It was the Sheffield Garden Walk this weekend. The kids put out their lemonade stand, cranked up the tunes and did their best to steal customers from the 5 other stands on our block. While Clifton may not have stately trees arching over it like most of the other streets in this area, we do have the best gardens -- primarily because of the big (by city standards) front yards and the lack of shade (there are good things about not having a lot of trees). Watching the swarms of people strolling our normally serene streets and snapping photographs of the gardens and houses reminded me how fortunate we are to live in this old neighborhood.
I was reminded of other stuff, too. Walking down Webster and hearing the strains of Poi Dog tonight reminded me of Sheffield Garden Walks gone by. 15 years ago I would not have missed Saturday afternoon at the Sheffield Garden Walk for anything in the world. It was one of the biggest weekends of the summer. My favorite year was following a softball game for The Brown Dogs -- a team made up of my then-boyfriend, Dave, a bunch of his friends, their girlfriends and, of course, our chocolate lab (a.k.a., the Brown Dog). I remember playing a game of softball at Wrightwood Park (at that time it seemed to be on the edge of the earth) then skedaddling over to McGee's -- at the heart of the Garden Walk then, and still today. This morning when I walked the dog (not the Brown Dog, who went with Dave -- but instead with our Boston Terrier, Domino), I was surprised and nostalgic to see McGee's already in full swing at 11:00 AM. I smiled as I noticed all conversations automatically pause momentarily as the el train screamed overhead, only to be continued seconds later as if our brains hadn't just been completely rattled senseless by the noise.
I stopped at a boutique selling half-price yoga clothes (although I hate yoga) and chatted with the young DePaul students working there who were characteristically enamored with Domino. "Ya know, the Sheffield Garden Walk used to be on Webster, not Sheffield," I commented sagely, as if I were 850 years old. The girls sized me up a little, nodded politely and replied, "Really? That's funny." Okaaaayyyy, not really anywhere for that conversation to go...
Yesterday I took the girls to the Kids' Corner where they had pony rides, a petting zoo, and a terrible singer screeching away about an octopus. While we stood there listening and cringing I noticed with amusement a sign that read, "Help support are teachers" (hmmm...is it really the teachers who need help?) I honestly don't recall if there was a Kids' Corner back when the Sheffield Garden Walk "was on Webster." And I never realized that there was actually a Garden Walk until several years post-singledom when Roc and I ventured back into the neighborhood some lazy Saturday afternoon (by mistake). Now that we live here, I take an unexplained pride in the DePaul area -- same as I did in Old Town and, apparently, same as I will in the next neighborhood (there's always one a-coming). I am prone to that, I guess. I relish the ideals of a community and in taking care of our streets and homes -- wherever and whatever it may be.
The reality is that the Sheffield Garden Walk, like so many of Chicago's street fairs, brings out the Americana in everyone. The kids running around with their scooters and wagons, the seniors admiring the gardens, the hipsters partying in the sun. There really is something for all of us -- and it's the meshing of these different walks of life that makes the whole thing feel right.
It wasn't the Sheffield Garden Walk of my twenties -- I'm not gonna wake up with a headache and I don't have any exciting stories to tell (oh, I have some good ones); but it was the Garden Walk of my forties -- when my kids rode a pony and sold some lemonade.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Monday, July 18, 2011
Someday
We are settling into our summer routine now that we have been home from Colorado for a couple of weeks. I'm not a huge fan of sending the girls off to summer camp (it's the best time of the year in Chicago; why would I want them away from us?), so although the girls sometimes get a little sick of each other (ie, I said, "Stay out of my room!"), it seems we do best when we have time to wander. When they were little we would traverse the city visiting various playgrounds in random neighborhoods or meandering through museums for as long as we could manage. Now that they're older our outings can be more varied....last week included a visit to our old high-rise neighborhood, Lakeshore East (near Millennium Park) with the dog; a day at the Art Institute spent sketching in the Modern Wing, swimming at the Wilmette Pool, riding roller coasters at Great America and a couple of trips over to Adams Playground to play in the splash area. All and all, as Lola said, "A week of adventures" -- and a week to be grateful for, particularly because I'm able to work from home right now.
While I'm good at appreciating all the good experiences and people and memories that we've been blessed with, I know I'm also good at worrying about the times ahead that may not be so sweet. Spending time with my kids is what drives me relentlessly through pretty much every aspect of every day. My goal is to spend as much time with them as possible because I know that someday I'll be sitting here at my computer wondering where the time went, as well as wondering what I'm going to talk to Roc about. I've already figured out that I'll be 50 the year that Isabel goes to college -- probably not a good year for me (or Roc, by association). Right now we are so, so busy in our daily lives that we often have barely a moment to catch up on each day's events, but I know that someday we'll be the old couple sitting out on the porch wondering where our kids are and why they don't visit us more often. Cat's in the cradle...
