckoned her to run back inside and grab her camera to return snapping away frantically at the sight. The vibrant pastels that followed made her want to climb a mountain and shout out to the world, "OPEN YOUR EYES! THE BEAUTY IS RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF YOU!"

You see, to the adventurer, the world is inherently beautiful as people are inherently good. There is a moment in each day that will take your breath away if you open your eyes and allow it to touch your heart. There is beauty around each corner, in each day, each morning, each evening.

Look up, look around, turn off your phone or computer, and smile at somebody or something tangible. Guaranteed, it will make you appreciate your life more, and you might even find yourself inviting somebody to visit the newly discovered awesome town in which you live.

Hardly Hindering Happenings and the Hitchhiking Hoodlum

I left California twelve hours later than originally planned. It's ok. I know. Typical Rita. Got it. I found myself procrastinating, not wanting to leave without saying goodbye. I took the dogs to a dog park where they romped, drooled, and rolled in everything I had hoped they'd avoid. I did laundry. I walked. The warm sun was a welcome change to Seattle's dreary skies. Finally, when I found the strength to leave, I began my trek east.

I popped "Why We Suck" into the cd player, and proceeded to laugh spastically for the next several hours, replaying choice pieces of unfiltered truth about Americans, politics, kids, and fat people *see aforementioned Americans. Satire. I love it. If you haven't read it or listened to Why We Suck, go buy it. Now. Really. It will make you laugh until you cry, or if it applies to you, maybe just cry. Either way, it will be a teachable moment, one to remember and hold dear. Go buy it. Really. Go. Right after you finish reading this...even simultaneously, if you have Itunes. :)

I got sleepy before I made it to Flagstaff, and since I hadn't done my homework and made plans there, I decided to pull into the darkest spot I could possible find to spend the night. You see, last night was the Geminids Meteor Shower...something I refused to miss. I sat, mouth agape as 63 blazing balls of rock and fire burned their way across the midnight sky in absolute silence. A concept so grand, so otherworldy, it rocks my world to consider. I stared into the abyss that is space, trying to wrap my mind around the distances and speed, the raw unadultured beauty of a night alone with two furry friends in an unrecognized land. Finally, I let my mind rest on the events of the day, and I drifted into a dreamless sleep with a slight smile playing on my lips.

I awoke yet again to the soft pastels of sunrise this morning. There is no way I'd rather do things than opening my groggy eyes to the promise of warm rays of light on my sleepy face. Both of the furballs had crawled into the sleeping bag with me. I maneuvered to the front seat as Corky scowled at me for having disturbed his beauty sleep, and started the car to thaw the windows...Yes, it was frigid last night in Arizona.

I watched the sunrise as I continued east. I considered detouring to the Grand Canyon for a spell, but I promised my mom I'd be back by my birthday, and faced with a temptation like that, I'm not sure I would have been able to make it even if I had told myself, "Just for a few hours." I played with the idea of the sun resting its rays softly on my forehead, my nose, my cheeks, and as I reached with my neck towards the source, opening my eyes to the vast openness. The Grand Canyon is magical. The scene played, teased, tempted, but I had the strength to stay my path. For this, I am proud.

I drove, sipped tea, sang a little, but mostly played tag with a tan sedan for hours. When he pulled off the road to a rest stop, I was a bit disappointed. Nobody else seemed interested in my game of pass and be passed. Suddenly there was a car approaching, gaining, gaining.

Shit. A cop.

If you didn't know, it's illegal to drive faster than the speeds posted in bold black letters on the dingy white signs along the road. Apparently, driving over 85 anywhere in Arizona is grounds for arrest and a mandatory court hearing. So, 95 in a 75....well, you see where this is heading. I had just driven past a sign that said "Purple Heart Trail." Surely that would work in my favor. If a $125 fine is in my favor, then yes, the tags worked with flying colors. HOWEVER, I AM writing this from my car in Amarillo, so I didn't spend the afternoon in jail. I don't have to return to Arizona for court, and my ticket says 84, so I have to grin for small victories. Although, now that I think of it, I could have gotten that on a smile and a polite apology. My plates were slacking today. There's always next time. :)

I continued my drive chuckling about how wasteful that was. I could buy 3 tanks of gas for the price of that ticket! I promptly put on cruise control, lest I should begin to feel my foot hardening into a lead stump again. I pulled off after having seen a sign for Red Rock Park. Red Rock. Sounds fun. I was looking for a place to run, explore, scramble, and that's what I found. I decided not to change into running clothes, just to change into my trail shoes. I began my jog/trek/scramble with the pups, having no idea what to expect. I trotted down the sandy path with my furry friends, stopping occasionally to pull Russian Thistle from their paws when they strayed too far from the path. We climbed slippery slopes, jumped across small crevices, we ran, walked, huffed, and puffed. I forgot about the elevation out here.

