A Fire Runs Through It

When last we spoke, I described our trip to Yellowstone last summer. I'd like to go further back in time now. After a years-long gap in our relationship--and it is a relationship--I first returned to the park in 2003, worried about what I would find. My worry was a pretty big and expansive thing. I want to talk here about one aspect of that worry, my fear that I would find the park in flames.

Not that I was concerned about fire damage; anyone who lived in Yellowstone during the 1990s learned not to notice the marks of passage left by wildfire, and even learned to be skeptical about Smokey Bear and his relentless pleading. As you may know, the park burned fiercely in the summer of 1988. Huge, uncontrollable fires raked forest and meadow and everything else from one end of the park to the other; pushed by the prevailing winds from southwest to northeast, they burned all summer long and left about half the park scorched. From above--way above, from a satellite--they left the landscape striped like the back of a tiger. I first arrived not too long after the last of the fires finally sputtered out. All around my first location, Old Faithful, the woods were deep black. Even the earth was still sterile in places, and the smell of combustion lay over all. We got to a point at which we scarcely noticed.

During that first trip back, in 2003, we drove north on Interstate 15--myself, Jen, and Dustin, then only five, young enough that he spent the whole trip to the park in a car seat, strapped in like a Mercury astronaut. I was anxiously scanning for changes. Happily, I kept my wits about me at least a little. The landscape was immediately different from my memories, but I was of course comparing it to my annual drive north in May, and here we were in the second half of a dry summer. Every landmark was right where I remembered it, and oddly just as I remembered it. One later-summer difference was ominous, though: the brown haze on the horizon as we crossed the mountains into Idaho, a haze that got thicker until it was one continuous brown cloud that blotted out the horizon, and anything else more than a mile distant. Fires, just about everywhere; as in the mid-nineties, the last time I had seen it, the whole Northern Rockies was having a drought.

We stopped in Idaho Falls when the Golden Arches appeared (they had been oddly sparse, for some miles. Not too many changes, really). Those Golden Arches were indistinct in the smoke. We got Dustin a Happy Meal and let him crash around on the Playplace-thing. Jen fueled the car while I ate my own meal, queasy with interstate seasickness and foreboding. Where was the nearest fire, the one producing smoke so thick that it now hurt our eyes? Was the park on fire? I knew that one large fire and many small ones were burning in Yellowstone; was that where this smoke was coming from? According to the newspapers, a large fire was burning ten miles west of Rexburg. But, as we entered the last stretch of our journey, the smoke reached a climax, and then began to thin, to be replaced by another, familiar atmospheric phenomenon: a cold front that spit occasional rain.

"When are we gonna get there?" Dustin asked.

"Six hours," Jen responded. It was actually more like forty-five minutes, now. I suspect she just didn't feel like calculating. For the rest of the week, whenever Dustin asked when we were gonna get there, I responded "Six grueling hours," even if our destination was five minutes away.

At that magic point on which the Rockies begin, just beyond Ashton, Idaho, we drove into the forest and the mountains, and on to West Yellowstone. We made that last turn, and drove past the sign: "Yellowstone National Park." Like a tourist, I got in line behind a commercial van, then had to back up and get in another line. A volunteer handed us our bundle of maps and newsletters, and that very same yellow "DO NOT APPROACH BUFFALO" flyer, the one with a drawing of a bison the size of a triceratops, throwing a humanoid in the air like a rag doll. A copy of this flyer hung in the bunkhouse I lived in long ago, pinned to the wall with a roofing nail. Such was our interior decor.

For the first time in years--and how did that happen?--I drove into Yellowstone National Park.

No big changes in that long straightaway just after the entrance--and the sky was still relatively clear of smoke--but then we came to the first 1988 burn, the one that marched across the Madison valley. Here was an astonishing change.

But astonishing only to me, and I was operating under highly unusual--and ultimately delightful--circumstances. I only later understood the precise nature of those circumstances. I first saw Yellowstone just nineteen months after the last of the 1988 fires died in the autumn snow. From then until I left, when we saw a burned forest, we normally could not see the extent of the burn, and sometimes could not even tell that the fires had been here. This illusion was created by the needles, the branches, and the bark on the dead trees. The needles, although rust-colored, often had not fallen off yet; neither had the branches or bark, even though--as we discovered every time we went hiking--they were black with soot and quite dead. A conifer was an even sturdier thing than we entirely understood. The forests were dead, but wouldn't lie down.

