Photography Day!

I set out this morning to take some more pictures of the balloon fair, hopefully with one that had Mt. Shasta as a backdrop. They didn't launch this morning though, probably due to weather. But I had a small window of opportunity for some awesome pictures.

I bundled up (it's cold here now) and hopped into my jeep and headed north. I knew just the place I wanted to set up. By set up, I mean park my jeep on the side of the road and start snapping away.

As it turns out, both Shasta and the neighboring mountains got a fresh blanket of snow. Sunrise over Shasta Valley (where I live).

 

 

 

This picture here is an attempt at a scene I've been wanting to capture for awhile. But usually I don't have my camera. Here, I've got my camera but the light is just not right. I need a day that's a bit sunnier. I feel like it's the quintessential Shasta Valley: pasture and cows, the Little Shasta River, and of course Mt. Shasta. The sun wasn't cooperating though. Oh well, another day.

 

 

 

The eastern edge of the Shasta Valley has a line of foothill mountains with a larger range behind it. The clouds were rolling over the foothills like ocean waves. I love black and white photography but also had to capture a color photo since the colors are just so gorgeous out here. 

 

Around Montague

The Montague Balloon Fair is this weekend, and while I've worked most of it, today there should be a launch as well...as long as the weather holds up. It rained pretty hard here yesterday. On Friday though, as I was getting ready for work, I went out on my front porch and realized I could watch the balloon fair from my house! Here's a few photos.

 

 

And then yesterday as I was driving home from work, I captured these few images:

 

 

 

The other night I missed a great opportunity at a gorgeous shot of the harvest moon sitting on the shoulder of Goosenest Mtn because I didn't have my camera with me. So I'm trying to make a point to have it near more often. 



The Price of Habit

People speak so highly of will power and self-discipline, but I find those characteristics miserable. I crave habit- the result of a few weeks of will power and self-discipline. When I no longer have to dig deep for motivation to get me out of my soft, cozy bed when it's still dark outside.

I'm working on getting back into my winter routine: gym in the morning before work and another workout at work. I've been to the gym a few times lately and have done a couple runs. I'm out of shape, tired and unmotivated. Some of you might scoff in disbelief. Hey people, it's hard for me too!

This morning I awoke to the sound of my gurgling coffee pot. My bed was warm and soft, my body tired from a weekend of yard work, cleaning the house and moving and stacking two chords of firewood. Not even the coffee pot could lure me out of bed.

I watched the clock. 5:10. Yeah you're fine now but in two weeks you have to actually be arriving at the gym right now. Get up!

Without turning on any lights I stumbled to the kitchen and poured a cup of coffee. Yes, I pour my coffee in the dark. Lights are harsh. I brought my coffee back to bed with me and sipped it in the dark.

5:20. Geez! How did that happen? Guess I'm not making it to the gym at 6am. I turned on the lights and got dressed.

I made it to the gym at 6:15, grabbed a 30lb barbell and took it to the basketball court. I did a couple warm up lunges with no weight and then lined up on the red line behind the barbell. I would lunge across the gym with the barbell and go immediately into a one minute plank. Repeat for 3 sets.

Go.

My balance was off and my knee hurt from putting it down on a nail while painting the house- full weight of my body onto the thin edge of the head as it lay on the ground. I made it to the end of the court (lengthwise), set the barbell down and lowered myself to the floor.

And there it was.

I don't even know what to call it. It's this child-like whimper of a voice that cries out from the depths of my soul. This is what I battle day in and day out. You could say it's weakness trying to take over,  but that doesn't even begin to describe it.

It was in that very brief moment that I realized exactly how much aggressiveness successful weightlifting depends on. And at that moment my very heart and soul lay curled in a fetal position, whimpering on the gym floor. What's a girl got left to hold on to?

Habit, I told myself. I glanced at my watch, put my elbows down and planked. You have done this a hundred times before, you will do this now. One minute, sip of water, repeat.

Awesome. Demon conquered. Now squat.

I managed to half-ass my workout, did a decent stretch and slunk on home. The weather called for rain. I stayed in my gym shorts and headed for work.

