Three Legs Down...

Does Anybody Really Know What Time It Is

I got that call. That call that's way to early in the morning to be good. Not early enough for drunk dialing. "Chris, what time is it?"

Mike had not returned after going to hike on the Bass Lake Trails tonight. Hans went out to help look. He found him-- the life gone from his bod-- called Chris to come help bring him out of the woods. Natural causes will be the culprit as we wait for the doctors to do their thing in the next couple days. Mike was too young to go just yet in his late 40's, presumably, with two young- adult children and a great partner in life.

I was just thinking how I hadn't seen Mike in a while. I would always count on the coffee shop to get me caught up with folks but the "Grounds" has been closed for a bit for some updates. Mike was always smiling and being a general goofball. A long time, enthusiastic employee of the US Forest Service, you could count on him recruiting some new employee for some upcoming training such as fire fighting. Mike was always smiling and happy to see me-- even on days I wasn't happy to see me.

I will never forget Mike attending pilates class--- rather, me attending pilates and finding Mike there. It seemed an unlikely match for a guy I never saw in anything but USFS issue pants. There I was, toppling all over the place trying to nail my "plank" poses and there was Mike, strong and as balanced as could be. He would end the night with a half hour aerobic workout.

I'm angry that I have this job that takes me so far away for so long. It takes me away from being able to help, to be there. Why can't I just have the 9-5 office job complete with a cubicle and all the kitschy trinkets to "make it mine". Or maybe I'm lamenting in not going to say hello to Mike at the bottom of the hill while up to visit Chris. How hard would it have been to walk a few doors down? How much time would it have taken?

I'm beside myself. My heart breaks into a million tiny pieces for Becky and their two kids, Joe & Celin. My wish for Mike is that he went without too much pain and that his family will be okay. He was enjoying the beautiful spring weather in a part of the world that I'm convinced looks a lot like the afterlife. See ya, Mike. Enjoy it out there.

Does anybody really know what time it is
Does anybody really care
If so I can't imagine why
We've all got time enough to cry

Caption Contest

The best caption wins.....nothing! But really, why pass up an opportunity to be a wise-guy/gal?

Party

I'm not a big party girl. Every once in a while I bust out of my skin and get rambunctious. It usually involves alcohol and trying to do things that are relatively dangerous. Like insisting Scott H. at Rutabaga to break a beer bottle over my head while wearing Pete's whitewater helmet. Why I was wearing a whitewater helmet at a bar is beyond me. Hey-- I could be one of those emotional drunks. Instead, I'm just wacky. But I'm not that way a majority of the time. Perhaps it's that I'm not in my 20's anymore, like here:
This year my friends Pam & Craig invited friends and my shared birthday pal, Steve-O, over to their little slice of heaven in Duluth for a gathering of friends, consumption of adult beverages and..... rubber duckie races. It involved mini rubber ducks, a couple of mini rubber frogs, duct tape (no pun) and a sharpie. We decorated and modified our athletes before dumping them in the pool that waterfalled over rocks into a larger pool where they would race to an un-determined finish line. When we realized there was no current what-so-ever in the pond, we went back to the fire pit and drank beer. Every hour or so we would look over and see no progress. Eventually, after refueling with burgers and guacamole, we stood around the pond and gave our racers some "motivation". When artificial wind generation didn't work, Craig opted for the inflatable-item foot pump. Hmmm... I wonder what he uses that for normally?

A New Discovery

I was through with my time at the University found myself working for a local school district with students in a day-treatment facility. These were kids on their way out or possibly back into the standard school system but required intervention or a possibly a transition phase if they were on their way back in. The former was more common than the later. I facilitated the social and behavioral growth of the students and also provided a recreation aspect as another tool to achieve goals of personal growth. Needless to say, it was a mentally intensive job. One day the kids get it, they get you-- the next they're throwing punches...at you. I worked with my then best girl friend who was a genius with those kids. We were a great team able to toggle between "good cop" and "bad cop" roles depending on the given day. When B~ left to travel in Australia for 6 months, I was needing an outlet that would let me decompress from the otherwise dysfunction that I worked to untie 5 days a week.

I took a job at my favorite local outdoor retailer during the weekends. I quickly came to the realization that I could sell ice to an Eskimo. I approached selling like education and counseling-- an extension of my "real job", really. Even better, I was surrounded by wood canvas canoes that were works of art as well as high tech kevlar boats with beautiful shouldered tumblehomes and subtle rocker. I was quickly falling in love. Being around all that gear made me dizzy with delight. It wasn't much time before I left the school system and started working full time. But before I left the treatment facility, I worked with B's replacement who would later invite me on a trip that would change my life.

