It's Not What We Do That Defines Us...Or Is It? Reflections on Identity

After reading posts by Brendan, Elizabeth and Dave about what it means to be a climber, I spent a good bit of time pondering the concept of identity and the difference between saying, "I am a climber" and "I love climbing." The differences, though subtle, are important. One phrase implies an effect on identity, and that can be incredibly complicated. It got me thinking a lot about how I've defined my own identity in the past, and brought back some slightly painful memories.

Amie and I after an awesome afternoon of climbing!

Back to My Roots
This past weekend, I had the chance to climb at the gym where I first donned a pair of rock shoes - the Lindseth Climbing Wall at Cornell. I went with Amie, a high school swimming friend I'm convinced will change the world someday. After spending so many hours in pools with her as teenagers, it was amazing to be able to share climbing with her. She was a perfect partner.

It was also a joy to get back to my climbing roots, and back to where my excitement for the sport came from. It certainly didn't hurt that, in addition to climbing for the first time with one of my best friends, I ran into the instructor who taught my first climbing class, Women's Basic Rock!

My passion for climbing ebbs and flows - something I've learned to accept. I don't remember feeling love at first sight when I started in the fall of my senior year of college. Until that point, climbing was completely off my radar of possible activities; I didn't know what I was missing. As it turns out, the sport wasn't something I couldn't live without, just a really enjoyable way to spend a few hours. It made me feel strong and powerful. I didn't immediately fall in love, but climbing did awaken something in me; something that completely shook my world. 

"It isn't just a sport. It's my life. My Identity."

Doing what I loved - competing! (J. Lucia)

The first semester of senior year marked the beginning of my 13th year as a competitive swimmer. Swimming was something I completely fell in love with; I was obsessed. I saved every single meet program and heat sheet to go over my progression and my competition from 1995 on. Practice was all I cared about. I switched teams in high school in favor of a coach with a reputation for devising some of the hardest workouts possible. (He was also a strong male figure in my life when I needed one, and an incredible human being.) I picked colleges to look at based on whether I could swim at them or not, and the quality of the coaching. I was never an all-star, never an Olympic or NCAA caliber athlete; swimming was just something I couldn't live without.

And then, along came climbing. I don't think getting on the Lindseth climbing wall is the sole reason I started questioning my path - all of college was about learning and growing - but it was certainly one of them. After 13 years of eating, sleeping and breathing swimming, I was getting burned out. I didn't look forward to practices and couldn't find the motivation to push myself as hard as I used to. That November, I sat down with my coach for one of the toughest discussions I'd ever had. He told me to take a week off to really think about whether I wanted to finish out my senior year or not.

I sat out an entire week of practices. It felt like an eternity for someone who'd only go without swimming one out of every seven days. I'd count down the minutes until each workout, thinking about my teammates about to jump into the water. They'd survived another day of classes, homework, sleep deprivation, and everything a college athlete has to manage, but I wasn't there. Despite the fact that the week of wasn't designed to end my career, just to help me reflect, there was a hole in my heart. It felt like I'd already lost something incredibly important, like someone or something had died.

"Where did that girl with the passion go? She'd hate seeing anyone work harder than she did. She wouldn't back off for a single yard. It was never enough. And it still isn't. Of course I was relieved, Coach finally told me it was okay, that everything I've felt doesn't make me an awful person. I don't want to let the team down, but by being in the pool with the attitude I have, that's precisely what I'm doing. But so what? It's just swimming. Shit, it's never just swimming. Ever. It's 90% of who I am. Who will I be if I'm not an athlete?" (Journal excerpt, 11/14/2005)

The Path to Understanding

Loving climbing, Nov. 2005. (D. Herscovitch)

I made a list of things that comprised my identity over the course of that week. I described myself as a student, a woman, a fighter, a perfectionist, an individual, a sister, a daughter, a friend, and a competitor. I made a list of reasons I should swim. The list included things like, "because I love it, because I love achieving my goals, and because I love being part of a team." 

During that same week, I finished a roof route in the climbing gym for the first time, something I'd worked at for two months. (The picture on the right was taken right afterward!) I made peace with my relationship with swimming and finished out my senior year. It wasn't the best five months of my career, but I did it. Despite achieving a lifetime best in one of my events, the 100 breaststroke, during a time trial, I failed to make the team of swimmers who would represent Cornell at the Ivy League Championships that year.

Moving Forward and Moving On
It's taken me a long time to understand that, though I might have been a swimmer, it didn't define who I was. I fought against it for so long, and the internal battle wreaked havoc on my performance in the pool. Swimming was something I did, something I was passionate about, and something I devoted an incredible amount of time to. But it was okay to stop caring so much, to release some of the pressure I put on myself, when the time was right. It didn't make me any less of a swimmer, or change who I was. In fact, when I moved to Alaska after graduation, I joined a masters swim team in Anchorage and even competed in a meet. It didn't last long, though...I found so many other things I wanted to try and had both the physical and mental freedom to do so.

I'll always be a competitor. I'll always be happier when I'm active. I'll always love learning and trying new things. But there's a lot of pressure to live up to the expectations that come with saying, "I'm a swimmer," or "I'm a climber." That's why I hesitate to identify as anything but myself, anything but just plain old Katie. I want the things I'm passionate about to help me learn and grow, but not define my identity.

Adjusting My 'Tude and Getting Out of My Head

Warming up at PRG Oaks. (Denis Brenan)

Yesterday was a mostly typical Sunday. Typical Sundays either involve rounding out a weekend-long trip or what today involved - sleeping and climbing. I woke up at 11am after allowing myself to truly indulge in a long night's rest. I pushed two cats off of the bed, rolled myself out and made a giant mug of steaming hot peppermint tea. I popped a frozen quiche from Trader Joe's in the microwave, too impatient to make my usual egg whites and vegetable concoction. After the quiche, the tea and little bit of puttering around the apartment, it was time to go climbing.

The plan was to spend the day toproping. but as soon as I walked into the gym, I remembered a suggestion from (seriously badass climber girl) Alison via text two days prior. It was something like, "Get on the new V2 I set. It's on the inside of the pants."

The pants refers to one of the walls in the gym, and I knew exactly where Alison meant. She's teaching a women's bouldering clinic soon and set a handful of easier routes to teach on. This climb was certainly tailored to Alison's climbing style - deliberate, delicate and powerful. I pulled on my harness and walked over to the boulder wall to warm up, intending to try a few things and move on to the ropes. But the day became bouldering-focused after a few tries on Alison's problem.

The problem, called "Stretch it Out," is a sit start. I hate sit starts. There's something inherently humiliating about pulling yourself three inches off the ground, reaching, the falling those three inches back to Earth and landing square on your bum. Anyway, the start hold is a big, round, hollow formation with plenty of room for both hands. There's a chip for the right foot and the left foot needs to be placed just so on the blank wall. Keeping body tension, you pull, push and lift, reaching for a good pinch with your right hand. It took me at least five tries to get the start. I did the entire problem without the start on the first try, no big deal. But I had to do the whole thing from the beginning, and there's something about landing right on my butt five times in a row I couldn't handle. I walked away, took the harness off, came back, sat down and sent it. "I should have flashed that," I thought.

