Improvising the Eno HouseFly as a 1-person ground shelter

(Oh, hi, hello, yes, it's been a while. I am more active on Instagram these days, but I still write, and I've released a new chapbook called 'why don't we know each other'--it's available now.)

My first trips as an outdoor educator involved sharing shelters with my co-instructors, people with whom I spent several days getting to know before sharing such close quarters for any period of time. When I was hired to work with Dunn School, it was the first time I found myself in need of a 1-person shelter, as our orientation was short and I would be the primary wilderness instructor on the trip.

After trying out the REI Quarterdome 1 on the first trip, I returned the tent due to its weight, but moreso due to the expense. I wanted something simple, light, and not wildly expensive. Those who have the funds can acquire a sub-1-pound shelter made of cuben fiber for $300-500. Considering the wear I tend to put on my gear and my unpredictable work schedule, I couldn't stomach the expense.

The compromise I landed on was to use an Eno HouseFly Rain Tarp as a ground shelter. At 27 ounces without accounting for ground stakes, it's not the lightest solution, but since I was able to purchase one on sale for less than $100, it was a good compromise.

The tarp comes with quite a bit of cord and I've been able to shed a bit of weight by eliminating the plastic tensioners and connectors tying the lines directly to the straps on the tarp. 10 lines are included (6 for structure and 4 for the doors), and I tend to only carry 6 of the lines.

I set the tarp up with my trekking poles to create an A-frame shelter. I stake the corners directly into the ground for warmth and privacy, and create tension in the ridgeline using a truckers hitch from the trekking poles.

As you can see, there's no floor to this tent, so I have to bring my own. The nice thing about not having a floor is that I can pull my pack into the shelter without worry about dirtying the floor or crowding a vestibule. I sliced open a plastic contractor's trash bag for my floor, on which I place my sleeping pad. I am on the lookout for some discarded Tyvek for the next series of trips, as a lighter alternative.

These photos are from the test run of this set-up at Dunn School before the actual 4-day trip-- always good to practice beforehand! After first setting up the trekking poles handles down and tips through the loop, I decided to try them out handle-up. I like the way the doors sit this way better, though I worry about the force on the material.

What I learned during the trip is that since I am 4'11, I can comfortably sleep under the tarp with a trekking pole on only one end, and the other end staked down. I haven't yet had the pleasure of setting this up using trees. I imagine a taller person may want to create more headroom by staking out the corners with cord and having their trekking poles adjusted to be taller. There would be more airflow that way as well.

For those who worry about insects, well, I did find a scorpion underneath my ground tarp while camping in Big Sur that year, but we managed to stay well away from each other. The HouseFly has a few flaps of material that create a sort of barrier between the walls and the ground, but there are those doors. I'm somewhat concerned about mosquitos in my coming work season, but not quite enough to switch to a $200+ set up. Okay, to be honest, I'd probably worry less about the expense for a tent if I were not based in a place as expensive as the Bay Area. We'll see how long the streak can last.

Funnily, the nights that I've slept in my hammock so far have not required a tarp at all, so I've only ever set up this hammock shelter on the ground. There may be cheaper, lighter, and bug-netted options out there if I keep a better eye out for sales, but I've become attached to my improvised solution. And, why carry both trekking poles and tent poles?

Big Sur, Big Rains // A loop around the Silver Peak Wilderness, Part 2

Finally finishing this up after spending time in LA, doing a trip with Dunn's Sophomores, and a personal backpacking trip with friends along the Pine Ridge Trail in Big Sur.

Thursday PM: Estrella Campground to Spruce Campground

The navigation out of Estrella was challenging, and I have to give the students a lot of credit for finding the route. There were a few use trails which led to impassable spots, and we had to explore up and down the creek to find a way. Luckily, one of the students in the other group had mentioned to us a knee-deep water crossing, which was key in helping us find the way. While I tend to prefer to navigate based on landmarks and terrain, the compass was extremely useful after we crossed the creek, and I wish I had it out sooner as it would have saved us some time. I was thankful for my students' patience and their ability to stay in good spirits. 

On this stretch of Salmon Creek Trail, we were stopped in our tracks by deadfall-- two large trees had been knocked down across the trail, making it look impassable. I tried to scout out a way around it down the hill, to no avail. Here was another lesson for me; I could have saved time by looking more closely at the deadfall first. It turned out that the trees were stable, though of course awkward to get around with a big pack. I helped them each across and many of them found that it wasn't as hard as they originally thought. 

The rest of the way to Spruce was, thankfully, very straightforward. The girls later told me that I started hiking very fast after we crossed that obstacle. I was eager to get to camp, and glad to take advantage of the downhill trail. We came upon Spruce Camp very suddenly after crossing a low creek, and walked past it to the trail junction because it seemed to come up so soon. There was no signage at this campground other than an arrow pointing to the trail across the creek and one of the students adamantly said she would make a sign there so that no one else would make that unnecessary .15-mile uphill trek. I'm not sure it happened, but it was a nice thought. 

At this point, knowing how much poison oak we'd just trampled through, I passed around some poison oak wipes for everyone to use on their face, hands, any skin that had been exposed during our hike. I haven't yet had a poison oak reaction myself, but that doesn't mean I won't. Sneaky plant, that. I'd previously used Tecnu for washing off poison oak on trips, never wipes, and I still prefer it. 