Why is life set up that way? Middle age is so full of responsibility and busyness that we seem to often bustle through the very best moments and then later age -- I'm not exactly sure what else to call it -- gives us more time than I imagine we will need or, even worse -- want.
For now, I relish the small hand that snakes into mine as we walk down the street....even when I'm already maneuvering the dog and two cups of coffee...always room for one more. I cherish the wet kisses that suck (er, lick) my cheek, even though it's a bit wetter than anyone would actually enjoy. I make a point of laying down with my big 11-year old every night so that we can talk or read because, especially with her, I know that time is flashing by and she might soon not want me there. I sit in the parks and watch them run around playing and think how little they were the first time we came. Songs about time and regret make me cry. Songs about happiness and love make me wish more fervently for more time, even though I know it will never be enough.
Mostly I try not to think too much about someday because I'm pretty sure that it won't be as beautiful as everyday is now. After all, if I enjoy every day the best I can, then maybe someday will never actually come.
 |
| Days gone by... |
While I'm good at appreciating all the good experiences and people and memories that we've been blessed with, I know I'm also good at worrying about the times ahead that may not be so sweet. Spending time with my kids is what drives me relentlessly through pretty much every aspect of every day. My goal is to spend as much time with them as possible because I know that someday I'll be sitting here at my computer wondering where the time went, as well as wondering what I'm going to talk to Roc about. I've already figured out that I'll be 50 the year that Isabel goes to college -- probably not a good year for me (or Roc, by association). Right now we are so, so busy in our daily lives that we often have barely a moment to catch up on each day's events, but I know that someday we'll be the old couple sitting out on the porch wondering where our kids are and why they don't visit us more often. Cat's in the cradle...
 |
| ...and today |
Why is life set up that way? Middle age is so full of responsibility and busyness that we seem to often bustle through the very best moments and then later age -- I'm not exactly sure what else to call it -- gives us more time than I imagine we will need or, even worse -- want.
For now, I relish the small hand that snakes into mine as we walk down the street....even when I'm already maneuvering the dog and two cups of coffee...always room for one more. I cherish the wet kisses that suck (er, lick) my cheek, even though it's a bit wetter than anyone would actually enjoy. I make a point of laying down with my big 11-year old every night so that we can talk or read because, especially with her, I know that time is flashing by and she might soon not want me there. I sit in the parks and watch them run around playing and think how little they were the first time we came. Songs about time and regret make me cry. Songs about happiness and love make me wish more fervently for more time, even though I know it will never be enough.
Mostly I try not to think too much about someday because I'm pretty sure that it won't be as beautiful as everyday is now. After all, if I enjoy every day the best I can, then maybe someday will never actually come.
Wednesday, July 6, 2011
South Africa
My awesome parents are headed to Africa in October - never been, just feeling it might be a good idea -- which has brought back reflections of my own trip to South Africa some years ago. Summertime is the best time to do this kind of musing, by the way. Along with the sunshine and warmer temps, summer seems to bring with it new clarity regarding just about everything. Lately I find myself thinking about experiences that happened years ago -- apparently for no reason other than my mind is less cluttered and more free to wander during these quieter, calmer months. As for South Africa, it's been a while since I've really "gone back" to that particular time, and although the entire experience is really memorable, there was a game reserve that I visited - Londololozi - that stands out in particular.
The routine at Londolozi was peacefully monotonous. We would awake early, around 5:00 AM, head to the main lodge for a huge breakfast buffet (marveling at the monkeys swinging around just outside the open-air seating), and then head out on one of the specially outfitted, topless land rovers for a morning safari. We would return a few hours later for lunch and a free afternoon, followed by an early evening safari and an outdoor, grilled meal served at large communal tables.
The game rangers at Londolozi were generally young, white South African men who had studied to become rangers and were well-trained regarding all of the animals and flora that we saw on our daily jaunts. The trackers (ie, the men who would sit at the front of the vehicles and hunt for animal tracks), were generally well-weathered, black South African men who were not necessarily trained, but who had so much knowledge of the bush that all one could do was sit back in wonder as they repeatedly led us to spots where we could closely observe a multitude of animals (lions, hyena, elephants, rhino, cheetah, to name a few), in their natural habitats.
