Oaxaca, Mexico 2010

To my pleasant surprise, both myself and my luggage arrived in Oaxaca without too much of an issue. Being quite the jet-setter, I've come to expect delays, canceled flights and lost luggage. Most of the time I prepare for it by stuffing an extra pair of underwear in my purse but I've discovered I'd rather buy a pair wherever I end up than have my extra pair show up in the x-ray machine for some reason. Not that they don't see my unmentionables these days anyway.

I arrived very late at night and simply crawled into bed in my hostel and went to sleep. The next day was the 23rd, the day of the infamous Noche de Rabanos. That didn't start until about 5pm so I set about exploring the city. In my mind I had envisioned Oaxaca as a quaint colonial town with a strong indigenous flair to it. I actually wasn't too far off. The historical district of Oaxaca matches my vision, but outside of that, Oaxaca is a bustling city with its own airport, mall and baseball stadium.
All the streets and buildings were decorated for Christmas and looked absolutely beautiful. In the zocalo (the town square) everyone was getting ready for the Noche de Rabanos (Night of the Radishes). It's a pretty large competition that's been going on for 113 years and the prize for the winner is somewhere around $1,000 to $2,000 US dollars. I don't exactly remember the history of it, but people grow these supremely large radishes and carve them and arrange them to make scenes, much like a very elaborate pumpkin carving contest. I ran across a few people demonstrating their rabano ability that weren't entered into the competition.

I went and saw the church of Santo Domingo which is the most prominent and important church there. Of course most cities in Mexico have many churches and this town had at least 5 just in the historic district alone.

I explored the town by foot, buying scarves, jewelry and pottery from the local artisans that had their wares laid out along the street. I wandered into a dizzying indoor market crammed with stalls and people past woven blouses, mezcal, carnes and hats.

I met quite a few friends at the hostel and made a plan to meet my English friend Sarah at Santo Domingo so we could go to La Noche de Rabanos together. Competitors had their tables set up along the zocalo and there was a huge line to get into the corral to walk past these spectacular displays.

As we went along the displays, one of the competitors handed me a radish friend, which I was told later is very rare. I'm sure they were encouraged by what must have been the most awed look in the crowd for I was completely enamored with this whole radish thing. My radish friend sat on a shelf in my hostel room until it began to change color and soften, but it kept me company for a few days.
After the displays of radishes come the displays of dolls and scenes made from corn husks and flores inmortales (dried flowers) which are also quite elaborate. I'm not sure if these are part of the competition or just part of the tradition.

After viewing all the displays, we left the crowded zocalo and went to Santo Domingo to try tlayudas. Tlayudas as like pizzas...but not. It's a huge tortilla with beans spread on it for sauce, lettuce, tomatoes, avocados and cheese inside, folded over and baked. Absolutely delicious. Then we went Mezcal tasting, which is another thing Oaxaca is famous for. I guess I'm not a mezcal person. We had some high end mezcals and I could barely choke them down.

The next day I went to a neighboring town called Ocotlan for their market day. I went with a girl named Deborah who is from San Diego. The market was a maze of tarped stalls with clothes hanging all the way up the sides, tables of fruits and vegetables, different assortments of meats draped in display and a variety of pottery. We got pulled into the current of people that were swimming through the crowded market amoung vendors shouting "Que te gusta? Que llevaras?". My nose was distracted by the ever changing smells of seasoned meat, fish and spiced chocolate. We bargained with shop keepers over pottery and flowers. Live chickens and turkeys sat along the walkway with their legs bound so that they couldn't escape, waiting to be picked up for someone's Christmas dinner. Around corners and at heavy intersections, women in woven huipiles and skirts sold chapulines, or chili and lime fried grasshoppers for shoppers needing a quick snack. We stopped into a little stand to get some hot chocolate and spotted Frida Kahlo and had to get pictures with her. Talking to another shop keeper, apparently the woman looked a lot like Frida and didn't even know who Frida was. After some one explained it to her, she decided to milk it a bit. She gets a lot of attention. She did her eyebrows and make up to look even more like her. It's really quite striking.

After the market, Deborah and I went in search of the house of a famous Mexican artist, following very archaic directions from our English friend Sarah. Along the way I spotted a small wooden sign outside of a house that had a picture of a sword and the words "Cuchillera Artistica de Angel Aguilar". I recognized Aguilar of the name of the ceramics place we were supposed to be looking for after the artist's house, but this didn't appear to be a ceramic shop. We both stared at the sign for some time, then peered into the front gate. A voice inside called out "Pasale, pasale" (Come in, come in). I'll have you know I'm not this brave when traveling through a country alone. Deborah and I went inside and an old man led us to the back of a courtyard where some beautiful knives and swords were laid out on red felt. A sword maker stood up from whatever he was doing and said that these were his knives and swords and would we like to get the grand tour? Deborah and I agreed to take the time.

In a rush of Spanish, the man explained that he uses recycled metal from car parts to make the blade of swords, showing us examples along the way. He went on to describe the many things he could use to make the handle such as wood, deer antlers, bull horns, some other sort of antlers I didn't understand and bone. If you like, he can wrap the handle with snake skin or the pelt of an animal. He can even use a deer hoof including the fur. He also uses the bones of tourists for handles. I chuckled a little at this and he went on the explain something about it, motioning to his chest quite a bit. I didn't understand it, but Deborah replied in English "I don't know if I like that" with a bit of humor. I was ready to bolt at any time should this turn into a scene from a scary movie, but the sword maker went on to explain that some people have different beliefs and when their loved ones die, they want a part of them to keep in remembrance. Much like keeping ashes in an urn, some people take the bone of a loved one (how they get it, I didn't ask) and use it for the handle of the knife or sword. He even had one client lose his finger in an accident and was able to keep the bone (sound familiar?). The bone was used to make two little daggers and the owner of the bone was very happy that his finger was still useful. Nice.

The sword maker continued his explanation of how he makes swords and knives and walked us through every single detail. Afterwards, he offered us some flavored mezcals that he made himself. The thought occurred to me that this is the part where the stupid tourist gets poisoned and wakes up chained to a chair in preparation for torture and certain death. But when in Rome... The flavored mezcal was actually quite good and he said that us stopping by had inspired him to continue to work. Deborah bought a letter opener and we left, continuing our search for the artist's house.

Our search took us back toward the market where a band and procession were passing by. Already stirred with curiosity, I gave Deborah a sly smile and said "I think we should join them". People were marching behind the band with big baskets of flowers toward a church. Deborah agreed and we jumped right in and followed them to the entrance of the church. At the entrance to the courtyard of the church, the procession got down on their knees and continued crawling to a mannequin of the baby Jesus. Not having very many options, Deborah and I got down and crawled with them until we saw an out. We jumped up and out of the procession and took pictures while the people offered up their flowers and gifts and kissed the baby Jesus. In between kisses, a man holding the doll would wipe off his face with a baby wipe in order to stop the spread of germs. A modern contribution to this very long tradition I'm sure.

We continued our search until we found the house and went inside and got the tour along with a brief explanation of his life. Then we went and looked at the ceramic shops and had tlayudas and coffee. We ended the day and headed back to Oaxaca on the bus.

Back in Oaxaca it was Christmas Eve and festivities were in full swing. In Mexico, the tradition is to have parades and festivities on Christmas Eve, as well the the procession of carrying flowers to the church to honor Mary and Jesus. Mass is at midnight and then everyone goes home to eat and open presents. This lasts until about 3 or 4 am when everyone finally goes off to sleep. Well we all know I'm not a late nighter, so I just watched the parade with Deborah and then we parted so that she could go spend Christmas with her new host family that she would be meeting that night.

