It’s December, the month Christians around the world celebrate teen pregnancy, as the ancient story is retold of the virgin Mary giving birth to Baby Jesus, a story I–sort of–identify with every time this season rolls around.
Sort of: I, too, was a young mom. Definitely not of the virginal persuasion, however . . . just an unhappy teen whom the centuries will not celebrate . . . just an angsty 15-year-old who must not have paid attention during the awkward junior high PE class films on all things female . . . just a last-of-seven-siblings goof-off whose exhausted parents never quite got around to paying enough attention to figure out anything was amiss until that damp June 1975 evening when my baby-daddy (a handy 21st-century term that had not quite entered the vernacular in 1975) and I dropped the P-bomb on the fam.
It’s December, 1975. My now-husband and I are official high school drop-outs; fading September wedding photos show that we look even younger than our ages (16, 17), but it’s Christmas time, and with my big belly I feel as conspicuous as Mary.
It’s December, 2016. I just googled “barefoot and pregnant” to see if there was any link between my being an early adopter of motherhood and my current barefoot state.
The ladies of the “Mumsnet” discussion group seem to agree that the “barefoot” part of this quote is definitely negative: “[She] can’t leave because she has no shoes to walk in and [is] pregnant and vulnerable.”
Then there’s good ol’ Wikipedia: “A common assumption is that the expression relates to housewives not leaving the home, and thus not needing shoes.”
One more bit from WikiP: “Barefoot And Pregnant is a phrase that pokes fun at chauvinists who want their women barefoot (so that they are unable to socialize) and pregnant (helpless). This follows the general image of society in which women are merely objects.”
Hmm. According to “society” (whatever that is), no shoes = homebound helplessness.
Not my shoe-less experience at all; in fact, learning to adapt to hiking/running barefoot for hours on rocky, muddy, dusty, steepy trails for the last six years has made me feel . . . has made me feel . . . had made me feel like the middle-aged embodiment of all 26 synonyms for “able” (thanks to the lovely Thesaurus.com): adept, adequate, adroit, agile, alert, apt, bright, capable, competent, cunning, deft, dexterous, easy, effortless, endowed, equipped, facile, fitted, good, intelligent, knowing, powerful, ready, smart, strong, worthy.
As Homer Simpson would say, “Woo hoo!”
The “. . . and pregnant” half of the equation hits home, though: this is definitely a vulnerable state of being, whether or not you’re 16. 18. 22. (The ages I delivered babies.) How crazy it seems–looking back from my 40-some-years-later perch of perspective–that I was able to muddle through these chapters of life with our three kids: Oopsie, Uh-oh, and Not Again.
Or was it only “our” kids? (Spoiler alert: nope.)
It wasn’t just me and Baby-daddy; we had lots of help along the way, including the love-and-presence of God as well as our big ol’ extended families . . . once they got over the hilarity of “Thea’s pregnant? That tomboy? Didn’t she hate playing with dolls and now she’s got a baby to take care of 24/7/365? That’s the most ironic thing I’ve ever heard of. I think I just snorted Fresca out my nose.” (Fresca = popular 70s soda pop brand.)
So it’s December again, and these annual musings twinkle like background Christmas music that you’d like to put an end to, but worry that it might be considered symptomatic of a mental unhingement to rip the tinny speakers out of the grocery store ceiling, so you hum along.
And plot your next barefoot trail adventure.
This morning’s sermon title: “The Way of Gratitude.”
Walking the Willow Trail a few hours ago at sunset in a November drizzle: as the trail got harder to see, my other senses kicked in and I felt scents: acrid moist dirt. Sharp-leafed musk of mule fat.
Fuzzy fruity yerba santa. Tangy, soft pillows of horse manure.
How to deal with things that fade:
Willow green leaf-shine,
this last rainy afternoon
light; my enthusiasm for life-
without-running. Then night.
It’s raining! Once again my hat brim drips. The knee-ward side of my pants gets soaked. Mud clumps up on the soles of my feet.
Maybe the stress fracture is feeling less stressed today? I try two gentle steps of jogging. Ouch. But I am able to walk for a couple of dusty (muddy?!) miles again.
