Snowshoeing Adventure!

Three years ago, Michael and I bought ourselves snowshoes for Christmas . . . yesterday they made it out of the garage and onto the snow for the first time as we met my cousin Roni and her husband Gary at Trillium Lake, which is very close to Mt. Hood. By the end of our three-hour trek, our snowshoes were pretty thoroughly broken-in and we could finally call ourselves snowshoers.

We got up early, packed up the truck with everything we thought we might need (extra clothes, food, water, Garmin) and headed up to the mountain. I hadn't been that way in years, and I loved passing through the little towns / hamlets that I saw all the time when I was growing up. My stepdad worked for the State of Oregon Highway Dept and from 3rd through middle of 8th grade, our family lived 17 miles from Government Camp on a state workers "comp0und." There were five families living there at a time, and lucky for me, usually two or three of them had kids near my age. That area (Mt. Hood / Government Camp) brings back a lot of good childhood memories.

We saw Wemme and Zigzag and must have passed through Rhododendron, although I don't remember seeing the sign for it. I saw a church my family went to one time, and a restaurant we ate at, and I was happy to see that the person who carves huge sculptures from wood (bears and Bigfoot) still displays them by the side of Highway 26 for all to see.

We followed the signs for Trillium Lake and when we pulled into the parking lot, there were three or four other cars in the very good-sized parking lot. Roni had suggested we get there early, since she'd read online that it was a popular place to play in the snow. I don't even think we'd been there a minute before Roni and Gary pulled in next to us. We'd planned to meet between 9:00a.m. and 9:30a.m. and it was 9:00a.m. on the nose--excellent timing. Just as a side note, if any of you reading this plan to head up to Trillium Lake, there aren't any bathrooms in the parking lot, but if you drive directly across the highway to the "Snowbunny" area, you will find the cleanest outhouses I have ever used . . . Michael said they were "minty fresh" which is a very nice change from how outhouses usually smell.

It only took us a few minutes of adjusting to figure out how our boots attached to our snowshoes, and then only a few stops for minor strap and pole adjustments during our hike. Either Roni or Gary mentioned they'd heard it said that "if you can walk, you can snowshoe," and it's true. Snowshoes are very user-friendly. Once you get used to the fact that your feet have now become much longer than you are used to them being, and also the fact that you can't back up as fast as you can without snowshoes, you are golden.

It was just the four of us, the trees and the snow when we first started out. Our snowshoes made quite a bit of noise as we trekked along, and of course we were all talking too, but I could feel the silence of the forest around us, and I loved that we were for the most part, alone in it. After about two miles of walking, we finally found the lake itself, and again, I was delighted that we were alone with it . . . the lake was shrouded in white and was frozen, at least near the shore. I ventured out onto the ice, and tried to convince myself that the green-tinted ice under my feet was lake I was walking on. It was a bit surreal and I wanted to walk out farther, gingerly testing each step before putting my full weight down, but Michael was worried that I would fall in and he'd have to try to "fish me out" and get me somewhere warm before I froze to death. He's a reasonable man, so I listened to him, but my heart was urging me to stay and dance with the lake a little longer--maybe next time.

After we rested and played at the lake, we got back on the trail and found ourselves in the forest again. We snowshoed along on the left side of the trail, as signs everywhere declared that the right side was reserved for cross-country skiiers, while the left was for everybody else. And we did come across quite a few skiiers, gliding along with a wonderful quiet whooshing sound. It was very different from the "clunk-clunk" our snowshoes made as we tromped along. I think by that time, we all envied the skiiers their chance to rest on the downhill portions of the trail and let their momentum carry them along. I told myself that just meant that we were getting more of a workout, and I felt a little less jealous.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, we came upon an A-frame house in the woods, and marveled at its presence there. I took some pictures, thinking it was such a strange sight to see in the middle of the forest, and then felt a little foolish when we found more of the houses a little way further down the trail. They ended up being little vacation homes that people rent for winter camping. I have to admit that camping during the winter is not something I've ever really considered, but seeing the cozy little structures with snowshoes and sleds piled just outside the front doors has made me reconsider. It would be so much fun to get a group of friends and head off to the forest for a few days to experience a completely different type of camping than I am used to. I just may have to put it on my list of things to do.