After a few miles I turned around and barrelled back to my car as hard as I could. I reached the vehicle, had some gorp, a swig of water and got ready to leave. I checked my center console for my important things, i.e. id, credit card, cash. The id was there, but the card....

Ah. Must be in my pocket.

Nope.

Oh. Well, maybe it fell between the seats.

Nope.

Crap.

I trotted back to the trail head, braving gusting winds and stinging sand at this point.

Nothing.

Bummer.

I walked up to a security guard and he directed me to the lost and found, just in case I had dropped it in the parking lot before hitting the trails. Nope. He seemed hesitant to let me leave, and offered food. Now, as I had walked into the convention center where the lost and found was located, the smell of tortillas, beans, rice, salsa, and pork had invaded my senses immediately. I was probably noticeably salivating. Apparently, the Navaho were having a banquet and had prepared food for 900. Only 400 showed. After convincing me it would indeed be free, I followed him into the kitchen and grabbed a steaming plate of amazing. (Yes, that was the end of the sentence. Amazing is a noun in this case. :D)

I lost my card on a road trip with a quarter tank of gas in the middle of nowhere, and I had the biggest grin on my face as I returned to my "house" to choke down the plate as fast as I could. It was classy. I'm telling you, minutes after I put the empty plate in the trash, I felt behind me just to be sure the card hadn't slipped between the cushions of the seat, and I found....a piece of tomato. I ate that, too.

As I turned the key to the ignition, I looked up. The moon was staring back at me. A half moon. I took the moment as a sign. A pivotal moment in life. Is the moon half full or half new? I chose the former, and chuckled at my silliness. Life is good.

The first stop I made was a gas station to sweet talk the cashier into allowing me to use my checks. The next stop was to pick up a hitchhiker, dressed in all black and looking like a thuglet. I laughed as I pulled over. Black clothes in my car. Cute. We started driving east together. Mike was his name. We spoke of experiences, life lessons, travels, education, and close calls. You see, Mike was raised in Arizona, but was sent to Chicago as a tween. He got involved with gangs there, and began a meth lab. He finished school at 14. I was impressed.

With a GED?

No. A diploma.

WOW! How'd you manage that?

Everyone has a price. I was selling meth, making over 5k a week. I bought my principal and teachers. Paying their rent and shit..

Hmmm. *Inwardly I thought...No. Not EVERYONE has a price.*

His stories were intense. Forty something fire fights, 20 something injuries, his heart stopped twice after overdosing on meth. He was better now. But the kicker? He is 18 years old. EIGHTEEN!!!!!!!

I had to admit, he was the coolest person I've picked up thus far. Usually, my hitchhikers are just kids like me, wandering the world in search of light, love, and beauty. Not that that's not interesting, but having died once, woken up, kicked the doctor's ass, then died again? Really?! You can't make up stories like that!

My lesson to you *things to be gained from today's blog*

Speed limits are suggestions...except in Arizona.
Live free, laugh loudly, and love with everything you have.
If you see a rock, climb it.
Wake up outside to a sunrise. There's nothing like it.
A half moon is ALWAYS half full.
Pick up hitchhikers.
Learn something from a stranger today.

Now go buy that damn book. :)

Survival School

When I first heard I had received the scholarship to attend the Boulder Outdoor Survival School 28 day Field Course, I was curled in the fetal position in a lower end motel in North Central Mexico trying to keep down the scant fluids I struggled to sip all day. I had spent the day in a 15 passenger van with 17 other people travelling over 6 hours. It was the day after having run the Copper Canyon Ultra Marathon, and my body felt like it had been put through a meat grinder, twice. I shivered under the dingy comforter with gaudy pink flowers that smelled slightly of stale ashtray as the automated almost feminine voice barked at me, "Four new messages." The first two were mundane (sorry if you left them). The third was different.

As Jenny Stein's voice came over the line, I found myself tensing muscles I thought were completely spent. When she uttered the words, "Offer you the scholarship," I found myself out of bed screaming like a tween who was just told she was going to get a limo ride with the young Jonathon Taylor Thomas. I spun around, gave a little whoop and a jump, then slowly and methodically returned to the bed, tucking my knees into my sternum again, wishing I hadn't spontaneously shaken up my stomach.