Yesterday I spent in Hemet (what lovely mountain views) at a relative’s 70th birthday celebration: just recovering from hip surgery, she can hardly totter along behind her two-wheeled flimsy aluminum walker.
Absorbing Bach’s “Magnificat” (c. 1733) at my Lutheran church-from-birth this evening: pipe organ, orchestra with trumpets and timpani, choir in five parts. All Latin. “My soul doth magnify the Lord,” young Mary sang when she found out she was going to be great with child. When I was 15, I was not quite as pleased to discover I was pregnant. Mary and I shared Christmas-time due dates, making the holidays awkward for both of us (and our families).
Tonight, under our recently remodeled c.1914 neo-gothic sanctuary’s hundreds of too-bright, too-blue LED lights, I had difficulty seeing the choir members faces clearly from my usual spot in the back of the balcony. Earlier this afternoon my sister told me she was ready to schedule her cataract surgery.
I have been sitting up here for 57 years. “Did you hear about the religious skunk? He went to church every Sunday and sat in his own pew.” One of my favorite “balcony jokes.”
The anticipatory chaos of an orchestra tuning . . . and then the pause . . . and the baton and opening notes crash down together.
Who was listening to what on this sagebrush-covered flood plain in 1730?
The music and instruments of Europe continue to sound here, but not the native songs of this place.
That pall, the pull of “what happened here” . . . not always audible/sensory/logical, but still “real”?
A church friend came up to me before the start of the Bach concert to tell me he was taking his grandkids–our kids went to elementary school together here–to Grand Canyon’s South Rim this Friday on the Polar Express Christmas Train out of Williams, AZ.
Earlier today, after morning service, a middle-aged lady–who babysat my kids when she was a teenager–walked over to say “hi” to my visiting daughter (“I thought you were your mom!”) and to tell me she enjoyed following my Grand Canyon adventures on Facebook.
My late teens/early 20s were an adventure in: diaper sniffing, diaper changing, diaper rinsing, diaper hanging-out-to-dry on the clothesline . . . I was a stay-at-home mom-of-three cliche, except I was always at least ten years younger than most of my PTA peers. Ongoing awkwardness then, maybe some good stories now. “When I was your age (16, 18, 22), I had (1, 2, 3) kids and a mortgage.” Husband, too, who is still good for a few laughs 41 years later.
Smelling like a soggy grandma, driving home from the trailhead at 5:30 this evening: wet Chapman Ave. reflects headlights, tail-lights on the way down El Modena Grade. There are memories that cannot be driven away when you’ve lived in the. Same. Place. All your life.
As I’ve written many times before, the willows along Santiago Creek just west of Irvine Park are cracking, falling, fragmenting in the drought, sometimes blocking the trail until chainsaw crews do something about it. The willow forest is a jumble of trunks and limbs.
It is full-fledged fall in The Willows–leaves yellow, drift, get soaked like me as I listen in the blessed rain. I hold still, hold my breath, and there is it, it is there, it’s here: leaf-drip percussion under a mitigated sycamore. (Planted here as if that would offset habitat lost to x-hundred/y-thousand houses elsewhere in Orange County.)
Walking walking walking. This place is so close to the edge of the continent you can hardly head west. I never learned to yodel, but it feels like time to try.
This morning’s sermon title: “The Way of Gratitude.”
I like to think this alligator lizard was pleased to see me back on the trails surrounding Irvine Regional Park; at least he paused long enough for this foot-selfie before wiggling off into the sagebrush.
The first-sunset-since-we-lost-Daylight-Savings was noticeably early; the shortening days of winter’s approach are upon us.
But the light was ever-changing and lovely as it lit the near-leafless sycamore trees . . . they slowly morphed into silhouettes while the taffy layers of cirrus stretched out and changed colors as well (how could a camera, or words, ever hope to transfer this drama?)
The shattered willow forest (all the trees have been slowly self-destructing, shedding limb after limb as the drought continues) echoed with a syncopated cricket chorus that almost, but not quite, drowned out the nearby traffic rush on busy Santiago Canyon Road, where canyon-cruising motorcycles rumble and roar through their gears all weekend long.
