Before yesterday's hike on Looking Glass Mountain with Kerri and Cheryl, I looked up what to do if we encountered a bear. Turns out you're supposed to back away slowly while making yourself big and making noise. Be orally intimidating.
We didn't see a bear, but it was good to know that Cheryl has a lot of experience with bears (in her backyard, on a trail, in trees) from when she lived in Western Massachusetts (which was until 2 weeks ago). We also had her large retriever Atticus with us. He looks like he could be a black bear.
Now I know, and I feel more empowered. Though not stupid, of course.
What I still haven't figured out yet is how to handle this intense desire to adopt a dog when I still haven't figured out if this is the right time financially, emotionally, and environmentally. Today it hit me harder than ever before. I made a lap around the kennels at the Humane Society before deciding who to work with first. When I saw Gaige, a one-year-old golden retriever mix near the end of the front row, it was connection at first site. I knew she would be the one I walked first--she had to be.
I spent a few minutes with Smokey the retriever puppy before going back to Gaige. She was quiet, calm, and didn't jump when I entered the kennel. We got the leash on and walked outside together. As soon as the door closed behind us, Gaige turned around, stood up, and put her arms on my chest. I've come to know this as a dog hug, a need for the dog to feel close to me. She didn't push, just rested against my chest and stayed there for nearly a minute, content to stand. I motioned her down and told her we should go walk.
Every few steps she would look up at me or turn her body, excited, to see I was still there. She walked steady at my side. I was the only volunteer there at this time, so there were no other dogs to play with outside. We spent a long time in the dog run chasing after balls together, and then we just sat on the bench. She just wanted to sit beside me and sometimes lay down partially on my lap. She was happy, and our connection grew more and more. She seemed like the perfect dog for me: size, activity, affection. I started trying to plan getting her into my week. I started trying to schedule her into my life. I started feeling completely torn between wanting her so bad and still measuring the "right timing." After a walk, I reluctantly took her back, only to continue wondering if this could be the dog, if this could be the time.
I went down the line of dogs on her side and walked several other precious pups, but I made sure to say hello to her when I passed. A few dogs later, I saw a young couple kneeling in front of her kennel. The guy was on the phone. The girl was smiling. I instantly knew they were thinking of adopting her. I instantly started tearing up.
When I came back around twenty minutes later, Gaige's informational paper was gone, which meant she was being considered for adoption. When I came back twenty minutes after that, the paper was still gone. When I went out into the lobby to turn in a medical form for another dog, I saw the couple at the counter with a brand new leash, and the man had a credit card in his hand.
As I was leaving, I had to ask. They said yes, they were adopting Gaige. We talked about her for a few minutes, about what I had noticed and loved about her earlier, and they were so excited about taking her home. It felt good knowing they were the ones taking her.
But I've never experienced this connection with a dog before...followed by immediate rejection. The dogs I have fallen for in the past have disappeared in the middle of the week, and I've had to believe that they've been adopted into a good home. But this, it all happened so hard and so fast. The serious consideration and then the heartbreak.
But perhaps it was a sign that it's still not time for me.
I'm almost positive I want to move to a (rental) house this summer. Jedsen got a job in Chicago and is moving there at the beginning of June. I'm having trouble keeping everything balanced, knowing what is a priority and what is a need due to restlessness.
Restlessness. That is my plight here, as I'm not really lonely. I want to do everything and all at once. Restlessness: a need for more stuff and less stuff, to move and not to move, to read and to hike, to write and to watch documentaries, to explore and to rest.
Sunday, April 03, 2011
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Traces
I often toy with starting over, with shucking this blog to my past and beginning again with an aim, a focus, a reason for writing. In fact, I have started over once but abandoned it after an afternoon, forgot about it because I didn't want to erase or deny the history that I'd already built here.
The truth is I need this blog in this space to know where I've been. I know that's not very convincing, seeing as I write, on average, less than once a month these days, but I'm aware of it nonetheless. There are stories and quotes and people in these archives that I want attached to my present writing. Perhaps I will start a new blog someday, but it would be in addition to this one.
As of right now, though, my attention needs to be on my own writing and not a new solo online venture.
It is nearly April. I've barely been home lately, and when I've been home I've spent all of my time in the living room. The office has been neglected, and I think it's been over a month since I sat down at my desk; my laptop and papers have cluttered the coffee table. So I was startled yesterday when I decided to pick up some papers off the floor, papers that had blown off the desk from the wild wind through the open window. I was startled because my desk, ledge, and other items in front of the window were covered in a green layer of pollen. Like powder with a flower scent, only a beautiful green and where I didn't expect it. There was water, too, because the rain was blowing in and pooling. I wiped it up, amazed by my collection of spring.
Last weekend I went on a hike, the first real hike of the season. I went alone to Pinnacle Mountain in Table Rock State Park, in the farthest NW corner of the state. I started at 9:30 and kept a good pace the first two miles, impressed at how I was passing people even though I hadn't exercised in a month. The last two miles were brutal. The last 600 feet were nearly impossible. I couldn't walk straight or even for the next three days.
But that was just the story of ascension. The story of descent was pretty memorable, too. The miles were going pretty quickly, though my feet were burning with heat, dirt, and the pressure of pointing down. I was longing for the creek that I knew I would follow for the last mile back to the trail head. Just after I hit the last mile, the dark clouds that had formed on my way down got active. I heard thunder. I was excited--my first mountain thunderstorm! I spoke aloud that I wouldn't mind some sprinkles, that I could use some coolness and refreshing.