That is the essence of the change. Not just the needles have fallen; so have the branches, and many of the trees themselves. In places where the wind is intense, most of the forest has fallen. The bark is gone, too, so those trees still standing are now bleached white spires, bent, abused, and unstable scale-model versions of the Washington Monument. Where the slopes are steep and the fires burned hottest, the dead trees are pretty much all down. In their place are bright green lawns of lodgepole pines, in places four feet tall, in places over my head, but everywhere dense and everywhere that same bright shade of green. Along some ridgelines, two burned swaths are separated by unburned forest. That unburned forest--often strikingly narrow and straight--now provides its ridgeline a Mohawk haircut.

Whenever I came upon a burned area, all week, I became Rip Van Winkle, without the negative consequences.

We stopped at Seven Mile Bridge, to fulfill, quite easily, the first of a number of ambitions: a nesting trumpeter swan was at rest a hundred yards upstream. Jen and Dustin had never been here, and had never seen such a thing. The Madison was full of rising trout, and full of water, as was every other river and stream and lake in the park. I had thought we might have a problem with water, in this year of drought, but few of the problems I anticipated ever came up. Yellowstone unfolded itself with ease and openness, the same it has shown me from the start.

It's a crazy place. You leave it for years, and come back expecting to be disappointed, only to find that it's better than it was.

a locked up fan is still a fan

so i've been back in richmond for almost three weeks now. i'm still in transition. and it's driving me crazy. i feel like my life is in slow motion right now. i can't move into my new place until the first of june, so i'm at my parents house on the other side of town. my car's been in the shop. i guess sitting in an empty driveway all alone for a year would make me break down too. i've been working back to back doubles at my old restaurant. i'm already exhausted. so exhausted that i don't feel like capitalizing any words.

i miss alaska. i miss living there and backpacking with other volunteers. i miss my roomate. i miss spending my friday nights with seven yr olds and passing out popcorn to the cute little eskimo kids with their big smiling faces on roller skates. i miss being a big fish in a small pond, and having a job of high importance. it's weird going from solely developing a strategic tourism plan for an entire city to refilling drinks and cleaning ketchup bottles all over again.

but the funny part is i missed all of that while i was in bethel working my ass off as a volunteer. and it is good to be back. sometimes i just tend to get overly analytical and worry that i'm supposed to be somewhere else other than where i am at the moment. maybe eugene for grad school. maybe denali. maybe richmond. but i know that being back here is temporary, and is just so i can sort a few things out and be around family and best friends.

i'm still looking forward to teaching english and art overseas, and traveling, and experiencing different cultures. it's my passion and i wouldn't be happy any other way. i'm fine doing it alone, although it would be cool if i could find other people to travel and teach with. most of my friends have way more ties than i do. not that having ties is a bad thing. sometimes i wish i had something or someone pulling me in a certain direction.

but in the meantime, i need to get back into the richmond art scene and do a few shows. i miss it. and i do want to use my interior design degree and work on some projects this summer. i didn't sketch or paint hardly at all when i was in bethel. usually that makes me grumpy, but i think i was too busy with my americorps project to notice.

on a random, and slightly funny note... i recently received my first fan letter from an inmate. when i left bethel i sent a lot of my friends and colleagues a farewell email, expressing my gratitude and appreciation for their support and friendships. i also mentioned being excited about leaving my boots and ice cleats behind and slipping on a pair of flip flops. well, apparently it got published in the local bethel paper The Tundra Drums, along with my personal contact information, including my parents' address and home phone. (yeah, annoying) but that's bethel for ya. it definitely does not surprise me.
at first i was excited to see a letter from someone in alaska. but then i was a bit confused when i looked at the return address and it said Anchorage Correctional Complex. so i opened it up and read a two page letter from a guy named robert who found my email inspirational and decided to write me. he has lived in the northern slope for 25 years but is originally from boston. he relates to my desire to be near my family, but still travel. he suggested that i visit northern alaska "where the real men are, haha." and he hopes that i enjoy my flip flops, and told me not to get freaked out by the return address because it's "nothing serious, just a minor scrape with the law." oh, and he spelled for, fer. i thought only southerners said fer.

so after reading the letter i was completely annoyed. and a little creeped out. and worried about my parents, and having some crazy dude showing up on our doorstep fresh out of jail. my first reaction was to immediately contact the paper and yell at somebody. and then i realized that would do nothing. it's already out there. it's not like they can issue a press release and say "JUST KIDDING!"
(so yeah.) somehow random things like this always happen to me. but i have been looking for a president for my fan club for quite some time now. lucky for robert, i have no applicants thus far. (it's a tough job.) and nonetheless, a locked up fan is still a fan, right?



sara tagged map by user - Tagzania

Taking a risk, but on what?

As the price of gas goes up, the time spent searching for the least expensive price per gallon of gasoline prevails. This has lead to an exercise program for my friend who figured out that if you drive a little too far in search of that better price ? you might be out of luck and using The Ankle Express.


