Where are you from?

Little K

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am from swimming, competitive swimming
Alone but on a team. Head in the water. Chlorine in my veins.
From swimming because my mother couldn’t.
Breaking ice on the deck in winter an hour before school
And two hours after, after homework,
Because I was also an A student
Because my brother wasn’t.

I am from the salt of the ocean
Where I swam free
With waves up my nose
and crunchy salty hair when it dried
And sand everywhere else.

I am from a single white sunbeam
That pierced the hard cold glass of the big front picture window in the living room
Where I lay enveloped in warm radiant love
Lying on the waxed hard wood floor
Behind the big old overstuffed chair.

I am from Leave it to Beaver, Father Knows Best,
Mousketeers, Moose and Squirrel, the Twilight Zone.
The Flintstones, John Wayne, the Addams Family, All in the Family.
Laugh-In.
The Ed Sullivan Show, the Beatles, the Stones, Bob Dylan,
A Land Called Hanalei,
The smell of napalm in the morning, and “One giant leap for mankind.”

I am from sudden loud voices.
Freezing like a rabbit.
From sudden movements and belts not used for pants,
“Everybody knows that,” and “I’m ashamed of you.”

I am from the mud of the riverbank
Where I created myself anew from what was left
And grew tall and strong like the Sierra Nevada still growing,
Held in the bony arms of my adopted parents,
Mother Maclure and Father Lyell in the Yosemite High Country
And became acquainted with my relatives up and down the 400 mile range.

I am from the tiny flame that first ignites the tinder,
The roar of the wind as it penetrates the forest only to caress me
And surprise me with its gentleness as I sway in my hammock.
I am from lightening and hail and the wildflowers they oversee.

I need to remind myself that

I am from the blood red stripes on the sides of Golden Trout
As they swim up the crisp clear stream and
Flounder in the sharp gravel beside gentle grassy banks
Laying their eggs
And moving on through the land
As if they knew how to live their life so perfectly.

Copyright Jan.17, 2014 by Karen Najarian.

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Life Lesson in the Garden

She was hanging on for dear life. She’d slide backwards downhill a bit and then muster enough energy to grab onto something that I couldn’t even see and hang on again. Her head was down in defeat. Her arms and legs were motionless. I pitied her. And of, course, she was a she. She was a honeybee lost and spent of energy on a leaf – a leaf, a nectarless leaf – in my pre-flowering rose garden.

I knew how that felt. Many times backpacking I would hit that wall where I’d run out of calories and stand motionless asking for candy, and then, when offered it, ask my friends to unwrap it because my hands were too uncoordinated from lack of calories to function. Over the years I got pretty good at preventing that but even last year on the first day of the highest mileage (per day and collectively) trip I’d ever done, I hit that wall about a half mile before camp. Luckily, Nadia was there asking if she could do anything. It’s not pretty when this happens. I’ve shakily unwrapped my own candy and greedily popped it in my mouth like a starved animal. I’ve sat on a rock and cried, not sure what was wrong. I’ve gotten bitchy and threatened to drop my pack where I stood and make camp, even if it’s rudely in the camp of another group. There’s a joke among my guides: When she’s hungry, throw candy and back away slowly.

I’m not diabetic. I have no metabolic disorder. It’s just that when I backpack, I can easily burn calories at a rate beyond what I replace by eating. And I’m eating big calories all day long: spoonfuls of Nutella and peanut butter, salami and cheese, Cliff Bars, etc., etc. My hiking companion last year Carolyn, had to stop mid-way in Mammoth Lakes on her 450 mile hike to buy a smaller size skort. My other hiking companion, Rich, because of his shrinking posterior, was having trouble keeping his pants up. I just kept candy close at hand and tried not to be a nuisance from crashing and burning and making a scene.