At PRG Oaks on a day where everything felt right! (Denis Brenan)

Things just felt off yesterday. Walking up to boulder problems and figuring them out was a struggle. I didn't feel strong. My mind and body weren't communicating. It was as if my last day at the gym was a month ago, not four days ago. After going through a few more "I should have flashed that" moments, my attitude was a mess. I walked to the center of the gym, sat down next to my backpack and took a 10 minute breather. My 'tude  needed adjusting, and I had to figure out how to stop taking the day's frustrations to heart.

There were at least ten familiar faces at the gym on Sunday, and I noticed two other #kickassgirls I knew bouldering up random routes around the gym. One of the best things about living in the same place for a while and climbing at the same gym is, if you make an effort, you can make friends with just about everyone who climbs there regularly. Though I certainly don't know everyone, I love walking in the gym doors to a familiar faces.

My two friends were climbing until exhaustion after a few hours of leading that morning and I joined in. The exercise was to boulder up to the first clip of all of the harder lead routes and to top-out height on some of the harder toprope climbs. You only rested for as long as it took the other two to climb. Their enthusiasm was infectious. Before long, I was laughing, smiling, and taking things a lot less seriously. I was also fingertip burning forearm pumping exhausted.

My relationship with and attitude toward climbing ebbs and flows. Being passionate about something means understanding that some days are going to be disappointing and frustrating, though hopefully less numerous than the exciting, ground-breaking days. Recognizing that I needed to take myself out of my typical routine made all the difference, and luckily, I had friends to help me whether they knew it or not.

Big Risks Can Mean Big Rewards, Even If You Fail

our cool down: pulling on Nalgene bottles! (A. Keyes)

I got one of the best compliments I could've gotten from anyone with respect to my climbing last night. It came from someone I've climbed with for a long time, and someone who knows both me and my climbing well. It came at the end of a wonderful night; a night filled with new friends. It wasn't anything about my technique, how good I am, or how awesome my Cryptochild shirt was. It was simply, paraphrased, 

"You've been taking some much bigger risks lately, really going for it. I'm proud of you."

The bigger the risk, the bigger the reward, right? That's how the old adage goes. Risks can also be dangerous, both literally and figuratively, and really scary. But I'm slowly learning not just to accept the idea that taking a risk in climbing is acceptable, that I probably won't get hurt, but putting it in to practice. And though the intended reward is success, the actual reward from the risk might be better than that.

I went to the Philadelphia Rock Gym in Oaks, PA last night, easily one of my favorite bouldering gyms of all time. (They made holds on the practice wall out of old Nalgene bottles, pictured above. How cool is that?!) Friend Randy put together a mini-tweetup of sorts, which meant starting the night off with meeting fun new people. That's always a good start to a night. I ended up on the bouldering wall, as usual, and found myself working a V5- route, normally out of my range. The first move was the only one I didn't have to throw for. I shy away from dynamic moves because they're scary, especially high off the ground, but with a giant pile of crash pads and a few phenomenal spotters, I went for it...at least a dozen times.

On my final attempt, I made a desperate throw for the finish hold, a giant knobby, slopey mess. My hand hit it, gripped it, then slipped off and I came crashing back down to Earth. One ounce of my being didn't believe I could make it, and that was enough. The landing was epic (by my standards), but safe. I took a risk throwing for the finish, a risk I normally wouldn't have taken. It didn't end with success, but it didn't end badly, and it was actually fun! Dynamic movements are fun and it's one more experience of risk taking that didn't hurt me I can to add to my growing arsenal. And just in time for the Winter Burn bouldering competition tomorrow!

Bottom line: Taking risks can be unbelievably rewarding. Duh, right? But even if you fail, the reward you receive for taking the risk might end up being more important than success. I didn't know if I'd make the finish hold, I didn't know if I would succeed, but I trusted crash pads and my spotters and went for it. Unknowns are a huge part of life, but we can't let the fear of failure hold us back. Having someone notice I've been making an effort to do things outside of my comfort zone and telling me about it was an incredible reward.

What are some unseen rewards you've received as a result of taking big risks? Tell me in the comments!

Perspectives on Adventures Big and Small

One of the big topics within my twitter community this week was trip reports, who should write them, and how attention-seekers might cry "epic!" when, by a professional adventurer's standards, the "epic" might've looked like a normal, non-epic day. A discussion ensued, and it got me thinking about the importance of stories from all of us, regardless of how they might compare to the accomplishments of others. Someone out there will find them valuable.

I discovered a wonderful surprise in my mailbox yesterday - Issue 32 of Alpinist. I'd forgotten I'd subscribed. The first time I saw the magazine was in friend George's car en route to what would be my introduction to mountaineering last winter. I subscribed to Alpinist because I love reading about people doing incredible, risky, ground-breaking things. The unbelievable photography doesn't hurt either.

I love being inspired by adventures people I admire are having. Last night's video treat was watching First Ascent guide Caroline George pack for a trip to Antarctica. Queued up again next was a TED Talks video of Majka Burhardt discussing rock climbing in Namibia. The concept of going to Antarctica, of first ascents in Africa, is incredible. Some of the stories are so beyond my comprehension of what is possible and what is realistic. I don't know many people who don't love adventure stories. I know people who've never touched an ice axe, or know what one is, who could talk about Into Thin Air for days. These stories don't just inspire me to keep pushing my limits; they take me places I'm not convinced I'll ever go, whether by design or by choice.

My biggest risk yet and it felt so good! Mt. Rainier. (Solveig Garhart)

I'm still working to find my perfect risk/reward balance, and it changes daily. There were climbing days last summer I felt amped up and ready to lead. There were also days I couldn't push my fear of falling away on toprope at the gym. There were days I made decisions about risks I'd take far in advance of the risks themselves, and have face them whether I thought I was ready or not. I know the more I do, the more risks I take, the more confident I'll become. The balance will continue to change.

I don't know if climbing Everest or the like will ever be an acceptable risk, nor can I comprehend what it would be like. What I do know is what reasonable, attainable goals for me look like now, and I enjoy reading about those as much as the truly-epic-by-any-standard adventures.

Trip reports from Patrick Gensel about winter ascents of Mount Washington and from Aleya Littleton about climbing Devil's Tower are as important to me as reading about Ed Viesturs and Endeavor 8000. A winter ascent of Mount Washington is an acceptable risk, and an attainable goal. Perhaps a few years down the road, it won't seem like a big deal anymore because my risk/reward balance will have evolved. Who knows? What seems epic to a beginning climber might be laughable to a seasoned mountaineer. It's all a matter of perspective.