After the parade, the walk back to the hostel was a refreshing solitude compared to the frenzy of the market earlier and parade and fireworks. I enjoyed walking the cobblestone streets in the dark and watched others go about their night. I stopped at a book fair and bought a bought of poems by Pablo Neruda.


Surprisingly on Christmas day, Monte Alban, the Zapotec ruins above the city of Oaxaca, were open, so I went there with another new friend, Rachel. Rachel is from New York. We toured the ruins and sat and talked with some of the vendors for awhile, learning about their lives. I was starving and Rachel was feeling antsy so we parted ways. I got lunch at the museum cafe and Rachel went back to Oaxaca to explore some more. At the cafe I had tamales that were wrapped in banana plant leaves instead of corn husks and it had a deep chocolate mole inside. Oaxaca is also famous for its moles, which they make about a dozen.


After eating I went and shopped at all the vendors lining the parking lot the led to the ruins before getting back on the bus to Oaxaca. The last couple days were filled with shopping at various markets, trying new places to eat and stopping at far too many bookstores. I got a few novels in Spanish, one in English and a new travel journal because mine was filled up. I was surprised to see how much Spanish I could understand and only found myself struggling a little to express myself. My trip was far too short and I'm excited for the next one.

Adventures in Insomnia Part 12

Ok, I haven't really written 11 issues of "Adventures in Insomnia" but maybe I should. I come up with some pretty intriguing thoughts while unable to sleep. I've come to the conclusion that my new neighbors (who moved in at 11:30pm a few weeks ago) don't have the happiest marriage. They don't have the happiest 3 or 4 year old child either.

I've had trouble sleeping for as long as I can remember. Literally. I'm pretty sure it's got some sort of hereditary basis because I remember wandering around the house looking for a snack at 2am to find my dad lying on the couch in front of the television. When I asked what he was doing up he'd say something about not being able to sleep. That fact that I can remember that happening fairly often tells me that I've probably had insomnia for quite some time.

While I was still a spry young chicken, not being able to sleep was not that big of a deal. I could get up and read, write poetry, wander the house, watch tv, make a snack or just lay in bed and daydream. Although I guess it wasn't so much daydreaming as dreaming at 3am while completely conscious and alert. As I've gotten older and taken on a job that actually requires a good amount of energy and certain level of alertness, sleep has become a little more important and the insomnia is beginning to take on a less amusing feel to it.

So I miss my old neighbors. Who would think that two mid-twenties ladies with tons of friends would be quieter neighbors than a young man and his wife and cute little girl (ok, she looked cute at midnight the night they moved in but I'm rethinking that initial impression). I believe it was last night that I first heard my neighbors fight. The husband is fond of shouting. Very loudly. We share walls. Inappropriate. The little girl cries fairly often and fairly loud. Did I mention we share walls? The husband was just yelling which caused the little girl to start crying, then there was some fighting and more crying and then some one took off in their only car.

I had my first Ambien CR last night. Also worth mentioning is the fact that my heater took a dive last night. I nearly died in my sleep of hypothermia, but more on that later. I've only recently begun my search for the ever elusive good night's sleep. When I lived in Frazier Park and was extremely unhappy (some of you remember) I could neither fall asleep at night (for several hours) nor stay asleep (waking 3-4 times a night and staying awake for more than an hour each time. Yeah, take a moment to imagine that, will you? However, I only remember about 3 times in the last 10 years that I've fallen asleep at night and woken up to it being morning. Talk about freaky. I've spent the majority of my life being conscious of the night and the fact that I did exist at midnight, 3am, 4am, 4:30am, 5am, and I'll be damned...5:30am.

One of the times that I slept completely through the night was up at Redding. I don't even know what brought it on, I was possibly medicated. Anyway, the strangest thing happened. I crawled up into my bunk one night, got under the covers and fell asleep probably within 15 minutes of going to bed. The next thing I know, I wake up and it's morning. No, not like 2am morning, but after sunrise kind of morning. It freaked me out. I had no memory of anything happening during the night, it was as if I didn't even exist. No wonder I don't sleep through the night. It's disturbing to be missing that much of my life as if nothing happened. How can so much time go by without something happening? We're not talking an hour or two. We're talking 8-9 hours of my life completely unaccounted for!

Consider this for a moment. Most of you are reading this thinking I'm strange for thinking this way. Well imagine what it must be like to almost never have this happen; to spend the majority of your life perfectly aware of laying in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the noises outside, letting your mind wander, getting out of bed to get a drink of water, getting back in bed and letting your mind wander some more, getting out of bed to pee, going back to bed, remembering you forgot to take out the trash, getting out of bed to take it out, getting back in bed, getting back out of bed to turn off the porch light, getting back in bed, getting up and jotting down notes about the house you looked at earlier in the week, turning the light off and laying back down to toss and turn for another hour before falling back to sleep only to wake up an hour later and repeat the whole process (minus the trash and porch light). All between the hours of midnight and 4am. Then at 5am your neighbor wakes you up screaming. Yeah. Welcome to the wonderful world of insomnia for those who don't know.

My first attempt at real sleep medication (besides Valerian root, melatonin and warm milk) was a drug called Dalmane. Oh wonderful Dalmane. The first night I took it, it pissed me off. I lay awake except I was much more tired...but still awake. The second night I took it, I actually slept most of the night. Very impressive. I even felt ok the next day, not sleepy or groggy or uncoordinated. That is until I attempted to walk up a snow covered mountain with a drip torch in one hand and a 5 gallon jerry can of burn mix in the other, with my full gear on. My legs were anything but cooperative. When I got home and read up on the Dalmane, it turned out it could stay in my system for up to 72 hours. Seriously? Who would take a sleep medication that stays in your system for 72 hours? Well I suppose people who don't need to do much with themselves. But then again, if I didn't need my sleep and energy, there's a lot I could get done while the rest of the world was sleeping.

So I switched to Xanax, which in itself is not a sleeping pill. It does, however, turn off the mind when it incessantly spins around from topic to topic while I lay there helplessly trying to sleep because I have to be up at 5am to go to work. It doesn't last more than a few hours though, and 2am rolls around pretty quickly. It's disappointing to say the least.

I have begun to sleep pretty well when I'm at home these days. I fall asleep fairly quickly (less than an hour to fall asleep is pretty exciting to me) and only wake up 2 times on average and both times I usually fall back to sleep in maybe half an hour. Strangely enough though, I don't sleep when I'm on fires. When I'm my most tired, my days most demanding, at my most sleep deprived and exhausted, and in my most dire need of sleep... I don't sleep. I ache for bed hours before I lay out my sleeping bag and struggle to keep my heavy eyelids open. And finally! Finally I get to crawl into my nice cozy sleeping bag and get all snuggled in, and...... and lay there awake. To the point of outright rage. I apparently have woken other people up by wandering around looking for a Gatorade at 3am. Ooops. Sometimes I'm tempted to wake one of them up and play a couple games up checkers to see if it helps. I'd probably get my butt kicked. Apparently people like their sleep.