But this bee had no fellow bee to offer a flower and without a source of energy I knew she would finally slide off the rose leaf to the soil below and die. I thought of picking her off the leaf with my hands and placing her on a flower but thought she might have just enough energy left to sting me. I started to walk away sad at her impending demise attributing it to the ways of nature as much as baby grizzlies can be lost downstream crossing a spring melt swollen river. Then I thought of the worldwide tragedy of collapsing colony disorder, a phenomenon in which worker bees from a beehive or European honey bee colony abruptly disappear. The cause is not clear but it is clear to me from what I’ve read, that this is a man-made condition. So suddenly feeling a sense of responsibility, and a hitting-the-wall kinship, for this bee who’d flown beyond his calorie intake, I pulled off a nearby blooming lavender flower, held it out for him to crawl onto and transferred him to the flower on a blooming lavender bush. Her proboscis soon found a tiny flower on the side of the main lavender flower and then another. (If you look closely you’ll see that lavender flowers are covered with many small flowers.) Soon her previously motionless wings were buzzing and she was flitting from flower to flower. I was glad to be the one to offer her her trail candy and walked back into the house with the sense that this world would be a gentler place if we all cared for each other in the ways I’ve found on the trail and in my garden. I wish us all happy buzzing.

© Karen Najarian, March 24, 2014.

 

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What does it mean to be a backcountry guide?

  • Returning from Costco, again, with a 4Runner full of granola bars
  • Fumbling in the garage for a screw for a pot lid knob that’s missing
  • Cleaning out bear cans,
  • Washing plastic baggies out of guilt for using so many
  • Buying new boots every two years
  • GoogleEarth shows gear drying on your driveway
  • Being asked at Walmart if you’re on a tuna diet when you buy up their entire stock of tuna packets
  • Wearing the same thing every weekend
  • Keeping a nail brush in your purse
  • Having dog pads on the bottom of your feet
  • Being asked if you’re having a party when you show up at the Sams Club register with 10, 2 lb. salames in the cart
  • Watering the lemon tree in the backyard for 2 days because you forgot about it
  • Encouraging those that need encouraging and honoring those that decide not to scale the dome
  • Modeling self-care
  • Reading body language
  • Telling stories that teach backpacking lessons as well as life lessons
  • Listening… LOTS of listening. Everyone has an amazing story
  • Having the best pictures at the end of summer
  • Hanging with the best of folks, which are your hand-picked crew of guides
  • Making new friends every weekend
  • Having your guides bring you hot chocolate in your hammock at 9500 feet
  • And having a “job” that you love, even though you’re tired and cranky sometimes.

What Yosemite has Taught Me

Barefootin' through Cathedral Meadow.
After hiking and guiding in Yosemite National Park for over 30 years I have come to learn a few things.  Yosemite, with its grand monoliths, peak-piled panoramas, and intimate gardens, holds a metaphor for every corner of the heart. These are the lessons that Yosemite has taught me as I’ve passed through her and she has passed through me.

Descending the outlet off-trail from the Mildred Lake outlet is a lot like life: overwhelming if you look at it all at once but by staying in the moment, carefully choosing one step at a time, in a serpentine fashion, one can negotiate the steep and varied terrain.

The Cathedral Lake outlet which spills over a few granite steps before it tumbles down around the side of Pywiack Dome teaches me that not all baptismal fonts are in churches. Likewise, the Cathedral Lakes Basin teaches me that some Cathedrals have no pews.  And a sunset last summer at Lower Cathedral Lake taught me that even God blushes.

The panoramic view from Glacier Point, where the roof of the Park stands out in waves of peaks like a choppy sea, reminds me that sometimes you need some distance to see the big picture.

Half Dome has taught me that sometimes what seems impossible from a frontal assault isn’t impossible at all if you find the easy way that circles around the backside.

Standing on Clouds Rest as my fellow guide, Mike, stood there speechless with his hands on his head and tears in his eyes, I am reminded of the sense of awe and gratitude that Yosemite has taught me for all things.

Yosemite has also taught me, that while the grandeur of the landscape is overwhelming, to not forget the pockets of beauty right at my feet.  I hiked the Yosemite Creek Trail for many years before I discovered the tiny pink Steershead flowers, only half an inch long, in the moist soil at my feet.

The Three Graces in the Mariposa Grove of Giant Sequoias, home to trees 3000 years old, teach me perseverance through the ages.  Fire is as natural a part of the Giant Sequoia landscape as tumultuous times are in our own lives. Giant Sequoias stand tall and proud bearing the scars from many fires during their lives. In fact, they need fire to dry their cones and drop their seeds and they require freshly burned mineral soil for their seeds to germinate.  Upheaval in our own lives can feel like fiery death and destruction but we can use it as fertile soil for new ideas and new ways of being.