Thank goodness for people like Patrick, Aleya, and all the other inspiring folks who, like professional climbers, make sure to get their adventures down on paper for others to read about and learn from. Both perspectives of people who are paid to climb and those for whom a winter ascent of Mount Washington is an epic are incredibly valuable to me. So, all you adventurers out there, keep writing, I need all of you!

Promises Worth Keeping

Walking on the frozen St. Lawrence River, 2005. (D Herscovitch)

I didn't write a New Year's Resolution post last year. In fact, I never wrote resolutions at all. I usually don't for a number of reasons. And they're not all negative reasons:

1. I'll either set unrealistic expectations, or set realistic expectations and not meet them, both of which result in feelings of regret and self-deprecation.
2. Some resolutions I set, though meaningful on January 1st, end up being irrelevant, but sometimes for a good reason. Last year's list of resolutions might have included commiting to a solid workout four days a week. But they would never have included something like raising $5,100 for Big City Mountaineers and climbing Mount Rainier. Training for that in and of itself was a bigger commitment than a 4x/week workout schedule. Go me!
3. I don't believe in them...much. We're supposed to be setting goals, striving and reaching all year. What makes this day more important than any other? Why not set resolutions on our birthdays? I'd rather my goals be fluid, and I'd rather set them as I learn more about what I really want to accomplish rather than forcing them out according to the Gregorian calendar's "new year." I want when I set goals to be flexible.
4. It makes things easier. It's the easy way out. I don't have to set goals on this day like everyone else, I don't have to commit to anything, and I don't have to worry about disappointing myself. Putting pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and getting that concept in writing, then rereading it...well, it's a lame excuse. It's a symptom of fear.

I know we're supposed to set specific, measurable goals. How else will we know if we've achieved them? But there's so much I want to get out of the upcoming year(s) that can't be measured, and I'd imagine when I'm about to cross the proverbial finish line, I'll just know.

There are a few "resolutions" I've been working on lately, though they have nothing to do with New Year's Day. They're not resolutions, really, they're promises. I haven't resolved to complete them by January 1, 2012. I didn't make them on January 1, 2010. They're part of my ongoing evolution. I want to climb another "big" mountain this year, which I suppose could be a resolution. I want to do a better job of staying in touch with friends. That could be one too. But if I continue to work on keeping my promises, the rest will come. And I'm getting them out in the open today because they're important.

I've done a lot of growing this year, a lot of internal reflection, a lot of limit testing, and a lot of learning. I'm proud of the slow, but steady progress I've made in getting to know myself. It's such a strange concept, knowing myself. I spend every second of every day with me, how could the person that is me still be a bit of a stranger? Regardless, here are some of the silent-until-now promises I've made:

• I promise to accept myself, and with that, I promise to stop wanting to be like everyone else.
• I promise to learn how to separate others' expectations from my own, and live according to mine. I promise to work to understand what really, truly drives me and follow that passion wherever it takes me.
• I promise to look in the mirror every day with loving eyes, not critical ones. Then, I promise to take those non-critical eyes out into the world.
• I promise to keep challenging myself, to keep trying things that scare me, for as long as I live. And when the fear's almost too much, I promise to continually remind myself of how it feels to conquer it.
• I promise to keep looking inward, even though that promise might come with tears and things I don't want to find. It will also come with so many positive things, and already has.

Wish me luck!

Being Thankful for Nature's Gifts

Sunset and alpenglow in Denali National Park.

This morning, friend Amy Christensen of Expand Outdoors posed a question on her blog about gifts from nature. As far as gifts go, hers is, without a doubt, the ability to ask questions that force me to think more critically and more openly than I ever thought possible. She's certainly got me thinking before, and this time is no exception. 

I took some time today to reflect on those of nature's gifts I'm most thankful for, and narrowed it down those I thought were most meaningful.

Thanks to nature, I understand the true meaning of "awestruck". Alaska, the Canadian Rockies, Mount Rainier, and everything in between taught me that. The landscapes take my breath away. They awaken a longing, a sadness, buried under my seemingly silly obsessions and worries.The feeling is an addiction; as soon as I'm away, the only thing I can think of is how to get it back.
Thanks to nature, I've put a new definition to what it means to be challenged. Outdoor sports (climbing, mountaineering, wilderness backpacking and hiking) have humbled and fascinated me. I've been petrified and exhilarated all at the same time, every time. Despite the fear, I keep going back. I want to learn, grow, and accept the fear as part of being human.

Nature gives me an escape with a purpose. It's not just about being distracted from life's everyday responsibilities; television can accomplish that. It's about leaving everything else behind, immersing myself in and becoming completely aware of my surroundings. Even when I'm on a hike, I'll have to force myself to pay complete attention and to stay present. When I'm able to completely focus on the smells, sounds, and sights, it's unlike any other release.

Nature forces all of us to be creative, think critically, learn and grow. In Alaska, I was fascinated by the need for an engine block heater and studded tires on my car. The concept of building a house, a hotel, or a high rise on such a volatile landscape was incredible. The terrain constantly shifts, and if we're going to inhabit place like it, we've got to adapt. That need for adaptation is exciting, and the constant challenges fascinate me.

The kindred spirits I've found make me feel constantly thankful. Through nature, I've discovered passionate friends I never knew I could have.

Thanks to nature, I'm reminded of how small I am, and that there's more to the world than just me. Than just us. Than just my apartment, my car, my job, the noise, and the hustle and bustle of life.

If you've got gifts from nature you're thankful for, post them in the comments section and be sure to let Amy know what they are, too!

Looking for the Beauty in Things

Awe-inspired, Pebble Beach, CA.

In life, when we need strength, motivation and inspiration, we've got to be able to find the beauty, the best part, in things. There have been so many sad things happening - friends losing loved ones, friends in duress, and more - it can be difficult to find beauty in the world at all. I've found when I'm stressed or in need of a reminder that there's something out there bigger than myself, sometimes the best place to look is out the window. And then, to take comfort in sharing what you've seen and how you feel with a friend. Or many, many friends.

There have been times I've been in inexplicable awe of what's around me. When Tiffany, Candace and I were en route to Rainier Base Camp in August, I got good laughs out of both of them the whole way there. I'd look out the car window and mumble "holy moly." It's all I could say. I got the same feeling this morning on a run by the beach in Pacific Grove, California. The sound of the waves rushing toward land, drowning out every other sound around me, the sea salt air, and the sheer power of the ocean. I stopped dead in my tracks and just stared. Then I decided I needed to write about it, if for no other reason than to remember it.

Lately, I've been trying to channel that awe-inspiring, heart-consuming feeling and committing it to memory for use when I really need it. When I'm climbing outside, (which sadly hasn't happened in a little while), sometimes I'll be so scared and feel so vulnerable. But taking a moment to feel the rock under my fingers, breathe deeply, and realize that despite the exposure and vulnerability, being up high might mean I can see from a vantage point I couldn't before. It's about finding the beauty in things.