That night, during our satellite-phone check-in (the connection was awful), I learned that more bad weather was coming in, and we were to hike out early the next morning and get back to school rather than to have the planned car-camping night with the other groups. I facilitated a small closing ceremony after letting everyone know the new plan. There was some celebration by the students that there would be one less night of camping, which is to be expected with a compulsory trip, and I let them know that I regretted that they wouldn't be able to gather with the other hiking groups as planned. Sharing experiences with one another before returning to school is a very special part of trips like this, and would probably have been extra interesting for them with all the weather-related challenges we had in the beginning.

It was a very warm closing ceremony, and we got to bed early. Just before turning in for the night, I found a tick attached to my left side, explaining the strange ache I'd felt there all day. In my fatigued state, I pried the tick off ungently before even thinking to reach into the first aid kit for tweezers. Ticks have to be attached for at least 36 hours to transmit Lyme Disease, and tiny nymphal ticks are much more likely than adult ticks to stay attached for that long. Still, upon returning to town, I was glad to be prescribed a round of antibiotics (doxycycline) as a preventative measure.

Friday: Spruce Campground to Salmon Creek Trailhead

We woke for our very last morning stretch at 6AM, put out breakfast, and began to take down camp. As predicted, at 7AM, the first drops of rain began to fall and quickly escalated. We got out of camp 1.5 hours after waking, and covered the two miles in around an hour. Everyone was in relatively good spirits, which is not surprising since we were heading toward hot showers and warm, dry beds.

The last mile winding down toward the trailhead was especially lovely, the switchbacked hills covered in poppies, beautiful even with their petals closed against the rain.

There was much rejoicing as we reached the vehicles-- we were the first ones out. Soon after we arrived, a school vehicle pulled up. The trip director was in the process of evacuating an instructor for a severe poison oak reaction. By the time the evacuation happened and all the groups were out and ready to caravan, the storm had fully established its presence.

Back to School

Statistically speaking, driving is the riskiest part of most outdoor programs. The hour spent winding around Highway 1 under sheets of rain and gusts of wind required my full concentration. The students slept through it, for the most part. There were moments when it poured so hard that I considered pulling over just before they passed. I felt sweet relief upon pulling into the gravel lot back at Dunn.

The students were gathered, gear was collected, and they were dismissed at around noon. Due to the change in schedule, the post-trip clean-up which students would typically participate in was left to us instructors. Not ideal or efficient, but so these things go sometimes. Gear cleanup and storage is a vital part of all trips, and I wish the students had been able to participate in it.

Thankfully, the next day and a half were sunny and warm as we dried out the tents, laundered the sleeping bags, tested and fixed the stoves. And then we were done.

After Thoughts

I would love to return to the Silver Peak Wilderness and do this same loop on a personal trip. Some of the erosion along the trails is worrisome, but manageable. This trip was the first time I held such primary responsibility for wilderness skills and risk management, and to be honest I started out quite intimidated. I heard somewhere that a great way to learn something is to teach it. I became a backpacking instructor two years ago with only two short personal trips under my belt, and I'm continuously refining my skills and learning more about pedagogy and facilitation. This recent increase in responsibility has improved my confidence in both my outdoor skills and my leadership skills, and it's taught me that I still have a lot to learn about managing time, giving structured and unstructured lessons, and facilitation.

It's surprising how these trips seem both long and short. Something about being removed from your daily context that does funny things to time. One moment it's only beginning, and all of a sudden it's over. I look forward to the next. 

Big Sur, Big Rains // A loop around the Silver Peak Wilderness, Part 1

The first trip of my outdoor work season was a backpacking trip in Big Sur's Silver Peak Wilderness with 11th grade girls from Dunn School. When I arrived at Dunn for orientation and prep, I learned that I would lead an all-female-identified group, including the faculty member, which was somewhat rare for Dunn, and solidly in my comfort zone, since I had begun my backpacking instructor career with GirlVentures. It was a welcome surprise.

Monday: Los Olivos to Forks Campground (or so we thought)

We set out from Los Olivos with the intention of doing a point-to-point hike in the Ventana Wilderness, but Big Sur received such a deluge in the days prior that two of the roads to our original trailhead were closed and the trail itself was impassable. The creek we were meant to cross had swelled enormously and was moving fast; crossing it was beyond the scope of our trip as well as objectively dangerous. This, along with the poor condition of the road we had just driven up, which another group would have to drive down with bad weather in forecast, necessitated a change of plans. As we hiked back to the trailhead, I asked the faculty member whether they had ever had to cross water like that. In past years, she said, her feet had barely gotten wet. 

We camped that first night at Santa Lucia Memorial Park Campground, setting up our tents during another bout of rain and retiring soon after dinner in the cold. The next morning was clear, thankfully, for our drive down to the Silver Peak Wilderness, where we would hike this loop:

Tuesday: Salmon Creek Trailhead to Buckeye Campground

We parked at the Salmon Creek Trailhead lot, which is a few minutes' walk south of where Buckeye Trail starts. Our goal that day was to get to Buckeye Camp, which would have us traveling 3.75 miles and climbing about 1700 feet in elevation. Needless to say, that was a challenging first-day hike, especially since we had spent the morning driving down from the Ventana Wilderness and did not start until 1:00 pm.

The girls were great about adjusting to one another's needs, whether we were dealing with physical challenges or motivational ones. We hiked as a close group, and I was thankful that I didn't have to continuously remind people that no matter what, we could only go as fast as the slowest hiker anyway. In groups where some want to go faster, I've found that oftentimes we've reached the destination later rather than sooner; people get so tired that rest breaks are longer and less efficient, and there are many more aches and pains to haunt us along the way.