Clouds loomed overhead. I was going to get rained on. Thankfully another guy at work was going to run as well. So off we went, a bit faster than I had planned on going. We got rained on, but finished the hilly 3.2 mile run.

Nothing, and I mean nothing, can hold a candle to the power of habit. Once established, habit will get you out the door and running in snow storms. Relying on will power and self-discipline leaves me naked and ill-prepared for that whimpering child that tugs me back towards bed or the nearest floor. I've heard it takes two or three weeks to develop a habit. Let's hope it's two.

Habit does what self-discipline and will power cannot. Habit hears that whimper, puts on a pair of headphones and gym shoes and walks out the door- leaving that whimpering child at home in bed where she belongs.

What we endure to get by

Sitting on my front porch with a pint of Raspberry Brown from Lost Coast Brewery, I consider the lives of the van Goethem girls in the book I just finished. Their father dead and their mother lost at the bottom of a bottle of absynthe, the three sisters struggle through life to pay the rent and put food on the table by dancing in the opera, working in a laundry house or working as a prostitute. It's a harsher side of life than the one myself and my family live in, but it makes me think about the things we do to get by.

My forearms are covered in scratches from hauling brush and trees away from the fire side of a razor-back ridge. During a swing shift of 10am to 2am I attempted to rescue an unresponsive tree from the fate of smoke inhalation. Gagging and choking on hot smoke, I pulled embers out of the "green" and tossed them into the black to prevent spot fires from flaring up. My eyes burned and my nose ran snot into the back of my stinging throat. Through the smoke I got a glimpse of a silhouette of one of my crewmembers, hunched over, frozen by the thick astringent blanket of smoke.

"Hey! Are you alright?!" I shouted. There was no response. I felt the other crewmembers around me grow silent. The figure didn't move, didn't respond. I had to get him out of this smoke! I blinked my tears away and lunged toward him.

"Hey!" I shouted as I reached my hand out to grab his shoulder. My hand went straight through a tangle of branches. What the hell?

I stepped forward and parted the branches. It was the tree we just cut down that had caught fire on the wrong side of the line. There was no person there. I knew my crewmembers were somewhere in the smoke, awaiting word on the crewmember in trouble.

"I'm talking to a tree!" I said, loud enough so everyone could hear.

"Carrie, get out of the smoke!"

I laughed and stumbled out to cleaner air.

Days of disjointed swing shift up a steep mountain, taping the wounds on my feet with duct tape as it is the only thing that can withstand the rigors of steep terrain and 16 hour days of hot sweaty boots. I think of the back pain, the bug bites and the scratches on my arms that will take another week to heal. Then I consider the letters to all the professors, praising their work and asking to join their research team and I wonder who I'm selling my soul to this time.

Montana Roll

I'm sitting in the Portland airport on a 3 hour layover. After two weeks on two different fires in Montana, the crew has been extended a third week and I have been blessed with a trip home to complete my college applications that open up tomorrow.

I was not excited to be dispatched to Montana, being as Montana is home to the dreaded "bear grass" that nearly made my hands permanently inoperable two years ago. Bear grass does not give way to a swinging tool and the rocks buried between their potato-like roots dull our tools to the point of being like a round rock. If you've never tried to dig a ditch with a round rock, I suggest you give it a try. After 12 or so hours of doing so, your hands, arms and shoulders will know what it's like to dig a day in bear grass.

Anyway, so off we went to St. Regis, MT. We spent several days prepping roads and dozer lines for a burn operation that never occurred. Prepping means to cut down brush and trees within 20-40 feet of the line that you'll be using to burn off of. After the chainsaws cut everything, the rest of us move it to the other side of the road- called "swamping". Swamping is exhausting. There are swampers on the crew who work directly with the chain saws on a regular basis. I do not have the brute strength and stamina of a swamper, therefore I am on a tool. A Pulaski to be exact. Anyway, but when we're prepping the roads, the only person not swamping is the sawyer. So after a few days of swamping, I was exhausted.

One day we actually got to burn. I was in charge of one side of the hill while the rest of my crew worked the other side. All day I hiked around and stood on a steep slope (standing on a steep slope is horrendous) directing guys with drip torches where to put down fire. My feet were done.