The trail through the willow forest is creatively named: The Willows Trail. I did not discover these peaceful paths until just a few years ago; now it’s one of my favorite places to begin or end a run. Or, since my stress fracture three weeks ago, a walk. (And yes, I stepped in that pile. It’s soft and cushy. For a moving picture of my feet & horse poo, click away
It seemed odd that only a few willow are shedding their furry fruit capsules right now; have they all given up?
Another fuzzy bloomer going cra-cra-crazy: coyote brush (Baccharis pilularis).
Not in bloom, but so striking in the low light, is one of my favorite coastal sage scrub shrubs, thick-leaved yerba santa: fragrant like a fruity popsicle, nicely chewable, much-used medicinally by earlier (smarter?) people. I like it so much, I bought one and planted it in my back yard years ago. It didn’t take long for it to return the love and attempt to take over the well-watered vegetable garden with vigorous underground runners.
Now we only meet away from home.
Even though I haven’t been patrolling “my trails” for the last three weeks of stress-fractured inactivity, there wasn’t a whole lot of trash today. But of course, there’s always someone who thinks it’s a good idea to peel the label off their single-use resource-intensive petro-chemical plastic water bottle and chuck such label into the air, where it will either a) magically disappear; or b) land next to the trail where it will remain until a hungry coyote mistakes it for food, or a hiker with half-a-brain picks it up.
We had a couple light rains in October . . . just enough to send the non-native annual grasses springing into action. It did feel nice to my sensation-seeking feet (read that any way you want🙂 ). Here’s the lower fibula stress fracture showing a marked decrease in swelling. Thanks be to God!
Even if I can’t run for hours any more, I can walk for minutes, and that makes me appreciate all those miles of free running in the past couple of years.
Happy recuperating trails!
October is a lovely month to be barefoot at Grand Canyon; last year I celebrated with not one, but two shoeless rim-to-rim crossings: the 21-mile South Kaibab to North Kaibab trek with a group from Glendale Community College on Oct. 10, and then a solo R2R in the opposite direction (North Kaibab to South Kaibab) on Oct. 26.
This October, however, I’m no longer on sabbatical, and even one trip to Grand Canyon was not to be–a bit of a downer, but my recent miles of strong, pain-free, barefoot running on local trails have been a delightful consolation.
And then I was out late in the afternoon of Oct. 13, marveling at the marshmallow moon just above the bruise-purple mountains, floating free down from Barham Ridge on Coachwhip Trail–a fifteen minute traverse of switchbacks, maybe a mile or so, not measuring, just being in my body, in the now, in my lovely damaged corner of the sagebrush universe, not measuring time or distance, not measuring up or how long, allowing gravity to ease my flight . . . and then there was trouble in paradise.
A tiny twinge began on the outside of my right ankle, not enough to even remember at the end of the run, but two days later it came to mind during a circumnavigation of the rolling Peters Canyon loop and the twinge returned.
Not just trouble in paradise, but hard knocks in Nirvana, problems in the Promised Land, a shitstorm in Shangri-La . . . long story short, it’s a stress fracture of my lower fibula.
When runners can’t run, are they still runners?
I had thought I was beyond the identify politics of “being” an activity. In the shiny endorphin-y haze of nose-breathing-gone-wild
in my recent trail adventures, hadn’t I begun to see my self as “run” more than “runner?”
Hadn’t I evolved to a much higher plane of righteous physical spirituality than the sweaty masses of mouth-breathing mountain bikers that I (reluctantly) shared my trails with?
I was so much free-er than those machinery-dependents: foot skin on soil. Toes on trail. Yeah, stubbing bloody was always a possibility, but the risk increased the reward, identity gone beyond an activity to cellular communion with the refreshing dust, the sublime breeze-in-gray-hair that I created by RUN.
Shirtless, smiling, belly skin slick in the lingering fall heat–as close as I could be to the red dust, rolled rocks, curled laurel sumac, rattle-seeded yucca stalks.
That was then.
Today’s reality: now I walk slow, uneven, although I my aim is to Not Limp as I cross Santiago Creek.
I almost shuffle. Who am I? I sit on a fire-downed pine, straddle it like a broad-backed horse, shove up my jeans past the swelling, past the dark-tinged skin.
My ankle bone has disappeared in the inflammatory pudding that is my lower leg.
Why me? Why not me? Like lightning with nowhere to go, my furious electrical thoughts, sadness, anger, ricochet inside me.