So last night I took one of the samples of Ambien CR that my doctor just gave me (after he informed me that the dosage of melatonin I'm taking should be 6 times higher... I'll give that a shot... only 3 times higher to being with. Let's not get crazy). I fell asleep before I could get halfway through the warning label. I woke up twice during the night (haha, some wonder drug huh?) but felt so groggy that I promptly fell back asleep (ok, not too bad). Then at 4am I woke up again, still feeling drugged and groggy. I closed my eyes and tried to go back to sleep. I was uncomfortably warm under my down comforter so I stuck my arm out from under the blanket and laid it on top. It got so cold so quickly that I jerked it back under the covers and tried to get back to sleep. I rolled around a bit and looked at the clock. 4:15. Grrr. 7 hours after I had taken the sleeping pill. I closed my eyes again and willed myself to fall back to sleep. The grogginess began to wear off. I looked at the clock again. 4:37. Good lord. Nope, go back to sleep.

At this time it occurred to me that my heater was running like crazy. It was pretty cold outside my blanket. Overnight we had winter roll in on us and we've been getting sub-freezing weather every night all week. My heater has been over worked lately. It's got a long winter ahead of it so it better buck up. Finally at 4:43 I gave up on sleep and got out of bed. AAAGGGHHH!!! It was freezing!!! Shivering from cold in my t-shit, pajama pants and socks, I stumbled to the kitchen for a cup of coffee, muttering to myself and swearing at the cold air coming from the vents. I turned on a light and squinted at the thermostat. 64 degrees. That may sound warm to some of you, but when the sub-freezing air from outside is being pumped into your house that has the heat set at 70, 64 degrees is extremely unpleasant. And 64 degrees is so far below your normal body temperature that it just isn't safe anyway. By struggling to get the cover off the thermostat, I managed to get the auxiliary power to turn on and the air warmed a bit. By the time I got back from the gym, it had heated up to a balmy 67 degrees. I turned it off for awhile to possibly re-set it then turned it back on. I figured if it wasn't warm by the time I got home, I'd either call my landlord or build a fire ring on my kitchen floor. Thankfully it appears to be working again.

So tonight I'm trying good ol' fashioned melatonin (at a slightly higher dose) and a snuggly blanket. Hopefully my heater lasts throughout the night and I don't have to get up at 2am to turn my oven on. Let's see how this goes.

Panettone

I'm now reading the book "Julie and Julia" which is now a major motion picture. Some of you know that I've been recently inspired to start cooking again now that a)I'm home and b)I can buy fresh foods without the worry of them going bad and c)after eating months of camp food, I'm fairly sick of sub par food-stuffs. The fact that all summer I actually ate something that could legally be called "food-stuffs" should tip you off right there. Not only is camp food greatly processed, fake and not so very delicious, I ate enough MRE's to have my innards permanently preserved. You could bury me in the ground as-is and I wouldn't rot for hundreds of years.

So I've re-learned the absolute joy of cooking, and cooking real food. Frozen dinners don't count. I even bought a cute little apron to inspire me. The book "Julie and Julia" has inspired me even more. In case you aren't aware of the plot, little Julie, living in New York, not exactly happy with her life, decides to take on a project of cooking every single meal in Julia Child's cook book "Mastering the Art of French Cooking" and blogging about it. No, I won't be chronicling every meal I cook. It worked for her because she was learning French cooking which is the French way of making something very simple, very difficult to make. I'm sure it's delicious. But I have no plans of killing my food, gelling anything out of calves feet or breaking apart the hip bone of a cow to extract the marrow. Like I said, I'm sure it's delicious but I'd rather go buy it... or not. Anyway, so nothing much exciting happens when I cook, but if it does, I'll write about it. For your enjoyment. Did I ever tell you guys about the few times I was cooking while extremely tired and actually reached into the oven and pulled out the pan... with my bare hands? I think maybe I did that twice, and both times had to do with extreme exhaustion. One of the times it managed to travel to my brain fast enough to let go before I got it out of the oven. The other time I wasn't so lucky. The nerve impulse traveled from my hand to my brain so slowly that I managed to pull the pan completely out of the oven only to drop it on the open door of the oven. As I recall, my dad or brother was standing there watching in amazement. Anyway, that hasn't happened in years.

I bought a loaf of Panettone at the store since it reminded me of the loaf I was gifted in Naples, Italy. It's the Italian equivalent of our fruit cake, but much lighter and I think normal people actually eat it. I was looking at things I can do with Panettone after finding a recipe for panettone and ice cream in my new Italian cookbook. The thing is, I love to cook, but I don't so much like to bake. I also have been completely against buying ice cream since I bought my own ice cream maker. It's just not allowed. But I haven't made ice cream in months. I may have to do something about that. I found some recipes for bread pudding made from panettone, but then again I don't bake. Baking really brings me no joy and no inspiration. I also found that I can make french toast with panettone. That didn't look particularly inspiring either. I'm wondering if I can just soak it in some Kahlua or something? I suppose there's only one way to find out.

Actually, instead of using Kahlua, I'm using Amarula, which is Marula fruit cream liquor. I don't know what a Marula fruit is but the mini bottle that I have has a picture of an elephant on it and says it's a product of South Africa. So this little treat is now an eclectic mix of Italy and South Africa. You cant really go wrong with that.

Woo! That's a lot of alcohol. Just dumped it right over the panettone. Maybe I should go back to the ice cream idea.

Yesterday I made a salad of grilled asparagus rolled in pancetta with mozzarella cheese, drizzled with balsamic vinegar and salt and pepper. Then I made sauerkraut with kielbasa and potatoes for dinner. I forgot how good sauerkraut is on a cold rainy day.

I'm hoping my motivation to work out kicks in sometime soon. This winter weather has me wanting to do nothing but cook and eat, which could have some disastrous consequences.

On Mental Stability

Every once in awhile I get an inkling that I might not be as mentally stable as I like to think. Today it occurred to me that I may have actual paranoia or anxiety. I was relaying a few stories to the guys at work about thinking some one wanted to kill me. The guys joked about it to the point that I realized that this happens quite often. I started to think about it and wondered if I was more paranoid than the average American. Here's a couple of the things that got me thinking:

1. Whenever I come home, I check in the closets, behind all the doors and behind the shower curtain to be sure that no one is there. Actually the shower curtain probably gets checked several times while I'm home, just in case some one crawled in there while I wasn't looking.

2. I absolutely refuse to live in a big house because I have to be able to hear if some one comes in through a window or is moving around in another room.

3. If there is a car behind me for awhile, I assume they are following me and I drive around in circles until they turn.

4. I'm afraid to go run or hike in the woods because I might be shot by a hunter mistaking me for a deer. As well as I may be attacked by a person or wild animal.

So I was wondering if maybe I had true, legit paranoia. I googled it. Wow, there are some crazy people out there. Maybe I'm delusional, I don't know, I'll have to look that up too. But I am so very far from having clinical paranoia that we might as well be opposites. I read this stuff and think: people actually think this way?

Looking up stuff under anxiety wasn't very helpful either. So I googled "looking behing the shower curtain". You would not believe how many people actually do this on a regular basis. I'm just glad there's drawers under my bed or I'd have to look under there too. Apparently this is all "normal". I just thought I was being ridiculous. Turns out I'm just being cautious. I mean it happens, right? People come home and they don't know there's some one hiding in their closet. Then they go to sleep and the person comes out and kills them. Seriously. It happens. Not just for movies anymore.

But as it turns out, a lot of people check behind the shower curtain for the boogey man. That and it's been proven that I have a very active imagination anyway.

