Back to school

Several Saturdays ago, I received a phone call that shifted the entire trajectory of my life. Its origin was a high school where I had interviewed in late spring for an English teaching position. The person on the line, director of this expeditionary learning (EL) style school, launched into an enthusiastic recitation of the attributes I possessed that were in alignment with their culture, ones she suspected would lend to me becoming an excellent teacher. She told me that she'd had my file sitting on her desk since our interview, that she'd been impressed by my calm, self-possessed presence and enthusiasm. I smiled to hear this, as I had prepared for that meeting with a determined focus I had never used in the dozens of interviews I've had before.

Their Spanish language teacher had resigned: would I be interested in teaching French through a new language program the school would offer? It would be a part time position and an entrance into the community, structure and methods of teaching. I could continue at my job and take online classes to become certified as a secondary education teacher. I accepted before the phone call ended. We agreed that I would come to the school the following Friday so we could define the parameters of the position.

Grenoble, France, 2005                                                                                                                               Photo by Bec Allen

Several days later, the director sent an email stating that she had cobbled together a few positions in order to offer me full time work. Was I interested? I'll admit that when I sent her a response with an open attitude toward the offer, in truth I balked. All I could foresee were long hours and being spread thin across a variety of tasks for a pitiful wage. As a LMT, what consistency lacks in my paycheck is seasonally balanced, when I have more work than I can handle, plus a living wage.

My dad and sister shared a reaction similar to my own. I discussed the FT gig with my partner and he encouraged me to accept, as he had with her previous offer. Then a friend who had worked in the same school system where this one is chartered guessed correctly that FT equalled benefits, the like of which was alien to this mostly independent contractor. I long for a new chapter of my life where I kick debt's arse, maintain health insurance, own a home and start to build wealth.

Besides that, hadn't I often spoke about the desire to head this direction, toward meaningful work with opportunities for growth, with a more consistent schedule through the year and a paycheck that remained steady, no matter if it was peak or off season? She quoted me, my hope to try everything possible (barring moral no nos) and that I could "do anything for a year" as an experiment.

The director called the next day, unable to wait the week until our meeting, perhaps intuiting my reservations. What she offered resonated with my being and I knew then that even if it was a year of hard work, the benefits beyond health insurance, retirement and a consistent income merited that work. As a friend had reminded me, few people get asked to teach in a classroom on an intern license and minimal classroom experience. I'd learn copious skills as a teacher, part time thus less demanding, and the experience would support my certification classes and vise verse. Best of all, my first year as a teacher would happen with the support and mentorship of seasoned teachers and the force of the director.

Ski instructor, Jackson Hole Mountain Resort, 2012

The other parts of the rest of the FT job? As the synthesis of years teaching skiing, as a raft guide and outdoor recreationist in various ways, I'd get the chance to reinvigorate the wilderness component of this EL type school as the outdoor education coordinator. This means I organize and lead excursions camping and backpacking, biking, hiking, skiing and rafting, with an emphasis on leadership, skill acquisition, fitness, awareness of the natural world and self, and always, safety and fun.

Oh, and I get to be the activity bus driver, too. Now I just have to obtain my CDL.
It's going to be one interesting, educational, eye-opening, challenging and exhilarating year. I can't wait for our first day of classes tomorrow.

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Cactus spines and the wrong shoes

I've already made it to the car and have the keys in the ignition when I remember the one last thing - shoes - a tradition of sorts to bring me back into the house to retrieve that final, forgotten item. I grab the cleated shoes from the shadows beneath the table and head out. From our neighborhood to the Rift Valley trail head it's a ten minute drive, the bike clamped into the rooftop rack, the sunroof open and the stereo blasting tunes over the howl of the wind.

Once there, I remove the bike and replace the front tire, then collect gear to prepare. The essentials, like backpack with hydration bladder and snacks, a helmet, ipod and headphones, and... my man's biking cleats.

In my hurry to get moving forward I neglected to verify whose shoes I tossed into the car, and now I have three choices, none ideal, so I go with more immediate gratification. I can return home and collect mine, wear these or go rugged in the flip flops I have on. Or, as the owner of the shoes tells me later, I could have returned home and rode the trail near our house, which never crossed my mind. I had a plan and shoes seemed inconsequential.