Speaking of destructive forces, Slide Canyon, where the Volkswagon size boulders of a landslide go down one side of the canyon and half-way up the other, and wildflowers blooming best after the hot fires in the woodland areas, teach me that some perceived catastrophes leave a new kind of beauty in their wake.

Hetch Hetchy, Yosemite Valley’s sister valley just 20 miles north and still in the Park, flooded under the lake behind O’Shaughnessy Dam, teaches me patience as she holds her breath until the Tuolumne River wanders through her meadows free again.

Snow covered Yosemite, like the lines on a woman’s face reminds me that beauty has no season and camping during winter, I learned that you can make yourself at home wherever you are.

The Milky Way over Tuolumne Meadows on a moonless night reminds me that even on the darkest night there is light to be found.

And mostly Yosemite has taught me that when I’m feeling lonely, the mountains are always standing ready, silently waiting to wrap  their bony arms around me. All I have to do is hike into them.  Join us: sierraspirit.biz.

  Copyright Nov. 2011 by Karen Najarian, links added 12-16-12.

Good Morning 2013

Half  Dome on New Years Morning

Good morning 2013.  Two trees across the street, still on fire from Fall’s flamboyance, welcome me as the cool morning air slams my face on my way out the front door to get the newspaper, my pink nightgown hanging out from under my Mountain Hardwear fleece jacket and over my fleece pants.  (My backpack clothes never seem to get any downtime.)  Birds flee from the dangling ornament-like Liquid Amber seed pods as I gingerly step down the drive.  The exposed aggregate driveway is cold, hard, and nubby on the soles of my bare feet.  The clouds hanging over our neighbors’ roofs to the west still retain a touch of pink and, as I bend over to pick up the paper tossed at the base of the rhodys, their buds pulled in tight against the cold, I see the daffodils are three inches high already.

It’s 7:48 am and Rick hasn’t returned from the search in Marin. He was called into service before our New Year’s toast with friends at midnight last night.  I don’t know any more than that.  Who gets lost in Marin on New Year’s Eve?  An autistic child?  A great grandfather with Alzheimer’s?  A despondent teen?  An angry husband who checks himself into a hotel?  SAR is hardly ever about looking for someone in the wilderness but the reasons people are missing are as varied as the wilderness of the heart.  Whatever the reason you are misplaced, these dedicated volunteers will be there.

The hummers perch and dip at my office window feeder.  I must refill it today.  A friend once told me that since they are the last item on her list of priorities, you can measure the order of her life by whether her bird feeders are full. Today, I find mine empty.

The bird clock my sister gave me chirps eight o’clock in the kitchen and I hear in response Abby-the-dog’s collar tags jangle as she jolts from repose amid the pile of blankets on the waterbed.  Yes, we’re children of the 60’s… still.

The computer has booted (I’ve been writing longhand) and as I click on the Yosemite Association web cams, which I do every morning, I see a snowy Half Dome and Clouds Rest.  Tenaya and Echo Peaks, Mt. Watkins, and Half Dome are lit on one side from the rising southern sun.  Yosemite Falls is frozen onto a brightly lit face of granite like a still out of a movie, it’s winter ice cone rising at the base of the Upper Fall.  John Muir climbed his way up the ice cone more than a century ago and fell through into the hollow rocky abyss within. He also wallowed up the steep snow-covered boulder field of Indian Canyon from the valley floor and descended in an “avalanche of snow stars,” cheating death more times than I can count.

Muir had a purpose, it seemed. And his life refused to let go of him until he achieved it no matter how much he put it at risk.  He won for us National Parks, the idea of glaciation in the Sierra, and the beginning of the conservation movement.  Even his last fight, the defeat of saving Hetch Hetchy Valley from being dammed and flooded for San Francisco’s water tank, solidified the future defense of wilderness as no win could ever do.

So, 2013, what have you in store for me on this new morning in this new year as Sierra Spirit Backcountry Guiding Company continues to awaken people to the comfort and joys of the wilderness?  Yep, there’s work still to do.

Copyright © by Karen Najarian Jan. 1, 2013.

Everyone’s Gotta be Somewhere.