The misty rain that had been our companion for the first hour or two of our trek, began to let up as we neared the end of the loop. Right before we found the first A-frame house, Roni had noticed a patch of blue sky directly overhead where there were no trees to block our view. Somewhere toward the middle of our hike, we realized that we were completing the loop in the opposite direction that most people do it: no one was overtaking us on our side of the trail, but we were being passed by big groups of people going the other direction. Once we began the final mile or so of trail, it seemed like there were people (and dogs) everywhere. There were snowshoers but also lots of kids with sleds. Our hike ended with what was by far the most challenging part of the trail for me--a tremendous hill that seemed to climb forever. As I struggled along, wishing I was not so out-of-shape, the sun came out in full force. It turned the end of our hike (and our eventual summit of the massive hill) into a kind of celebration and left me with that delicious sense of accomplishment I always get after some good, hard exercise.

Once we got to the top of the hill, we could see that we were smart to arrive early as the entire parking lot was crammed with vehicles--even a yellow school bus! It was quite a change from the near-empty lot we'd left just a few hours earlier.

Roni suggested heading to Government Camp for some gluten-free pizza, which sounded amazingly good at that point as I think we had all worked up a big appetite on the trail. The Ice Axe restaurant was very, very good and I would highly recommend it to anyone going to or through Government Camp. Our pizzas were loaded with toppings, the service was good and the prices were reasonable for what we got. I was happy to see the note on their menu that they use locally-grown, organic ingredients whenever possible. Michael and I will be back the next time we're up that way, you can be sure.

After lunch, Roni and Gary headed for home, and Michael and I decided to stick around a little longer since the weather was by that time excellent and our friend John was going to check on Flynn. I wanted to see if I could find the compound where I'd lived as a child and see if people were still living there. I had a strange kind of deja vu, driving toward my old home. Every widely curving corner and tree-topped view was familiar to me, although I hadn't been back in years.

We found the compound with no problem, but it looked desolate and sad. There were no cars out front or bikes leaning against the walls as there had been when I was growing up. One of the two duplexes that had been there was completely gone while the one my family had lived in when we'd first moved there was beyond run-down. It looked like it hadn't been painted since we'd lived there, and it was odd how small it looked in comparison with how I remembered it. The other house we'd lived in was no longer there. I remembered my mom saying it had burned down and been rebuilt, and the house there now fit with what she'd said. It was obviously newer than the duplex but looked just as deserted. We took some pictures and I stared hard at the yard where I'd spent many happy hours playing with the neighbor kids. It was difficult to reconcile what I saw now with what I remembered.

After we left the compound, we decided to drive up to Timberline to see if we could get some good pictures of Mt. Hood since it had become such a clear, sunny day. We were not disappointed. The mountain was as snow-covered as I think I have ever seen it, and it loomed large and friendly. There was no shortage of skiiers and snowboarders making good use of such mild weather, and the sun stayed with us as we finally made our way back down Highway 26 to Portland and to home.

Happy Birthday, Mr. Stafford

Yesterday, I went to a birthday party for William Stafford at the Vancouver Community Library. My mom (brand-new to Stafford and to poetry in general) came with me. I think by the end of the nearly two-hour event, she was a convert. :)

There were between 25-30 people in attendance (a great turnout, I thought), and Stafford's wife Dorothy was there too . . . the picture of class at 95 years old in pearl earrings and perfectly coiffed white hair, she stood and read a poem that she wrote in response to one he had written many years ago. That poem was about her, and in it, he talked about the things he liked: in colors, he preferred gray & brown, in landscapes, the prairie, in people, calm personalities. Then he described his wife as a "vivid girl from the mountains", who asked him why he had chosen her if those were the things he liked. In the last line of the poem, he says, "there are so many things admirable people do not understand." She grinned like a little girl as she read her rebuttal to his poem. She said she liked crazy, wild people, preferred the mountains and the color orange, and married a quiet, gray man from the prairie who asked why she had then chosen him. As she read the last line, her eyes sparkled, "there are so many things poets do not understand." It was very, very sweet and of course the room erupted in applause.

About ten of us got up one at a time to read a Stafford poem for the group. I chose this one:

"For You"

It is a secret still, but already your tree is chosen.

It has entered a forest for miles

and hides deep in a valley by a river.

No one else finds it; the sun passes over not noticing.

But even while you are reading

you happen to think of that tree,

no matter where sentences go,

talking about other things.

The author tries to be casual,

to turn from the secret.

But you know exactly what is out there.

You set forth alone.

It reminds me of someone I hope to meet one day soon.