Nature is restorative, we know this, and right now, I'm incredibly lucky to have easy access to it on the Central Coast of California. I'm certainly trying to make the most of it, banking as many awe-inspiring moments, like the run this morning, as I can. And as much as I can draw on those moments for inspiration on my own, for a smile when I really need it, the best part is being able to share it with others. They'll often find beauty where I can't, or even find more inspiration in a moment than I do. The important part is to make sure that no matter what happens, we keep looking.

Finding My Sanctuary

I'm the kind of girl who craves routine and familiarity. At least, I used to define myself that way. The need for it has certainly lessened over time as I've found ways to cope, and I've noticed a steady decline in my need to do so. It's not longer solely about getting comfortable in a new place as quickly as possible as it is to explore, see new things, and make new friends. It's a brand new challenge, getting to know an unfamiliar place.

When I was younger and relocated, either for internships in college or otherwise, I always had a few things I had to find in a new place to feel comfortable. First and foremost, I had to find a good, local coffee shop to write in. (Note: "local" meant no chains allowed, even regional brands.) Something about the aroma, the clientele, the collection of random flyers on bulletin boards, the two-year-old magazines, and the mishmash of nicked and scratched furniture always made me feel at home. It was like my sanctuary, my escape from the unfamiliar. And I had to have a place to write.



The day I learned to form thoughts into words on paper, I started a journal. The first one was a fabric bound book a gift from my Grandmother. Other mediums of choice ranged from composition books to five-subject college ruled notebooks to napkins, all entries organized in a specific fashion. Journals for traveling, journals for home, all with a purpose. I loved to write. I loved how free I felt. I loved how the companion I found in between the pages pulled the honest truths out of me and how futile resistance was. That companion taught me more about me than anyone else ever has. No expectations, no judgment, it just listened.



My box of "special stuff" can survive anything.

When our house in Ithaca burned down in 2007, all I could think about was whether the box of journals I'd packed up before moving to Alaska and stored in the basement was safe. That was my life. And they were. As I "grew up", I stopped keeping regular entries. I'd write when something important happened. I didn't have enough time, I didn't have anything to write about, the excuses just kept coming. But relocating meant needing to find familiarity in something, and I realized how important it is to be introspective, especially when it scares me. So I'd get out my journal in my little coffee shop and write.


I haven't moved in three years, and thus haven't had to think about finding coffee shops to write in. If I felt the need, I'd know exactly where to go. But I have a feeling if I moved, the things I'd seek out first would change. I don't seek refuge in journals often anymore, and if I do, it's more fun to sit at home with a cup of my own brewed coffee and a cat on my lap. I'd guess a climbing gym or local crag would be first on my list, closely followed by the nearest place to hike. Next would come a farmer's market. Last, but certainly not least, could come a good, healthy restaurant that serves local food.

One of the best things about keeping journals is they serve as your own personal history books. You get to look back and see how you've evolved and how you've changed. I'm glad to be able to share some of it with you!

What Happens When You Take Three Months Off From Rock Climbing

Whether intentional or not, I took a break from climbing this summer. Trips to the gym were few and far between in June. I didn't climb at all in July or August. The most recent formal Philadelphia Rock Climbing Meet-up Group event I set up was back in May. Weekends were spent hiking, backpacking, and visiting family. Weeknights were spent training, or recovering from training, for Rainier. And honestly, it was all just fine with me. Now that I've started getting back into it, I'm discovering exactly what happens when you take three months off. 

Those climbing muscles get a little weaker. But they can get stronger again. Rock climbing is, in good part, an anaerobic sport requiring strength and endurance in very specific areas. You need to use those muscles to keep them strong. Even with a day or two a week of upper body lifting, I didn't do a great job of maintaining my back strength. And my forearms? Forget it. The only workout they'd been getting was periodically opening and closing my Nalgene. I was pretty darn sore after my first day back at Go Vertical last week. It was expected, and felt great! It was my body's way of gently reminding me of the muscles I'd been neglecting.

The first few routes feel a bit weird. But muscle memory lasts a long time. I walked in to Go Vertical and noticed one of my projects, a long, balancy face climb requiring a high-step every other move with lots of finger pockets, was still there. Phew! I walked to another wall and I clipped in to warm up on a nice, gentle 5.6. The first half of the route felt strange. I was making rookie mistakes - not keeping the weight on my legs, over-gripping, spending a lot of time "dancing" on holds, etc. After a few more easy-before-the-hiatus routes, I felt normal again. But it'll be a few more weeks before I'm ready for the project!

First day outside in ages, Ralph Stover. Sept 2010.

There may be a step or two, or five, backwards in the fear-conquering department. Climbing, being up high, and falling from up high scares the crap out of me. This is nothing new. As much as I hate to admit it, exposing myself to my fears is the best way to begin accepting them and not letting them get in the way. Exposure and desensitization. The problem with an extended hiatus is time away from the fears. They multiply like bunnies, grow quickly, and before I know it I've got a big ball of bunny terror in the pit of my stomach. At least the ball is smaller than it was before I started the exposure-desensitization routine, right?

Climbing buddies will still invite you to climb, even if you can't. And when you come back, they'll be there, and you'll be ecstatic to see them. I sent way too many "no" replies to outing invitations this summer from the various groups within the Philly climbing community. I missed a lot, without a doubt. But walking in to the gym and seeing familiar faces was wonderful. I'm grateful for their presence and for the fact that they kept inviting me along!

You have a chance to rekindle, renew, even reinvent your relationship with climbing. I promised myself I'd work to develop a healthier relationship with the sport after the Mt. Rainier trip. Climbing and I have our ups and downs, our silent arguments, and our bad days. Such is life. But a lot of things continued to eat away at our relationship, and I want to work on them.

First, I resolved to stop putting so much pressure on myself. No pressure to push my physical and mental limits every day, unless it's fun. Climb because it's fun. Reasonable expectations are key.

Second, I resolved to climb for me. I have trouble separating my expectations from others', and climbing is no different. Do I climb because I want to, or because I feel like I have to? I've been an organizer for the Philadelphia Rock Climbing Meet-up Group for two years. It's been a great way to meet other Philly area climbers, introduce new people to the sport, and to hang out with some incredible folks. Many of them are my go-to friends for local outdoor climbs, and I wouldn't trade the group for anything. But organizing got to be more stressful than it was fun, and I finally admitted I needed to take a step back. Saying that out loud felt so, so good.

Third, I resolved to practice letting go, both literally (exposure and desensitization!) and figuratively. I want to learn to let go of my fear of falling and of failure. There's  no reason to worry about not being good enough when I'm doing something I love because I love doing it. It's a lot easier to go with the flow when the flow looks more like a gently meandering stream than a rushing river full of giant boulders and whirlpools.

If you've ever taken a break from a sport or other endeavor you loved, what did you learn? Leave your thoughts in the comments!