At least running used to release this shit into the Earth, that comforting old friend which has heard, seen, felt it before for millennia.
It’s rained a couple of times this month. A new season has begun: the lush blink of winter in Southern California. All around my log perch needles of green emerge from the dead thatch of last year’s decaying grass: life springing from decay.
My home garden is responding to the recent rain in an explosion of sprouting–lupine and poppy and wild hyacinth and all kinds of cotyledons who are as yet unrecognizable. Maybe some weeds in the mix. Time will tell.
Me and the seedlings: we all go on; we all absorb light, warmth, moisture, nutrients . . . metabolize it into life. Death and decay repurpose what’s left over for what’s to come. It’s an imperfect world that still works very well–but everything hinges on loss. (Whoever loses her life will find it: from Matthew 16)
I try to be upbeat . . . What is this loss of mobility, this pain, but a teacher? What is it time to learn today?
I would not be scribbling here along the Rinker Grove Trail at Santiago Oaks, not too many steps from the parking lot, if I could run.
But I can’t run, and so I sit and take note of the acorns that litter the ground around me. (Why are some so dark? Might they taste different than the more common tan ones? Could I eat a few and find out?)
I return home and do some online research; there is a lot more to acorn color and taste than I had imagined. While all oaks produce acorns, some species are more palatable than others; the nuts are bitter with varying amounts of tannic acid, and for humans to consume them, a lengthy process of water rinsing (called leaching) needs to happen.
What I also find interesting is that bitterness levels vary not only between species but between individual trees.
Hmmm. My next Google search employs the keywords “osteoporosis” and “bitterness.”
I’m due for my annual bone scan next month; last year’s news was disheartening–the bone density loss was continuing at a steady pace since my first broken-rib-inspired DEXA test back in 2009. I had degenerated further most annoyingly: the osteopenia was now officially osteoporosis.
You suck, old lady.
Crap. Thoughts like that are why my bones are crumbling, according to a variety of both secular and religious web sites.
Sigh. Another reason to feel bad about feeling bad.
For over a year I’ve been reading books and internet articles about the interconnectedness of our minds and bodies. “Mind is body,” one researcher noted.
Now for a round-up of my most recent findings (feel free to skip if you are pain-free, and please know I am bitter towards you now as well).
This is a Christianity-identifying site on mind-body-spirit and illness called “Faith and Health Connection.”
It has a section on depression and osteoporosis which reads, “A study of several research efforts including thousands of people by Hebrew University of Jerusalem researchers has shown a clear connection between depression and a loss of bone mass, leading to osteoporosis and fractures. The results, say the researchers, show clearly that depressed individuals have a substantially lower bone density than non-depressed people and that depression is associated with a markedly elevated activity of cells that breakdown bone (osteoclasts).”
“God inspired writers of the Bible to share his truth and principles about the connection between our emotional and spiritual health and our physical health. Take a look at the following verses related to this topic:
“A cheerful heart is good medicine, but a crushed spirit dries up the bones.” Proverbs 17:22
“A heart at peace gives life to the body, but envy rots the bones .” Proverbs 14:30
Next: an exhaustive list of mind-body illness connections that reminded me of a sort of “horoscope” — you can pretty much apply anything on it (the “Barnum effect“).
But, like a negative horoscope, it was morbidly entertaining; here’s what it said my osteoporosis was trying to tell me:
Osteoporosis: Feeling there is no support left in life. Mental pressures and tightness. Muscles can’t stretch. Loss of mental mobility.
On to a similar encyclopedia-type site; on it I found “COMMON MIND-BASED CAUSES” subtitled “Osteoporosis/Brittle Bones”:
“Inflexibility, rigid thinking, fixed ideas, unwilling to change, lack of structure, unable to support self, weak from supporting others, feeling inferior, bitterness, hate, resistance to standing up for yourself +/or attachment to external source of structure/support.”
As a bonus, this site offers custom calming thoughts–here’s the one I am supposed to use for this bone-crunching malady:
“CALM CURE THOUGHT: I am flexible and stand strongly in love.”