After the readings, a short film was shown called "Every War Has Two Losers," which talks about Stafford's lifelong identity as a pacifist and asks some very probing questions about what we believe as individuals and as Americans, and about what we would be willing to do.

I'm not sure if I left with exactly the type of optimism and renewed vigor I'd hoped I would have after attending a Stafford event. Mostly, it left me wanting more.

This afternoon, while I was surfing the net, trying to find a particular poem, I came across this poster on someone else's poetry blog. I had to laugh because even though I'm sure it was meant as a joke, the message comes across: "You are at your peril if you miss this."

I am so glad I did not go through my entire life without having read at least some of his poems.

William Stafford: A Bright Light in my Life

Some of you may have guessed (from my many Facebook posts) that William Stafford has become a favorite poet of mine over the last few years . . . you may not know that lately I feel like he has become a sort of posthumous mentor.

I first came across a snippet from one of his poems when I was attending Western Oregon State College (now University) in Monmouth. I believe it was during my freshman year, probably in one of the Honors program classes. My memory gets a little fuzzy as I can't figure out exactly how that first bit of poem made it to me: my best guess is that it was in a book the class was reading, and in conjunction with the book, the professor showed a film of an interview with Stafford about his life and writings. All I remember for certain is that it moved me so much that I never forgot it. I found out later it's from a poem called "Things in the Wild Need Salt."

Once in a cave a little bar of light

fell into my hand. The walls leaned over me.

I carried it outside to let the stars look;

They peered in my hand. Stars are like that.

Do not be afraid--I no longer carry it.

But when I see a face now, splinters of that light

fall and won't go out, no matter how faint

the buried star shines back there in the cave.

It is in the earth wherever I walk.

It is in the earth wherever I walk.

In the film, Stafford said something that made so much sense to me that I scrawled it on the cover of my battered teal folder: "That writer writes too loud." I came across it the other day and had to smile because what the girl who copied that quote didn't know was just how important the man who said it would become in her life, both as a writer and as a human being. I likely took that class in 1994, which would have been a year or so after his death. What a shame I wasn't born a decade or two earlier--I might have had the heart-stopping honor of being his student or seeing him read his poetry in front of groups both large and small. While I feel so happy to have discovered his work and the chance to learn more about him, at the same time I feel like I just missed him. Discovering those lines of poetry unfortunately didn't inspire me to read more of Stafford's work at the time--I was busy being a college student and making the transition from child to young adult, although in retrospect, it was a time in my life when his words were sorely needed.


It wasn't until I took a nonfiction creative writing course a few years ago at Portland Community College that I was reintroduced to William Stafford. One morning our instructor handed out slips of paper printed with a Stafford poem. The college was celebrating his birthday and everyone was invited to attend. I read the poem ("You Reading This, Be Ready")--and felt the floor drop out beneath me.


Starting here, what do you want to remember?
How sunlight creeps along a shining floor?
What scent of old wood hovers, what softened
sound from outside fills the air?

Will you ever bring a better gift for the world
than the breathing respect that you carry
wherever you go right now? Are you waiting
for time to show you some better thoughts?


When you turn around, starting here, lift this
new glimpse that you found; carry into evening
all that you want from this day. This interval you spent
reading or hearing this, keep it for life--

What can anyone give you greater than now,
starting here, right in this room, when you turn around?


Here were words that spoke to something deep within me and addressed my fears and my regrets as if they were written just for me. Although I couldn't go to the birthday celebration because of a work conflict, this time my curiosity was piqued and I began to seek more of his words.

I bought a compilation of poems taken from among his many, many published volumes. It's called The Way it Is, and I would recommend it most highly if you have any interest in poetry whatsoever. I would also recommend it if you are stirred by words put down simply, without a lot of fanfare, but with piercing honesty. Pick up a book of his poems and you'll see what I mean.

Many of you know that the last couple of years have not been easy for me. I have struggled and a large part of what has saved me (and continues to save me) is Stafford's work. I read his words and feel like I am less alone--someone else (someone I never met and a man, no less), gets it. His poems tell me that he has been in my shoes. He has been sad, worried, angry, despairing. But he has also seen beauty in everyday things. He recognizes that each of us is not defined by our acts, our accomplishments or our possessions, but by a mostly hidden, inner world of thoughts and dreams. When he was alive, he encouraged everyone, his family, friends, students and readers, to say it simply, but to say it--to continue to put voice to their thoughts--not for any hope of fanfare or recognition, but for themselves alone.