In 1999, I embarked on a 36 day, 550+ mile long trip on the Thelon River in Nunavut, Canada. I had plenty of trip experience, but had no idea what this land would be like much less a trip for so long, so very far away. I was nervous about how I would enjoy the land as I found my self bored with my desert trip to Joshua Tree. A beautiful and dramatic landscape, I longed for the woods and scenery that I had to turn the corner to see. The tundra was really a version of the desert and when I saw the words, "northern extent of trees" on a map, I had a sinking feeling of what I committed to. I was so wrong.
You can imagine the lessons and stories that come from a month in the absolute middle of nowhere with three other human beings. Take the group dynamic element away and there is an even better story, a story of discovery. I discovered a landscape and a people that would grip me almost as much as Lake Superior. I discovered amazing flora and fauna. I discovered insects. Unbelievable masses of insects.

Sorry 'bout the picture quality--it was a photo, made from a slide, then scanned. The take home message here is the bugs and the chopped meat they made of my neck. Nice sunburn too.

These are black flies. Black flies bad.

I also discovered that I really knew nothing about the Inuit culture which became a point of fascination for me to this day. How any culture could survive on such a harsh landscape was something surely worth reading about. I discovered more animals en masse-- caribou.

These are caribou. Caribou good.

We paddled from just past the headwaters of this amazing river; through the sand flats and past the eskers; cruised swift currents and navigated big water (not always successfully); caught the biggest trout I-have-ever-seen-in-my-life (not to mention reeled in); watched the graceful greyling feeding on those dreaded insects...and then threw our lines in. We met the arctic wolves and the pre-historic looking musk-ox. We ran with the caribou-- we really did. We dodged the nesting arctic terns as they dive bombed our canoes. We survived the bugs, barely. And then we arrived over 500 miles later at Baker Lake, a small hamlet on the Chesterfield Inlet of the northwestern coast of Hudson Bay. As much as I wanted to go home, I couldn't wait to go back to the the north.

Camp Neverland

So many stories were generated from camp. Stories that bring laughs no matter how many times you hear it. Like the time we tied Max to a big rope that needed to be attached to the big willow tree limb providing campers with a rope swing into the swimming hole. The rope went from Max on the ground, up over the limb, and back to the red camp truck. The plan was to slowly hoist Max up to the limb so he could tie it off and then climb the rope back down. Gullikson was at the wheel, giving her just-a-bit of gas. The tires began to spin in the sandy soil so he gave it a little punch... too much punch. The truck jumped forward, Max flew 20 feet into the air in a matter of seconds and the truck stopped millimeters before Max would have gone over the limb. Max's reaction was understated-- something very dead pan-- "Oh, that was close". It was priceless.

If there was ever any question why Leave-No-Trace groups rip on Boy Scouts-- how about fires the size of a small cabin?

Here's a picture of when the guys stole my keys and drove the jeep into the dining hall one night. I awoke to Joe pounding on my door, "Megan, get yer dam car outta the dining hall-- and before flag". I thought I was dreaming. Look at how courteous the guys were putting cardboard underneath so the floor would stay clean.

Saran wrapping people was a fun pastime at camp. Those food service size rolls of plastic wrap can go for miles when saran wrapping a young, unsuspecting staff to their bed. There's a story of me staying up late one night in the dining hall while the boys played euchre. I sleep hard and finally gave in while laying on the bench of a fold up cafeteria table. Soon I was being wrapped to the bench. They proceeded to fold up the table so I was upside down held only to the bench by thin layers of plastic. I woke up during the folding of the table and instantly knew I was in a predicament that sent me into tear-inducing laughter. Try laughing while all your blood is rushing to your brain. It hurts! I believe my left hand was left slightly exposed and I was presented me with a butter knife to try to cut my way out. Joe eventually started charging us 10 cents a foot for the stuff.There are stories of gently waking staff that over-slept with pitchers of ice water; sending new staff to the quartermaster's barn for 50 feet of shoreline and a left handed hammer; and driving a hi-jacked golf cart over the pedestrian bridge at night with no lights. This followed by a collision with a tee-pee. There was the rotten milk raid on Camp Ehawee. Apparently one carton of milk exploded on a staff that was allergic to milk. Ooops. The best part was the genius idea to use our camp radios to communicate while at the girly-girl camp. Apparently, the radios transmitted a lot further than we anticipated. Like all the way to the base unit that sits at our camp director's house.