We spent a few more days putting out that fire and then were sent to Helena to stage...except that we weren't. We were directed to Philipsburg where there was a fire. After some finagling, my superintendent got us on that fire. It was too far to hike in, so they decided to fly us in to the fire on a helicopter. I like helicopters. I think they are cool and I like that it saves me from a lot of walking. My superintendent does not like helicopters. I think he's been in a few "hard landings".

My superintendent was in the first load, I was in the second. We laughed as he settled into the ship and then waved at us on take-off, knowing that he was thinking how he was about to die and this was the last he would ever see of his crew. Just after take-off, the helicopter stopped it's forward motion and hovered strangely. We saw the pilot's door open for a few seconds. I looked over at the helitack crew (helicopter crewmembers and support personnel) on the ground, knowing that if it was no big deal, they'd be going about their business. They both stood and stared, frozen in place. Oh my god. I thought. They're really going to crash. One crewmember had just finished telling me that she was strangely nervous about this flight, more so than her last one.

"Is the pilot's door open?" She asked. Helicopters are fairly fragile. They're made of very lightweight materials and very susceptible to movement inside the aircraft. A door opening can be very hazardous.

The door closed again, the ship hovered not very far above the ground, the helitack personnel continued to stare. We all watched and muttered obscenities. Finally it lifted a little higher and was off over the mountains. When I later asked my superintendent what that was all about, he said there was a bee in the cockpit. Geezo.

Next it was my turn. My group and I loaded into the helicopter and I got a window seat. We lifted off the ground to the loud drone of the rotors. All of us wore our regular hard hats instead of the flight helmets that allow you to talk to the pilot or the people on the ground. The new guys snapped photos of the mountains and ground that fell away below us. I closed my eyes. I knew when we set down on the ground we would get to work. It was already past 7pm. I was tired and ready to go home. I opened my eyes again and looked out across the horizon. Another fire burned some 50 miles away. Trees killed by bugs lined the valleys below us. We passed a bright green meadow. Suddenly the fire appeared below us, a big column of smoke to the left and a “spotty burn” out the right window. It was going to be a long week. Spotty burns, where the fire’s edge is sporadic instead of one solid front, are much more difficult to deal with and a lot more work. I didn’t want the helicopter to land.

But we did finally land and went straight to work. Within the first 10 minutes I slammed the (very sharp) ax end of my Pulaski into a rock, taking out a large divot. That would take days of sharpening to work out. Loud swearing ensued. I continued on in a bad mood. Finally they called it quits for the night and we hiked to our “spike camp” where our personal bags were waiting with our sleeping bags and snugglies. We ate military rations (MRE’s) for dinner and I got to bed around 11pm. It was a restless night and at 6am I unzipped myself from my cocoon and wrestled my sore feet back into my cold and shrunken boots.

By 9am I had broken open a blister on the palm of my hand and every rock I hit vibrated into my wrist. By 10am a second blister opened up. I asked around for medical tape and no one had any. One guy had “New Skin” which is basically clear fingernail polish that seals off the wound. Not to be taken lightly. I painted it on both blisters as my small squad gathered around to watch the tears flow from my eyes. I kept it together and they were disappointed. We continued on. An hour later the new skin started peeling off. I peeled it off the rest of the way and just dealt with it.

We cut our way through rocks and bear grass to a beautiful wilderness lake. It was dark blue and emerald green and very clear. I was saddened by how we were in such a beautiful place and yet I was so miserable. It just shouldn’t be this way. I imagined being there for fun, camped out by the lake- swimming and fishing in the heat of the day, drinking beer by the fire at night and coffee by the fire in the morning. What a waste.

