This Blog

This blog is dedicated to explorations of spirit, life, adventure, and people. I hope that it encompasses much more than the actions of people, but rather creates a more complete picture of what it means to be an athlete and a person in the outdoor community.

Thursday, August 16, 2012


The water is low and the drive down the canyon is long and slow, winding through bands of rock, red and grey. The river fluctuates in flow as concrete barriers squeeze through turbines to generate precise amounts of power. Minimum flows allow for life to scrape by in the riparian environment.
 Humans have their hands in everything, fastidious in their attempt for control. Not us, we  don't have delusions that the river is ours, that we can tell it what to do. We merely work with it to move downstream, always asking it's permission for passage.
Here our boats displace water and hold our bodies above the fluid. The rocks lay sprinkled in the river by a hand much bigger than ours. As you pass through the boulders and fall into the water it is better to keep your hands at your sides, just as you were taught as a kid. The boulders have a tendency to punish those who get too frisky. They frown upon improper behavior. Tuck in your skirt, keep those legs covered, and always look downstream. 
 It's a maze of beige with the winner coming out unscathed. These rocks know things. They sit and watch as small, frenetic beings splash around them. They wonder, "Who are these creatures of such curiosity playing in my waters?". But they let us pass, even though sometimes you just tuck up real tight and think happy thoughts.
Sometimes we dance with the rocks and sometimes we are wallflowers. Either way the river teaches and we learn. 

Friday, August 10, 2012

Post on Fire

The air is quiet.
The flow of water and the crackle of sparks break the emptiness. The river glows red from embers and the forest has changed overnight. The hillside weakens while the large trees expand their chests to breathe in the new air. 

The river flows on.

Searing the hillside, the black char gives new beginnings to what lay below. Tall trees stand unfazed by the shallow depth of it's terror. They have seen it before and been there long enough to shrug at such novelty. The flames week attempt at domination. Though some have lived too long and wait for their chance to fall. Chunks of bark explode as sparks leap off of the shoulders of taken trees.

The smoke rides the breath of the land. The hands of the fire grasp a tree and a plume of smoke is pushed up. It is frustrating. You can't get away. Your skull tightens and your lungs burn deep and weak. It is just enough to be aware of as the substance wears at your insides. It stops us. We yield to it's magic, it's mystical nature and incorrigible shrewdness. The fire continues, pushing us back.