A Personal History of Playing Outside

I spent part of today watching a live streaming of the White House Conference on America’s Great Outdoors. The panel I saw was moderated by Interior Secretary Ken Salazar and featured, among others, historian William Cronon and Ernesto Pepito of the Golden Gate National Parks Conservancy. Over the course of the discussion, one concept Ernesto mentioned really resonated with me.

Ernesto discussed the importance of the involvement of children in the protection and conservation of natural landscapes. He asserted that we've got to give kids a chance to do something meaningful, to connect them to the outdoors in a way that is permanent. And this can't be accomplished with a single day school field trip, or a day in the park. It has to be a long term cultivated relationship. We can't just give them a day, we have to give them enough to provoke passion that will last a lifetime; a passion that will make them advocates and stewards of nature and the environment.

All of this got me thinking about how I spent my formative years, and how the experiences I had as a child with the outdoors influenced me.

The Good Books
My mother made sure we did plenty of reading as a young child. I clearly remember being drawn to stories and books about animals and the wilderness, even at an early age, and reading them with her before bedtime. My favorite book as a child was A Friend for Oscar Mouse. I was captivated by the vibrant illustrations of the world from a mouse's perspective.

I graduated to books like Julie of the Wolves, On the Far Side of the Mountain, and arguably the most influential book at that time in my life, Cry of the Crow. Jean Craighead George's novel follows a young girl as she rescues a baby crow, cares for him, and begins to understand the complexity of both her world and the animal kingdom. I wanted to be her. So badly.

The Best Games
I didn't grow up in the foothills of the Sierras, climbing in Yosemite, or hiking in Colorado. I grew up in a small town that just happens to have some of the most awe-inspiring scenery on the east coast. My neighborhood was safe, full of kids my age, and provided the perfect balance of wooded areas and big backyards.

We all played games as children, and as adolescents, immersing ourselves in worlds we could only hope actually existed. One of my best friends in elementary and middle school, Tara, and I would make up some incredible stories, most involving being explorers and archaeologists. We'd run around the creek near her house, building imaginary fire pits and making "food" out of leaves and berries in leftover Fancy Feast cat food cans. We'd pretend we were completely isolated, on our own, and incredibly self sufficient. We'd climb into a giant pine tree near my house, what seemed like hundreds of feet up, and pretend we lived in it. We'd jump on our bikes and imagine we were long distance racers, traveling through the wilderness at impossible speeds along dirt trails over giant fallen logs.

As we grew up, the games got a little more specific. We were archaeologists in Egypt, exploring lost tombs and pyramids hidden from the world, from all but us. We concurrently, and not in Egypt, ran our own hotel, the Pengeo, and collected reservations in a little box. I spent time at my family's cottage on the St. Lawrence River with my incredibly patient and wonderful cousin Elizabeth drawing maps of the shoreline, naming each peninsula and dip in the rock.

The Here and Now
Although we're sadly not in touch much anymore, I know Tara currently lives in Arizona after graduating from Cornell with a BS in Archaeology, and has worked as an archaeologist for the National Park Service. Elizabeth is now a teacher, a member of the Adirondack Mountain Club, a seasoned paddler with her own canoe, and is scheming about building a log cabin in the woods like Anne Labastille. I went to the Cornell Hotel School, and my work history involves a company that manages hotels and resorts in National Parks. And of course, I do as much hiking, backpacking, climbing, reading, learning, and exploring as I can.

Our experiences as children have, in my humble opinion, an incredible impact on how we see nature. One of my favorite books as an adult is Last Child in the Woods, which a former boss at my job in Philadelphia gave me. The book links an absence of nature in childrens' lives to a number of sad, depressing trends. Although it doesn't necessarily prove causation, the concepts are very important. These kids are the next generation of advocates for our planet.

A significant portion of why I believe SO strongly in Big City Mountaineers is because I know firsthand what the connection I feel to outdoor places, and to who I am in those places, has done for me. And I think it's incredible how it seems being outdoors has had a strong influence on how I view the world, an influence that started when I was very, very young. I'm excited about the chance to actually do something about my passion for getting kids outside with Big City Mountaineers. And I'd love to hear your stories about the outdoors as an influence on you!

Why Feeding a Family for $4/Week Isn't a Good Thing II

I wrote the post last week in a fit of passion about a topic that matters a lot to me. I was appalled that a major news channel would tout eating 42352 ingredient pizza as a step along the path to heroism and an adequate way to feed a family, but of course, there are two sides to every coin. The local/sustainable food movement is no exception.

My good friend Sarah, who always does a great job directly or indirectly of keeping me grounded, posted this article, which is definitely worth the read if my previous post incited feelings of rage in anyone else. It serves to point out that there are many, many more things we need to consider when we're making what we think are sustainable and ecologically sound purchase decisions. I've listed my major take-away's here:

1. Transportation - Although buying local does support the local economy and local businesses, the food might've been transported to the market in hundreds of different non-fuel-efficient trucks. (But transportation only accounts for 1/10 of food production's greenhouse gas emissions, and I'd still rather support a local business that treats its employees ethically than from a giant national corporation with questionable morals.)
   
2. Resource Intensity - Certain foods suck up so many resources regardless of where they're produced that you can shrink your footprint far more by changing what you eat, rather than where the food came from. Going meat- and dairyless one day a week is more environmentally beneficial than eating locally every single day.
3. Definition of Sustainability - Rather than focusing on 10 things we can do that'll make us sustainable eaters, we need to look at the entire system and it's ability to sustain itself within the confines of limited and finite resources. Is a farm that uses manure as organic fertilizer from a feedlot hundreds of miles away sustainable, despite being able to label their produce as organic?
   
4. Scale - It would be great if we could feed a population of 6.7 billion people from local polyculture-type farms, but it would require a serious paradigm shift. Is population growth really the culprit, preventing us from turning the current food system around?
5. Does the sustainable movement need to bend? To get large scale industrial farms on board, we might need to adjust what our ultimate goals are. Incentives for farmers and consumers need to change, and everyone needs to participate somehow.

So, take this for what it's worth, but give the article a good read. It doesn't provide be-all end-all solutions, but definitely puts a different spin on things.

Why Feeding a Family for $4/Week Isn't a Good Thing

This is a topic I'm particularly passionate about, and this post might result in your having visions of me standing atop a soapbox with a megaphone screaming at you. It's also a departure from what I usually write about. But try to, if you can, hear me out.

Kathy Spencer, a mother to four children living in Massachusetts, has been able to figure out how to feed her entire six-person family for $4 per week. Her money saving techniques primarily include coupon clipping from the newspaper, internet, and other sources. The first time I saw her story was on the news last night, but other information appears here and here.

Being able to clip enough coupons and stockpile enough store credits to feed an entire family for such a small amount is admirable, without a doubt, especially with the way the economy's been lately. But if you take a look into her pantry and shopping cart, what you'll see is precisely the opposite of the direction we should be heading in as a nation in terms of food purchases and consumption. This story and technique should not be hailed as something we should all aspire to, nor should it be touted as heroic, but this is certainly no fault of the Massachusetts mom.