We split into small groups again and we started at the lake to cut our way up the steep mountain side to the rest of the crew that was on the slope. As we headed into the open meadow, one of the helicopters that was filling buckets out of the lake came in real close and nearly landed on us. We moved out of the way while he measured to see if it would make a good landing spot. He told us over the radio that it would need a few trees cleared, so we spent the next hour clearing trees. When we were done, we called the helicopter back to check it out again. He declared the work good and named it H3 for helispot 3. We got back to work, climbing over rocks and cutting around hot areas of the fire. When we were done, we hiked straight up the hill to the rest of the crew. By the time we made it back to spike camp (a camp out in the woods away from the main fire camp) my feet hurt so bad I could hardly walk. I limped around camp to get food and then crawled into my sleeping bag. As I started to doze off, sharp stabbing pains shot into my feet and jolted me awake. It continued for about half an hour before I sat up and dug through my bag for the last of my Motrin.

The next day we became mules and carried and deployed a mile and a half of hose that was supplied water by a small pump put out at the lake. My feet were crushed. It was at that moment that the team in charge of the fire decided we were going to stay an extra week. I told my superintendent that I had college applications to do and had hardly gotten started. I also need to paint my house and hire a contractor to build a fence in my back yard. Oh yeah, and I gotta get the spa guy to come fix the heater on my Jacuzzi. And cut down the dead tree in my front yard. Yikes.

He decided to fly myself and another guy home while the rest of the crew stayed. I was grateful. I didn’t know how I was going to make it another day, let alone another week. I had to survive one more day.

The next day was much easier. We cooled down the fire’s edge that was mostly out then drove out to fire camp for the night. This morning was a ridiculous display of the chaos that comes out of a fire camp.

I went to briefing at 6am to get our times signed by the division supervisor. It was near freezing so I hovered over a small outdoor heater with my supervisors while holding a cup of coffee that was still too hot to drink. Over the loudspeaker they called the name of the other guy (we shall call him Jack) that was flying home. I went up to see what the deal was.

“Jack’s flight leaves out of Missoula at 8:30am. He was supposed to be here at 4:30am. He’s going to miss his flight”. Another guy walked up and said “No no, he already left. He left at 4:30 this morning.”

“No he didn’t” I said. “He’s waiting in the parking lot”.

“Well he’s not going to make it, but we can take him anyway”.

I told my boss. “Run and get him.” He said. “Run!”

I turned to take off running and realized there was no way I could run across a big field, cross the road and run across another field while carrying a hot cup of coffee. I handed it over to the supe (superintendent). “Here, hold this.”

“Thank you, I shall drink this”.

I took off running. I got Jack moving and he quickly shoved his gear and clothes into his bags. “Don’t forget to remove your fusees (flares) from your gear, take your knife off your belt, no siggs (fuel bottles for chainsaws).” Then I went to go meet his driver.

The driver pulled up and I asked if Jack was going to miss his flight.

“I don’t know, which airport is he going to? Here, read his itinerary, I don’t have my glasses on.”

I picked up the itinerary and had to laugh. “Wait a minute. This says 7:35 PM.” I read it again. I looked up at the driver. “PM” I repeated. I read it a third time. We laughed. It was now 6:15 am. Oh no, what if it was my flight that was that early?

I ran over to Jack and told him to take his time, then I ran back to briefing to seek out the ground support supervisor again. I explained he had made a mistake. We were all relieved. I asked when my flight was and they said 1pm, and I would leave camp at 10am. “Are you sure?” I asked. We went back to the support tent to get the itineraries. Sure enough, my flight was at 1pm. I went back and showed my supe who laughed. Mysteriously my coffee was gone and an empty cup sat at his feet. I went back to the trucks to pack my bags. Ground support decided they would take Jack and I to the airport at the same time to save a trip.

We got hot showers, coffee and started the demobilization process. The crew had long since gone back up the hill an hour’s drive away. I called our home unit to make sure I had a ride back to our base. Our admin lady informed me that our chief was waiting for me at the airport and had been there since 6:30am (it was now nearly 8am California time). “We have an itinerary that says you land at 6:30am”.

“PM!” I said. “It’s 6:30 PM!” Wow, what a crazy morning.

We went over to ground support around 9:30am and started getting our gear loaded up. Then I remembered I had forgotten to tell Jack to make sure he had his wallet.

“Jack, you have your wallet right?” I asked as I rummaged through my bag.

“Oh my god!”