We made camp at dusk, when we found a spot that, though it was not the flattest terrain, we had a kitchen with glorious ocean view. The stars that night were magnificent-- the best I saw the entire trip.

I was relieved to finally be in the backcountry after our frazzling first day. The gentler weather certainly helped, too.
The next day, we realized we had been just half a mile or so short of the actual Buckeye Camp. Though it was a lovely meadow with a picnic table and trees, most (all?) of us were glad that we stopped when we had.

Wednesday: Buckeye Camp to Lion's Den

This second day of hiking was to be our longest, with the map and trail signs telling us we'd have anywhere from 5 to 7 miles to cover that day, over varying terrain. We climbed up the rest of Buckeye Trail and headed east on Cruickshank Trail, passing one of the other groups along the way, who were doing the reverse of our loop. They warned us of thick brush, poison oak, and knee-deep water that would be on our next day's hike. We filed away that information while focusing on the miles we still had ahead of us before that night's camp.

We all began to hit our stride on this day, I think, with students showing their aptitude and interest in navigation, natural history, and traveling over unfamiliar terrain. We saw beautiful manzanitas and madrones, shrubby trees with smooth, chocolatey, surreal bark which love a little elevation and Mediterranean climes.

There were exposed trails, some of which were quite eroded from the recent rain, leading to a few instances when I passed a trekking pole back for students, or closely spotted them as they made their way down startlingly steep trail. Again, they showed their commitment to an encouraging environment and helping one another get through the experience safely.

One thing to remember when hiking across exposed, eroding trails cut into steep mountainsides: keep moving! Steadily and calmly continue forward until you reach more stable ground; taking very slow steps or hesitating will only give the ground more time to weaken beneath your weight.

Just a quarter mile or so before Lions Den Campground, on the ridge, we stopped for a snack break in the shade of the chaparral. Since it was the midway point of our trip, I took some time to revisit Leave No Trace ethics as well as the group's hopes and fears, which we had shared before the trip began.

We then descended into Lions Den Camp, which we were to share with another group from the school. Students are always so thrilled to see one another even though they've only been apart for a couple of days! We allowed the groups to spend fifteen minutes together (which instructors and faculty were also glad to spend), and then we each went back to our own camp chores for the night. It all went very smoothly.

One student from the other group was super impressed that we had gone all the way from Buckeye and made it to Lions Den just an hour or so before them-- they had started 1 or 2 miles ahead of us at Upper Cruickshank Camp. I praised our group for their efficiency in getting out of camp, typically one of the biggest challenges/time-eaters when backpacking. We took advantage of the clear evening with a post-dinner lesson, and then prepared for another early (though not quite as early) start the next morning.

Thursday AM : Lions Den Campground to Estrella Campground

We woke at 6:45 and had camp packed up (and foot care done!) by around 8:30 that morning-- another praiseworthy effort. While the group was eager to begin hiking, a few had new complaints about their packs, and I took some time to take a closer look.

It takes experience to get used to the many minute adjustments that can be made throughout the day to keep a pack comfortable, and students sometimes are not aware of how packs are supposed to fit. There are places where it's normal to experience aches and discomfort, such as around the hipbones, but any time students express pain in the back or shoulders, it's worth finding a good stopping point to fiddle with adjustable torsos and attachment points for loader straps (the straps above the shoulder that help pull the upper part of the pack closer to your back). 

Another note on pack-fitting is that when a higher-capacity pack in my size is available, I go for it-- this saves a lot of time and grief, and over-stuffing can lead to a pack no longer fitting comfortably, not to mention putting unnecessary stress on the fabric and zippers. If you have trouble getting all of your gear inside the pack the first time, it's not going to get much better even as you eat your food. It's much easier to have too much room and cinch down the pack.

The stroll along Cruickshank Trail to Coast Ridge Road was quite fast, leading us to question the trail sign stating that Lions Den was a whole mile away.

We could see the valleys all around us, and could almost make out the ocean through some haze. We stopped for a few photos. A solo hiker (the only person we encountered who was not from the school) came upon us and also warned of the thick brush along Salmon Creek Trail. I was confident that we would be fine, since it is much different to walk uphill through thick brush than charge downhill. 

As we made our way down, we could really see what they meant. Chaparral, live oak, sharp succulents, and plenty of poison oak all grew close into the trail. For those of us in the 4'11 (me) to 5'3 range, it wasn't too bad, but we really felt for our 5'11 group member, who was having to push through or duck below all the stuff growing above our heads. She assured us that she was fine. A couple of other students said "This is actually fun!" The trail was clearer as we made it to Estrella Camp, where we stopped for lunch. We were tempted to make camp there, it was so nice, but we had many hours left in the day, and the lure of a shorter hike out the next morning motivated us on. 

To be continued... 

(Wow, this post is longer than I imagined it would be, but I'm enjoying reliving the trip-- tomorrow I begin prepping for a trip with Dunn's sophomores. Hopefully I'll be able to write Part 2 before we set off. There are no photos from this trip because I ruined my old-but-good camera during my very wet and cold trip in Alaska last year, but I've acquired a new, water-resistant camera for future trips.)