A favorite story is when I was called out to be a member of Order of the Arrow. A sort of who's who in scouting that is based on service and brotherhood. I had served my butt off but the BSA kept the women at bay by not allowing them into the organization until they were 21. Kindly, I was recognized in my youth with the Red Arrow Award- given to people who serve the organization but are not "brothers". But I was so proud to be able to join my friends when I was indeed called out. I was formally called out while working at Camp Phillips but was able to return to Decorah for a visit where John, presiding over the ceremonies as chief, tapped me out at "home". John, as most, took his ceremonial role quite seriously. In all his years, he never once cracked a smile. I think the moment was just too great that night and while he was railing on my shoulder (that's the tap part) we both cracked ear to ear grins.

Reliving these stories reminds me of the innocence of it all. Oh, don't get me wrong, we certainly racked up our share of trouble. (Especially when we old enough to go the bar and steal chainsaw carvings.) In relation to it all, it was fairly benign and we always had a healthy fear of the expectations that were put upon us at such a young age. Considered a tumultuous time in social development, I would go back to being 16 and 17 at camp in a heartbeat. Naivety and ignorance was truly bliss. It was hard to "quit" camp, to make the decision to not go back. It was harder to accept that the older we got, the more complicated things became with weighter responsibilities. Filling an adult role at camp was full of realizations. The realization of the truth, the bullshit of politics, and the discovery that friends can hurt you to get ahead, or to not fall behind. Growing up at camp is kind of Peter Pan story and camp was my Neverland.Three great friends. I wish Max were here to read this. I took for granted that we were inseparable.

Another Brilliant Idea

After putting in two summers at Camp, I came home with another brilliant idea for a teenage girl. "Mom? Dad? The camp guys and I are going to go on backpacking trip to the Porcupine Mountains in Michigan." I believe my mom's first question was, "Are you going to have your own tent?" Clearly she was unfamiliar with the concept of traveling light and I was not about to have to carry another 7 pounds on my own just because I had different anatomy. Scheesh.

Mom took me to Minneapolis 3 hours aways and we navigated our way through the unfamiliar city to REI, Midwest Mountaineering, and other outdoor shops that would become my begging grounds so many years later. I cam home with a Lowe Alpine internal frame pack and a Lowe Alpine fleece from Thrifty Outfitters that day. Hmm... I wasn't particularly brand loyal at that stage in my life though I did do my research in Backpacker Magazine's Gear Guide. Lowe must have had it's heyday in the early 90's. I still have that pack and though there are times I consider selling it, I just can't seem to part with it.
We didn't know what the heck we were doing on the trip but we came out alive and maybe a little hungry. I learned what I liked and disliked about my gear and thus began the downward spiral of needing to find out about every piece of gear available on the market. I was a regular Rocky over at The Goat. It was also my first real impression of Lake Superior. I knew that I wanted to see more of that lake in my lifetime. Lo and behold. I can see her now as I type.

Climb On

A 30 foot tower of 2 x 4's wasn't quite enough for me. I wanted to learn more. Thus began the segment in my life that involved ropes and 'biners. (That's "bean-ers" for my non-climbing pals; short for carabiner.) I signed up for a community ed class through the University of WI- LaCrosse when I was high school. The class culminated with a trip to Devil's Lake - climbing mecca of Wisconsin. Below, I had a serious case of sewing machine leg after the route and couldn't stand up. My senior year of high school, I signed up for an Outward Bound trip to Joshua Tree. Still a National Monument and not a National Park in those days. More about the ways of OB later but enjoy a typical rock climbing picture that is mostly of your backside.
In addition to climbing real rocks, indoor gyms were becoming quite an attraction though still rare and reserved to large cities. I decided that a prerequisite to the University that I would attend was that they have a climbing program. (I know, high standards, eh?) The "wall" at UMD predated artificial climbing holds and was created with chicken wire and plaster. A kind of grandiose art project, really. It actually makes for a climbing experience that parallels that of the rock climbing on the north shore of Lake Superior. I ended up working for Vertical Pursuits at UMD mostly being a belay slave and stashing candy on the holds for the kids' birthday parties. The smell of hockey stank rushes me right back to climbing as the wall was built in an auxiliary room right off the hockey rink. Mmmmm...sweaty hockey gear. UMD has a new fancy pants climbing wall that is the showcase piece of their new sports & health facility. Right there next to the elliptical machines and treadmills and traditional sports athletes. Suddenly climbing is cool and there's a whole division called "sport" climbing. Huh? I'll take the chicken wire art project any day.

In addition to learning the finer points of stemming, mantling, jamming, and dyno-ing I also developed an interest in building ropes courses. I had enough of facilitation of group dynamics among cooperate, scout, and at-risk groups. "So Jim, how did you feel when your group refused to catch you in the trust fall and dropped you on your head?" I just wanted to string aircraft cable through strand vices while hanging 30 feet from the air in a harness that cut off the circulation in my legs. Then we got smart and rented a lift. Funny thing is-- I'm a big chicken on ladders. I need to be "clipped in" if I'm as much as 5 feet off the ground.