Being young and alone, I was befriended by some of the game rangers early in my stay and began attending their after-hours parties. The rangers were required to dine with all of the guests at dinner, but afterwards I would go with them to a different area of the reserve where the staff would have their own more casual gatherings. These experiences were great fun as they offered a window into what seemed to me to be authentic South African culture -- something I greatly admired and was happy to be included in.
One night, my new friend John M. suggested that we go into the bush alone -- he wanted to show me something. I agreed and wasn't much concerned when he strapped on a rifle (red light, anyone?) before heading out on the land rover. As we made our way into the bush we passed an old pickup truck with a huge mound of impala in the back. Some were still breathing, but all were doomed to be our dinner the following night. It was one of the first times I acutely realized where our meat comes from -- and probably laid the groundwork for my later decision to go veggie. At the time I was wolfing down a lot of cheeseburgers and, on this trip, impala. John explained that killing and serving the animals for dinner (kabobs!) was an efficient way of handling over-population. Just like the deer back at home. Sigh.
We continued onward; me holding a large lamp that John entrusted to me and which I clumsily jerked around the darkness as he called out instructions, hoping to spot something interesting. Have you ever been in the African bush at night alone with a dude you just met a coupla days ago? It's a surreal experience. Aside from the excitement of doing something so completely unexpected, the sounds we heard during that night drive were like something out of a movie. Add to that the fact that John would periodically kill the lights and the engine of the land rover so that we could sit in darkness to "hear better" and, well, it was pretty much an incomparable experience.
Eventually, after crashing around through some trees and bushes (never leaving the vehicle) we came to what seemed to be a large clearing. My heart was pounding out of my chest as John directed me to shine the lamp directly in front of us. There -- to my astonishment -- was a pride of 15 or more lions lounging about in the pale moonlight. To our right two were mating. John looked at me; I gawked at him and he grinned broadly. Apparently, mission accomplished. I grinned in return and thought, "Okay, a little weird, but best date ever!", while the words to Prince's song strummed along in my head, "...animals strike curious poses...."
Fast-forward to 2011 and it nearly feels like that whole episode never happened -- good thing I have some photos (pre-digital, so only a precious few) to remind myself. In them I am young, naive and obliviously happy. They record one of those brief and rare moments in a lifetime -- in my lifetime, at least -- when I achieved something I was always looking for back then, and even sometimes today -- anonymity. I yearned for the feeling of being "lost" and creating a new me. Who can say why. I have a close and loving family that, then as today, I miss intensely when I'm away for too long. And yet -- there was/is something magical about wandering alone in a place where no one knows you -- and where no one knows you are. I think it's possibility.
When it came time for me to leave Londolozi, I was sad, sad, sad. I'd been there only a short time, but the lifestyle and beauty of the land, the people and the animals had resonated deeply. I didn't want to leave, but I did anyway, telling myself that I would go home, save money, and come back to stay. I remember sitting in my seat on the little prop plane, literally waiting for a giraffe to leave the runway so that we could take-off, and thinking, rather dramatically and grandly, "This is where I belong."
Of course, those feelings faded after I returned home to work, friends, family and a new boyfriend (hello, Roc!), whom I later married. I did keep in touch with some of the people at Londolozi for a few months afterward -- actually, based on letters I've recently uncovered in my stash of treasured notes, we kept in touch longer that I realized - mostly via fax - which is hard to imagine now. Funny how time washed away the relationship part, but left the strong connection to South Africa intact. Our minds do that sometimes.
A friend suggested that I could "find" some of the people I met at Londolozi on Facebook if I really wanted, but I'd rather not. I like to remember them just as they were then -- young and idealistic, entertaining the tourists...showing off the lions and showcasing the best thing of all...possibility.
The routine at Londolozi was peacefully monotonous. We would awake early, around 5:00 AM, head to the main lodge for a huge breakfast buffet (marveling at the monkeys swinging around just outside the open-air seating), and then head out on one of the specially outfitted, topless land rovers for a morning safari. We would return a few hours later for lunch and a free afternoon, followed by an early evening safari and an outdoor, grilled meal served at large communal tables.
The game rangers at Londolozi were generally young, white South African men who had studied to become rangers and were well-trained regarding all of the animals and flora that we saw on our daily jaunts. The trackers (ie, the men who would sit at the front of the vehicles and hunt for animal tracks), were generally well-weathered, black South African men who were not necessarily trained, but who had so much knowledge of the bush that all one could do was sit back in wonder as they repeatedly led us to spots where we could closely observe a multitude of animals (lions, hyena, elephants, rhino, cheetah, to name a few), in their natural habitats.