You see, the BOSS program was something I dreamt of doing, and the scholarship would allow me to attend the $4,000 plus course for free. After having turned down the opportunity to take a nice cushy office job sheltered from the elements using my security clearance and no natural instincts, the prospect of travelling miles on foot over rugged terrain for 28 days with no comforts was music to my ears. When I received the paperwork, I chuckled at the wording of the physical waiver I had to get my doctor to sign. “Is this person capable of going without eating for at least 4 days while walking 18-30 miles daily on rugged terrain?” Sure. Why not? Maybe on a swollen ankle, or one sneaker and one flip flop. Throw it at me! I’m ready!

I spent the summer in the sleepy town of Haines, AK floating down the mighty Chilkat River daily, chatting with my passengers about the approaching survival school. Some looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language that they not only did not understand, but thought sounded incredibly stupid. Others smiled at me like I was a ten year old expressing my desire to become a professional ball player in adulthood. Others yet mused that they wished they could do it, too, but I didn’t feel anybody truly understood my need to do it or I would have seen them, too, on the 26th of October in the equally sleepy town of Boulder, Utah.

Only one person who told me they truly understood why I wanted to go did I believe fully and without reservation. Dave’s mother. Dave had died on the second day of the BOSS 28 Day Field Course in 2006, and it was through his death and her generosity that I had the opportunity to participate in the course in the first place. She told me that she could understand why her son had felt the need to join the course, but she now understood. There are some things in life that are outside of your normal comfort zone that just need to be done.

I arrived in Boulder expecting nothing. I had not read too deeply into the instructions or the course description. I wasn’t even quite sure where Boulder, Utah was located. As a matter of fact, most of the people with whom I spoke in Provo were also unsure of the town’s location. One of the first things I was told upon arriving was to get rid of my expectations, and try to accept the class with an open mind. No problem.

There were seven of us. All from different financial backgrounds, with different stories, different accents, different experiences, and different fitness and skill levels. All with at least one thing in common. A desire to fully experience the experience: 28 days in the canyons, learning while going without eating for at least 4 days while walking 18-30 miles daily on rugged terrain. And that we did. All seven of us made it through, spending the first four days without food while covering 18-30 miles daily on rugged terrain. We learned the basics about survival in the outdoors while lugging around our gear wrapped up in a blanket on our backs. We made friendships that will last a lifetime, and all learned at least one important previously unknown fact about ourselves.

We also did the complete opposite of smart survival. Often. We saw a nasty storm coming and continued to climb in elevation until we reached what we half jokingly named Mordor, all the while being pelted by hail, torrential rain, and finally snow. We camped in recently flooded flash flood zones several times, where trees were strewn haphazardly through the slick mud, reminding us constantly of the potential for raging river water to come through and sweep us away. We arrived almost daily in camp moments before dusk, only to be greeted by long, duff concealing shadows. Maybe that was part of the learning experience as well.

We spent the month dreaming up new recipes, new baking techniques, making grocery lists, thinking of what snacks we’d have upon regaining our freedom to choose. I even saw a chocolate chip cookie on the trail we were hiking. I still stand by my cookie sighting. It was a portion of a Chips Ahoy. I swear! I’m sure it was stale and would have crumbled into dust when I picked it up, if I could have found it after I accidentally stepped on it and kicked a pile of sand over it. The other students swore it was a hallucination, but I know what I saw: a half eaten chocolate chip cookie in the middle of the desert.

I learned a bunch of practical skills, like how to make fire if you have nothing but a cord and a knife. I learned what plants to eat, how to make traps, how to bake bread in a sheep’s stomach, but aside of the simple survival techniques, I walked away from this class with an even more in depth understanding of what truly matters and what doesn’t in this life. I had already decided to sell all of my furniture upon my decision to move to Alaska. I had opted to get rid of the bulk of everything I owned for profit or peanuts, as long as it would not be mine anymore. Still, I brought too much with me, and I never used half of the things I toted along in my little Rav4 to the Frontier State. I’m going through yet another cleansing now, taking droves of clothing to the thrift store, giving away non essential items. How liberating...the second wave of purging life’s inanimate burdens.

This road trip will be much lighter. The best part about it is the final destination. I’m heading home to Pennsylvania. It occurred to me in survival school that I know lots of small towns around the world pretty well. When I return to Monterey or Haines, there are people around that know me and greet me warmly. I can give you directions to get around Alcoi, Riobamba, Copperas Cove, and Watertown, but I don’t know the lady that works at the café across the street from my parents’ house in Annville, PA. Essentially, I’ve grown to know people everywhere but home.