Stafford has encouraged me to begin writing steadily again, and I have. I have been writing what I never considered writing before: poetry. In my search to express my feelings, I have discovered that saying it simply in lines of poetry works for me. There is one poem in particular that I wrote less than a month ago that I know "works." And the way I know that it works is because my eyes fill with tears each time I say its lines in my head. It is something I wrote for no one but myself in the beginning, but maybe one day someone else in a similar situation will be helped by it, and I will be glad for that.

The beginning of the new year hasn't been terribly exciting for me. I haven't felt hopeful that wonderful things are in store for me in 2011, and last weekend I was really feeling a deep sense of futility. So I headed for the library (and later Powell's bookstore) in search of comfort and encouragement. I was looking for books by Marie Howe (another fantastic poet whom I have recently discovered), and one about William Stafford's life, written by his son, Kim, who is also a writer. As I headed up the stairs to the poetry section, a flier caught my eye. It was an announcement of a birthday celebration in honor of Stafford's life and work. Two local poets (one was Ursula K. LeGuin) would be reading some of their work and some of Stafford's, and then each person in the audience was invited to read a favorite Stafford poem. A sense of excitement swelled within me. This was just what I needed to start my new year; this event could possibly shift my mindset and give me the encouragement I was seeking. And then I saw the date and time: the event had started that day, two hours earlier. I had missed it.

I left the library feeling angry and sad. How could I have missed something so important? Why was I not going to the library more often where I might have had some advance warning? Why had I not gone earlier in the day as planned, instead of doing other things I "needed" to get done? I headed for Powell's and felt a little better when I found one of Howe's books at a reasonable price and also the latest issue of The Sun (I was late renewing my subscription, and wouldn't be receiving the January issue, but luckily found out that Powell's carries it). Yet I headed for home still wrapped in gloom at having missed the Stafford event.

The Beaverton library didn't have the Stafford book I was looking for, but the Hillsboro public library was supposed to have a copy on hand. My new job is located almost next door to that library and all week at work I planned to go there over my lunch hour, but it never happened. I left work last night at 6pm, and thought I'd swing over there before heading home to see if they might be open and have the book. I was in luck in more ways than one: I found the book right away and carried it carefully to the self-checkout machines, feeling like I was holding a treasure (Book lovers, I know some or all of you must feel the same way when you leave a library or a bookstore with some new find, full of a sense of possibility and discovery. You feel like a child about to unwrap a present--am I right?).


On my way out the door, another flier caught my attention. In large print, it advertised William Stafford's birthday celebration, listing 23 different venues in the Portland and Vancouver area that would be hosting celebrations during the entire month of January. (To read an article about Portland-area celebrations, click here.) I kept re-reading the dates to confirm that no, I had not missed them, and yes, there were a multitude of events I could choose to attend. Suddenly, I was filled with joy. Here was my chance (chances!) to convene with other Stafford devotees, to hear his work read, to learn more about his life from people who had known and worked with him, and maybe to share one of my favorites of his poems during the open mic part of the event. How wonderful.

I started my weekend with some of the excitement for the new year that I felt had been lacking
in my life . . . now to decide which event to attend . . . or to attend as many as I possibly can and see what miracles happen in my life this year--both as a writer and as a person on this earth.

My Cousin Roni and her Husband, Gary

Last Saturday, Michael and I drove to east Portland to have lunch with my cousin, Roni, and her husband, Gary. It was only the second time that Roni and I had seen each other as adults, since I didn't have much contact with my father's family when I was growing up. Besides that, until recently, Roni and Gary were living in Montana and there hadn't really been much opportunity for us to visit one another. We have gotten to know each other a bit thanks to the miracle of Facebook :) and it has been wonderful to discover a kindred spirit in her: she has a background as a writer and she loves the outdoors, as I do.

Roni and her husband run marathons together, which I think is just about the most amazing thing. They love backpacking and are game for a day of snowshoeing with us--which is probably the only way we are ever going to get ours out of the package and onto the snow (seeing as they are now about 3 years old and have spent their entire lives hanging out in our garage).