Then there’s the “Can Cannabis Cure Bitterness” web page–very timely in light of California’s upcoming vote next week on legalizing marijuana. This author provides a really long, thoughtful, far-ranging treatise on bitterness that does not even mention Mary Jane (1970s slang for other old people to enjoy) until the end.
Did I find myself in all the above-referenced references?
Let’s just say that all this close-to-home stuff about bitterness is making me even more bitter that I am bitter and thus destroying my lovely strong barefoot running self from the inside out.
F*** you, Bitterness! I’ll forgive you when you stop eroding my bones.
To end on a less-bitter note: a friend posted a quote on FB a few days ago that has stuck with me in all my current non-running angst: “Build a life you don’t need a vacation from.”
Another blogger liked it too and came up with all kinds of advice along these lines.
“A life I don’t need a vacation from” sounds good right now; I’m thankful that even though my trail running days in our local wildlands are on hold, I can step barefoot outside my back door and still experience some of the lovely local flora of the California Floristic Province, one of our planet’s biodiversity’s hotspots.
Here’s what I found sprouting and growing this morning (both California native plants as well as veggies):
Happy Non-bitter Trails!
[All photos in this blog post are by Lorrie Baumann. Thanks, Lorrie!]
I feel like I could float right over the canyon: I just received confirmation of the dates for my next “Writing on the Edge” workshop at Grand Canyon: June 16-18,2017.
This will be my third Grand Canyon Association Field Institute (GCAFI) creative writing workshop at the North Rim, and I’m really looking forward to another great time with writers as we wander the canyon rim trails through forests perfumed with rivers of lupine in bloom.
This afternoon, after I revised the outline of activities for next summer’s workshop to send to the GCAFI so they could prepare the new web pages, I revisited some of the words Johanna L. and Lorrie B. had sent me after our time together this past June.
Lorrie’s photo, below, displays the view from one of our hike-and-write vantage points along the Transept Trail; her story that follows was composed in this delectable place.
Parable of the Squirrel and the Mountain (by Lorrie Baumann)
[Exercise: Choose two nonhuman creatures/things and let them talk to each other.]
“I am a monolith of rock. I have always been here and know my place on the Earth, which is eternal,” said the mountain.
“I also know my place on this Earth. And here is where I belong,” announced the squirrel.
“It cannot be with the knowing that I have, little squirrel. Your life if fleeting. I will watch your generations come and go while I am here and live on.”
The squirrel dug a casual hole and buried a pine nut for the future. “You might think you know everything about your place on the Earth, and it’s true that you can know it in a grand way, but next winter, I will remember precisely where I left this nut, while you will clearly only be thinking deep and majestic thoughts. I’ll be the one who’s eating while the snowmelt will come into the hole I leave when I dig up my nut, and it will weather your rock until it cracks, just a small crack, and then a bit of you will fall away. What do you say to that?”
“I can spare a pebble or two,” the mountain answered. “That doesn’t change my sense of where I am in this world.”
“Well, I’ll tell you who can change your sense of where you are in a big, fat hurry, and that’s a human being. They have guys with explosives and machinery to take a mountain from here and move the rocks over there. They can do it.”
“I have heard of this,” the mountain intoned contemptuously. “But it’s not going to happen to me. I belong here, for now and for all time.”
“Or for exactly as long as those guys agree with you on that,” the squirrel said. “And I don’t think they necessarily share your sense that you’re as essential to the place as you do. Hell, I don’t even think very many of them know where they belong, let alone where you belong. An awful lot of them show up here and drift away again with nothing that makes them fit into this place other than their selfies. I watch them and laugh, because they’ll go and I’ll be here taking care of my own business, because I belong here and they don’t. You, on the other hand, could, let me remind you, be replaced.”
In response, the mountain shrugged and dispatched a boulder that squashed that impudent rodent flat. The mountain chuckled to itself in a long, deep rumbling laugh. “That’s a way to teach a squirrel its place on the Earth,” it said. “Just make it one with it.”
And then the mountain slept.
Moral: Don’t be a smartass with the mountain. It may not be invincible, but it’s still a lot bigger than you.
Short timed writing (by Lorrie Baumann)
The wind can’t decide if it’s going to blow or be still.
Our little group came a short way along the Transept Trail from our campsite and sat down to write at a quiet outcropping of boulders that offered shade and enough fallen leaves to make a softish place to sit as well as a clear view across the canyon.