I looked up at him. “Are you f’ing kidding me (censored version)?”

He continued to look panicked.

“Shut up.” I said.

“Oh no.” Maybe he said more than that, I can’t remember now. I was busy racking my brain about how we were going to get his wallet that was now an hour away out on the fire line.

I radioed to our boss over the command frequency to try to figure out where they had parked. After studying the fire map and finding the right way, Jack took off for the fireline and I hopped into the truck enroute to Missoula.

At the Missoula airport, I thought about all the homesteads I had seen, surrounded by mountains and trees and rivers. I wondered if I could live in Montana. Then I thought about the winters. My driver said it was not uncommon for the mountains to get 15 to 20 ft of snow. There’s no way I could live there, but still it made me a little sad to leave. On the flight over to Portland I faded in and out of consciousness.

At the Portland airport I found some lunch and then went in search of coffee. I chose a sugary espresso drink and a magazine at a nearby store caught my eye. Triathlete magazine. In the right hand corner it said “You eat too much sugar”. Indeed I do I thought as the barista made my drink. I grabbed my cup and headed back towards my gate. I got stuck behind a slow lady and wondered what her problem was. Why are you so slow? As I went around her I looked at her feet and noticed she was wearing high heels. I vowed that I would not wear uncomfortable shoes in my next life. I took inventory of the pain in my feet that were laced loosely (breakfast laces) into my work boots, and passed her.

Why do people wear uncomfortable shoes? For some reason this bothered me more than it should. Maybe because my feet have been in unbearable pain for two weeks now. I need to spend the next few days off of them.

Hot Hot Hot!

Boy is it HOT outside! After awakening from my nap, I headed into town to get medication for the fungus between my toes (happens every summer with my feet confined to swampy boots and wool socks) and was shocked by how much the temperature changed from this morning. Apparently it is only 101 degrees out, but that's just plain ugly when there is no AC in your house or vehicle. This is not a time to be out of doors. In my house it is a nice, cool 80 degrees. Funny how that becomes such a relief after pulling myself out of the pool of sweat that had puddled in the driver's seat from my one errand into town.

This morning I went for a bike ride with my friend, Jen. It was nice and cool, not really any warmer than mid-80's by the time we returned.

 

The nice thing about being on a bike is that you get a bit of a wind chill. When we stopped for a small break in the neighboring town of Gazelle, the lack of wind reminded me of how hot it really was and how hot it was going to get.

 

 

We rode from my house in Montague to the town of Gazelle. I've got visions of living the sort of life where I bike large distances to have a cup of really great coffee at a small town café. Having never been to Gazelle, I had that sort of vision for today's trip. I should've just asked Jen who's been there a time or two. No coffee shop, no cute little pancake place. It had a post office, an auto repair shop and a very small elementary school. All of which were closed since today is Sunday. Anyway, Gazelle is 15 miles away and it was a beautiful ride.

 

 

About halfway between Montague and Gazelle is the small town of Grenada. It has a gas station, post office, general store, auto repair shop and an alpaca farm. There's actually quite the alpaca population up here. These guys must've just gotten shaved. Just in time for this awful heat wave we're having.

 

 

In case you've never seen an alpaca before, these guys are usually quite fluffy all over. They are now shaved with the exception of a bushy head and tail. As I was snapping away at these guys I was trying to figure out what they reminded me of. Some 60's or 70's disco star or something.

 

 

Thirty miles later we pulled up into my driveway and off-loaded our sore butts from our saddles. Jen is more sore than I am being as she has yet to purchase padded bike shorts. We went inside and broke open a small seedless watermelon that I had chilling in the fridge. I gave half to Jen and half to myself. We plopped down on the couch to recover.

 

After she went home, I got on Facebook to post photos. Looking at the photos of Jen and I, I was irritated about how obvious the chin strap on my helmet was and how dorky I look in the helmet. While posting the picture of the alpacas, I realized what they reminded me of. Me in a helmet.

 

I've been wanting to do a triathlon for awhile now and there's one coming up here in September, not that I'll be able to go being as it's fire season. But in the off-chance that I am not on a fire and able to go, I'd like to be prepared for it. Jen wants to do it too. I've been reading up on this creature we call the Triathlon and have come up with all sorts of ideas and issues.