Kathy says she clips coupons and only buys what works out to free, or close to free. This makes sense, and sounds great, but in reality, it puts her and other coupon clippers at the mercy of big supermarkets chains and corporate marketing campaigns. The items you'll see coupons for aren't on sale by coincidence. If they want you to buy a chemically enhanced package of strangely bright yellow cheese, they'll put it on sale, or use other techniques. And according to this article, you can't trust your supermarket when they say something is "local," and claims like that aren't regulated. And the article talks about all sorts of other things your supermarket doesn't tell you that you might want to know.

And if you watch the first link I cited above, Kathy's interview with Good Morning America, you'll notice she and her interviewer pass completely through the produce section during their first shopping trip. She does purchase fresh scallops, but according to the Monterey Bay Seafood Watch Guide for Sustainable Seafood, she needs to ensure they're Bay Scallops or Sea Scallops, not imitation scallops. Then she stops in the frozen food section for Tony's Crispy Crust Pizza. Take a look at the ridiculously long ingredient list. Mmm, chemically enhanced pizza. And the countless small individually packaged bottles of Pellegrino in her cart aren't doing wonders for the environment either. Plus, what'll happen if her kids actually try to exist on all the boxes of Pop Tarts in her pantry? It isn't teaching them any good habits about healthy eating.

Now, I'm being pretty nit-picky about what was in her pantry and her shopping cart, and I'm certainly not the poster child for sustainable, local food 100% of the time, but the bottom line is, the whole concept really irks and angers me. We shouldn't be at the mercy of corporate marketing programs. We should be making food purchasing decisions that make us healthier, teach our children how to be healthier, and better the communities we live in and the Earth as a whole.

I'm a huge fan of Michael Pollan, which should come as no surprise. He says in his must read In Defense of Food that most of what we're actually consuming and calling food today isn't really food. Our meals are full of food-like substances, chemicals, and flavors that are meant to trick our brains into thinking these items are things we need and want to eat. They're products of food science, of big business, not of nature. These packages come with claims about fiber and what's healthy for our hearts, but in reality, these claims should be red flags to us. Pollan says, "In the so-called Western diet, food has been replaced by nutrients, and common sense by confusion. The result is...the American paradox: The more we worry about nutrition, the less healthy we seem to become."

Pollan states, both with fact and theory in his books and in the documentary Food Inc., that if we'd just stop eating all the crap masquerading as food, we'd all be healthier, happier, and escape diseases the human race has been wrought with over the past several decades. We'd also be doing the Earth a great favor.

But it's a battle. It's easier, and cheaper, to go into the grocery store and buy frozen dinners than it is to find a farmer's market and prepare the same meal from scratch. It takes too much time, too much effort. And often, farmer's markets are hard to come by depending on where you live, especially during winter months in New England. (This opens up an entirely new can of worms - if it's not in season where we live, we really shouldn't be importing it from South America. We should be eating what local agriculture can produce for us and stay in harmony with our environments). Why aren't farmer's markets available everywhere? Why is it so incredibly difficult to support our communities and local farmers? Why are local farmers constantly duped and pressured and left bankrupt by companies like Tyson and Monstanto?

It makes my blood boil when I see people like Kathy Spencer being touted as heroes (or heroines) for playing along with a system that's largely responsible for putting cancerous and disease causing chemicals into our food. But what else can she do? She's got a big family to feed on a budget, and big grocery store chains and food manufacturers are going to dictate exactly how she does that. Never mind the health of Kathy and her family, or that of billions of other human beings.

And most importantly, why should this make your blood boil too, and what can we all do about it? By purchasing chemically enhanced food-like items rather than shopping the local farmer's market, or sticking to the organic produce section of the grocery store, you're perpetuating a system that's making us all sick and delusional about and disconnected from where our food comes from.

So what can we do about it? I could, literally, go on about this for days. But I urge you to become an educated consumer, and to vote with your purchase decisions as often as you're able to do so. If we can, as a nation, convince food manufacturers that organic, honest-to-goodness local food is important enough that we'll run them our of business if they don't listen, maybe things will change. Take the extra time to prepare your meals from scratch, and eat things that are "clean" - completely free of chemical enhancements. Subscribe to Michael Pollan's rule to Eat food. Not much. Mostly Plants. Realize this is the one body you've got, the one life that's yours to live, and help change things. We're not all going to be able to but free range chicken from the farmer next door 100% of the time, but I'd challenge with enough persistence, there will be a day when that will be the norm.

In the meantime, here are a few resources to take a look at:

• In Defense of Food, by Michael Pollan (buy it at a local bookstore, support your community).
• Sustainable Table, Great educational site with all sorts of links and materials.
• Use this USDA site to find farmers markets in your state.
• Change.org has a listing of recent news articles and opportunities to take action
• Watch the Sierra Club's cute short called The True Cost of Food, then lead a discussion about it, especially if you have kids. It's a free 15 minute download.
• See Food Inc. and explain to your friends and family why it's not some over-the-top exaggerated documentary, it's real, and we need to change things.
• Keep up-to-date with Treehugger.com. There's a TON of stuff on their website, not just about food consumption.
  

Bikes, Cars, People, Can't We All Just Share?

My pretty car back in Denali when she had Alaska plates.

Although some might be tiring of all the talk about cycling and road-sharing, I figured I would add my two cents into the proverbial piggy bank. There's a lot more to say on this issue, as there usually is on most hot topics, but the subject of road sharing has become particularly prevalent in my life these days.

According to the Philadelphia City Paper's recent cover story, Biketopia, the number of cyclists in Philadelphia has doubled in three years, and I can see why. Cars are expensive and a royal pain in the rear end to keep in the city. I have a car, and I love her. But I definitely do not love fighting with other Fitler Square residents for parking spaces, or with the PPA to keep my car in the space without tickets or towing. I refuse to move my car from a safe spot unless my life depends on it. Not to mention the blood pressure spikes I experience trying to drive around the city; the use of turn signals is never required, lane changing without looking is a given, and forget trying to get anywhere during rush hour.

So, when I go to the rock gym, a friend's house, any location more than ten blocks from which I don't have to carry anything huge, I'll consider using my bike. That opens up a whole new can of worms.
 
I firmly believe drivers should be able to share the road in a friendly, efficient, safe manner. In a perfect world, every road in Philadelphia would have a bike lane, but right now there is no real network of bike lanes in the city. Lanes will begin and abruptly end. There are lanes on roads that don't need them, and no lanes on roads that are in desperate need of them. People seem generally incapable of running two lanes of traffic on Pine and Spruce consistently, at least somewhat attributable to the width of the road, why not put a bike lane there instead?

A bike lane on Columbus Ave is useless to me - drivers speed past at 50mph, there's no way I'm sitting on a bike in that kind of environment. On numerous occasions, I've had cars take the exit off Columbus up to Market Street, which involves crossing a bike lane, and not notice I'm there. There are also no Center City bike lanes that run east/west. I've seen cars, especially cabs, block bike lanes on purpose. People use them as an extended shoulder for parking. Drivers need to accept the fact that cyclists are here to stay, and rather than revving engines or speeding past cyclists on roads without bike lanes, they should help cyclists stay safe.