It’s time to slow down for a few months. It’s time to have a home base. It’s time to cook for my parents, finish selling or giving away the last of my things, and finish up Call Me Stupid. I guess chapter four of freedom will be called Reconnecting with what Truly Matters, Family.

Soul Separation

I walked away numb. It wasn't real to me yet. I'm still in Germany. My lips still taste of his. My hand is still warm where he had been holding it. He had turned to walk away and so had I, but it felt like any other time we'd parted ways only to fall into each other's arms hours later.

It was only as I neared the subway station that I realized that this is it. My time with him is over, and we won't be meeting for dinner, dancing, or even a cup of coffee this evening. I passed a busy intersection where a dark man with messy curls and a mischivious grin played the acordian. He was playing quite a melancholy song.

Something about the music made me stop in place and turn around. I couldn't leave yet. I needed to feel close to him for a few minutes more, so I crossed the same place where we had crossed hand in hand both yesterday and today, and entered a cafe to enjoy the sullenly sweet sounds of the acordian.

As I entered, I realized I had gone into a Portuguese cafe where I could get by in Spanish as opposed to the ever difficult frantic hand waving and mumbling I've tried to pass as German. Aventura's "I'm sorry" was playing softly above me as I sat down in front of a wide open full length window. I felt a part of two worlds as I sat motionless at the small square mohoghany table listening to both a heart wrenching bachata and acordian simultaneously. Spanish here, German there. I felt a pressure building in my throat, and a single tear made its easy escape, leaving a sleek trail of remembrance on my cheek. I smiled though my heart was in pain.

And so, here I sit, at the Delta Cafe in Hamburg, living with one foot in each world for the moment. Inside the walls is warm and well taken care of. The floors are swept, the tables spotless. Portuguese and German flags hang from the ceiling. A giant red lobster perched unflinchingly on the yellow wall seems to be watching me from his one remaining plastic eye. Maybe he's empathizing. Is his love on another wall in the restaurant that he can't reach?

Meanwhile outside the acordian has stopped. The musician is walking around with a small, broken plastic container requesting coins for his music. Across the street is an entire brick wall covered in street art. Grafiti of all colors, of all styles. There are several sleeping bags strewn about in chaotic order. There are three sets of old, torn shoes sitting on a step, placed carefully, heels touching, toes all facing forward, and a few dusty young men sit nearby idly chatting through shattered teeth while passing a cigarette and bottle of cheap wine.

My heart is not breaking. It's not broken. It hurts. It's bursting. It's happy. There is so much positivity and not enough space. There is perfection, and although he had turned to walk away and so had I, he remains with me in every moment, in every action. Every sound. Every smell. I've known him for lifetimes. Maybe then I was his husband and he was my wife. Maybe I was his dog or he was my cat. I can't help but smile through my tears at the thought of being a dog in a former life. As I sip my cafe con leche y mucho mucho azucar, I remember how as a child, I used to believe I had been a dog in past lives. Maybe he was my master then, my equal now, my soulmate forever.

A calm comes over me, as forever is a long time, and as long as we walk this world it will be hand in hand, in whatever capacity. I've found a home in his arms, and although I feel a bit homesick, I've got a bit of work to get done before returning to where I belong. And so, I smile through these tears of happiness, contentment, and assuredness of fate. I smile because our paths will cross again in October, and until then, we will be apart, but only physically.

Totally Trapped Attempting to Toss Tomatoes

They push. I push back. It's thirty to one. We are all feeling desperate to gain ground. Every inch is recognized. Every inch appreciated. I spread my feet and lean forward for a stronger position. My palms are flat against the sun warmed metal. My arms are flexed, but my hands are only inches from my chest. My back is aching from the strain. If I lose, I could be easily be crushed by approaching rubber. I'm looking left and right, all the while pushing with everything I have. I can't feel angry at those pushing me forward. They are only trying to gain space to breath more easily. The tire is a coming. I crinkle my toes and try to slide my feet back, if only a centimeter. There are pieces of rotten tomatoes roasting in the sun. They are everywhere. (They're in my raccoon wounds!!!) In my hair, on my face, between my toes, and on the truck. Little pieces of rotten fodder.

For a moment, I consider releasing a hand to snatch at a tomato. I momentarily envision grabbing the semi-fermented fruit as I'm simultaneously pushed helplessly under the truck. Needless to say (or maybe not if you know me better than most) I didn't go for the tomato.