Another ride on the same trail I also forgot any cycling footwear and did wear the flip flops. That's harder than it sounds, given the construction of the clip-in pedal, a miniature egg beater centered in a small rectangle platform.

I shrug and pull on socks and slip into the cleats, assured that although two sizes too large, the velcro straps will pull snug enough to keep my feet from moving in the confines. I finish dressing, snug earbuds and set off to the tune of Modest Mouse. The trail is dry, despite the evening showers that have rolled through for the past few days, and my heart shouts out joy to see how verdant the valley looks in the morning sun.

This joy escalates as I gain speed on the first section of a gentle but continuous decline, and I buzz past sagebrush and cacti in bloom. I realize right away, though, that the shoes don't fit well enough to release contact with the pedals with any speed. I remind myself to clip out well ahead of need, and that works until I reach a place in the ride where I'm challenged.

Switchbacks, a tight elbow that brings the trail from one trajectory to another, are my current nemesis. I struggle to maintain the body position required for balance, and falter in my speed, not to mention confidence. During one tight spot I fail to slow down, shift down, and the pedal clings to my foot, so down I go, to the inside of the turn, the bike still attached to my feet.

It's one of those slow motion moments, where I have time to see that I'm falling into sage - poky but not prickly - and then I'm almost to ground and I notice the prickly pear huddled beneath the sage. I'm going to land in the cactus, face first except I throw my hands in front of my head.

Cactus spines prick both palms in just a few places, but sharp fur covers the skin along each finger, a fuzz of impossible to remove irritants. I untangle my legs from under the bike, lurch upright, duck into the shade of a piñon and pull the spines out. Teeth and massage therapist blunted nails manage to remove the majority of the prickles, and I ride the rest of the trail with the remainder a reminder of my failure to commit to the moment. I crash when I shy away from the turn, obstacles or challenge.

The theme I carry through that day: life is best lived with a fearless (not lacking fear, in fact, just not petrified by it) movement forward. When I stall out because I'm afraid of what comes next, I lack the momentum to make it through gracefully. Commitment, whether or not success ensues, at least aligns me (and the bike,or whatever vehicle I'm traveling by) with a greater chance of victory. Or less painful failures.

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Solstice celebration

Sunday's Solstice marked the longest day of the year, when the day sprawls out, light overwhelms the dark, and it is possible to play outside long after the usual limit to when one can have fun. Weekends in the summer in our seasonally driven town evoke a more rural experience - you must reap the harvest of the abundance that visitors bring from Texas, California and places farther down the road - so my partner and I finished our respective work gigs and scrambled to organize ourselves for a little trip down to the river. We loaded gear into the back of the truck, strapped the canoe to the roof rack, and I drove my car down after a quick return to the house for the necessary cooler.

Down in the canyon south of Taos we dropped off the car for the later shuttle back to the put-in and then made our way to the Taos Junction Bridge, which straddles this part of the Río Grande Wild and Scenic River. There, we made quick work of unloading the canoe and hauling gear out and into the craft, organized the load, and had a Lagunitas Day Time IPA cracked before we'd even left the beach. Oh, and of course we zipped ourselves into our PFDs (personal flotation devices), before we departed.

The Río Grande has been flushed with water, contrary to its typical meager June flow, because rains fall and irrigation has slackened in the wheat fields of Colorado. It was 1,700 + CFS (cubic feet/ second) on the Solstice, but at this time of the year it can dwindle to a quarter of that. For our purposes, the flow carried us along with minimal guidance when the water increased speed at constrictions, and we helped ourselves along, paddling through the flat water. This stretch of the newly designated Río Grande Del Norte National Monument has long been called the Orilla Verde, and it is mostly a float with several class 2 rapids, meaning these places require some maneuvering around obstacles and present faster current.

The first of two rapids we had to negotiate is named Gauging Station for the CFS gauging station that is evidence you have nearly arrived. Generally it's a descent along a tongue of water narrowed by numerous rocks, but at this water level our canoe hurtled along in the rowdy waves, most rocks submerged to form holes to be avoided. My partner, an experienced boater, guided us into the slower water of mid-river eddies formed by rocks above the surface, and we managed to reach the bottom not only unscathed, but upright and barely wet.