Being young and alone, I was befriended by some of the game rangers early in my stay and began attending their after-hours parties. The rangers were required to dine with all of the guests at dinner, but afterwards I would go with them to a different area of the reserve where the staff would have their own more casual gatherings. These experiences were great fun as they offered a window into what seemed to me to be authentic South African culture -- something I greatly admired and was happy to be included in.
One night, my new friend John M. suggested that we go into the bush alone -- he wanted to show me something. I agreed and wasn't much concerned when he strapped on a rifle (red light, anyone?) before heading out on the land rover. As we made our way into the bush we passed an old pickup truck with a huge mound of impala in the back. Some were still breathing, but all were doomed to be our dinner the following night. It was one of the first times I acutely realized where our meat comes from -- and probably laid the groundwork for my later decision to go veggie. At the time I was wolfing down a lot of cheeseburgers and, on this trip, impala. John explained that killing and serving the animals for dinner (kabobs!) was an efficient way of handling over-population. Just like the deer back at home. Sigh.
We continued onward; me holding a large lamp that John entrusted to me and which I clumsily jerked around the darkness as he called out instructions, hoping to spot something interesting. Have you ever been in the African bush at night alone with a dude you just met a coupla days ago? It's a surreal experience. Aside from the excitement of doing something so completely unexpected, the sounds we heard during that night drive were like something out of a movie. Add to that the fact that John would periodically kill the lights and the engine of the land rover so that we could sit in darkness to "hear better" and, well, it was pretty much an incomparable experience.
Eventually, after crashing around through some trees and bushes (never leaving the vehicle) we came to what seemed to be a large clearing. My heart was pounding out of my chest as John directed me to shine the lamp directly in front of us. There -- to my astonishment -- was a pride of 15 or more lions lounging about in the pale moonlight. To our right two were mating. John looked at me; I gawked at him and he grinned broadly. Apparently, mission accomplished. I grinned in return and thought, "Okay, a little weird, but best date ever!", while the words to Prince's song strummed along in my head, "...animals strike curious poses...."
Fast-forward to 2011 and it nearly feels like that whole episode never happened -- good thing I have some photos (pre-digital, so only a precious few) to remind myself. In them I am young, naive and obliviously happy. They record one of those brief and rare moments in a lifetime -- in my lifetime, at least -- when I achieved something I was always looking for back then, and even sometimes today -- anonymity. I yearned for the feeling of being "lost" and creating a new me. Who can say why. I have a close and loving family that, then as today, I miss intensely when I'm away for too long. And yet -- there was/is something magical about wandering alone in a place where no one knows you -- and where no one knows you are. I think it's possibility.
When it came time for me to leave Londolozi, I was sad, sad, sad. I'd been there only a short time, but the lifestyle and beauty of the land, the people and the animals had resonated deeply. I didn't want to leave, but I did anyway, telling myself that I would go home, save money, and come back to stay. I remember sitting in my seat on the little prop plane, literally waiting for a giraffe to leave the runway so that we could take-off, and thinking, rather dramatically and grandly, "This is where I belong."
Of course, those feelings faded after I returned home to work, friends, family and a new boyfriend (hello, Roc!), whom I later married. I did keep in touch with some of the people at Londolozi for a few months afterward -- actually, based on letters I've recently uncovered in my stash of treasured notes, we kept in touch longer that I realized - mostly via fax - which is hard to imagine now. Funny how time washed away the relationship part, but left the strong connection to South Africa intact. Our minds do that sometimes.
A friend suggested that I could "find" some of the people I met at Londolozi on Facebook if I really wanted, but I'd rather not. I like to remember them just as they were then -- young and idealistic, entertaining the tourists...showing off the lions and showcasing the best thing of all...possibility.
Friday, July 1, 2011
Summer Skiing at A-Basin
Roc, Isabel and Stella hit the slopes at A-Basin today -- on July 1st. Crazy, yes? I love Colorado.
The day began not so well as Stella was still recovering from our hike up Quandary the previous day, so we basically dragged her out of the house and she cried/complained/whined for a good portion of the 20 minute drive from my parents' house to the Arapahoe Basin (A-Basin) ski area. If you like to ski and have never been to A-Basin, it's really worth adding to the to-do list. Not far from the large, commercial resort area of Keystone, A-Basin is like stepping into the past -- in a good way. The "lodge" is small and smells a little; the food selections are basic; the "village" is....well, there is none. There are also no Beginner slopes, so skiing at A-Basin is a little more like skiing in Europe where they don't slow down the lift for every new skiier trying to hop on....you either get on or get out. Which is refreshing, in its own way.