Friends (with helmets!) on the Ben Franklin Bridge, bikes in hand! (M. Pierwola)

I more firmly believe cyclists should be able to share the road in a friendly, efficient, safe manner. On the way to the rock gym last night, I almost witnessed a serious accident between a cyclist and a cab. Three cyclists were riding east on Pine Street, helmetless. One fell a bit behind, and in an effort to catch up, ran a red light and almost got slammed into the pavement by a cab driver. I can't imagine the guy would've survived being hit by a car going 30mph without a helmet. Although I'm guilty of this as well, there is absolutely no good reason why, as a cyclist, you should disobey traffic signals. I won't even enter in to the helmet debate here. And, while I'm at it, why on earth is there a helmet debate?

I would argue that a large part of the reason why drivers hate cyclists is because they ride on streets with cars, expect to be respected and treated like cars, but don't behave like cars. As both a driver and a biker, I get extremely angry when I see cyclists weaving in and out of traffic and speeding past cars stopped at traffic lights. True, getting on a bike means using your own pedal power to get somewhere, and it takes you longer to ride one block than it does a car to drive the same distance. But is running a red light or stop sign, rather than waiting like all the other vehicles on the road, really worth it?


A good friend told me last night he'd read or heard that our brains are so trained to look for other motor vehicles at intersections that we don't even bother to look for cyclists. Our eyes are trained to see large moving objects, not the small ones, when we're driving. Both cyclists and drivers should be aware of this, and make a more concerted effort to watch out for each other.

In a really ideal, really perfect world, we'd be able to model our cities after places like Amsterdam, and other forward-thinking places that have realized the importance of planning around non-motorized and public transportation. We would have bike paths and lanes that connect the entire country, or at least a major metropolitan area. Cyclists would be well respected, and cycling would be recognized as an efficient, healthy, environmentally friendly way to get around. But until then, we're just going to have to share.

The Meaning of Home

Beautiful Taughannock Falls.

I always have, and always will love my hometown. Nestled around Cayuga Lake in Central NY, Ithaca comes complete with some of the best food, best scenery, and most wonderful experiences I’ve ever had. I always look forward to trips home, no matter the reason, because depending on the season, I might get to go to the Farmer’s Market, or for a hike through Buttermilk Falls. I'm always overcome with an insatiable desire to go everywhere and do everything I miss about living there when I visit.

The drive to Ithaca takes four hours from Philadelphia, depending on traffic, weather, and how far over the speed limit I think I can go. I meander along the winding highways and within an hour of arrival in my hometown, a wave of melancholy sweeps over me. I’ve become so accustomed to this, and I can anticipate exactly when it will hit me. I spent 22 years of my life in Ithaca, and every time I go back, it makes me a little bit sad. Sad because I’ve moved on, lived elsewhere, said goodbye to my college friends, and the town itself has changed. I realize the way I see Ithaca will never be the same.
 
Moving on, growing up, evolving, experiencing new things, none of these are bad. Change is not bad. But I always believed I’d feel completely at ease in my hometown. I expected to pass within Ithaca’s boundaries, through its imaginary protective bubble, and all my troubles would remain on the outside.

The truth, of course, is that this is impossible. This truth was forever etched in my mind the day my mother called me to tell me the house I’d grown up in caught fire and burned. I came as close to having a spiritual experience I’ve ever come the night before – tossing and turning, unable to sleep, my blood felt full of little bubbles, my skin prickled, and I sat in the middle of my floor sobbing at 3am, unable to figure out what was happening. Something felt unbelievably wrong.

The next morning, my mother called to tell me the news. I’d just started yet another shift at my restaurant in Denali National Park and was beside myself with grief, thinking about all of the memories we’d made in that house. And I was so far away. Thankfully, my box of old journals and our family photo albums, among other things, survived.

And a house, really, is just a house. I will always have the memories, and the love for the family and friends I grew with there. The destruction of the house taught me a number of important lessons, including the fact that although I sorely missed the possessions I lost, I didn’t really need them. The bottom line – a house, and what’s in it, does not make a home. Memories, love, and family – those things make a home.

Most of my favorite restaurants still exist, Cornell is still there, the Commons is still home to the same group of odd ducks it’s always been, and my mother’s wonderful obsession with creating the cleanest, sweetest-smelling household is still obvious. But my better half, my cats, my job, and my life are in Philadelphia. At the moment, Philadelphia is home.

My definition of “home,” in the deepest sense, will always be Ithaca. When I visit, I do feel refreshed, renewed, and happier than I was when I arrived. But the places I’ve lived, grown, and come to know are also home, including the 1,000 Islands, Denali, Anchorage, and Philadelphia. What does home mean to you?

I Heart the Dirtbag Diaries

Listening to "No Car, No Problem" for the second time.

I discovered the wonder that is the Dirtbag Diaries via Twitter, and the small community of adventurers, climbers, writers, bloggers, backpackers, hikers, etc. that make up my "following" list. 

I scoffed at Twitter when one of my technologically minded friends, whom I indirectly met via Twitter, made a concerted effort to describe to me how valuable it was. Did I really need to involve myself in another one of those ridiculous tools for people to communicate without actually talking? And what could I possibly get out of it anyway? "Once you find your community," he said, "you'll understand."
 
And he was right. All of the incredible people I've never met, (Sara, Tali, my idol Steph Davis, Louise, Nina, the list goes on...) have provided a seemingly endless stream of interesting things to read and discuss. From advice on climbing shoes to outdoor-related news stories, from cookie recipes to "pink gear," I've gained so much thanks to my little Twitter community. But I digress. This isn't a Twitter post.

Included in this community is Fitz Cahall of The Dirtbag Diaries. I was made aware of the Dirtbag Diaries podcast when a members of my community were imploring all of us to comment on the value of the podcast to Patagonia, the Dirtbag Diaries sponsor. Podcasts were a bit of an unknown prior to the last few weeks. I'd just put my head down and plod along the fifteen blocks that make up my walk to work in the morning, ignoring the insufferable smell of exhaust. I'm not a city girl. I am especially not a Philly girl. Even when rush hour is over, the sun's disappeared, and I'm one of only a handful of people in Rittenhouse Square, I still can't bring myself to really, truly feel at home here.

But lately, I've been enjoying, even looking forward to the 15-20 minute descent into Philadelphia's Center City Streets. Fitz, his wife, and all the others featured on The Dirtbag Diaries podcasts have been rocking my walks to work, from work, to the gym, to the grocery store, all over the city. Sometimes, I'll even venture a block or two out of my way to finish an episode. I truly feel as though I'm listening to my peers, my mentors, people I understand, people I share much in common with, and I smile the entire way to my destination. The commentaries really make me think, and I create vivid pictures of the adventures portrayed in my mind, pictures that make me yearn for the chance to pick up and start over in a more wild place. The last time I had that urge, I moved to Alaska.