Suzi the Tiny Camper

What outdoorsy person (or person tired of paying rent to absentee/neglectful landlords in unpleasantly gentrifying neighborhoods) doesn't love scrolling through #vanlife photos, reading about how people outfit their Sprinters or cargo vans, imagining what their perfect camper van would be like? Since leaving LA and spending more time outdoors, I've spent a lot of time reading articles about building sleeping and storage units in cargo vans, Honda CRVs,  and even a Toyota Echo "micro-RV." I spent a lot of time since my journey to Lander poring through Craigslist, contemplating Ford Econolines and conversion vans in various stages of repair.

And I just couldn't make the leap. I spend most of my time driving around the Bay Area and Los Angeles, and Suzi is pretty comfortable for me when I'm solo-traveling, which is often. I have quite a lot of affection for this little vehicle. She has been so good to me for the last 7 years. I was also chagrined to note that my car-restlessness falls perfectly in line with the average number of years it usually takes people to switch cars. Suzi deserves better than that! 

I'd slept with my feet in the trunk of the compact car quite a few times with the backseat folded down (October 2012 in Bishop was the first, I think), and last year I finally took out the backseat entirely (instead of just keeping it folded down) and built a platform. It's simple, sturdy enough, and only took an afternoon to build. The idea to do it was in part inspired by a setup I spied in the back of someone's Camry in Lander, but they had a shelving unit built on one side that I never did get to. 

It's no feat of construction, but I'm happy with this little platform. I only very rarely miss being able to transport more than one person at a time.

One piece of 4'x8' beech plywood. Cut like so, with a handsaw.

Corner brackets.

Screws.

The piece that's at an angle is for stability, the piece that's straight is to accommodate the center console.

The legs rest on the floor, the platform rests in the frame. Lines up pretty well with the floor of the trunk.

I do not recommend using a JetBoil inside a vehicle. The windows were open and I did not burn myself or my car. I usually sleep on memory foam, but that was rolled into a backrest at that moment. 

A somewhat safer configuration.

Suzi's at 180,000 miles right now. I'm hoping to hold onto her for 20,000 more, parental disapproval and fancy vantasies be damned. Anyone else out there have the back of their sedan outfitted for sleeping? I'm sure I'll get a wagon or SUV or van or something roomier someday, but for now, Suzi suits me just fine. 

"How was Alaska?"

Life is not what you alone make it. Life is the input of everyone who
touched your life and every experience that entered it.
We are all part of one another. - Yuri Kochiyama

Weighing in at more than half a pound, my Hydroflask was most certainly an impractical luxury item for the 28-day NOLS Alaskan Wilderness Backpacking trip on which I was recently an Instructor-in-Training. As someone who is 4'11" and under a hundred pounds, every ounce really counts, even if I don't want it to. I am of the mindset that I'd rather go slower with more weight, making due with what I have, rather than go for a newer, shinier, lighter item.

That ideal has to shift when backpacking in a professional capacity, I realize now, but I don't regret bringing the heavy thermos with me. Our 120-mile journey through the Southern Talkeetna Mountains year olds culminated in a cold, rainy all-night hike, and the hot sugary caffeinated concoction I had was well worth the extra weight.

Of course, I won't be bringing it on my next professional trip.

I've been putting off writing a post about Alaska. The task of compiling almost a month's worth of learning and experiences into a comprehensible blog post or trip report has been daunting.

Here's an attempt to sum it up:

We hiked up mountain passes and down into valleys and back up into passes, again and again and again. We walked through icy cold creeks and crossed rivers together in eddy lines. We made cornbread and pizza and cinnamon rolls from scratch. I made cheesy pancakes and oatmeal chocolate chip pancakes and cinnamon raisin pancakes and accidentally made pancake pizza.

I got bruises on my hips and blisters on my feet and sun bumps on my left ear and the climber's bumps on my heels peeled and peeled and peeled. I read Haruki Murakami's Kafka on the Shore and Ernest Hemingway's The Sun Also Rises. I read excerpts of writing about the construction of wilderness that challenged my existing notions of wilderness, wilderness education, access. I questioned what I was doing there, what I wanted from the experience, what I felt about being the only woman of color on the trip, what I felt about continuing to pursue work with NOLS.

The summer solstice came at the midpoint of our trip. We didn't pack headlamps. We went to the toe of the Chickaloon Glacier. We saw places on our map where glaciers that were there less than 10 years ago no longer exist. We saw caribou and moose and eagles, and some of us saw grizzlies. We ended our hike at the confluence of the Talkeetna River and Iron Creek, where jet boats picked us up for an exhilarating ride to the town of Talkeetna.

Before and after the course, I stayed at the NOLS Alaska base in the town of Palmer, where we grazed on beautiful salads from the garden and freshly baked bread daily. I lived for a few days in a canvas wall tent before the trip, and in a 3-person Kelty tent for the few days I was there afterward. My co-instructor Deev and I practiced acroyoga a few times.

And that was my June 9th to July 19th.

I flew back to Long Beach, read some poetry at Tuesday Night Cafe, performed a wedding ceremony for my good friends, then promptly returned to the Bay Area.

In a few weeks, I'll be out on another backpacking trip, this time as a wilderness instructor for Eagle Rock School. A 23-day trip rather than 28. Again with teenagers.

I plan to apply for a NOLS Instructor Course. If accepted, I'll go on the 35-day course next year. There's still a lot I'm mulling over. What it means to be a woman of color in a historically white male institution. The idea that wilderness conservation displaces indigenous peoples from a way of life intimately connected to nature, and the reality that my parents, who collect rain water and grow practically half of the food they consume, are potentially--likely?-- more in tune with nature than the majority of people who consume the outdoors.