The Laundromat Chronicles

This story starts on a brisk and windy Halloween evening, a couple hours before dark. Freaks and goblins were already out and about but I blame that on three things: it was Halloween, it was Yreka, and I was at the Laundromat.
As I pulled into the parking lot, I saw a tall skinny man with two dogs starting to come toward my vehicle. As I got out, he approached me and asked for money, stating that he was homeless. I'm definately one to give money to homeless people, but not when I'm in a position where I would have to open my purse and wallet. If the money is in my pocket and in easy reach, it's not that big of a deal. I told him sorry, I couldn't. He pressed me for a just a little bit, whatever I could spare. I told him no, I'm sorry again, and went to the other side of my vehicle. I went inside and put my laundry in the washing machine and went back to my car to take out the recycling. Watching for the man again, I walked across the parking lot to the recycling bins. After sorting it all out, I returned to my laundry to wait for the time to put it in the dryer. Normally I take off and come back in 20 minutes to switch it out. I didn't this time because I figured it wouldn't take very long and I could get it all done as soon as possible.
Some of you are aware of my stalker from the gym. He hasn't been very successful at stalking me since he called my work looking for me and they told him they didn't know who I was. He got my name wrong anyway. So there I was, choosing a magazine from the table, when a man walked in. It was my gym stalker, low and behold. I pretended I didn't recognize him (because I wasn't totally sure at first). He looked at me and then walked around to the washers and looked at them. He looked back at me. I pretended to read my magazine. He looked at the washers again. I looked up and he looked at me and said "Do you know how much these cost? I mean to run them?". I told him I did not. He walked out. I pretended to continue reading my magazine. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a dark grey extended cab pick-up. Before I could stand up to take a better look or get a license plate number, he was gone.
I figure he was driving by, saw me at the recycling bin and saw me walk into the laundromat. He must have been thinking "That's the girl from the gym!". So he thought he'd get a closer look. He needed some lame excuse so he asked about the cost of the washing machines, hoping to get me to talk. After he left I looked at the machines and they said in huge numbers $2.00- in black, outlined in red. On each and every machine. Red and black, staring him in the face. He knew how much the machines were, he could read. Which unfortunately means that now he might realize what my vehicle looks like.
So I called my good friend, Gwen to let her know what just happened. As I was talking to her, a man in a Dolphins jersey walked in with a cigarette in his mouth, a gun in his hand and a Bank of America zippered pouch in the other. He shook the gun around and said something about a laundry stick up. Then he sort of sauntered out. I went on with my conversation with Gwen. After I got off the phone with her, he came back in and apologized for scaring me. I nodded and said I figured with it being Halloween and all... He said he was working on his new place, he's opening up a pet store right next to the laundromat. I should come there, he'll beat Medford's prices. I told him I didn't have any pets but that I would spread the word. He said his grand opening will be on Veteren's day. His buddy is going to barbeque. There's going to be free food as well as free adult drinks in the back. "Awesome." I said. "Yeah, so tell everyone, bring your friends".
I went to my car to get the dryer sheets and he stood outside his shop, gun still in hand, saying how he's doing his decorating, getting all ready. "How exciting for you." I told him. "Yeah, and we're gonna have like a club in the back, where me and the guys can hang out and stuff. It's gonna have it's own back door... cause sometimes it sucks going to the bar and all. We'll invite the girls sometimes too." Hmm. So there's going to be a petshop next door to the laundromat that has a man cave/night club in the back. Eureka. No, not quite. Yreka. You betcha.
After stuffing my clothes in the dryer, I drove home, taking all sorts of side streets and driving past my place 3 times, just to make sure I wasn't being followed by the gym stalker. I drove past the police station and then back home. On my way home, a cop in front of me lit up some hoodlums that were probably pestering some little kids for their candy. I've got my candy all ready to hand out, but I still have to head back to the laundromat for my clothes. Hopefully they're still there and the gym guy didn't come in and steal my underwear. That would suck.

Update

Well it's been forever since I've posted and even longer since I've sat down to do any real writing, so I figured I'd hop on here and share the latest and greatest. Fire season is officially over and we're into the winter season. I think this year I will create an awe-inspiring recruitment video for people wanting to work year round, full time. I've got some great pictures of a large bonfire created by extra brush and junk from around the station. I also have a short video of getting one of the engines stuck in the mud, and then un-stuck along with interviews from onlookers. I feel like people should be more informed on their decisions to either become or not to become a permanent year round employee.

Just yesterday I got lost in the woods. Seriously. Awhile back I read a book called Deep Survival (very good book)that differentiates between the characteristics and patterns of people who survive while lost in the woods and people who do not. Surprisingly, I had more traits of the people who do not survive in the woods. Many of you may be shocked to hear that... then again, some of you may not. A particular pattern of people who do not survive being lost in the woods (or out at sea, or whatever the trial may be) was that the person, upon realizing that he or she is lost, does not back track to a point where they knew where they were. This may have something to do with stubbornness and not wanting to "waste time" back tracking. I don't know, really, but it's complete and utter foolishness.

One of the guys and I were sent out into the wilderness of Oregon to check brush piles we had burned a couple days prior. It was no big deal because it had been raining for several days, we just needed to be sure they weren't going to "get away" (as if). Being such a low complexity task, a small area to be checked, and the fact that we were expecting more rain, I brought nothing but a jacket, a radio (the kind you talk on), a cell phone, my helmet (trees ya know) and the keys to the truck. No gear, no compass, no GPS, no map, no food, no water (it was very damp and cold out there... and there were several streams anyway). Very low danger in my opinion.

As I started out towards an unfamiliar area that was burned (I had burned piles on the other side of the mountain) I had a thought that I should GPS the location of the truck, as is customary when leaving our vehicles and heading out to a fire. Since I had left mine at the station, I quickly dismissed the thought and went on my way. I finally came across some freshly burned piles that were rather drenched. I finished my route and called over the radio to the other guy who was checking the other side. He said he was on his way toward me, so I started toward him. We would meet in the middle and head back to the truck and back to the station. Quick and simple.

Well not really. It wasn't long before I noticed I hadn't seen any piles. So I shouted to locate my coworker. When I didn't get a response, I asked him over the radio to "give me a hoot". I heard nothing. So I kept on going, thinking I'd hear him eventually. After not hearing him for awhile, I figured I had gone too far and started back the way I had come. But then I thought how mean of me it was to walk back the other way when he was supposed to be walking towards me. He'd end up having to walk further than me. So I turned around and went back the other way. After some time, I started to think that it was possible that I was lost. We weren't far from the truck so I decided to walk down the mountain, find the road, and just walk back to the truck and meet the guy there.

I heard something big rustling behind me. I turned to see the branches of a tree swaying rather wildly. I asked my coworker over the radio if that was him or a big animal in the bushes. He asked if I heard his shout. I definately did not, which meant it was definately an animal. I backed away into the other direction, making sure I wasn't followed. I made my way down the mountainside and came across a road. I followed the road to a stream. We had crossed a stream on our way out there... unfortunately, this stream was flowing the opposite direction. I figured it was either a different stream or it was after a bend in the stream. I turned around again to head back to where I thought the truck was. I called to my coworker and asked him over the radio to call back. He didn't hear me and I didn't hear him.

It was at that moment that I realized I was actually lost. Like, for real. I thought about that chapter in Deep Survival about back tracking to the point where I actually knew where I was. I looked at my watch. That would take forever. And if we took forever, my boss would find out that I had gotten lost and I'd be forever embarrassed. I walked on. I couldn't be far from the truck. I told my coworker that if he met me on the road, I might be able to hear him better. After walking some time, I came across a network of dirt roads that I had never seen before. Now I knew for sure I was lost. I got a small little inkling of dread, but knew I wasn't in any danger yet. But we were fast approaching the point where we'd have to let some one know that I was lost. I found another stream, this time going in the correct direction. I radioed to my coworker to go back to the truck and hit the sirens. Surely I would hear that. I waited in place until he got to the truck. I heard nothing. At this point it occurred to me that he could be messing with me and not really hitting the sirens, and possibly following me around to see if I would panic when I got lost. Since we were on a channel where others could potentially hear our conversation, I asked him to switch to our secret squirrel channel.