Although Father's Day or Solstice celebrants crowded the launch and all the places where brush had been trammeled back, we had the river to ourselves. Well, we were the only self-conscious animals to be found on the water. Dusk, at 7:30 on the longest day, is a perfect time to float the river, uncrowded except for the increased activity of these creatures, who are more welcome than humans after an intimate day guiding them in a raft or giving them massages.

Our first sighting was a four legged: a slender buck with stubs of antler covered in velvet, who watched us in return with limpid and curious eyes. We heard the crack of beaver tails on the surface, but they eluded our sight until the sky's hue dominated rose rather than blue. Once, we watched as someone dragged a flowering branch into the reeds, and guessed it to be a beaver.

The river corridor hosts many species of birds - we saw Western tanagers, ducks and geese with fuzzy, pint sized entourages, swallows and kestrels - the most dramatic of which is the night heron (Nycticorax nycticorax). I watched a bird land river right several hundred yards downstream and thought I saw the gangly, long legs of a heron, but when we approached that spot, we saw the chunky, penguin-like body of a night heron, feathered black and white, sporting feathery tendrils from its temples, red eyes turned black in the gloom. It posed, unconcerned with our proximity, and we were the ones who startled when another slap resounded next to us. We turned and watched as not one but two beavers swam upstream, their sleek bodies leaving little wake, except for a trail of bubbles to mark their passage.

At that moment, we reached the top of the second rapid and were quick to turn our attention to the choppy wave train ahead. The canoe crested waves several feet high and slapped a few when they hit off rhythm. Cool water leaped up and into the boat, playful as a child who splashes in a puddle. Once successfully through, we raised our paddles in a boater's high five and marveled at the encounter: night heron - so odd and beautiful - along with the elusive beavers spotted and a fun rapid that challenged but did not overwhelm us.

As we neared the take out, we praised the Solstice in all its glory. Late on the river, fauna to encounter, and the day transmuted into dusk, then dark. Time spent together with my partner in play and wonder. The waxing crescent moon arced above, and Venus and Jupiter came into alignment with our celestial neighbor. The río continued to flow toward the sea, part of the circulatory system of the planet. Summer has begun.

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Rio Grande baptism

Yesterday I was baptized in the Rio Grande, blessed by boisterous, unruly water. The morning's Race Course trip near Pilar, NM, sixteen miles south of Taos, marked my first commercial raft trip on this river in seven years. In between I guided several trips on the float section of the Snake, that iconic braided channel river that meanders along the Grand Tetons, near Jackson, Wyoming. Three excursions didn't add up to cool confidence in running this section with five male high school students. I had transformed into a rookie again, though the end result prevailed in a positive way. 

Canoeing the Orrilla Verde section of the Rio Grande.

Nerves jangled, I had to find a place in the willows that shielded the shore to offer liquid back to the river, and I ran the lines through in my head, recalling each rock, but I reveled in the fresh perspective and lessons of revisiting an occupation I have left behind. Despite numerous summers in a boat on that river - paddle guide or passenger, behind the oars, in an inflatable kayak and once only in a hard shell - this cameo appearance attuned my eyes to new ways to circumvent or charge through obstacles and rapids, deal with situations as they arose, interact with and take charge of other's lives, all the while focused on fun, safety and the moment.


When I ski a run I know by heart, the snow, weather conditions and even the me that I am at that moment determine how I address the actions I need to take to succeed in this dance down the mountain. Each turn, movement and even breath coordinated and there's no room for mundane worries, daydreams, or to answer that phone call, text or email. This is life, distilled into the details, as vivid as it will ever be, so all that signifies is now.

In the middle of the first major rapid, Albert Falls, our boat hit a hole, a place where recirculating current creates a pillow of water hidden on the downstream side of a half submerged boulder. As our momentum halted five of the six passengers, me included, slid over slick PVC tubes and into the drink. The hero of the hour, a short kid with a well developed upper body, caught my hand and dragged me in, and then I pulled in the closest two, and we collected the third from another raft in the eddy below.

None suffered more than the chill of spring snow melt, and we warmed up paddling hard through the next two rapids. Those almost men were thrilled, even though each one had expressed trepidation about falling in the river prior to it occurring. This didn't squash their desire to risk an intentional swim in the cool Rio, which they requested only ten minutes later and were allowed to do once we had passed beyond all rapids.