Aparna, former Diversity and Inclusion Manager at NOLS, recently wrote:

It’s one thing to want to make people of color aware of a world of possibilities, to put outdoor adventure on their radar, or even to work to create an inclusive culture in the outdoors that is welcoming to everyone. But it’s quite another thing to presume that of all their choices, people will somehow feel compelled to leave the comfort of a roof over their heads to “rough it” in the woods. Camping, like stamp collecting or painting or driving fast cars or dancing, is not for everybody. And. That. Is. Okay.

I have been thinking a lot about how I've bought into a particular way of consuming the outdoors, consuming wilderness, as a rock climber, as a backpacker, as an outdoor educator. And that there are experiences that I want to pursue that bring up contradictions that are difficult to reconcile. And that I can play a role in the pursuit of a more equitable world even from a place of contradiction. That life is a series of reconciliations.

I started this post with my thermos. The heavy, bright orange vessel made it through the 28-day trip without a scratch. Between the jet boat ride out and the present, however, it's gained some small dents and chips. The latest was a couple of days ago, when I knocked it off the driver seat of my car and onto asphalt as I was loading things. It occurred to me then that all of the dents came after what most would consider a more trying environment for keeping things new. But while I was backpacking, I took better care of it. I usually did only one thing at once. I knew that I had to "go slow to go fast," as my WFR instructor Mazie was fond of saying. I took care of things well. And since I've returned, I've caught myself many times trying to go too fast, doing things while distracted, being less than present.

The outdoors gets sold as a place to get away from it all, to leave the distractions of daily life, the leave the necessary frazzled-ness behind. We talk about how nature allows us to be more in touch with ourselves, so we must preserve these "pristine" areas so that we can go and rejuvenate ourselves and thus perform better in the society as it stands. But the wilderness reminds me that there are so many parts of society that need to change, that need to be calmer, that need to be less fixated on more, newer, faster.

In a few weeks, I'll be trekking through the Gila Wilderness with teenage students. I'll be sharing with them the values that I've reinforced through being outdoors and the skills that I've learned through NOLS and GirlVentures and my personal experience. I'll continue to be perplexed by the complications and contradictions of identity, politics, conservation, consumption, capitalism.

And that's it. There's not really any way to wrap a bow around it. 

Into Outdoor Education

Scouting a climbing area with GirlVentures staff at Pinnacles National Park, February 2015

I'm bemused at the turn life has taken. Two years ago, I'd never imagined working in outdoor education. My work life very much revolved around being in the city, in offices and libraries and coffee shops. Then I got the opportunity to work a backpacking trip with GirlVentures in April 2014, shortly after which I signed up for a 5-day Women of Color Backpacking trip with Balanced Rock Foundation which was, amazingly, co-led by a badass Khmer American woman. On that trip and beyond, I met more women of color who integrate outdoor trip leading into their lives, both professionally and personally.

From the NOLS WMI WFR Handbook

After I went to live and work at NOLS in Wyoming for nine weeks and encountered even more people who spent a big part of their lives outdoors, and though only a few of the people I met were Asian American, I gained more of that sense of permission and possibility that I gained from the Balanced Rock trip. I then signed up for a WMI Wilderness First Responder certification course using the Americorps Segal Education Award I'd earned as a Public Ally in Los Angeles back in 2012 (everything is connected). The course would have felt prohibitively expensive if not for that, which is also true of the Balanced Rock course I took-- I received tuition assistance for that, as well.

This past spring, I worked as an instructor on three courses run by GirlVentures: climbing at Pinnacles National Park with 6th grade girls, backpacking at Point Reyes National Seashore with 7th grade girls, and climbing at Castle Rock State Park with a mixed-gender group of high school students. It was exhilarating to spend all that time outdoors and to get to watch students transition from being squeamish about camping at all to happily digging catholes.

I would have loved to instruct on one of GV's summer courses if I weren't embarking on another trip on Wednesday: I'm heading to Alaska to spend 30 days backpacking in the Eastern Chugach Mountains with 3 NOLS instructors and a group of 12 students, age 16 &17. It will be my first time spending so long in the backcountry, my first time in Alaska, and my first time witnessing the NOLS progression.

I'm excited and nervous, which typically means I've made a good decision. 

Walking Past Rattlesnakes

The rattlesnake lay partially coiled on the right side of the trail, still making faint sounds of wariness and irritation when Miho started hiking again. "Do you want me to go first?" Elizabeth asked as I hesitated.  I looked up at her, then promptly turned and walked past the snake as it slowly slid around the small boulder and descended the hill, making its way out of sight.

We were about halfway through our 5-day backpacking trip along the Grand Canyon of the Tuolumne River. We had started from White Wolf and would finish at Tuolumne Meadows. It was late July. It was hot. It was rattlesnake season. The El Portal Fire was still burning through thousands of acres though we didn't see much evidence of it in the sky. We were a group of eleven women of color from age 22 to 53, brought together by Balanced Rock Foundation for this backcountry journey, on the tenth anniversary of these women of color trips. The claim is that it is the only trip of its kind in the country.

I know that there are women of color leading other women of color on trips in the backcountry in the United States, but it seems that the Balanced Rock trip is indeed the only institutionally-led and supported one.