I guess your next question is how did I end up so close to the truck, right? I had been in a nice, tight spot with a comfortable 3 or 4 feet between myself and the path of the tomato bearing dump truck when suddenly the girl who had been standing behind me fell. La Tomatina is a grand festival in Buñol. The last Wednesday in August, people from around the world come together to take part in the largest food fight they've ever seen. It's ultimately a combination of a lot of alcohol, not a lot of sleep, a lot of heat, and a lot of people in not a lot of space. There are times where you struggle to stand straight because so many people are pressed against you. I saw several people break down, flailing about to get free from the unforgivingly dense crowd.

That being said, this girl fell unconscious, and her ailment could have been any number of things, heat stroke being my main concern. I cleared a path for her, leaving my place on the secure sidewalk and helped bring her to the truck, where I was able to ensure that she was going to get medical attention. The problem with that was when it was time to return to the side, there was nowhere to go.

So, I'm now inches from a dump truck, pressing against the sides as hard as I can to avoid being pushed under by the people behind me having trouble breathing. I thought of my tombstone: Survived OIF/OEF but not La Tomatina. I smiled through a clenched jaw. Then I laughed, a quick, impulsive, high pitched, nervous laugh. I found my laugh so odd that I laughed even harder. The truck rolled by, and as it did, I was nearly pushed to the ground by the hordes of people gasping for air behind me.

The fight continued. I was hit in the head once, twice, three times, but now I was completely surrounded by bodies. There was an elbow in my breast. I asked the woman to my right if she could manage to shift her weight if only a little to alleviate the pain.

Suddenly the crowed surged back like the tide crashing to shore, guided by gravity. I was pulled with them. Then front. Then left. Then back again. My chin was digging mercilessly into a young man's shoulder, but I couldn't move it. Someone stepped on my left flip flop as the throng moved back again.

Is everyone trying to follow the last tomato truck?

Now, with my left foot bare, I searched with my toes for my sandal.

OOH! I got it!

The crowd moved left.

Damn, I lost it.....

Wait! There it is again!

The crowd moved forward.

I guess not.

A woman appeared in front of me. A frantic apparition. She was crying, screaming, flailing her arms this way and that. Her elbow connected with a faceless body, her hand hit another.

"I NEED TO GET OUT OF HERE!!! LET ME OUT! I CAN'T BREATHE!!!!!"

Her voice faded into the cacophony of distressed non lethal combatants. A man shot a glance at me. Our eyes connected. His face was painted crimson. He had an unnaturally crooked nose.

How incredibly uncomfortable the next few minutes were. I found myself taking slow, shallow breaths because the pressure on my chest and back was so great that I couldn't expand my lungs but a little at a time.

"Survived OIF/OEF but not La Tomatina."

And then a mortar.

Wait. A mortar?

I flinched as the sound resonated in the crowded streets.

Instantly the pressure was lifted. I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity. Tomatoes continued to fly through the air after the fight "ended," but the intensity took a skydive in a matter of seconds. I quickly scanned the streets for my rogue flip flop, but when I was sure I had walked past the place where I lost it, I settled for what felt like a men's size 10. Royal blue. Awkward.

I worked my way out of the labyrinth, wading through ankle deep gazpacho. Everything in sight had a red tint to it. The air reeked of vinegar, sweat, and vomit. Or maybe it just smelled of 14,000 people throwing over 25,000lbs of rotten tomatoes for an hour on the last Wednesday in August. I laughed randomly as I was hit in the shoulder by a flying camiseta. I tossed it across the street at an unsuspecting blond.

SMACK!

A girl next to me was hit in the head with a sandal.

Anything that was loose and able to be picked up was fair game. Soaked hats, towels, shoes, even pieces of tomatoes that clung to the sweaty folks heading towards the locals with hoses. Even from those heading away from the foul smelling tomato sauce covered streets.

I moment later I found myself jumping around, waving my arms at a twelve year old girl, trying to entice her to PLEASE hose me off with her garden hose. I couldn't help but laugh at myself. I flew to Spain for a FOOD FIGHT! I survived OIF/OEF AND La Tomatina! However, I've got a bone to pick with a greasy pole, a ham, and 25,000 lbs of tomatoes.

Watch out Buñol.

Next year, you may rest, but La Tomatina 2012, here I come!