Anyway, by the time we arrived Stella had decided that she wanted to participate in this adventure after all and, overhearing Roc and I discussing whether HE should take her or I should take her (neither of us really relishing the idea of the tired and whining menace) she commented slyly from the backseat, "It seems like nobody really wants to be with me today," which made all of us laugh, and the mood instantly lifted.
We got them suited up (the power was out -- soooo A-Basin), and although there were no lights in any of the base buildings we managed to rent snow pants ($10 each - brilliant idea for summer skiing!) and bought some gloves and socks (the kids were dressed in shorts and flip-flops); and off they went. Lola wasn't interested in skiing, despite our best cajoling, so she and I headed off to the Dillon Farmer's Market while Roc took the other two up the mountain for a spectacular day. Best part was apparently the pond-skimming, during which skiers whisk down the slopes and then skim across an alpine lake (hopefully not sinking in the process). This was something new to us, so from what I can tell, standing by the pond and watching who made it -- and more interestingly -- who didn't, was great fun.
Lola and I picked them up at 3:00 and we headed back to the Frisco Marina for kayaking in the warm afternoon light. A perfect day. Lucky girls. Lucky parents.
The day began not so well as Stella was still recovering from our hike up Quandary the previous day, so we basically dragged her out of the house and she cried/complained/whined for a good portion of the 20 minute drive from my parents' house to the Arapahoe Basin (A-Basin) ski area. If you like to ski and have never been to A-Basin, it's really worth adding to the to-do list. Not far from the large, commercial resort area of Keystone, A-Basin is like stepping into the past -- in a good way. The "lodge" is small and smells a little; the food selections are basic; the "village" is....well, there is none. There are also no Beginner slopes, so skiing at A-Basin is a little more like skiing in Europe where they don't slow down the lift for every new skiier trying to hop on....you either get on or get out. Which is refreshing, in its own way.
Anyway, by the time we arrived Stella had decided that she wanted to participate in this adventure after all and, overhearing Roc and I discussing whether HE should take her or I should take her (neither of us really relishing the idea of the tired and whining menace) she commented slyly from the backseat, "It seems like nobody really wants to be with me today," which made all of us laugh, and the mood instantly lifted.
We got them suited up (the power was out -- soooo A-Basin), and although there were no lights in any of the base buildings we managed to rent snow pants ($10 each - brilliant idea for summer skiing!) and bought some gloves and socks (the kids were dressed in shorts and flip-flops); and off they went. Lola wasn't interested in skiing, despite our best cajoling, so she and I headed off to the Dillon Farmer's Market while Roc took the other two up the mountain for a spectacular day. Best part was apparently the pond-skimming, during which skiers whisk down the slopes and then skim across an alpine lake (hopefully not sinking in the process). This was something new to us, so from what I can tell, standing by the pond and watching who made it -- and more interestingly -- who didn't, was great fun.
Lola and I picked them up at 3:00 and we headed back to the Frisco Marina for kayaking in the warm afternoon light. A perfect day. Lucky girls. Lucky parents.
Thursday, June 30, 2011
...till they saw our faces
A few weeks ago I went with my closest friends to visit another wonderful friend in her hometown of Columbus, Ohio. It's our tradition (more recently, thought of as a divine right) to take a "girls' trip" every Spring, so our families weren't surprised when we disappeared one warm weekend for a few precious days spent eating, drinking and walking around doing nothing. In addition to our monthly dinners and impromptu breakfast meetings, these times together are vital to each of us in different ways. Over the many years that we've known one another our tastes have changed, but our relationships have remained (miraculously) much the same - which is comforting some unidentifiable way.
One of our habits on these trips is to keep a list of all the hilarious (to us) phrases that we mutter as we waste away a few days in each others constant company. These lists (usually 15-20 phrases long) are the best remedy to a bad mood, a back-talking kid, a frustrating job and a litany of other "problems" that might plague one.
On this trip, one of the phrases that entered our lexicon was "...till they saw our faces." Originally meant as a compliment, ie, "Hey, those guys were checking us out....till they saw our [older] faces", it ended up being, "Hey, those guys were checking us out....till they saw our [lined, dry, craggy, droopy-eyed, sorry-ass] faces." This would be even funnier if it weren't true, but...well, time marches on, no? One (20-year old) kid even had the nerve to comment loudly as we walked by in all our giddy glory, "Mommies!", which really sent us into spasms of disbelief (although, in fact, most of us are moms -- some of us many times over).