Camp, Part I

When I was 15, I came home with a brilliant idea for any teenage girl. "Mom, Dad? I think I want to work at Boy Scout camp this summer." Since nothing could really shock my parents at this point in my rearing, there was little reaction. I'm sure inside, they were thinking, "Oh good lord help us." I had considered being a counselor in training at the Girl Scout camp- Camp Ehawee- down the road, but then I heard of all the cool things to do at Camp Decorah. And besides, who wants to make macaroni-noodle art all summer? It didn't even occur to me that a young teenage girl working with teenage boys and pre-adolescent campers might raise some eyebrows.

What a bunch of dorks.

When I tell people I worked for the Boy Scouts for 9 years, they look at me funny. There is a co-ed program in scouting that many aren't aware of that used to go under the title, "Explorers". I was in a High-Adventure Explorer Post. There weren't a lot of women in scouting when I got involved and there were even less that worked at camp. Many assumed I was there for ulterior motives. But I was pretty naive for that to even be a fleeting thought in my mind. Really, I wanted to canoe, and climb, and work on the ropes course. I wanted to do the things the guys were doing and I wanted to prove that I could keep up and that I could teach it.

Megan coercing a young scout over the edge of the climbing & rappelling tower.

Camp was the major theme of my life well into my twenties. The guys I worked at became my best pals and my brothers. We spent our weekdays during the school year waiting for Friday to come so we could go to camp and do service projects. We spent our lives waiting for camp to start and when camp was in session, we didn't want it to end. To this day, in our thirties, you can't get us together without some story re-told for the bazillionth time. It drives the people in our lives that weren't part of camp absolutely crazy. Especially all the guys' girlfriends and wives.

When I look at the staff picture, I'm drawn to the people that have had such an impact on my life. Jeremy, my long time friend who probably knows the most about me, standing over a foot taller than me in the back row. There's Brad-- who hadn't yet discovered the sheer joy of beer. There's O'Hearn and John- all guys that I still see regularly. Max, sitting next to me, asked me to go to his high school homecoming with him. I was always the back-up girl. Who knew that a handful of years later we would later say good-bye to Max by spreading his ashes in the Black River while we sat in the council bowl and wept.And then there's Joe, our Camp Director who was not only fearless, but evoked fear in every one of his staff. During staff training one summer Joe explained the risks of staff relationships. Feeling a little defensive as one of four women in the room, I was about to roll my eyes, so not interested in hearing about it as I was there to work. Before I could pull off my chip-on-my-shoulder expression, he shared with us in a low mumble that "It only takes 8 Minutes you know". We weren't completely sure what "It" was but we could only assume he was talking about [looks side to side] sex. In our adolescent immaturity and discomfort, we laughed until we were in tears. Pop came shooting out of my nose that day. Camp staff was divvied into patrols that had scheduled tasks throughout the week and you can imagine the creative answers we had to come up with when the campers asked us where the "8 Minute Patrol" got it's name. Every task that summer would be assessed in increments of 8 minutes. We thought we were so funny. Still do.

More Stories

So much for my grand idea of telling some more life-thus-far stories leading up to my birthday. I've got about a week to get busy. There was an awful lot of photo scanning tonight. Digital cameras didn't exist in my youth. I cannot promise fantastic quality photos at this point in the game.

I never remember loving high school. In fact, I couldn't wait to be done with it. Teenagers are pretty much balls of hormonal chaos. I didn't get girls and I especially didn't get guys who were into the girls I didn't get. Some things never change. I can't remember fitting into a particular group, per se, but I dabbled in a little bit of everything.

For instance, here's me as the jock:
And here's me as the dork doing a rappelling demonstration out the gymnasium press box and down the bleachers for my "How-To" speech for speech class. What else was I going to do, "How to apply cosmetics"? Pfffttt!
I'd give anything to find a picture of me as Student Council President. Especially the day I got into it with the Activities Director. He wouldn't give me money for a project (long forgotten) that I felt worthy but would instead give it to the football team for new uniforms. Again, some things never change. I received a gavel for a stellar performance in that role that year. I wonder where it is. It would sure come in handy for sales meetings, me thinks.

My Personal Warning SignNot that I would ever wear heels on a mountain, but simply that I should never wear heels. It will lead to instant ankle breakage.

I've Been Saying This For Years!

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Happy Easter

So Much For Spring

photo courtesy of duluthnews.com

Yep. Snow. A whole 12 inches of it. In April. This is a good thing. Right? Good for Lake Superior water levels that are at 80 year lows. It's a good thing. It's a good thing. It's a good thing. *rocking back and forth in fetal position while staring at her paddle*