Shared Silence

A mist sat over the water, making the mountains’ reflections on the silent surface a shadowy neutral as if the world had been sketched in detailed gray scale. It looked like it was going to be a chilly day. I sat on my porch a while longer watching the tide subtly rise, moment by moment. It was nearing time to head to work. However excited I was to head to a job I enjoy, I was hesitant to leave the perfect secluded silence of my sanctuary. My home. I slowly stood, called the dogs, and started my day.

Things began normally enough on the job. I look forward daily to groups of cruise ship passengers interested in seeing Alaska from a different perspective. Some crowds are told that I was a veteran before they meet me, some are told I’m a salsa teacher, some are told I have a purple heart, some are told I’m Rita, wearing a shirt in red hot Latin flavor, but this group had been told my name was Karl, and I was tall and funny looking. They definitely walked past me at the dock, and seemed thoroughly confused as I reeled them in. I tried to convince them that they were with the right person, and the jokes ensued.

No. My name is not Karl.

Yes, I’m funny looking.

No, I’m not tall.

On the river, I had seven on my raft. There was a family of four in the front, including two daughters 21 and 23, an older pair of sisters in the back, and a single woman from Pennsylvania that sat directly to my back left. Inevitably, as I introduced them to my office, I was asked what I was doing in Alaska if I’m from Pennsylvania. I gave an abbreviated version of my story. I told nobody about my service, about my purple heart, about my passing up jobs for freedom, nothing. I said simply that not everyone has as much time as they think they do in life, and so why wouldn’t I spend mine in a place as breathtaking as Haines, rowing down a calming river with magnificent views like that as much as I could?

I then turned the question on them. The family in the front responded with a simple, “Why not Alaska?” The sisters in the rear said that they wanted to get there before they ran out of time because they were tired of waiting. But it was the lady from Pennsylvania that truly caught my attention with her response. As soon as I cheerily asked her for her story, I realized that subconsciously I already knew the answer. There aren’t many reasons an elderly woman would be found alone on a cruise ship and alone on a rafting tour of the Bald Eagle Preserve in Haines, Alaska.

“My husband and I always wanted to come to Alaska. He, too, realized he didn’t have as much time as he thought. He would have enjoyed this so very much,” she nearly whispered with tears welling, “This trip is for him.” She looked into the distance. The boat went silent. For several moments, nothing was heard but the soft rustle of silt against rubber, the soothing sound of the river gently caressing the bank, tempting it to let go, tumble down, and be swept away, and finally a quick slide and a splash. A small shelf freed itself from the confines of structure and embracing freedom, riding the current in a million separate particles. There was nothing to be said. We all understood. I understood better than they could ever have imagined.

I fought back tears as my mind raced through memories of friends who would never again get to see something so incredible as the Cathedral Peaks, Kicking Horse Valley, or a twelve pound bald eagle shredding and devouring a salmon within feet of the raft. There were four young men that came to mind instantly. The picture used at their memorial still weighs on my mind. Four bright eyed, healthy men…boys really, who loved each other like brothers, always insisting on being in the same truck with one another, posing for the camera in different tough guy positions. One with both hands in the air, looking to the sky seemingly asking for deliverance, another with only his right fist in the air looking diagonally away from the camera. All four of them radiating youth and promise. All four of them no longer on Earth. Their truck was barely recognizable when it was towed back to the FOB and left in the “graveyard.” A young father who lost his life two weeks from before seeing his newborn son for the first time over mid-tour leave. A boy, now over five years old who never had a chance to meet his father. A boy shot by a sniper through his temple on his 20^th birthday. A boy next to whom I sat, discussing how lucky he was to be coming to our FOB as opposed to his COP. I told him he was lucky to get to work with the CIED team. It sure would beat his other job. Days later he was crushed under the vehicle when it hit an IED. A group of young men burned alive inside an MRAP. A boy who thought he could stop a truck from tumbling down a cliff and keep himself out of trouble, but ended up going down with it. A suicide towards the end of the road with less than a month left in Afghanistan. None of these guys will ever be able to celebrate life as we can. They can only live on in our memories.

“I need to travel more before I, too, run out of time,” my passenger from Pennsylvania told me as she stared in awe, mouth slightly agape, at the small salmon stream that opens up into a view unparalleled of the vast alluvial fan and towering mountains capped with fresh snow. “I need to do many things.” We all do. Many things need to be done.

Everybody dies. Only a handful of people truly live. This woman from Pennsylvania cried for her husband as I cried for humanity. She touched my heart as I can only hope to touch others in time. We shared a moment on the raft, eight of us, contemplating the beauty of being capable of living each day how we choose. It is truly a gift to live, and that day everyone with me understood that. Embrace each moment as is it’s your last, as you never know when the last may come.