It required only the most minimal imagination to picture other people there before us, brown-skinned and at home here, choosing this place to look out over the canyon for any signs of interlopers.
We named it “Inspiration Fort,” all of us a little surprised, I think, that Thea’s invitation to be a little silly and imagine voices for the nonhuman had sparked something from within us that we hadn’t expected. I have written a parable, surprised to find out that what I had to say came out as a story, with a plot of sorts and everything.
There is no place on Earth I’d rather be right now.
The North Rim in June is bloomin’ with wildflowers.
Another one of my favorite writing prompts–which I learned from Kim Stafford during a Summer Fishtrap workshop–is called “Leaving . . . “. Through it writers are inspired to imagine what a place means to them when it’s time to move on. The vivid piece below was composed by Jo during the last hour of our writing time at the end of a productive last day hiking a little–and writing a lot–along the North Rim’s Widforss Trail.
Leaving the North Rim (By Johanna Lombard, June 18, 2016, edited August 26, 2016)
I don’t think I ever really leave the North Rim. I may go away. For weeks or months and sometimes many years. But I never really leave.
Other cultures have words to describe sense of place.
“Tenalach,” an Irish word, describes a relationship one has with lands, air, and water–a deep connection that allows one to literally hear the Earth sing.
Or my favorite, “querencia,” a metaphysical concept in the Spanish language, which means a place where one feels safe; a place from which one’s strength of character is drawn; a place where one feels at home.
I think about the idea of sense of place. That which is in us. A part of us. Woven into the fabric of our souls. Something that time and distance and new sights and smells cannot remove–that innate feeling that this place is a part of you and you of it, just as its dirt gets under your fingernails, its sand in between your toes, and the smell of sunblock and sweat ingrains in your pores.
It gives fodder for daydreams when you’re stuck in traffic or walking through the box store—the rich sweet scent of ponderosa just within your grasp of smell.
It offers a place for your mind to wander when you’re stuck in the heat of the day and your brain remembers cool breezes and chilly nights. It forms a foundation of memories through time of extended family cooking mega-breakfasts on multiple Coleman stoves, serving up potatoes and onions, bacon, scrambled eggs, and cowboy coffee to go with the joyous laughter coming from beneath the tall ponderosas in site #12.
Of a park ranger who has what appears to be the coolest job in the world to this 16-year-old girl, as he greets visitors at the entrance station and checks on campers in the campground.
Of numerous backpack trips filled with stories now deeply entrenched as part of our family lore: the two, muscled Marines with their giant machetes and boom boxes hiking past Cottonwood Campground. The two young German men carrying their bicycles as they hiked across the canyon because a park ranger had busted them for trying to ride them across. The animal that ate our butter out of the creek where we had stored it to keep it cool for our macaroni and cheese with tuna dinner after hiking to Ribbon Falls. The colossal midnight monsoon thunderstorm that drenched us in our rainfly-less tent. “It never rains in the bottom of the Grand Canyon,” my dad had said. (Note: this writer has been rained on in the bottom of Grand Canyon dozens of times since then.)
And even when the time for family vacations had passed, I still found myself on the North Rim: starting a rim to rim solo hike at 20 years old during my first summer working in the park; trips to explore the area with new friends; trips to visit “one last time” before moving away from Arizona; and now multiple trips yearly because I am fortunate to get to work on media projects for this beautiful place.
Leave. Return. Leave. Return. Leave. Return. Leave.
Today I will leave the North Rim as I have many times before, but tomorrow I will look across to it from my home on the South Rim and know that it is always here and I am just a short hike (or half-day drive) away. Until I return.
Thanks, Jo and Lorrie, for sharing your words! May our paths cross again!
The recent late September heat wave sure got me in the rhythm of running at first light (except for a few fun twilight runs to the tune of 90+ degrees at sunset).
This Sunday morning the car thermometer showed temps back below 60 degrees at 7 am when I pulled into Irvine Park . . . perfect running weather on a clear fall morning . . .
. . . and I guess perfect mountain biking weather as well; the Barham Ranch trails were crazy with packs of speeding gleaming technology, which got me somehow thinking of the song “Sunday Morning Coming Down” (written by Kris Kristofferson and made famous by Johnny Cash).