After switching, I asked if he was truly running the sirens. He was. He tried pointing me to landmarks, asking if I could see the smoke on the hillside. I could not. I asked if he had a map. Maybe I could describe the terrain features I was seeing and he could guide me in. I turned on my cell phone and saw I had reception. I considered calling my boss, but knew I'd never live it down. I decided to head north. It felt right. I came along a fence with a Forest Service boundary sign. That was a good omen. My coworker had been unable to find a map. So I checked out the Verizon Wireless navigator on my phone. I opened the file and uploaded it (for $2.99). It told me I was in Ashland, OR. I wasn't quite (or maybe I was?). I called my coworker and asked if he had a GPS. When I asked my phone about my location, it gave me my coordinates in latitude and longitude. If my coworker had a GPS, he could punch that in, and it would point him to exactly where I was. He did not have, and could not find, a GPS.

Walking towards another road, I tripped over some barbed wire on the ground and fell so hard it knocked my helmet off. Out loud I scolded myself, saying this was definately not a time to get hurt or go unconcious because neither of us knew where I was and I had the keys to the truck (actually a good thing- this way he couldn't leave me behind). After clearing a couple of ridges, I asked him to hit the siren again. This time I heard it. I was so thankful. I started walking toward it and found another road. After finding the road, I found where we had started burning days earlier. I was so happy to be found again!

On the way back to the station, we talked about it and laughed, as well as tisked ourselves for not bringing gear or compasses or GPS units. I was just glad I hadn't panicked and called my boss. We stopped at the gas station on the way home and I got a well deserved Blackberry Oreo milkshake. I told my coworker how I have this innate ability to get lost no matter the situation or where I am. City, woods, swimming pool: I've gotten lost in all of them. Thankfully this one was fairly uneventful and dispatch did not have to send out a search party for me. However, I'm glad to say, if they did, at least I had my GPS coordinates and they would have found me fairly quickly. But I would certainly never live it down.

Mechanics, and other not-so-vacation-like items.

We got home from two weeks in Oregon last night and of course my car battery was dead. My friends jumped it last night but I only let it run a few minutes, so the battery didn't fully charge back up again. Running late to get my eyebrows waxed, I hopped in my car only to figure out the battery was dead again. I jumped on my bike and pedaled furiously to get there in time. As I laid back to let the lady fix what two weeks of very little grooming had done to my face, she asked if I had kids in school. I replied that I had no kids. She thought that was fine and well because I'm young and have plenty of time because parents that start older seem to do better anyway. I wondered how old she thought I was but decided I didn't want to know. Old enough to be an old parent.

So I rode my bike to the nearest Rite Aid and bought some new anti-wrinkle cream and eye cream and vowed to take better care of my skin while away at fires. I've been using baby-wipes to wash my face at night and absolutely no lotions or creams but I've now switched to daily facials wipes and a night cream. Apparently I'm too old to be letting myself go this way.

When I got home I proceeded to take the old battery out of my car. Along came a man walking down the road who declared "A woman! Working on a jeep! I like that!". I forced a laugh. You would think that would instill in me a certain sense of pride or empowerment. Girl power of some sort. I tell you this: it did not. And here is why. As I reached around the battery to pull it out, my hand felt something soft. Vehicle engines are anything but soft, and I've got scars to prove it. So I yanked my hand out and looked to find a ball of fur stuck between the battery and the wall of the vehicle. At that moment I really wished I had a man to do this for me. Some one to lift this heavy battery out, with the dead animal attached, and carry it to the car place to get it exchanged, and then get his own hands and arms dirty putting it back in.

So I carefully pulled the battery out and peeled the dead animal off with a pair of pliers. After dropping it on the ground, I looked back in the engine compartment and pulled the rest of it's body out with the same pliers. I was throughly disgusted. I have no idea what kind of animal it was but I'm guessing a sort of squirrel.

I put the 40 lb battery in a backpack and pedaled a few blocks to the auto part store. I exchanged the battery for a good one (costing $80) and the guy tried to stuff it into my backpack. It didn't fit right side up so I just told him to turn it on it's side. The lady sitting at the counter offered to drive it home for me. Being 3 blocks away, I refused. She said I better hope it doesn't leak or I'll experience an intense burning down my crack. Reason number two for having a man there to help me out with these sort of things: do good, healthy batteries leak like that? I hoped they didn't as I slung it back over my shoulders and pedaled for home.

Now my vehicle runs and the dead animal is out of my car. It's time to go dye my hair and slather on anti-wrinkle cream. By the way, I may be experiencing arthritis in my fingers. I've been off my glucosamine supplements for some time. I'm back on them now. This is ridiculous.

First Roll of the Season

I was awakened from a deep sleep at 4:45pm by a text message from Brian asking when we were going out for sushi. I texted back that I'd get with Jeff and let him know. Still half asleep I called Jeff, who despises text messaging.

"Refurb sucks!" he declared. "What are you doing?"

"I'm sleeping" I mumbled.

"I've been doing laundry all day and I just got my sleeping bag done. Did you get anything done today?" He asked.

I proceeded to tell him about how my car door had been left open in my haste to get to work the day we left for Arizona and since we had been gone 18 days, the battery had completely died and when Gwen and Brian came over to jump it, it set off the car alarm I didn't know I had. After push starting the car and dropping it off at the mechanic to get the alarm removed I had taken my second nap of the day. After picking it up, I went into my third.

Eighteen 16 hour days will take it's toll on anybody, and 2 mandatory (paid) days off afterwards are hardly enough to recover, let alone do everything that needs to be done to be ready to go back out again (refurb). Nasty, smelly laundry needs to be washed (twice?), refrigerators need to be cleaned out and stocked with boxes of opened baking soda to absorb the smell, sleeping bags need to be aired out or washed, and red bags (our away bags) need to be restocked with clean underwear, socks, a new t-shirt and another packet of baby wipes.

We took two days to reach Arizona, stopping briefly for gas and food every few hours. We prepositioned in Payson for the red flag weather they were predicted to have. After a couple days of doing project work for the local forest, we sprung a fire two hours north in Williams. The base of the fire was at 7500ft and the top at 9000. Imagine my horror. The first day was spent in 30 mile an hour winds with spot fires as far as a mile out. We burned between the fire and a dozer line in order to create a good solid black line to stop the fire. We all got take-out Denny's for dinner: steak and mashed potatoes and slept in sleeping bags.

The next couple days were spent hiking around in the high altitude in steep terrain in deep sand and gravel. Northern Arizona is actually quite pleasant with lots of pine trees and some terrific weather. It's also got it's brutal altitude though. A couple nights we "spiked out" on the fire line. Helicopters flew in supplies for us as well as our sleeping bags and food and water. We made a camp fire, ate MRE's and slept in our bags. The first night up there I awoke to the sound of tools scraping in the dirt. I figured some one was just trying to put out our camp fire that had gotten stirred up in the wild winds. After awhile of listening to it, I decided to check it out. I put on a pair of pants and threw my boots on over bare feet. I didn't bother to lace them up, grabbed a headlamp and took off toward the sound. I made it to the camp fire and no one was there. The sound was coming from down the hillside a ways, but I definately recognized it as tools scraping in the dirt. I went down the hill until I could see headlamps and an orange glow. I looked around wondering what to do. I had no idea who was down there or why, but I had seen the captain get out of his sleeping bag a little earlier. He must be down there.