Maybe it's because I grew up in an immigrant household-- not only an immigrant household, but a refugee household-- that I had not considered working in the outdoors, or even backpacking recreationally. It was never in my range of vision. I didn't see it as a possibility for me. From outdoor exploration camp in sixth grade to team-building high ropes courses through college and beyond, I cannot recall a single counselor or instructor who was a woman of color.

That's not unusual, of course. Everyone has different interests, different vocations, different ways that they recreate, different places they want to spend their leisure time. The practice of carrying 30-40% of your bodyweight across long distances in remote places is understandably not commonly appealing across any demographic. And taking such journeys is far from the only way to recreate outside, nor is it necessarily a more valid way of experiencing nature than to spend an afternoon in a regional park.

I don't think everyone should go backpacking. I don't think everyone needs to try rock climbing. But what I recognize now that I think about my journey into outdoor education is that these activities were on the edge of my subconscious. Like the students I watched walk back and forth in front of the LGBT Resource Center office at UC Irvine, apprehensive about walking in. But I knew that I could walk into the LGBTRC. I saw people like me in there. And for most of my life, I didn't see people like me backpacking, I didn't see people who looked like me climbing.

The journey to finding these things that are so important now (camping, climbing, outdoor education) happened in small increments. I could say it began with a roommate in college who instigated a camping trip. She was Vietnamese American, and really really into camping. Her excitement was contagious. A bunch of us went car camping somewhere south of Orange County, along a river. We slept under the stars, cooked over fire, and, because we were in college, drank quite a bit. And though I didn't do much camping until years after that, I think of that experience as the first time I realized that camping was not just a white american thing. (There's a lot to unpack there about growing up perceiving myself as not ah-khaing, not American, associated with this as well.)

Despite a lifetime of exposure to American ideals about individualism and following bliss and doing what the heart truly desires, I am coming to understand how the smallest spark of encouragement, the smallest invitation, has a profound effect on expanding what I believe is possible for myself.

(To be continued.)

JTreeTweetUp 5 // Dayshots

During my first JTreeTweetUp in 2012, it was below thirty degrees both of the nights I joined the group. Our water froze in our tents. Thankfully, this past JTreeTweetUp had much milder weather (as well as some generous sponsorship from FiveTen and GoalZero). 

Some very belated photos from the trip:

This bee found its way into my friend's can of coconut water... then into her mouth. She spat it out, and after it dried our for a minute, flew away. Lucky bee.

At the top of the Thin Wall formation at Real Hidden Valley.

Cute baby joshua tree. 

Monkey!

Ramsel onsighting White Lightning.

Kelly pulling one of the hard moves on heady The Cornerstone.

Kelly at the top of The Cornerstone after his triumphant (had us all holding our breath) onsight.

Final dawn at Hidden Valley Campground.

Ivy ready to go home.

I did a lot of top-roping this trip, but I lead a couple of climbs on pre-placed gear, and red-pointed Butterfingers, which made me happy enough to finally buy my first cam. Hmm, I wonder whether Metolius would be interested in sponsoring the next JTreeTweetUp... Only 11 months to go!

Veterans Day, Economics, and Climbing

I was curious to find many pieces referring to the military in the current issue of Climbing Magazine-- and then realized that Sunday is Veterans Day. Climbing has a great article called "Invisible Wounds" by Chris Kassar which covers a Colorado-based organization called Veteran Expeditions, or VetEx. (Unfortunately the article is not yet available online.) It states: "At least one million military personnel will return home in the next five years," and "at least one in five of them will suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), yet only 35 percent will seek treatment." VetEx takes veterans on expeditions during which they get to practice some of the survival skills and feel a similar camaraderie to what they had in the military, and they're adamant that "the whole goal has really always been that therapy is a byproduct."

VetEx states on their FAQ page that they:

Don't have a set therapy agenda other than the outdoors. VetEx gets veterans outside into physically challenging, team settings. VetEx is not a wilderness therapy organization. We recognize that in the veteran community, many veterans bristle at the thought of needing healing or needing some alternative activity to begin to sort through the complex feelings of their actions and experiences when they were in uniform. The truth is, and the statistics and our own personal experiences and relationships back it up, veterans are an at risk population, and whether or not you want healing or not, you’ll get a lot out of our trips, simply by spending time with other veterans and challenging yourselves.

Their perspective on healing:

We won’t tell you what you want or what will happen on the trip, that’s your decision to figure out what you want and to create your own experience. What we’ve found, however, is that many of our participants have said that they felt the trip was a ‘healing experience’. This means something different for every participant, which is why we do not have an agenda, other than getting you outside and challenging you in a team setting with other veterans. We hope when you get home, you’ll make whatever positive steps in life make sense for you, and to the best of our ability, we’ll help you take those steps.

Will a second-term Obama Presidency see the United States engaging in fewer military efforts? Unfortunately, that seems unlikely; it seems that warfare is written into the DNA of this country. I think a part of changing that, a part of our evolution as a country, is to change our ideas about growth as a measurement of prosperity. The urge to grow is what sends us around the globe looking for resources to tap in order to feed our behemoth of an economy.

This economy is crazy and poisonous. I am an economist, and I have been fighting against the economy that is taught the way it is being taught and being practiced. I have been fighting it for almost 40 years of my life, because it’s an absurd economy that has nothing to do with real life. - Manfred Max Neef on Democracy Now

The interview I linked to is fantastic. The question is, how? What do we do to change the system we're in, when we can't see any other way? I don't have an answer for that. I have a feeling similar to what my friend Justin Woo describes in this recent post:

Our generation has no workable blueprint for struggle. The oft-imitated, never-replicated 1960s has proven to be an unworkable model – The Iraq War proceeded unabated, and Obama has left many thousands of private contractors in Iraq. The Afghanistan War continues to claim lives, despite rosy predictions to the contrary. ...  