So you could say we had our ups and downs in Columbus, but nowadays it's those two phrases, "...till they saw our faces!" and "Mommies!" that can bring me to tears (from laughing). Not because they're particularly funny lines, but because it reminds me not to take myself (or anybody else) too seriously. Life is short. Enjoy your face.
One of our habits on these trips is to keep a list of all the hilarious (to us) phrases that we mutter as we waste away a few days in each others constant company. These lists (usually 15-20 phrases long) are the best remedy to a bad mood, a back-talking kid, a frustrating job and a litany of other "problems" that might plague one.
On this trip, one of the phrases that entered our lexicon was "...till they saw our faces." Originally meant as a compliment, ie, "Hey, those guys were checking us out....till they saw our [older] faces", it ended up being, "Hey, those guys were checking us out....till they saw our [lined, dry, craggy, droopy-eyed, sorry-ass] faces." This would be even funnier if it weren't true, but...well, time marches on, no? One (20-year old) kid even had the nerve to comment loudly as we walked by in all our giddy glory, "Mommies!", which really sent us into spasms of disbelief (although, in fact, most of us are moms -- some of us many times over).
So you could say we had our ups and downs in Columbus, but nowadays it's those two phrases, "...till they saw our faces!" and "Mommies!" that can bring me to tears (from laughing). Not because they're particularly funny lines, but because it reminds me not to take myself (or anybody else) too seriously. Life is short. Enjoy your face.
Rescue on the "High" Seas
Our vacation continued today with some interesting events on Lake Dillon -- actually, the Dillon Reservoir, which is a fresh water reservoir from which Denver (located, oh, some 4000 feet below Dillon in elevation) receives a good portion of its drinking water. We decided to take out a kayak (Lola and myself) and canoe (Roc, Isabel and Stella) for a couple of hours -- something we've done maybe 4 or 5 times in the past. Our plans were pretty routine -- paddle to some of the islands that dot the lake, get out and take a look around (supposedly there is an osprey nest out there, but we never saw it), then hop back in and paddle around some more, followed by lunch at the marina. Adventure on the "high" seas -- get it? "High" as in altitude? Yes, folks, I'll be here all day.
Anyway, the sky looked ominous as we headed out, but we had been assured by the dock-hands (who shrugged at the dark clouds) that it would be fine. The wind was behind us and strong, so we were pleased to zoom along to the first island without much effort. A few feet behind Lola and myself I could hear Roc commentating repeatedly on the wind, and about how difficult our return paddle would be. Roc is a really good sailor and grew up on the water, so he really does know what he's talking about. I grew up on a little lake (a pond, really), skimming around on a Sunfish and thinking (dementedly) that I actually knew what I was doing. Anyway, I knew he was right, but what could we do? A storm was clearly on its way, so we would just have to wait it out on the island and then paddle back later (cold and wet).
Unfortunately, Stella was still beat from the long hike the previous day on Quandary, so she melted down almost immediately, wailing very loudly that she was tired and wanted to get back to the marina. We indulged her drama as we had no alternative, and when the rain and winds picked up we tried to find shelter under the tall pines in the middle of the island. It was around this point that the marina called Roc's cell and informed us that they would be sending a "rescue boat" as the storm looked to be a big one and they didn't want us stranded on the island, or trying to paddle back. Now this was exciting news! A "rescue" boat sounded awfully important and we all wondered what, exactly, a "rescue boat" from the Frisco Marina might look like.
The storm intensified while we waited, with a few flashes of lightening and some really loud thundercracks accompanied by strong wind. Eventually a large tree branch that fell about 200 yards away from where we stood was enough to set off some panic alarms for Lola and Stella (who, yes, was still crying). For a few moments I worried that a tree might actually fall on us, but almost as soon as the thought occurred to me we heard the whistle of our "rescuers" on the other side of the island (the windier, wetter side) and so we trucked back through the pines and piled onboard the boat (maybe 30 feet with a center console). They loaded our canoe and kayak onboard as well and we were off to the marina -- suddenly rescued and thinking about what we might have for lunch once we arrived.
Later, the storm passed and we spent the afternoon poking around in sunny Breckenridge. Strange how you can go from a seemingly menacing situation to a completely benign one in a matter of hours (or maybe 30 minutes, in our case). I don't think that we were ever in any real danger, but it rallied us together as a family anyway, and as we skimmed along the water of Lake Dillon in the "rescue boat", wrapped in warm, woolly blankets and trying to stay out of the pouring rain, it seemed we all knew that this would make a good story at somebody's wedding someday -- probably Stella's.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
Climbing Mt. Quandary
We've got the whole gang out in Colorado for a couple of weeks visiting my parents in Frisco -- about 9 miles from Breckenridge. We love coming here. The fresh air, blue skies and perfect weather are the ideal antidote to city-overdose after a long year of school and everything that comes with it.