 

Clothing is one such issue. I just don't know about wearing those one piece things (you have to be able to run, swim and bike in whatever you choose to wear) but I also wasn't too sure about swimming in a "tankini" and shorts. The shorts should be a little padded for the bike stretch but not so padded that it's irritating in the run and the swim. The other option is a total 2-piece. Sports-bra type swim top and a pair of padded bottoms (specially made for triathlons). I would be comfortable swimming and running in that, but I don't know about being hunched over a bike with my belly showing. We all know what happens to our bellies when we hunch over. I know, I know. But don't tell me you all wouldn't be phased if it were you.

 

Hair style. That's another predicament. The low braid I wear for cycling is not at all what I'd appreciate on the run. This is irritating. I like my ponytail much higher up on the run but that won't work with a helmet.

 

Then there's food replenishment. I'm used to long bouts of exercise and have no issue with consuming packets of gelled sugar throughout a race. I was just reading one of the triathlon books my friend from the gym loaned me and I came across a sentence I had to read 4 times before I understood it. "You can also mold unwrapped energy bars to the top tube of your bike."

 

What? I had to break it down, like a foreign language. Unwrapped. Like no wrapper attached? Why on earth would you...hmmm. I got a vision in my head of my swimming days and the old style power bars. Banana or peanut butter specifically (why? couldn't tell ya). Back in the day, it was pretty much all I could eat at swim meets without upsetting my nervous stomach. They were those thin little things that don't look (or taste) much like food. When it was cold out, trying to eat those darn things hurt my jaw, they were far too chewy. But I could place them (still wrapped in their original packaging) in my armpit to soften them up.

 

Bingo. Warm floppy power bar draped over the top tube of my bike. Unwrapped. I wonder how warm it has to be to make that happen. I flinched at the thought. I don't know if a power bar is comparable to raw eggs when it comes to putting it on an expensive paint job. I wondered how that would affect my brand new gorgeous bike. Don't worry Ruby, I thought. I would never do that to you.

 

Then I thought about the utility of it. Think about it. You're tired from your swim, you're riding along on your bike thinking about how bad the run is going to feel. You're hungry. In front of you, draped over the top tube of your bike is a choice of chocolate or peanut butter power bars, unwrapped and molded to the tube. You just peel it off like a fruit roll up and start munching away. Genius! I like this idea.

 

Question: Being as the bike is second, and it sits at the transition spot while you swim, how do you keep critters away from your power bars while you're away? Ants, squirrels, deer, whatever. Flies. I don't know. Critters.

 

Hmm...food stuffs draped across the top tube. I don't know about that. It seems like a lot more fun than sticking packets of gel in my sports bra and pinning them to my shorts with a safety pin, but also not quite as clean. I definitely see the benefit of having solid food during the bike portion.

 

I will have to stew on this some more. I'll let you know what I come up with.





It Takes a Little Time

I was in the grocery store today perusing the coffee aisle and Amy Grant's "Takes a Little Time" came on.

It takes a little time sometimes
to get your feet back on the ground.
It takes a little time sometimes
to get the titanic turned back around.
It takes a little time sometimes
but baby you're not going down
it takes more than you've got right now.
Give it time.

The song was still in my head as I pushed my cart to my vehicle. How fitting, I thought. I should text that to Candace. "It takes a little time sometimes to get the titanic turned back around." Just a little note to let her know that I believe in me almost as much as she believes in me. Yeah, 'cause the Titanic is like a wreck, but time can turn even that around...no, wait, that's not right. The Titanic sunk. It didn't get turned around in time. It was one of the most famous disasters in history. Most of the people on that boat died.

Huh. So what you're saying is, it takes some time to get a ship of great mass to change course and avoid disaster...more time that you have, and the consequence of failure is tragedy. The Titanic didn't have time. Isn't that the point? Sometimes it takes time...even when you don't have it. Interesting.

That song is darkly ironic and hopefully not a fitting tribute to the change of course going on in my life. How dismal.