Success and Sexy Secretions

I began by eating a bagel. Toasted. Butter. Strawberry jam. Perfection.

Hot chai.

Fair time!

I arrived to hear Swing Set play in the middle of the afternoon. Barely anyone was dancing, but the music was live, and I couldn't help myself. As I swayed, jumped, and kicked I was approached numerous times.

You're a celebrity!

Nice article!

Wow, and I thought you were just a NORMAL person!

I guess you never know who you are talking to, huh!

Huh.

At least the age old, "Have you ever killed someone?" wasn't thrown at me.

I ate freshly picked cherries, danced my last song, swaying to the base like a willow in a hurricane (no, really) before jogging rapidly to my car to speed off to work.

Not to work. To pay while I play.

After I got off the river, I picked my friend up at the airport and promptly returned to the fair, dressed in a smile so large my cheeks ached.

Debauchery ensued. Much dancing, some drinking, much socializing. Around 1:00, I thought I should go to sleep. I was going to race the next morning. Then I thought about the live music at the bar downtown. I quickly made the right decision.

Music it is.

More dancing, a little more alcohol, a lot more socializing.

The night (morning) ended at 4:30.

The half marathon started at 7:30, and I wasn't registered yet.

I had two people in my bed, two upstairs, and I slept on the couch. Couchsurfing's great.

I woke up at 6:30, and nobody else wanted to come out in the dreary, grey Saturday light to watch me start and finish. Surprising.

Race time.

A cool misty morning, a slight breeze, and NINE HARD CORE runners. None of us had a watch. None had a GPS. None had competitive spirit. It was cool, raining, grey, and somehow absolutely perfect.

The town was still sleeping as we trotted from the starting line in response to a commanding, "On your mark, get set, GO!" I felt OK for the first 2 miles. They were on pavement, and I convinced myself the alcohol and burrito from the evening prior would sit well in my stomach.

Sneakers slapping the pavement, small sprays of muddy precipitation were sent each and every way. I felt water on my toes.

Blisters?

As I hit the trail, my feet got comfortable pounding on the soft leaves and slippery mud. I simultaneously forgot the blisters and remembered the alcohol and massive burrito.

Uh oh.

I looked around anxiously. I stepped out of the way for a few runners to pass. I swallowed. Chills ran up my spine, my neck tingled, my hands felt numb. It was coming.

I gave in after powering up the mountain just a little bit more. I felt better thinking I was contributing to the environment. I'm convinced I fed a bear a yummy beef and bean burrito that morning. Although, I may have encouraged alcoholism in that same bear. I prefer to think only the former. Negativity's not my style.

I like description when I write, but I'll spare you the details of color, consistency, and smell.

Once wasn't enough. I made another mile marker/bear donation about a mile later.

Then I lost the trail.

Laugh it up. I've never been great with directions, so why wouldn't I have my head down, duck under a fallen tree, jump over another, climb part of a mountain, and then suddenly realize I'm in waist high brush with no trail in sight?

I queasily backtracked, never once regretting the fun I had the night prior, and eased (gracefully I might add, I just about face planted on a root) back onto the trail.

By the time I hit mile 8, life was good again. The last 5 miles were spent cruising. I skipped over rocks, ducked under branches, gained new scrapes and scratches, chafing my inner thighs on my running shorts while I continued to pick up speed, but I still didn't see anyone. I'm sure I didn't finish last, but I'm not sure I was even in the first half of finishers! Percentile-wise, it may have been the worst race I've ever run in my life!

It was THAT AWESOME!

The day was spent dancing, eating, and laughing at that morning's race.

More of the same:

Hey, celebrity!

You're famous!

I've lived here 7 years and haven't gotten my picture in the paper! You've been here FOUR months and got a front page article!!!

No. I've only been here for THREE months.

Thank you for....you know.

I do know.

I'm not sure if I've been able to adequately express the positivity gained from knowing people are supportive. I try with words, but it's hard to capture the true gratitude in recognizing true gratitude in others.

I tried that day to get that point across. I may have succeeded, but one thing's for sure.

I danced.

Before I knew it, it was 6:15. I told myself I'd be on the road to Whitehorse by 5:00.

Typical Rita.