The real lyrics:
On a Sunday morning sidewalk,
I’m wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
‘Cause there’s something in a Sunday
That makes a body feel alone.
And there’s nothing short a’ dying
That’s half as lonesome as the sound
Of the sleeping city sidewalk
And Sunday morning coming down.
My version this morning:
On a Sunday morning trail run,
I’m wishing that I was alone,
’cause there’s something about almost getting run over by speeding mountain bikers
that takes you out of your running zone.
And there’s nothing short of dying
that’s half as scary as the sound
as derailleurs rattling behind you
and Sunday morning bikers coming down.
Along with the distraction of having to move to the side of the singletrack every few minutes, more people meant more comments on my shoeless state of being: “You’re barefoot!” “Where’s your shoes?” “How do you do that?” Etc. & Etc.
At the beginning of this 6.5 year adventure, I would enthusiastically reply with all kinds of witty & educational comebacks; at this point I’ve realized it’s waste of breath that could otherwise be used to fuel my loping legs.
So I just smile and give a thumbs up and keep. On. Truckin’.
During breaks in the hurtling hoards, this:
After two glorious hours of running barefoot up and down champagne-dust (albeit crowded) hills, I even made it home in time to make the 9:30 am service at my church-from-birth, St. John’s Lutheran in Orange, CA, whose senior pastor is one of the local mountain bikers,
but who I don’t have to worry about getting run over by on Sunday morning, at least.
Yesterday afternoon my car thermometer read 99 degrees when I parked it at Irvine Regional Park and hit the trail at 5:30 pm.
That’s warm, even for Orange County in September, so the shady dirt road that wound below Holy Sepulchre Cemetery seemed like a good place to start.
And oh the lovely air: sunset-still, perfumed with dry hints of sage, acrid with dust and a trace of smoke that hinted at the danger of a fall day like yesterday when the crackling native plants are almost audible in their thirst for winter rain.
So I kept an eye out for anyone who might be up to mischief with matches, since this hot-dry-windy weather phenomenon known as “Santa Ana conditions” has in the past excited far too many arsonists into setting the wildlands on fire.
But it was just me and the shiny darkling beetles leaving our tracks in the champagne dust. (Thanks for this lovely phrase, Gina B.! I’m finally remembering to incorporate it🙂 )
I reveled in the lack of other humans looking askance at my (lack of) footwear, and celebrated by spending even more time than usual creating images in my favorite photo genre: barefoot selfies, my way of thumbing my nose at being diagnosed with 57 years of age and osteoporosis.
Although I almost always wear a hydration pack (currently I’m using an Ultimate Direction Jenny Vesta), I mainly use the pack to carry my little camera as well as to hold trail-trash until I get back to the trailhead waste bins. (But of course it’s got a knife, and identification and extra food and a whistle and a kitchen sink as well.)
Just a half-liter is all I carry on these shorter-than-90-minute adventures; I don’t need to drink much since I guzzle a liter or so in the hour before I head out (that, and breathing through my nose whilst running, are two more of my late-in-life running experiments that are going well, thank-you-very-much).
On hot days, however, the pack comes in handy as a repository for my cotton t-shirt . . . but only after I have made good use of said shirt by starting the run with it soaking wet and then sliding it over my also-soaked head. Brrr. Yesss.
A wise ranger once remarked during a Grand Canyon hiking presentation: “If you’re hot, you’re stupid.”
Hmmm . . . I think more than a few folks would already question the intelligence of a lone woman running at twilight (mountain lion feeding time, and two local wilderness parks are currently closed due to recent sightings) with nothing on her feet; I certainly don’t want to add fuel to that hater fire, so I hydrate (and eat) like crazy before my run, and wear a wet shirt when it’s still a freakish almost-100 degrees at sunset.
In twenty minutes, I’m dry.
But here are the hills!
Photo-shoot time . . . with my crappy camera that doesn’t like to focus very well on flower close-ups (as I’ve complained many times before), so I don’t mind setting it in the dirt next to the trail so it can capture short video clips.
Part of the fun of the editing process, then, is finding images within the clips where I’m airborne.
Happy dry-hot-no-longer-summer trails! Let the rains commence, soon!