The most recent episode I finshed was, "No Car, No Problem." I own a car, a wonderful Toyota Corolla, but argue daily with myself about insurance costs, gas costs, environmental costs, and whether I'd be better off without her. I keep her to get me home to upstate New York, to get to all the trailheads I adventure from, to cart around big, heavy things, and because life without a car seems so odd. I don't know if I'll ever be able to part with her, especially seeing as she got me safely from Anchorage to Philadelphia, but it made me think. And I like thinking. I like it a lot.

So, thank you, Fitz, for everything you've done for me, and I can't wait to walk to work tomorrow morning and listen to "The Adventurer's Parabale" again.

Kitteh Adopshun FAIL

Even though adopting a kitten isn't what most would call an adventure, after the past few days, I certainly would! The Pennsylvania SPCA sets up camp at my gym one evening per month, usually with a kitten or two and a handful of dogs. I'll meander over, pretending I don't really have an interest in animals, and find myself cuddling with the kittensboth before and after the workout. After I've gotten my fill, I'll remind myself I already have two wonderful, adorable cats, and adopting another might equate to laying the bricks along a path to Crazy Cat Lady land.

Yesterday's PSPCA visit, however, was a bit different. A dejected, mellow, affectionate little blackish kitten adopted me. That's how it happens - they choose you. I had been chosen, or so I thought. His name is Magic, a name I promptly decided needed to be changed.
We rent through an otherwise wonderful landlord, who shall remain nameless. When the owner of our building learned we had two cats after showing us our apartment, he told us they typically only allow one cat per apartment. They made an exception for us, and life was great! Until, that is, the PSPCA required we submit a copy of our lease upon adoption of Magic, which of course stated we were not permitted three cats in the apartment. And Magic stayed in his little cage while we drove away. I was, and still am, crushed.

As much as I'd liked to have come up with a way around the lease requirement, I understand its purpose. The PSPCA needs to ensure the animal goes to a home it will be able to stay in. I understand, as a landlord, the motivation to limit the number of pets tenants have, as some owners are careless, neglectful, and unreliable. But Dan and I, we're good people, and all I wanted was to free Magic from his little cage, to breathe some life into him. He seemed so sad and tired - kittens are supposed to be energetic, and he was anything but. When good people want to take care of an animal in need, there should be no boundaries. I wished they'd bent the rules for us, but understand why they didn't.

The anger and sadness I felt resulted in tears, the presence of which only added to my meloncholy mood all day. He's just a cat, right? But it's more than that. It's a desire to form a relationship with, and nurture another living thing. So, until I move, I'll have to settle for nurturing two cats instead of three.

Mulling Over Words

I am ashamed to admit I am one of those individuals who reads the newspaper without actually reading the newspaper. I love the feel of the flattened fibers in my hands, staring at the official typeface and the important headlines...but sadly, it seems I can do little but skim the content. What is it about the guts of the newspaper, the actual stories, all of which were produced laboriously by some poor, sleep-deprived press officer, that dissuade me from actually gaining any sort of knowledge about the world at all?

At a training session for ARAMARK this past week, our customer service guru passed out a written exam that was supposed to enlighten us with our individual learning styles. I am always skeptical about these sorts of things; as I have grown, my bullshit meter has become significantly more sensitive. The same is true with management and self-improvement books; what could a story about mice and cheese possibly tell me about my ability to deal with change? Regardless, there are a few fantastic books of that nature available.

But, back to the learning styles...I am primarily a visual learner, complete with a dash of the auditory learning style. My guess is, if I were an expert, which I am not, that the large quantity of small words on a newspaper page indimidates me; I often find myself leafing through looking at the pictures and the headlines. But if someone were to explain a current event to me, or if I were to see it on the news, I would remember it.

But I love reading books, which also contain an intimidating amount of words. However, I always find myself imagining what the scenes look like, and imagining what the person narrating sounds like. But what does it all mean, really?

All Coffee Shops are Not Created Equal

As an judicious, slightly overworked Cornell student, one of my favorite haunts throughout my time on The Hill was the coffee shop in my favorite library. (Truthfully, I could be found haunting any coffee shop on campus.) But this one in particular was favorable because they employed a practice encouraging patrons to transport their coffee from the smiling barista's clenched fingers to whatever dark, dreary corner in the stacks of volumes bursting with knowledge via personal mugs rather than the disposable, chlorine-bleached coffee cups with non-degrading plastic lids.

An individual, upon presenting their own, often quite distinctive, beverage vessel, received a discount on any drink purchase. I would proudly carry my fire-engine red Gimme! mug from home every day, plastered with bumper stickers, in an attempt to quell my insatiable thirst for coffee, and receive my discount.

Of course, I would often get lazy and forget to clean the clumped cinnamon from the bottom the night before and be forced to pollute the trash bins with the chlorine-bleached cup waste created by one individual. But I would often think, what would happen if every coffee addict on campus brought their own mug? True, the all powerful University might lose a few hundred dollars with the discount, but would earn that back disposing infintely fewer cups.

I will not begin to comment on the quality of Seattle's Best coffee in general, regardless of the mug of cup used, but it provoked some interesting thoughts while I was contemplating policies for the food and beverage establishments I will be overseeing this summer in Denali. I am not sure how many guests we could expect traveling from Japan, or even the East Coast, to carry reuseable coffee mugs with them, but it is an interesting thought nonetheless.

Eggshells and Coffee Grounds

The entire night's progression of dreams included eggs. But not just any eggs, the best quality eggs. The thick, brown-shelled, flawless oblate spheroids that require a hammer to crack; the kind that are packed in cardboard cartons, only found in the organic section of the grocery store; the kind that, no matter the culinary naivete, could not produce anything but a perfect omelette.

And then my alarm sounded a mere 30 minutes before my presence was required at work, leaving me no time to indulge in the night's reverie. A combination of raw oat bran and bargain instant oatmeal had to suffice, the meal only complete with a mug of foul office coffee. As with most dreams, this one would have to wait.

After progressing halfway through "Pour Your Heart Into It," one of the many testimonies of Starbucks' (cannibalistic) greatness, I believe I have progressed from a coffee enthusiast to a full fledged snob. Upon moving to the Great White North, I was ecstatic to find myself in a land full of individuals who bled coffee and would not rest until espresso sheds sat on every intersection of every road in Anchorage.

The importance of influence of these coffee carts is obvious; Kaladi Brothers coffee was born out of a small roadside shed in 1986 just one block south of my apartment. I have and always will prefer locally produced food and drink, much better for the planet to but coffee roasted in Anchorage or Juneau than buying that which has been flow on a gas-guzzling 747 from the East Coast. But as with everything else in Alaska, it seems, even the coffee boasts a uniquely perfect personality - strong and free of bullshit.