Today we decided to climb what is known as a "fourteener", ie, one of about 53 mountains that peak at an altitude of more than 14,000 feet above sea level. Not all summits over 14,000 feet qualify as fourteeners -- mountains that qualify are generally those considered by mountaineers to be independent. Climbing all the fourteeners in this area is a popular Summit County pastime, and there are blogs upon blogs about it if you might be interested in more. For us, coming from Chicago and staying in Frisco at at altitude of about 9000 feet, the altitude gain at Quandary is fairly significant (ie, we knew there would be lots of huffing and puffing).
Lola chose to spend the morning with Nana and Papa, so it was Roc, Stella (almost 8), Isabel (11) and myself who headed to the trailhead at around 8:00AM - a little late by most guidelines, but we were giving ourselves a little slack as we weren't entirely optimistic about summitting with two little ones in tow anyway. The day was crisp, cool and clear -- as every day in Colorado seems to dawn in the summer months. We struck out cheerfully, even though I had spent a good portion of the night searching the internet for assurances (to no avail) that we weren't insane to take young children on this "advanced" and "strenuous" trail. As it turned out, Stella was especially tenacious - perhaps because this was her first time on this particular mountain. Roc and I have climbed it once before without kids, and last year Roc and Isabel went up about two-thirds before turning back (too cold!) Stella raced up the steep inclines, pausing only to sip water and peel off layers -- which she threw to me to carry (of course).
At around 12,500 feet, far about the tree line and with spectacular views of two alpine lakes and a couple of other fourteeners in the distance, Isabel complained of a headache and shortness of breath. Both she and Roc have occasional bouts of mild asthma -- usually altitude-induced -- and unfortunately, Roc had forgotten an inhaler. I was feeling good as I spent last week hiking around Beaver Creek (up and down the mountain), but Roc was tired (he only arrived 2 days ago), and with Isabel slowing down, I thought it best to call it a day and head back down.
Ohhhh, not so fast. Stella had the summit in her line of sight, and there was no way she was going back down without achieving her "goal". We agreed that Isabel and I would wait and enjoy the spectacular scenery while Roc and Stella continued to the next ridge -- about 500 feet higher. Much to our surprise, we were treated to a great sighting of two wooly mountain goats clambering toward us up the steep mountainside -- followed by two more a few minutes later. Meanwhile, Roc and Stella had reached the next ridge and we could see them in an animated discussion (lots of gesticulations!) which ended with them turning around and heading back toward us. (We later discovered that this conversation was not about the mountain at all, but about which kind of beef jerky tasted better.)
I was relieved to see them coming back, even though I suspected that Stella would be sorely disappointed. She often sets very high (sometimes unrealistic) goals for herself and can be harsh with self-criticism if it doesn't work out. We hear this a lot from her teachers, and I'm pretty sure it has something to do with keeping up with her older sisters. Also, it was just a little over a year ago that she underwent a procedure to close an atrial septal defect (a hole in her heart) and we are currently overdue for her 1-year follow-up appointment. As we went up Quandary I couldn't help from repeatedly asking her if she could hear her heart pounding and she would answer me with exasperation, "YES! It means I'm alive!"
Anyway, they came back down and Stella was surprisingly not fazed by missing the summit this time. Instead, we started the long descent in high spirits, feeling that we had accomplished quite a lot. There were no other hikers nearly as young as Stella or even Isabel, and some who passed us (both going up and going down) made comments about how "tough" they were.
Maybe a half mile from the bottom Stella finally faltered and began to cry -- she was tired. Isabel, on the other hand, had gotten a second wind and sped away from us -- nowhere to be seen. We regaled Stella with stories of Tom Sawyer and continued down the mountain. After 30 minutes or so I began to wonder if we should be concerned about Isabel (where was she?) I made some cuckoo noises to which there was no response (nobody can ever hear me) but we did hear a faint response to Stella's "IZZY!!!!!" As it turned out, she had indeed gone off the trail, but had righted herself and was waiting near the trailhead when we came down.
So -- why this long (okay, boring) story? I guess it's my pride at what they accomplished, and with so little fanfare or drama. I love that when we say that they can do something, they actually trust us and believe in themselves enough to believe that it's true. It's something my parents did for me (telling me I could do/be anything) and I think it really impacted how I move through life. No problem is really insurmountable. Nothing is really that bad. There is so much that children pick up from our cues. Hint that they can't do it, and they can't. Tell them that they can and they will.