I started down the mountain towards the lights. I cursed myself for not putting my glasses in my flight bag and I hadn't taken the time to put on socks, let alone contact lenses. The lights were futher down than I anticipated and I stopped briefly to consider what I was doing. What if those guys weren't from my crew? There were 3 other crews up there. What if they weren't friendly? I put aside my doubts and continued down. When I got close I called out the captain's name. To my relief he answered. One of the guys had gotten up to put our camp fire out and had noticed the spot fire down below us. It was a good thing he had, it could've taken out all 4 crews up on the hill. Since I had no helmet, no tools, and no long sleeve fire shirt, I served as a lookout to make sure they were safe. Three hours later the fire was out and we crawled back into bed. Two hours after that, we were back up and working.

We spent a couple nights there and then left that fire and went to a fire in Alpine, AZ. The weather was just as nice (highs of about 80) but the altitude was 9000ft. Thankfully the terrain there was relatively flat. Back at the fire in Williams, a new nickname for me was born. For some reason most of my nicknames don't stick, maybe it's more of a guy thing. After a grueling hike up the hill, my superintendent approached me and said I need to get more leg strength. He said I have plenty of endurance but lack the strength to go uphill with a 35lb pack on my back (at a good speed). I agreed and said my legs felt like little noodles trying to get up the hill. He laughed and said that's my new nickname: Noodle. A couple days later he sent a guy down the hill to help put out some burning logs. He said "Take Noodle with you" then asked if the name offended me. It didn't, I actually found it quite funny.

So I went 11 days without a shower, a new record for me. It would've been 12 but my scalp was itching so bad on day 11 that it was affecting my ability to work. Most pairs of underwear lasted 3 or 4 days before being changed and my socks went for about 4 or 5. My t-shirt, fire shirt and nomex pants went 16 days. On the 2 days travel home, it's tradition to travel clean. That way we don't offend the public or otherwise make a bad name for ourselves.

No one snapped on this roll, which is a good sign. Usually on long assignments there's at least one person that "snaps". It's like the postal service thing, only this one is usually caused by lack of sleep, camp crud and living in too close of quarters with 21 other smelly people who are just as tired.

Ahh, onto what hurts, what did hurt, and what's going to hurt tomorrow when I put my boots back on. Right now my feet still hurt. My knees and ankles are doing a lot better. So our boots have a hard wooden shank, or footbed. It's wood for a couple reasons. Number 1, it's strong and sturdy. 2, it doesn't heat up as much as a metal shank like other work boots have (but still gets plenty hot, believe me). 3, It can't be a nice soft cushy rubber because rubber melts when you walk through hot ash, which we do on a regular basis. Ever walked in dutch wooden clogs? Ever walked in them on a steep slanted slope with a 35lb pack on for 16 hours every day for 18 days? At one point, my ankles and feet were so swollen that I could hardly get them back in my boots in the morning. I considered sleeping in my boots to eleviate the problem. People have fat pads on the bottom of their feet, kinda like a natural built in cushion. Mine no longer exist. They disentigrated on day 6. By day 10 I was popping 4 ibruprofen and a vicodin every six hours. They hurt so bad I could hardly stand. I watched the other guys shift their feet back and forth to try to take the weight off. On steep slopes, we dug a little trench so we could stand on flat ground, if only for a few moments. I cannot describe how excruciating it was.

So now that I've been off them for 3 days, they aren't so bad. They hurt a little so I try not to walk around much. I bought a couple shoe inserts that I'm going to try. Hopefully it helps.

We got home the day before yesterday and are on day 2 of our 2 days off. Not nearly long enough. We go back to work tomorrow and will probably work the 4th of July holiday, which takes place on one of our regularly scheduled days off. I just got a massage and have been taking long deep naps every couple of hours. As a matter of fact, I think I'm due for another.

At one point it occured to me that we were working 80hr work weeks. For 2 weeks. Not at a desk or in a super market. On steep rugged terrain carrying heavy packs and swinging tools. Today at my massage, the therapist was working on some lymph nodes or something, kinda close to my armpits. It was quite uncomfortable, but she laughed and said I sure was tough "Not even a flinch". Maybe if I expose myself to enough pain and discomfort I'll become immune to it.

Home

I dreamed about my dad last night and woke up missing home. We were going out to eat at an Italian restaurant, much like the last place we went out to eat together which was DiMille's in San Diego. The place was crowded so until the waitress could find us a table, we danced on the dance floor. I woke up and rolled over to stare at the oversized painting on my wall of an elegant woman wrapped in thin linens. It reminded me of when it hung on my bedroom wall in La Mesa and Emily asked if that woman was me. For days the three of us would go back and forth and Candace would get Emily to say it was Mommy and I would get Emily to say it was me. That was an awesome house and I loved how my room was almost seperate from the rest of the house, with french doors that opened up to my own private patio where Candace and I would sit at night and have a glass of wine or a few beers. I needed a change in my life though, as I was stuck in a stale cycle of routine that was leading me to make bad decisions about my life. I'm definately happy where I am though and have some great friends up here. One of my friends here from San Diego asks me if I think I'm here for good. We wonder about it and talk about how we never really know, because after all, we somehow ended up here to begin with, but San Diego is still home.

Slow Start to Fire Season

I realize it's warm and dry elsewhere, but for most of California there's a lot of rain going on. I figured I'd post some of the websites where you can get fire information just in case you're curious. Everyday we pull up our local weather as well as the "Incident Management Situation Report" (or "SIT Report"). It tells us what is going on in the world of fire. It sometimes hints at where we might be going next or if we have any hope for a fire season at all. It can be found at www.nifc.gov/ and select "Fire Information" and "Incident Management Situation Report". IMT's are incident management teams. Our most complex IMT is the Type I IMT. When you start seeing lots of Type I's committed, we've got fire season going on. Type II's are pretty big as well.

Also, there's a forum for wildland firefighters and their families at: www.wildlandfire.com. There's a bunch of info on there as well as a bunch of firefighters chatting. If you click on "TheySaid" you can read the goings-on of firefighters across the nation. "FamilySaid" is a good support forum for families of firefighters, and I guess it's mainly used during fire season when everyone's firefighters are out and about. "HotList" has up to date information on new fire starts as well as continuing incidents.

Right now the best shows are in Alaska and Arizona. Alaska is expecting more dry lightning and therefore, more fires. My vote is for Alaska, but I would take an Arizona trip in a heartbeat. Any day now...

Handy Man Wanted

The refrigerator repair man is here right now fixing my refrigerator. My landlord is paying for it. My attempt at fixing it went badly, obviously. It has occured to me that it's so much easier to hire some one to come over and do things than to struggle with them myself. While there is one guy in town that would come over and do things for free, he's incredibly annoying and I wouldn't want to encourage him or cause him to think in any way that I need him to take care of me. He has offered to fix my fridge (but watching the pro do it, I can see it would've been too big of a job for the other guy)and build a fence in my back yard. I hate to think how that would look.

I don't even need a maid. Just some one to do stuff around the house. Put together furniture, build my fence, mow the lawn, etc. Maybe if I ever get rich I'll hire one.

Keeping Up With the Boys

All my life I’ve been trying to keep up with the boys. I had two brothers and not a lot of girlfriends, so I’d hang out with them and all their friends. Where they went, I would tag along like a puppy not wanting to be left behind or left out. When they would climb trees or shimmy up the wall between our house and the lumberyard next door, I would follow- and get stuck. My mom or dad would have to come haul me out of the tree because I couldn’t get down myself. I would follow my brothers on bikes and on cross country excursions through town before one of us got picked up by a police officer while the others ran off into the bushes. My parents always found out.