But hey, maybe the lack of blueprint is a strength. You can’t tell us we’re doing it wrong. You can’t tell us that this doesn’t fit pre-existing models – through trial and error, we’ve found that they don’t work. Maybe the key is keeping our moral and intellectual compasses active and engaged. Maybe we just need to keep listening, and trying new things, until we find something that works. And hopefully, we’ll do it before it’s too late.

His post really resonated with me because I've been spending the last few months trying hard to find a way to build a sustainable, peaceful, humane life, and feeling like I keep coming up against a wall of "this is the way the world is." And I keep thinking "but so many people are unhappy, why don't we change it?" I'm still looking for the answer to that. Along the way, I'm climbing as much as I can.

This weekend, I'll be going Joshua Tree National Park for the first time as a climber. I'm attending an event called #JTreeTweetup, co-founded by RockGrrl, whom I met at Malibu Creek State Park earlier this year. I'll meet a bunch of people for the first time, and shortly thereafter we'll trust each other with our lives.

From Car-Free to Car-Dweller

Four years ago, I celebrated becoming car-free in Los Angeles. Now, I'm writing from the Bay Area various places and am very, very attached to my car. When I was living in Downtown LA and spending most of my time there, it was easy to ditch the car and use public transit and bicycles. I still use public transit and my bicycle, when I can. But I've found that I really like camping out of my car on BLM land. And it's lovely being able to wake up to scenes like this after pulling over to sleep among eighteen-wheelers:

Vista Point, Highway 101, Santa Barbara.

I've driven between Los Angeles, Bishop, and the Bay Area many times over the last few months. It's hard for me to think about how much gas I've consumed in such a short period of time. Hundreds of gallons, I'm sure, though I get good mileage and drive conservatively. My current lifestyle includes a lot of driving, which I once tried so hard to get away from, and now, I don't really see myself getting away from it any time soon. It's harder to interact with the outdoors, be car-free, and still be very mobile. But it's possible.

If I were planning to live in one place for a long time, and commute to only a few specific places on a regular basis, it would be easier to imagine working out a way to avoid using a car for outdoors excursions. The truth is that right now, I'm not so willing to try that hard. I'm still hauling around quite a few belongings, I like being able to tuck into my home like a turtle, and I like the feeling of independence I get hurtling down highways between cities, where it can seem so desolate.

Sagebrush Campsite, Owens River Gorge, Eastern Sierra.

For now, the best course I see is in staying in places for longer stretches of time than the weeklong trips I've been taking. Where those places might be, and how far I'll have to drive to get there, are all up in the air. A few days ago I plotted out a dozen different climbing areas to visit around the western US. I've met quite a few people traveling around for a month or more (or indefinitely) for climbing. That doesn't feel like long enough, not at all. I want to take more time than that. And I want to make it sustainable for that time, both financially and environmentally, as much as possible. It's hard to imagine how that is going to work. But I'm trying.

Climbing at Owens River Gorge - Days 5 & 6

I lied. I'm not sitting at the Looney Bean. I'm at Black Sheep Espresso Bar, sipping on the cup-of-the-day, charging my phone. While I haven't had as much luck with finding sport climbing partners as I'd like, there's plenty of bouldering here, so it's highly unlikely that I won't be able to climb something on any given day. Fantastic.

5-6 October 2012

The last two days were all about climbing, climbing, climbing.

On the 5th day, I finally found my sweet spot with arranging my gear for the approach. Carrying the water bottles on the inside of the bag instead of in the side pockets centered the weight better, and instead of cramming the rope into the pack, I slung the rope bag strap over my shoulder and cradled it something like a baby. This made the approach easier. The approach was even better on the last day of climbing, when I decided to start tossing the rope a few feet ahead of me as a I scrambled down the gully. Hooray for durable rope bags!

At the bottom of the Central Gorge approach.

As my focus on climbing increased, I took fewer and fewer photos. I regret not taking more photos of Antoine, Ramsel, and Trevor on their climbs-- I was always either climbing myself, belaying, or eating.  Or watching, slackjawed, as they climbed very hard things. Trevor and Antoine both made an effort to take photos during my milestone climbs, which, as the beginner-est of the group, I had a couple of. I didn't think of it, but it's so nice to be able to look back at those moments now. I owe them.

Here I am on Orange Peel (5.10c), the hardest grade I've tried to redpoint so far. 

Love those high first bolts.

I fell on my first attempt, and Antoine said, "You must give it a second go." So I did. Success! I climbed it without falling.

Trevor told me to pose. "No Posing" rule broken.

I was elated. Other things were climbed that day, but it's all a blur now. Fun was had. Beer was drunk. We also had friends pull up late that night and join us at camp. 

On Day 6, I kept in mind the "Last Day, Best Day" motto, and after climbing the beautiful Dr. Evil (5.10a) and tricky Tall Dollar (5.10b), I set my sights on trying something beyond my ability and experience: The O.R.G. asm (5.11a) Because it was the last day, so why not?

I think I fell sometime near this moment.

Picked myself up and moved through the hard part.