8:30 - Finally, on the road. Kerouac would be proud.
2:30 - Arrive in Whitehorse
3:30 - Fall asleep
6:30 - Alarm rings. Time to get ready for the race!
7:00 - Finally coherent enough to eat breakfast
7:30 - On the road to the starting line (no directions)
8:00 - Stop at a gas station to get directions to starting line
8:01 - Find I accidentally went the right way
8:15 - Arrive at race start to pick up my goodie bag with PLENTY of time until the start.
8:26 - Returned to the starting line with my number pinned, bowels emptied, no watch, and no GPS
8:30 - The gun fires, and we're off.

I forgot about the gun. Oops.

I had no idea what I was facing course-wise. I did know that I had ABSOLUTELY NO alcohol in my system at the start of this race, although I worried a bit about the coffee I downed in order to make the drive to the starting line. I tucked in behind a group of slower guys. I was convinced I was in the WAY back of the pack. When they asked me if I'd like to pass them on the single track, I politely refused.

No passing anyone not walking in the first 10 miles.

That was my rule.

There was an impatient girl behind me. I asked her if she'd like to pass. She scoffed at my pace and said she would. She sped down the trail. I smiled and told her kindly I'd see her in a few miles.

It didn't take that long. A mile and a half later I passed her. (She WAS walking.) I didn't see her for the rest of the race.

Around mile 13 (kilometer 21), I started to get a little bolder. I felt pretty good, and knew I could pick up the pace. That's where things can get dangerous in a marathon. As I jogged up to the rest station at the midway point, I told the volunteers I was out for a Sunday jog, and would prefer they didn't tell me how I was doing.

They complied.

Around mile 15, I realized I had chafed my thighs again. Not super important, but uncomfortable.

A few more miles...

Then it happened.

I've read about it happening. I've laughed about it happening to other people. I've seen horrifyingly embarrassing video clips of it happening, but I'd never experienced it myself.

My bladder let go.

Don't judge me.

It wasn't an all out pee a quart at a time, but it was a decent flow. Enough that it ran down my legs to about my knee. Down my chafed legs.

The stinging brought me to an abrupt stop.

I stifled a scream of disbelief and utter pain. I started to jog again after a few seconds of contemplation.

OH HOW IT BURNS!!!!!!

I sucked some water out of my camel back, put it on my hands, and wiped down my legs a little. It seemed to help, if only slightly.

I kept running.

I stopped thinking about the little "accident" after a bit.

Then, at a crossroads....

It happened AGAIN!

This time with more flow, and merciless burning on the inner thighs.

Hmmm...I just pissed myself in a marathon. THAT JUST HAPPENED! TWICE!

I thought it would be a good idea to "pull over." Luckily I had toilet paper in my camel back, because all at once, my gut gave me a telltale rumble, and my "situation" became an emergency quite quickly.

I handled it as fast as I could, then got back to the trail. I only had another 5K or so left in the race.

This time I didn't forget about it as quickly as I had the first time because I could smell it. I knew if I could smell it, so could whoever else was around. I was a bit embarrassed. I was preparing my response. It went something like this:

"So, have an accident?"

"Yeah, I pissed myself twice...What? Wanna fight about it?"

That's it. That's all I could come up with. :)

Another random thought that kept running through my mind as I finished the race (other than, damn, another hill!? and Damn, measuring the race in Kilometers makes it seem longer) was the episode of Family Guy where Peter gets mauled by the raccoon several times and then his outhouse is tipped with him in it.

He screams, "It's EVERYWHERE! It's in my raccoon wounds!!!"

I thought about screaming it, but the low chances of random trail runners in Whitehorse getting the reference dissuaded me.

I rounded the last turn, and the finish line came into sight. I started to pick up the pace, trailing my scent of triumph behind. If anything, I thought it might prevent other runners from closing the gap. I finished, hard, and in that moment, I had a revelation.

Most of the run was next to a river.

I hobbled to the water, and proceeded to sit down in the water. I casually wrung the material in my shorts, all the while icing my legs.

HA! They'll never know!

And they didn't. At least nobody made a visible yucky smell face in front of me, and that makes me smile.

Nobody would have known my humiliation because I handled it so quickly, so I thought it was definitely necessary to share this on the world wide web. I know it will bite me in the butt when I go to publish my book.

When it's all said and done, this weekend was a great success. I placed 2nd in the open female division at the marathon. I got a trophy, and a finisher's medal (that my couchsurfer proceeded to break the next morning), but most importantly, I earned raw inner thighs, and memories that will make me chuckle for the rest of my life.

I hate to tell you, but If you haven't run to the point of sexy secretions, you have definitely been cheating yourself out of an epic experience.