In high school I joined the boys’ freshman football team because I just wanted to play like I had with my dad and brothers. The difference of course was that my dad and brothers didn’t tackle or run into me. I stayed on the team even though I couldn’t run as fast, hit as hard, or kick or throw the ball as far as the boys could. Always trying to keep up.

When I joined the Forest Service and started working as a firefighter on a wildland fire engine, I was once again trying to keep up with the boys. Whether it was on a run, a hike or a hoselay, I was bringing up the rear, trying desperately to keep up. I wanted to be as strong as the boys, as big as them, as fast and as fearless.

Now when I hike with my Hotshot Crew I’m once again bringing up the rear, scurrying up the mountainside falling behind the pack. Every once in awhile I’ll look up and see the line of guys tightly knitted together as they march up the hill and the big gap between me and them. I feel so small buried under my heavy gear and moving my little legs as fast as I can. I hear the voice from my childhood in my head- Wait for me guys, I want to come too! I keep my mouth closed and the voice hidden because I’m an adult now, I’m supposed to be able to keep up. We aren’t kids anymore, this is serious business. But there I am, tagging along behind the boys, just trying to keep up.

Thinking this through...

I'm 13 minutes from the Boston qualifying time, which over 26 miles comes out to 30 seconds per mile faster. I don't think I need to put that kind of stress on myself. I think I'll save Boston for 2012. I could make that my aim.

My Marathon

So I just finished the Avenue of the Giants marathon. Sometimes I really have to ask myself why I wasn't born a sprinter. I can't believe I just trained 5 months to inflict pain and extreme mental and physical discomfort on myself for nearly 4 hours. I'm really not sure why people, and more importantly, I, do this sort of thing. What's worse is that I actually did it quite well which only guarantees that I will be doing it again someday and pushing myself even harder, which can only lead to more pain and discomfort. Here's the recap.

Avenue of the Giants is a gorgeous, almost flat marathon, half marathon and 10K. Just so we get this straight, ALL marathons are 26.2 miles. If it is not 26.2 miles you cannot call it a marathon. If you're running a half marathon, you must call it that and be clear that you are not running a full marathon. 13.1 miles is not a marathon. Not even close. Just had to put that out there. Trust me, if you ever run a marathon, you'll forever be irritated by people who say they are running a marathon this weekend, when they're only doing half. Moving right along. So the race follows the scenic Avenue of the Giants in Humboldt county (northern California) through groves of enormous redwood trees. It's quite breath taking. It's also hard to run while looking up at the sky in search of treetops. The weather was quite cool and the route was gorgeous. Amoung the trees are thick blankets of fern and giant clovers. Apparently there's also giant poison oak- I squatted in it to pee around mile 10.

Every once in awhile I passed by little waterfalls running under the road into the huge river that we followed most of the way. The trees allow for a lot of shade (I'm not kidding when I say they're huge) so it was nice and cool. So cool in fact, that I over hydrated, causing me to have to stop 3 times in the first half of the marathon to pee. Thankfully a few aid stations had bananas because I was starving. I had scrambled eggs and toast for breakfast but I get so hungry when I run these days.

I was actually quite surprised by my ability to stay in the moment for the majority of the run. Usually I get through a run, mentally, by envisioning what it will be like to stop and be done. Since this was going to be a 4 hour trip I decided that wasn't a good idea and I was going to have to settle in and get comfortable (hahaha). So I pictured it to be a day trip. It worked well for awhile and I was way ahead of pace. I just wanted to be under 4:30. When I ran my first (and only) marathon years ago, I hadn't trained very well for it and ran a 5:29. Kinda sad, but whatever, it was my first one. So I had been training to get under 4:30.

I just tried to focus on being in the present and not let myself think about being done (because it was hours away). I did great with that until about mile 18, then things started to hurt. I was worried because I knew I had been running quite a bit faster than I had planned and trained for, which in a race that long can lead to absolute disaster- like having to be carried off the course by an ambulance. My breathing was doing really well though and I had tried to slow down several times during the race to no avail. Sometimes your legs just want to go a certain speed, so you do.

Around mile 20 I began to wonder why on earth I would do such a thing to myself. It was stupid and painful and I didn't want to be doing it anymore. So I just ran faster. I started to pass by a bunch of walkers (fast people who couldn't run anymore)and picked it up even more. The sooner I got done, the sooner I could stop running. There was a point around mile 21 or 22 that I actually almost cried. But I reminded myself that if I cried I would have a much harder time breathing, so I choked back the tears and pushed on. The last 4 miles were the longest of the entire race, but once I got to mile 25 my brain quit working. I just ran. I pulled ahead of so many people in that last mile. As I crossed the finish line, I heard my name being called over the loud speaker "Carrie Bowers from Yreka!" and I almost cried again.

Then I stopped and walked. I had made it in 3:53. An awesome time for me but not quite Boston Qualifying-- which, why the hell would I want to do that? If you've ever done a marathon, the ending is always the same. You stop running, then walk to the people giving out finishers medals, then to the water and food corral. It's literally like herding cattle. I stuffed my face with food (this is instantly, like 30 seconds after finishing) and grabbed a bottle of water and drank several cups of electrolyte replacement drink. I was hurting so bad at that time that I was ready to cry again. Everything hurt. And it hurt deep down to my bones. I hobbled to my car and grabbed two motrin and a leftover vicodin from my surgery. Then I hobbled back to listen to the awards ceremony and eat more food.

Now I'm offically on bed rest. Boston Qualifying time for my age group is 3:40. Everyone is talking about it. Lame. See, Boston is a fairly respected marathon. I guess it's like the marathon of marathons. It's in April. A couple people have already talked to me about it. Here's the thing. You have to qualify for it first. You can't just enter. So if I want to run Boston (ick) not only would I hve to run that one, but I'd have to run one before it and go a 3:40. I'm going to avoid this for awhile.

So I texted my buddy Brian, who is one of those fast marathon runners (much faster than me) and told him I don't know why I do stupid stuff like this. He said it's because I'm psycho like the rest of them. Grrr.

First Assignment for Writing Class

I wondered how many days in a row I could cook my brain before I did permanent damage, as I started up the mountain for the second consecutive day under warmer weather than we’d had all year. It was the Friday of my second week on a Hotshot Crew in Northern California and only a few of the overhead were at work. The rest of the twenty person fire crew would show up in two weeks and I had a lot of work to do to even get close to the required physical condition that these elite hand crews demand. Hotshots regularly hike several miles in steep terrain to reach a fire before going to work on clearing brush and setting backfires or burning out vegetation in advance of the main fire. I had spent five years on a wildland fire engine and had only limited experience on a Hotshot Crew, but for some reason it was what my heart wanted so I was damned to follow regardless of the pain and difficulty.

Loaded down with thirty-five pounds of gear on my back and a twenty-five pound chainsaw slung over my right shoulder I trudged behind our other Senior Firefighter and focused on setting my boot down in the dirt where his picked up. Wearing green pants, a long sleeve yellow fire shirt, wool socks and leather lace up boots that rose to the base of my calf, I could feel my body temperature start to rise within minutes of the start of the hike. I could feel sweat start to gather in the sweatband of my white hard hart that bore a sticker with the Hotshot emblem on each side. Jeff, hung over from a late night at Jolly’s, lead the hike wearing the same uniform and carrying the exact same gear. The difference was, I was half his size.