What I got was a downpour for the last half-mile. I smiled the whole way, as I got soaked and watched the rain's effect on the rushing creek. I smiled as I wiped my eyes so I could see the rocks I crossed. I didn't run because, though, yes, dangerous, I was relishing my first true weather experience in the mountains. And you know how I feel about both mountains and weather. Together? Too great.
As I say in the video after the painful summit, it was the most challenging hike I've done to date. Even more so than Grandfather Mountain, but for a different reason. Grandfather was difficult in its ladders and cables and ledges and climbing up rock faces--and it was the most rewarding hike, for sure--but it was maybe 2 miles. Pinnacle was difficult because it was demanding for a sustained distance: 4.2 miles up (plus a 1 mile detour to Mill Creek Falls) and 4.2 miles down.
Pinnacle was also challenging in another way because it gave me the first instance of fear for wildlife. The bears are waking up. This I thought of before I went, but really this whole time I've been hoping to see a bear, a mythical creature that might appear in the distance and then disappear, an apparition. But around mile 2 on the ascent, with no other hikers in the immediate vicinity, I heard rustling up the slope. I stopped and listened, and it was then that it hit me: I don't know what to do if I see a bear. Do I stand still? Run? Make loud noises? I didn't know, and so I walked on in the hopes that it indeed wasn't a bear and that there would be others around a few more bends.
That's right, it hit me on the trail that I should probably know what to do when I encounter more than a squirrel on the side of a mountain. It's on my to-do list before the next hike. Which, unless next weekend brings an adventure, will be on the other side of Grandfather Mountain on my birthday. Turn 26 on a mountain with friends? Perfect. Only wish Jedsen would be there, too.
The truth is I need this blog in this space to know where I've been. I know that's not very convincing, seeing as I write, on average, less than once a month these days, but I'm aware of it nonetheless. There are stories and quotes and people in these archives that I want attached to my present writing. Perhaps I will start a new blog someday, but it would be in addition to this one.
As of right now, though, my attention needs to be on my own writing and not a new solo online venture.
It is nearly April. I've barely been home lately, and when I've been home I've spent all of my time in the living room. The office has been neglected, and I think it's been over a month since I sat down at my desk; my laptop and papers have cluttered the coffee table. So I was startled yesterday when I decided to pick up some papers off the floor, papers that had blown off the desk from the wild wind through the open window. I was startled because my desk, ledge, and other items in front of the window were covered in a green layer of pollen. Like powder with a flower scent, only a beautiful green and where I didn't expect it. There was water, too, because the rain was blowing in and pooling. I wiped it up, amazed by my collection of spring.
Last weekend I went on a hike, the first real hike of the season. I went alone to Pinnacle Mountain in Table Rock State Park, in the farthest NW corner of the state. I started at 9:30 and kept a good pace the first two miles, impressed at how I was passing people even though I hadn't exercised in a month. The last two miles were brutal. The last 600 feet were nearly impossible. I couldn't walk straight or even for the next three days.
But that was just the story of ascension. The story of descent was pretty memorable, too. The miles were going pretty quickly, though my feet were burning with heat, dirt, and the pressure of pointing down. I was longing for the creek that I knew I would follow for the last mile back to the trail head. Just after I hit the last mile, the dark clouds that had formed on my way down got active. I heard thunder. I was excited--my first mountain thunderstorm! I spoke aloud that I wouldn't mind some sprinkles, that I could use some coolness and refreshing.
What I got was a downpour for the last half-mile. I smiled the whole way, as I got soaked and watched the rain's effect on the rushing creek. I smiled as I wiped my eyes so I could see the rocks I crossed. I didn't run because, though, yes, dangerous, I was relishing my first true weather experience in the mountains. And you know how I feel about both mountains and weather. Together? Too great.
As I say in the video after the painful summit, it was the most challenging hike I've done to date. Even more so than Grandfather Mountain, but for a different reason. Grandfather was difficult in its ladders and cables and ledges and climbing up rock faces--and it was the most rewarding hike, for sure--but it was maybe 2 miles. Pinnacle was difficult because it was demanding for a sustained distance: 4.2 miles up (plus a 1 mile detour to Mill Creek Falls) and 4.2 miles down.
Pinnacle was also challenging in another way because it gave me the first instance of fear for wildlife. The bears are waking up. This I thought of before I went, but really this whole time I've been hoping to see a bear, a mythical creature that might appear in the distance and then disappear, an apparition. But around mile 2 on the ascent, with no other hikers in the immediate vicinity, I heard rustling up the slope. I stopped and listened, and it was then that it hit me: I don't know what to do if I see a bear. Do I stand still? Run? Make loud noises? I didn't know, and so I walked on in the hopes that it indeed wasn't a bear and that there would be others around a few more bends.
That's right, it hit me on the trail that I should probably know what to do when I encounter more than a squirrel on the side of a mountain. It's on my to-do list before the next hike. Which, unless next weekend brings an adventure, will be on the other side of Grandfather Mountain on my birthday. Turn 26 on a mountain with friends? Perfect. Only wish Jedsen would be there, too.
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