Today we decided to climb what is known as a "fourteener", ie, one of about 53 mountains that peak at an altitude of more than 14,000 feet above sea level. Not all summits over 14,000 feet qualify as fourteeners -- mountains that qualify are generally those considered by mountaineers to be independent. Climbing all the fourteeners in this area is a popular Summit County pastime, and there are blogs upon blogs about it if you might be interested in more. For us, coming from Chicago and staying in Frisco at at altitude of about 9000 feet, the altitude gain at Quandary is fairly significant (ie, we knew there would be lots of huffing and puffing).Lola chose to spend the morning with Nana and Papa, so it was Roc, Stella (almost 8), Isabel (11) and myself who headed to the trailhead at around 8:00AM - a little late by most guidelines, but we were giving ourselves a little slack as we weren't entirely optimistic about summitting with two little ones in tow anyway. The day was crisp, cool and clear -- as every day in Colorado seems to dawn in the summer months. We struck out cheerfully, even though I had spent a good portion of the night searching the internet for assurances (to no avail) that we weren't insane to take young children on this "advanced" and "strenuous" trail. As it turned out, Stella was especially tenacious - perhaps because this was her first time on this particular mountain. Roc and I have climbed it once before without kids, and last year Roc and Isabel went up about two-thirds before turning back (too cold!) Stella raced up the steep inclines, pausing only to sip water and peel off layers -- which she threw to me to carry (of course).
At around 12,500 feet, far about the tree line and with spectacular views of two alpine lakes and a couple of other fourteeners in the distance, Isabel complained of a headache and shortness of breath. Both she and Roc have occasional bouts of mild asthma -- usually altitude-induced -- and unfortunately, Roc had forgotten an inhaler. I was feeling good as I spent last week hiking around Beaver Creek (up and down the mountain), but Roc was tired (he only arrived 2 days ago), and with Isabel slowing down, I thought it best to call it a day and head back down.
Ohhhh, not so fast. Stella had the summit in her line of sight, and there was no way she was going back down without achieving her "goal". We agreed that Isabel and I would wait and enjoy the spectacular scenery while Roc and Stella continued to the next ridge -- about 500 feet higher. Much to our surprise, we were treated to a great sighting of two wooly mountain goats clambering toward us up the steep mountainside -- followed by two more a few minutes later. Meanwhile, Roc and Stella had reached the next ridge and we could see them in an animated discussion (lots of gesticulations!) which ended with them turning around and heading back toward us. (We later discovered that this conversation was not about the mountain at all, but about which kind of beef jerky tasted better.)
I was relieved to see them coming back, even though I suspected that Stella would be sorely disappointed. She often sets very high (sometimes unrealistic) goals for herself and can be harsh with self-criticism if it doesn't work out. We hear this a lot from her teachers, and I'm pretty sure it has something to do with keeping up with her older sisters. Also, it was just a little over a year ago that she underwent a procedure to close an atrial septal defect (a hole in her heart) and we are currently overdue for her 1-year follow-up appointment. As we went up Quandary I couldn't help from repeatedly asking her if she could hear her heart pounding and she would answer me with exasperation, "YES! It means I'm alive!"
Anyway, they came back down and Stella was surprisingly not fazed by missing the summit this time. Instead, we started the long descent in high spirits, feeling that we had accomplished quite a lot. There were no other hikers nearly as young as Stella or even Isabel, and some who passed us (both going up and going down) made comments about how "tough" they were.
Maybe a half mile from the bottom Stella finally faltered and began to cry -- she was tired. Isabel, on the other hand, had gotten a second wind and sped away from us -- nowhere to be seen. We regaled Stella with stories of Tom Sawyer and continued down the mountain. After 30 minutes or so I began to wonder if we should be concerned about Isabel (where was she?) I made some cuckoo noises to which there was no response (nobody can ever hear me) but we did hear a faint response to Stella's "IZZY!!!!!" As it turned out, she had indeed gone off the trail, but had righted herself and was waiting near the trailhead when we came down.
So -- why this long (okay, boring) story? I guess it's my pride at what they accomplished, and with so little fanfare or drama. I love that when we say that they can do something, they actually trust us and believe in themselves enough to believe that it's true. It's something my parents did for me (telling me I could do/be anything) and I think it really impacted how I move through life. No problem is really insurmountable. Nothing is really that bad. There is so much that children pick up from our cues. Hint that they can't do it, and they can't. Tell them that they can and they will.
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