As we floated down the final mellow mile, they sang a call and response: "soy marinero," and "soy capitan!" No doubt they will remember that day for a long time to come, in particular the heart pumping adrenaline, their fears realized but overcome, an adventure unique amongst two busloads of juniors. Higher risk balanced by triumphant results makes for a better story to recount. I'm humbled whenever I take a swim in the river, and cleansed, too.

In it I am baptized, vision cleared, whole being enlivened and reset to a more neutral attitude. The water clarifies, washes away the day-to-day and connects me to the source of everything. I guided the rest of that eight mile stretch, freed from my apprehension and grateful for the transformation.

Rigging for a run on the Snake River in Wyoming.                                                                      Photo by Hannah Hardaway

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Little Wildhorse Canyon

Up until two weeks ago, I had never walked through a slot canyon, but the ancient and almost alien landscape of the San Rafael Swell in central Utah provided the perfect introduction to such a place as a solo adventurer. I do hesitate to explore the outdoors alone in certain circumstances, but embrace the opportunity in ones I deem safe 'enough.' Sometimes I get that gut thumping reaction, a visceral sense of danger, and I listen to these. Call it instinct - I am an animal first and foremost - it's intuition to me, and I've learned with fortunately few failures that I have to heed those warnings.

The friends who suggested the Little Wildhorse to Bell Canyon loop advised me that it was a friendly, low risk hike of 8 miles, lacking the deep-water crossings and gear assisted scrambles necessary to travel through many slot canyons. This would be a Canyoneering 101 sort of experience. So, while my male companions rode dirt bikes on single track a hundred plus miles from our camp near Green River, Utah, I drove west and south to an area near Goblin Valley. Sola, right.

The Swell is an anticline aged between 40 to 60 million years, which means that it's one long line of rock turned back over on itself, a fold with the oldest rocks at the core. Massive sandstone reefs rise in misshapen towers across the mesa that fronts it, and flash flood erosion over millions of years has ripped away sedimentary rock to form canyons, valleys and gorges. It was up one such canyon and down another that I walked through layers of time, event and a beauty rivaling that of any cathedral.

My being requires time spent alone in nature in the same way a Catholic goes to mass: to connect with the Divine, to breath in the ever renewing power of grace, and to find the peace of prayer. Yes, there are more risks in the wild, but the rewards of solitude for my spirit and the movement of my body, and my breath, far outweigh these. I take care to watch the weather - a flash flood in this narrow space could mean possible death - and my amygdala hums at the ready in case I need to scale the rock to higher ground. My steps are measured and the pack I carry is loaded with water and a few snacks. I temper wild with caution when I'm sola, just as I do when I ride my mountain bike alone.


The trail starts out as a superhighway, an open water-graded and graveled path, until its first choke a mile in. I scramble up a nearly vertical stack of boulders and soon reach the Little Wildhorse and  Bell Canyon juncture, where I choose right into Little Wildhorse. From there, the walls undulate wide apart to so narrow that I have to squeeze through sideways, and there are enough climbs to stay challenged. I trot past groups and couples, until I'm truly by myself.

The sheer walls are painted with 'desert varnish,' or oxidation from water, and I can almost believe the art has been formed with intention. When the wind quiets in the hush I hear the earth, still now but resonant with the floods that created the space where I stand, and this is a place where the Mother creatrix reigns unique.

I reach the Bell Canyon sign and walk along a road for a mile or so, until I reach the actual trailhead, and then I descend into Bell. Downstream as the water flows where it fills the gap in the rock, so I'm downclimbing instead of upwards. I reach standing water, and remove my shoes and socks as some boys and their grandma I meet instruct me to do. It's a foot deep and the most moisture I've seen that day, the only other evidence of water pools in pockmarks in the stone or moistens the lower layers of sand. The canyon residents I encounter - lizards, birds, bees, cacti and flowers in bloom, penstemon, Indian paintbrush and globe mallow - thrive, not troubled by the dry climate.

All too soon I arrive back at the juncture where I turned right, and I exit the canyon as a family meanders into it. I am calm, happy and just tired enough, and certain I will return to Utah, and navigate other canyons, alone or with company.