I fell once on the first attempt. Only once! I couldn't believe it when I got back down to the ground. The thought was already planted in my head without Antoine saying a thing: I'd give it a second go. I ate some chocolate, drank some water, stretched my fingers, massaged my arms, and returned for another attempt. 

And it happened. I climbed it without falling, though I got nervous near the top, because I kept thinking about how upsetting it would be to fall at that point. And I made it. 

It was only one route, and I know that there are "easier" routes that will be difficult for me, but I feel different. Like I get it now, what it means to surpass what you think your limits are. What can happen if you try to. I'm thinking more now about what I think is possible for myself, not just in climbing. 

End-of-trip fingertips, clean & bruised.

They were dirty before they became my camp shoes.

The next morning, I took in my last sunrise, stopped for an hour or so in Bishop, and headed back west. Head full of ponderings on what's possible. 

End.

Rest Day, Owens River Gorge - Day Four

4 October 2012

It was time to give our tendons, muscles, and skin a chance to recover after two and half days of climbing. Also, we had to go into town to get water and a few supplies (beer). 

Another beautiful morning.

While camping in the pinyons, with mountains and trees all around, it feels beautifully remote. But drive about thirty minutes south, and creature comforts are all available in town, including a more-than-decent cup of coffee, and gambling (or so I hear).

Looney Bean Coffee, on Main St.

After a lazy morning at the coffee shop and a run to the grocery store, we stopped at The Pit campground to pump some water. Not quite as tasty as the Hetch Hetchy water you get from the tap in San Francisco, but cool and refreshing just the same.

I'd been eyeing big, portable water storage containers at REI for a while, but I think I'll stick with re-using gallon jugs because they're much easier to handle, though not as durable. Once their water containment life is done, though, they can become sub-irrigated planters! Now I just need to think some more on how I'll rig a portable garden on/in my little car. Any car-gardening out there?

After re-upping on water, we decided to explore some of the other crags nearby. Ramsel was feeling the urge to do some crack climbing, which isn't as tough on the hands, and I was a more-than-willing second. We found ourselves at Pine Creek Canyon, where vertical dance company Project Bandaloop was occupying part of the crag with one of their classes. You must click the link and see for yourself. You must.

Since the classic Pratt's Crack (5.9) was occupied by Bandaloop, Ramsel set his sights on Sheila (5.10a). It was his first trad lead of the grade. I wish I hadn't forgotten my camera in the car. Since the climb required two ropes to rappel back down, I had to trail a rope behind me, attached to my harness. I also had to clip the trailing rope into some gear for directionals since Antoine planned on climbing up after me. That was a first for me; I really felt the weight of the rope during some of the tougher sections of the climb near the top. Thankfully I was able to make it up. We had some rope management fun at the top as I belayed Antoine up. Poor Ramsel had to sit up there through gusty winds the entire time, and flaked the rope over his shoulders for warmth. After Antoine powered through the climb, we all abseiled down, explored Pine Creek a bit, and returned to camp. A rest day well-spent, I say.

*The Eastern Sierra has so much climbing, it's over-whelming. I'm not even finished writing this trip report yet, and I'm already about to head back to the area. My next post will probably be written at The Looney Bean. Wish me luck finding climbing partners.

Climbing at Owens River Gorge - Day Three

3 October 2012

On the third morning, I finally began to hit my car-camping stride. I started back on writing each morning, though I reduced my output from three pages to one page. Must spend less time navel-gazing when there's breakfast to cook and gear to pack and walls to climb.

Dirty windows.

I didn't want to have to deal with cleaning my french press, so I planned to drink yerba mate instead of my usual coffee each day. I did, however, make an extra-large serving of coffee with condensed milk (cut with regular milk) for early Monday morning drive, which I nursed for a couple of mornings' worth of writing.

While I look with interest at wagons, vans, hatchbacks, and trucks with shells (I notice them a lot more nowadays), I'm pretty happy with my little car. I make it work.

Writing desk.

Headlamps are wonderful.

That day, we headed down to Central Gorge, which has a longer, somewhat sketchier approach than Upper Gorge, but it was definitely worth it. We added a few minutes to our approach because I worried that my car (converted back into a passenger vehicle) would not be able to make it through this hole-y zone on the way to the parking area:

Down might be okay. Up, not so much.

Obeyed all rules but the last.

Down the gully.

Well-kempt squat toilet.

Stinging nettle looks a little like mint.

Nettle likes being near water.

Owens River.

We started out at Great Wall of China, where I warmed up on Enter the Dragon (5.8), China Doll (5.8), and Child of Light (5.9). Antoine, who is a 5.12 climber, remarked that the 5.8 was too easy for me. I rejoined that I climb better when I warm up well, which is true-- but his comment added to the already-brewing feeling that I wouldn't make the most of the trip if I didn't challenge myself further. 

Antoine had put up Tsing Tao (5.10b). I hadn't planned on trying it, but for lack of a 5.10a nearby, I decided to just go for it. I surprised myself by flashing it. It was the hardest climb I'd tried to lead during the trip so far. Then, we made our shade-following migration to the Pub Wall.  There, I took my first lead-fall on Abitarot (5.10a). That was a good reminder that 1) ratings are more guidelines than rules, and 2) falling is okay. After splashing around in the water, I lead Abitafun (5.9) and finished by top-roping Hardly Wallbanger (5.10c). 

And, then, Antoine top-roped Abitafun barefoot and chalkless.

Shenanigans.

The next day would be a rest day.