It really was wonderful to see Roni and Gary and find out more things about each other . . . and now that they are planning to be in Oregon for awhile, I am looking forward to summer hikes and backpacking trips with them as well. :)

Christmas! (And New Year's) Catch-Up

It certainly feels like the holidays came in a big rush, swept over me and now have receded into the background until next year. I think this may have something to do with starting my new job, as I was so busy during the week leading up to Christmas that I had little time or energy to spend enjoying the season. It's a bit sad, but hopefully next year things won't be quite as hectic.

One good thing about starting the new job is that Michael and I (finally!) had the same holiday schedule, and we both had Christmas Eve and New Year's Eve off from work. Usually I end up working both days, and in the past I have worked on New Year's day too. So it was nice to spend a little time together. Christmas Eve we raced around finishing up our shopping, but still made time to stop by two music shops in search of the guitar Michael has his sights on: a Les Paul Standard Plus Top Amber. He ended up ordering it from Five Star Guitars in Beaverton (a small shop that always feels crowded but is staffed by really good guitar players), and then we decided to check out American Music Company in Tigard just to see what they might have--can you tell that he really wanted it for Christmas? ;) The second store is much larger, being part of a chain, and felt less hectic than Five Star. A very knowledgeable employee talked shop with Michael and let him play a beautiful Les Paul guitar much like the one he ordered but with a smoky gray finish instead of amber. It's called a "Silverburst," which I think is a fantastic name. Michael loved its sound and looked so happy playing it. I'm excited for him!

We spent a quiet evening at home that night, exhausted from our day of shopping, but happy to be together at Christmas. The next day, my parents arrived at our house at noon, bringing bags of gifts and food and it really began to feel festive! We spent the next few hours playing Santa for each other and preparing a delicious meal of pineapple ham, baby red potatoes, green beans in tomato sauce (a childhood favorite for me), rolls and both apple pie and gingerbread for dessert. None of us were starving when we sat down to dinner in the first place, having snacked on a Costco veggie tray as well as assorted crackers and cheeses during the previous few hours. I went off of my diet (again!) and ate almost an entire wedge of Brie all on my own. I paid for it later, but boy, was it ever the most wonderful thing at the time. :)

The next week was another extremely busy one at work, as I tried hard to learn the ropes and keep up with the projects asked of me, and before I knew it, Michael and I were off again for New Year's Eve. It was a much calmer day for us, spent together mostly at home with a trip out to Costco and to REI thrown in for good measure. We got chicken teriyaki take-out and spent the evening watching Netflix and trying to stay awake until midnight (can you tell we are not as young as we used to be? ;) ). We tried our hands at recreating the most fabulous pear martini I had when we were in New York a year and a half ago. It was made with Grey Goose vodka (holy cow, is it ever expensive!), but we settled for Absolut pear vodka. When we tried making them at Christmas, we added champagne to the vodka but realized that we need to find some that isn't too dry, or the combination of flavors is just way too strong. Instead of champagne, we tried the vodka with some sparkling pear juice and found that combo to be quite nice: not too strong and with a pleasant taste. I haven't figured out how to get it as smooth as the one I had in New York, but maybe it's impossible to recreate it exactly without knowing what type of champagne they used. I think there were one or two other ingredients as well, and I have to find the note I made from that trip in order to get a more precise recipe. Regardless, it's fun experimenting, and if it's too strong for me, Michael will drink it. ;)

New Year's Day we had Michael's sister Christy, and her kids Ryan and Jessica over for snacks and video games. They wanted to try out the Kinect that we recently got for the Xbox. Christy's husband Dean joined us after he got off of work, and Michael went out for a couple of Papa Murphy's pizzas to bake at home. I made my own gluten-free pizza from a mix I got at Whole Foods, and I was really very impressed with how it turned out. The mix made two crusts and I froze one so I could have a quick and easy dinner the next week. For sauce I used some Trader Joe's spaghetti sauce, and added sun-dried tomatoes, yellow pepper, broccoli, olives, feta cheese, and some fresh basil leaves. It was extremely good! The crust tasted "healthy" but it wasn't bad, just different than regular pizza crust. Next time I'd like to get the different ingredients that make up the flour and try making it totally from scratch instead of using a mix.
It was nice seeing Dean, Christy and the kids and catching up with all of them. Of course Ryan and Jessica fell in love with the Kinect and would have happily stayed playing it all night . . . it was fun watching how involved with it they were. Hopefully, we'll be able to get together again soon!

Our holiday season was a mixture of rushing and resting, and while it was over far too quickly, it was very enjoyable. Wishing you a wonderful start to 2011. May it be a fabulous year for all of us!