So I run around like a mad woman, packing, paying bills, tying up loose ends, sending off some last-minute Christmas cards, getting the three dog/house sitters coordinated, and finally hit the hay around mid-night. The alarm sounds off at 5:25 and I’m up to do an abbreviated morning routine before our neighbor drives us to the Lafayette BART station for our one hour ride to the San Francisco Airport. I stare into the mirror hoping I look better when I touch down in New Hampshire to visit with my sister, her family, and my NY transplant son.

All goes well. We’re flying a southern route with a stop in Dallas-Fort Worth and are pleased that we’re avoiding Chicago which has pretty much closed down due to a blizzard the size of my fist on the NOAA website.  The BART train rumbles in just as we reach the platform.  I’m feeling lucky today. Even at the dark hour of 6:20 am the BART car is full of newly groomed but sleepy commuters. Lugging our luggage, my husband and I find separate seats. No problem. I’ll be spending all day on the plane nudging his elbow over onto his side of the armrest.

Was I even through the Caldecott Tunnel when I got the phone call on my cell with a recording telling me my flight was cancelled? I look up to where Rick is sitting and see his body twisted back toward me, his phone to his ear, and his gaping mouth filling the aisle.

In Oakland most folks exit the train and I move up to sit next to Rick to plan our next move. I’m thinking we should just get off, turn around, and go home. Coffee and breakfast at our kitchen table sounds good about now. Rick thinks we should pursue this at SFO. So we screech and rumble on through the tunnel under the bay, which has always given me the creeps, and down the peninsula to SFO. It’s the shortest day of the year, the day the Mayan calendar stops, and there is a hot pink haze burning the sky above Mt. Hamilton to the south. No, the world isn’t ending.  It’s just another day beginning.

Arriving at the American Airlines area, I find an official looking woman in uniform and ask what we should do.  She points to a long line and gives me a card with a phone number on it and says I should call. Now, yesterday I looked at my flight information and noticed I gave my last name twice when I bought my ticket. I called to straighten it out before homeland security straightened me out. I was on hold for an hour and a half. Thank you speaker phone.

We get in line. This is a line of put-off, irate travelers. Maybe they want to concentrate us all in one spot so we don’t contaminate the airport with our angst and frustration bordering on rage. The guy in front of us is there for the second day trying to get to Paris. The guy in front of him is on our flight traveling only to Dallas-Fort Worth. The next flight is Sunday. He doesn’t want to cut two days off his trip and they won’t refund his money. He’s demanding a paid limo home. The guy behind us actually gets through on that number the uniformed lady gave me. So I leave the line to go sit in some comfy chairs and dial the number, myself.

It took awhile to get through and then I was thanked for my patience and put on hold. I was sitting next to an older gentleman who was also on his phone in a conversation peppered liberally with the words “fucking incompetents.” It turns out he was on his second day of travel to some “little town in Northern California” that he couldn’t pronounce, visiting adult children and grand kids, no doubt. I’ve driven to the Oregon border in five and a half hours. I suggested he rent a car… or walk. It would be faster.

While sitting there, I watched a little boy in line just behind my husband, maybe seven years old, put a phone to the side of his head and break down sobbing. The disappointment in the delay to meet someone wrenched his body.  Tears flooded his red, contorted face, he fell to his knees, and his mother dropped to comfort him. They sat there on the floor in line in the airport for at least 10 minutes. The line moved, they both found their feet, but his sobbing continued.

Having finally spoken to someone on the phone and booked on a new flight tomorrow, I joined my husband in line to inform him. But, mainly, I got back in line to comfort this young boy. I wanted him to hear that I was in the same position, that I was disappointed, too, but that we just have to wait, and that it will be OK. It will be OK. Perhaps he was traveling to see a dad he rarely sees. I don’t know. I would have loved to hear this reassurance, that it will be OK, many times when I was a child. But my words were birds that few away. I was no one he knew and my words meant nothing. He remained inconsolable. His disappointment and frustration was painful to watch. It hurts even now as I write this in the comfort of my bear’s nest (my office).  And I find my disappointment nothing compared to his.

Rick and I found our way back onto a BART train bound for home with our neighbor willing to pick us up. We’ll try this again tomorrow.

Copyright by Karen Najarian 12-21-12