Imagine if you will, that flashing empty light that tricks you every time you pull into your steep driveway. Sure you are close to being empty but there must be enough in the tank to get you to the next station with the best price. So you drive and drive and then just as you realize it?s stalling, you turn onto a steep hill hoping gravity will get you to the station. No such luck, but that pushing of the car was a good stretching exercise. Now it?s time to use the feet and walk to the station for gas and then back to the car. Was it worth it?


As I listened to this tale, I noticed my own low gas gauge light turning on and I too followed the same process. Whew! I made it to the cheap spot. However once at the station, I took another risk. To some this would have sounded even more dangerous, but I felt it was necessary. The car in front of me while I was pumping gas, held 4 high school students who were snacking on the gas station treats this fine May afternoon. Out the passenger-side window comes a flash of paper. LITTER!


I was raised on anti litter songs and commercials with Native Americans crying over such disregard for the environment.


I decided to put it right back where it came from and on my way back into the station leaned into their car and dropped the empty ketchup packet..."Excuse me I think this fell out of your car by mistake." I was careful not to look back yet I could just imagine finding my own carsmeared with packets of ketchup and relish and who knows what else. My transaction complete, I found their car was gone, mine was fine, but the ground was covered with foil wrappers.


Would I do this again? Yes, I think I would take the risk? BUT I reminded myself that I was in my car alone using gas and these young men were "carpooling" in a way. Who was actually doing more damage to the environment?

The Mandarin Morph

"Turning Japanese, I think I'm turning Japanese I really think so"

Sorry, I don't know who to quote on that one. This song keeps popping into my mind lately although I think I need to change the lyrics a little. At this point something more appropriate would be: Turning Chinese, My husband's turning Chinese I really think so. We've been here nine months and Pancho seems to be adopting, not some, but many Chinese characteristics.

When we first arrived I was dumbfounded when we would go to restaurants and the waitresses would seem to have a complete conversation with him although he didn't speak more than 10 words in Mandarin. He told me that his trick is simply repeating and nodding. He won the hearts of Chinese people all around Beijing while we were eating strange dishes and drinking mysterious brews.

These days we know enough Mandarin to survive on the street but now everyone we meet asks if Pancho is from Xinjiang Province. Xinjiang province is located in the far north west of China. Apparently his physical features and rare accent transform him from a Mexican into a person born in the Gobi Desert near the border of Kazakhstan? or was it Krygyzstan? I told him that we should go and visit Xinjiang because everyone there would be able to understand him perfectly.

It's not the cultural confusion that has made this transformation so noted (and admittedly a little scary). He also carries around a pair of walnuts. Yep, walnuts. He carries them around rubbing them together in his hands as a form of ancient Chinese relaxation. He's not alone, hundreds of thousands of old Chinese men also rub their walnuts;). After years of rubbing the walnuts become smooth and the textured outer layer becomes a natural work of art. On Sundays you are sure to find some retired walnut rubbers in the park comparing nuts.

Now you're thinking walnuts aren't so bad. Okay, he also locks himself in the bathroom in the dark and uses a meditation bowl to make a loud humming sound. The bowl is made out of brass and has beautiful characters and designs etched in its surface and the rim is completely smooth. To make the ringing noise a small wooden cylinder is rubbed around the upper edge of the bowl much like making a glass sing with your wet finger. The bowl is about ten times louder than any glass I've ever heard though. Tibetans use the bowl as a meditation device so I suppose the only difference is location - a ninth floor apartment bathroom versus the Himalayas.

Still, no Chinese morphing could be complete without your very own feicha. A feicha is a long staff about 1.75m in length. It is used in Chinese Kung Fu (Wu Shu) to roll over your body while it remains constantly spinning. The tricks he can perform with this staff surprise everyone, including the Chinese. Soon he will have his very own real weapon feicha complete with a three pronged metal blade on the end. We recently went shopping for his authentic Kung Fu garments to complete the look.

All of Pancho's Chinese activities are completed in his traditional Chinese shoes. Black cloth loafers sewn by old woman hands. He even bought me a pair. They are not the fashion rage here but they are very comfortable and we both feel a little more at home in our authentic shoes considering that approximately 20% of Beijingers wear them.

All of this still may seem reasonable. When you live in another culture inevitably you will be influenced by its traditions, fashion, and lifestyle. We are no exceptions to the rule. The most recent development in this transformation is the purchase of a three wheeled rickshaw type bicycle complete with motor (see photo above). Pancho had been telling me about all the advantages of this strange vehicle long before he convinced me that we needed one. Today, it is in the shop having the cabin area installed so that our daughter and I have a place to sit on family outings. Most of the locals react with laughter when they see Pancho zooming around on his trusty, yet unconventional wheels. They say that he looks funny driving the vehicle. Just wait until they see me on the driver's seat!