We had hiked a much steeper and longer hike the day before and I had nearly collapsed. They offered to take the saw from me but there was no way I was going to be the girl that couldn’t hike a saw, so I staggered up the mountain overheated and exhausted with one of the guys behind me to steady me when I started to topple, which happened more frequently than you would think. Without him there I surely would have tumbled down the mountain for quite a ways before coming to a stop at a landing.

This year I would be one of three women among seventeen rugged and dirty men but I was the only female on the crew who was a Senior Firefighter, which put me somewhere in the middle of the ranks. I would be expected (and I expected myself) to lead by example, both physically and mentally. Becoming a Hotshot doesn’t merely involve being hired onto a Hotshot Crew; it must be earned through sweat, hard work, dedication and having enough grit in your heart to earn the respect of your peers that are already considered Hotshots and have been for years. Technically yes, I am a Hotshot for I’ve been hired on as one but that doesn’t buy me a belt buckle or the ability to lead so the crewmembers under me will follow.

During the weeks preceding my transfer from an engine in Southern California to a Hotshot Crew in Northern California, I had endured so many expressions of doubt from friends, family and coworkers. Everyone worried, as did I , about the stability of the vein in my shoulder that had literally been crushed between my rib and collar bone the summer before during a short term detail on another Northern California Hotshot Crew. My rib had been removed and a new vein grafted out of my leg and after 5 months on Disability, my doctor had released me to full duty. My arm still felt funny sometimes, as if some one was kinking a hose in my armpit, but I had yet to develop swelling and figured this was how it was going to be for the rest of my life. A firefighter assigned to a helicopter actually told me I shouldn’t go to a Hotshot Crew and belonged on an engine. He said “Hotshot Crews tear girls up”. When I responded that Hotshot Crews tear guys up too, he responded with “You don’t want to go to Klamath Hotshots, they’re dirty!” I’m not sure what about me gave him the impression that I didn’t like to get dirty because I never showed up to work wearing make-up and it was a rare occasion that I even wore deodorant.

I continue to lace up my boots despite my own doubts and comments from others because I absolutely love my job and the pride that comes with a long day of hard work. The smell of smoke is fairly equal in my book to that of freshly brewed coffee in the morning. It soothes me much like the feeling of home. Ignoring all my setbacks, I’ve started a new chapter in my life: packed up all of my belongings and relocated to a new town filled with strangers. I put on my brave face, but in all honesty I’m afraid I won’t be able to keep up with the crew, that they won’t like me and that I’ve committed myself to several years of loneliness and extreme physical demands. I’m afraid but I will keep my head down to hide my pain and fatigue and I will act like a leader. I will clench my jaw when I want to cry and I will act like a Hotshot, and maybe, I’ll become one.

Cops and Books

I've been meaning to get a library card up here and am reminded of it every time I pass the library. The only reason I haven't yet is because I've still got several books that I bought that need to be read.

All week I'm helping out with the First Responder class downtown at the Yreka Fire Department which is directly across the street from the library. The library is a big white old western style building with the word "LIBRARY" at the top over big brown doors. Curiously though, on the lawn of the library is a sign that says "Yreka Police Department". I always figured the police station was attached to the library and was situated in the back- that's where all their patrol cars are parked.

Today I was looking out the fire station window at the library across the street and realized it wasn't that big of a building. You couldn't possibly fit a police station and a library in a building that small. I asked a couple of the guys that were sitting around and they responded that that's no longer the library. It was the historical building of the library, but it is now the Yreka Police Department. How confusing! And here I was going to just walk in and ask for a library card. Imagine my embarassment when I walked through the front door of the library only to be greeted by a cop.
"May I help you ma'am?"
"Uh, I'd like to get a library card?"

How embarassing. Maybe I should do it anyway just for kicks. But now I wouldn't be able to keep a straight face. I guess the library is now located up the road a ways. But they don't take the sign down because it's a historical landmark. There's also weird signs on some people's houses, but they're just houses, not what the signs say. This reminds me of a book I read when I was a kid called "Sideways Stories of Wayside School" or something like that. Or maybe it's the Twilight Zone I'm reminded of.

Spiders

The one thing I can’t handle about being single is having to kill my own spiders. Today there was a uniquely patterned jumping spider waiting to get inside my front door. First I tried to take a picture of him with my phone because it was so unbelievable in size and color- stocky with a bright orange butt. But then he started to move and I realized this was a serious time, not a photo opportunity. I picked up a gardening glove and whipped at him with it… and missed completely. He hardly flinched. I grabbed a hand trowel and swung- missed again. He dropped to the ground in front of me, or so I thought. Seconds later I realized he had jumped, and would jump again. Dear God, jumping spiders. I’m not sure there’s anything more terrifying in this world. Whose brilliant idea was it to give such frightening creatures the ability to jump about? I saw him disappear under a flower pot. I picked it up and didn’t see him. The clever thing was clinging to the bottom of the pot. I banged it on the ground until he let go, and sat there, waiting for my next move. I stepped on him. He was shockingly juicy.

Right now there’s a tiny spider on my kitchen ceiling. His small stature is one of the very few reasons he’s still alive, as he has been for days. I saw him on my ceiling yesterday, but ceiling spiders present a very difficult problem. I could easily pull up the stool and hit him with my sandal, but my track record for being able to hit what I swing at would only ensure that the spider would drop straight down onto my head and cause an outright panic and possible heart attack. I can’t risk having a spider fall on my head so he’s still alive until he moves onto a wall or I figure out a way to approach the situation.

Area Photos

This is a view of Mt. Shasta from a trail I was walking the dog on. There's a cool lenticular cloud off to the left.

Here is my little town of Yreka with Mt. Shasta in the background. Mt. Shasta is quite the imposing landmark around here. It's shocking to turn down a road and see the bright white glare of it. It was around sunset in this picture so you can't really tell how white it usually is. Fun fact (or possibly fact): Yreka was originally named Wyreka which was some Indian word meaning "White Mountain". Whoever was in charge at the time misspelled it and it was never corrected.

This is the zoomed in version of Mt. Shasta. The pictures really do not do it justice. It's very breath taking.

This is the view from the second stop along our crew hike out at our station. It's a long steep hike.

This is the view from the front door of the Hotshot office at the station. I'm fairly happy with it.

Oiy.

I haven't written since I moved up here because everything's been so crazy. But I thought I'd post some pics of the place. Sorry to keep you guys waiting. I'll be taking more, but it's been rainy and I've been running around everywhere. Right now I don't have many pictures up at my place, so you'll notice the walls are bare. Like I said, it's been crazy here and right now I'm house/dog sitting for a friend so I haven't even been spending any time at my place.

Here's my place, the door on the left. The one on the right is the neighbors. It's a duplex, so I'm only joined to one pair of neighbors.

This is the kitchen that leads out to my little patio.

My living room, nice big window faces the street, but it's not a real busy street.

My room.

The bathroom... obviously.

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My patio- a little bare right now.

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This is what the spare bedroom consists of right now. It's the same size as my room. My room faces my patio, this faces the street.

Today I went and took a bunch of pictures of the area because it was a gorgeous day, so stay tuned for more pics.

Moving Day!

Today I will go into work, turn in my keys and pick up my training folder, then head down to Canyon Country to pick up my uhaul. I'm loading up everything I own today and starting to drive up to Yreka. Corey (CEO of Shark Finn Movers) is going with me to help out and then flying back. We'll stay in Sacramento tonight and then move into my new home tomorrow. Which reminds me, I need to call my grandmother...