I have fallen in love with this desert, this remnant of inland seas in the driest land, where a diverse ecology thrives in its environs, and beauty is found in the margins.

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Single track spills

For the better part of my life I considered myself clumsy, prone to accidents, often unaware of where the edges of my body end and the ground rises, the corner cuts, gravity grabs a hold without mercy. The combination of a exuberant nature and a mind that strays from the present moment does encourage clumsiness. As a child I buzzed with excess energy, waking on Saturday mornings in time to watch the farm report at 5:30 a.m. Even on the rare occasions when I succeeded in whining until my mom's resistance fell and she let me stay up past bedtime, or when I sneaked my way into the midnight hour, I still managed to learn about combines, pests and heard snippets of the Farmer's Almanac before the sunrise.

I discovered, when I learned how to downhill ski at the age of 24, that my body and mind can align with great results when I am physically active. I ran cross country and track through junior high and high school, and rode horses as a tween and young teenager, but there was a definite gap in recreation during my early twenties. The extent to which I moved my body included sporadic hikes, cruising on my bike around town, and dancing whenever I had the chance. Add a sport that requires balance, quick movements - both proactive and reactive - and a developed proprioception, and suddenly I became active, athletic and sometimes even graceful.

I found a passion for cross country mountain biking on a four day, 103 mile bike ride in Canyonlands, Utah on the White Rim trail in April 2010, at age 33. I bought my poppy orange Haro 29" hard tail, Maryjane, the week before that trip, and spent the time in between trying to figure out how to shift and slide my cleats into and out of the clip-in pedals. More often than not, I ended up on the ground with the bike still attached to my feet, and the image is as painful and embarrassing as the reality. The ride became a crash course - often literally - in basic mountain biking skills, even though it's on a jeep road and vast compared to single track. Just like day one of skiing, during which I fell dozens of times, biking on dirt, over rock and through sand made me fall in love from the first.

Over time I've made considerable progress in both. There is something delicious about the beginner experience, even more so when you arrive later to the learning opportunity. As an adult, being a newbie can evoke numerous fears, such as appearing foolish or inept, the potential for injury, or getting left behind in the dust. But to dare to try, to be vulnerable, to open to a new part of self, that can transcend fears and lead to the type of success that enhances other parts of one's life. If nothing more, it's freaking fun to play on skis, on a bike, whatever your game of choice happens to be, and to notice and benefit from new skills, small victories and even the defeats.

The best part of living in the Airstream in the middle of Jackson is that I can be on single track within 5-10 minutes, and I'm warmed up from getting there by the time I hit the dirt. This morning I rode pavement the mile and a half from home to the trailhead at Cache Creek. This Bridger-Teton National Forest area includes access for hikers, bikers and equestrians. There are miles of intersecting trails and they vary from easy to challenging as they wind up a narrow valley, parallel to or crossing over Cache Creek, through forest and across open meadow.

I've become familiar with the rocks, roots, twists and turns, climbs and downhill sections in this area over the last three summers. I started riding there as a relative beginner and feel confident to say I've reached an intermediate skill level. I rode Hagen as it meanders above the creek, minus the Staircase where I will probably always have to push my bike up the steep incline, and continued on, sweaty and breathing hard.

On the return route, however, I dared to try to ride up and over a foot high root that has been a nemesis. One attempt to ride over it instead of lifting the bike resulted in an instant hematoma on my elbow when I approached it with speed, then hesitated and slammed to earth with force. This time, bike and rider toppled over the bank. I am grateful that the spring melt has subsided and that only my right foot plunged into the creek.

I hauled Maryjane and me back onto the dry side of the path and laughed as I removed my shoe and squeezed water from my red and yellow zia socks. Attempts that lead to humorous outcomes rather than disaster must always be hoped for. One of these rides I'm going to make it over the massive root, no bruising or creekside encounters necessary.

When the way I live life seems awkward, when I fear to risk, when failure frequents my attempts, I remember the steep climb I used to walk and now ride, or the fluid movement as I pedal through tight turns when before I creeped through them at a snail's pace, and how I now enjoy the switchbacks that used to make me panic. To achieve success requires trial and error, again and again, until you succeed and then reach the next challenge. So I get back on the saddle, clip into the pedals, and enjoy being here, in the trees, under the sky, alive with the world.

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