All of these transformations would be scary if it wasn't for the fact that the Chinese people are so wonderful. We Westerners could stand to learn many things from this Eastern culture. Walnuts and rickshaws are just some of the amazing tools Pancho is using to help try to understand our new neighbors. Cultural immersion can lead to cultural understanding. I can?t wait to see what's next?

Take two hikes and call me in the morning

Climb the mountains and get their good tidings. Nature's peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you and the storms their energy, while cares will drop off like autumn leaves. -John Muir
Communion with it (nature) restores us to a level of our own human nature at which we are still sane, free from humbug, and untouched by anxieties about the meaning and purpose of our lives. For what we call 'nature' is free from a certain kind of scheming and self-importance. -Alan Watts

I grew up in East Los Angeles, and my initial exposure to nature was the occasional vacant lot and a sporadic view of the San Gabriel Mountains when the air was clear enough to see them.
At age 14 though, I shouldered a backpack for the first time, and the door opened to a whole new world.
A friend and I had read a book about backpacking, bought the suggested equipment, and my parents dropped us off at the Mt. Whitney trailhead. One month and 220 miles later, we arrived sunburnt and skinny at Yosemite National Park.
Our first days on the John Muir Trail were (in retrospect) fairly comical. Two city kids trying to pitch a tent, start campfires, and lug a month's worth of food over the Sierra's. But we eventually grew more skillfull, and a natural rhythm began to grace our trip. And a love of the wilderness was awakened that has been with me to this day.
For the last few weeks I've been on a backpacking and camping vacation in the South West. I picked up my friend Paul at the Denver airport, and that night we were sitting by a campfire 20 miles outside of Moab.
And it dawned on me: This was my first sleep-under-the-stars-by-the-campfire-night in a year and a half! That's a record for me, and one I hope to never break again. Watching the flames do their mesmerizing dance, I was reminded of just how good it feels to be hanging out in nature.
This was a gentle trip, with our time spent doing day hikes or short backpacking jaunts. We'd laugh at how much food we had, or at the fact that we had pillows in our tents. What we found humerous was the contrast. The last hike Paul and I did together was a 70-day trek in the Alaskan wilderness, where the criteria for a successful trip was survival. Here's a journal entry from that time:
With the weight and terrain, this is the most difficult extended trek I've ever attempted. It isn't a matter of getting through a rough spot and then moving onward. It is adapting to the reality that this is virtually ALL rough spots. We're following water tributaries: first the Nation River, and now Hard Luck Creek (ominous name). There are infrequent times we can walk in the river, but it is almost always too deep, too cold, or too strong a current. Mostly we are bushwacking by the shore. No paths, of course, but we find the occassional game trail belonging to moose or bear. Generally we are fighting our way through thickets, battling for every ten feet of progress. If not dense brush, we are trudging through nasty bogs, sinking to our ankles under the weight of 120 pound packs.
So you can understand, why the sight of Paul with a baloney sandwich in one hand and a pillow in the other was enough to send me reaching for my camera.
I imagine that most of you Coolworks perusers are also lovers of nature. It's the best perk of many 'cool jobs;' this environment we are blessed to be working in. What a gift.... I have to remind myself sometimes, to stop and appreciate these surroundings. Caught up in the daily habits and obligations, it's easy to take for granted the beauty that surrounds us. But it is such a rejuventating experience simply to walk through nature and reflect on our mutual existence.
The goal of many meditations (short of ego dissolution and enlightenment) are to get to a place beyond goals. A space where the monkey-mind ceases it's chatter, and consciousness experiences a different level of reality. As a monk goes into his cell for meditation, so can a person enter the wilderness as a place to center and regain perspecitve.
I have had the good fortune to ply my (occassional) profession as a therapist in some beautiful settings. And it occurs to me that a great ally has been beside me at these times.
Common experience tells us that a solitary walk by the river or ocean, a few calm hours in the woods, restore the spirit and may produce more insight into our motives and goals than the best labors of the professional analyst. My guess would be that by the time most clients have fought their way home on the freeway, whatever good was achieved during their $100-per-fifty-minute-psychiatric-hour has been undone. -Theodore Roszak
We live in a unique time in history, when humankind has both high technological development
and wilderness areas (dangerously shrinking) on the planet simaltaneously. May this precarious balance be treated thoughfully. As Aldo Leopold said,
Man always kills the things he loves, and so we the pioneers have killed our wilderness. Some say we had to. Be that as it may, I am glad I shall never be young without wild country to be young in. Of what avail are forty freedoms without a blank spot on the map.