Cryptic's Choice 2014

One of the most valuable things I learned about myself this year was that I actually don't loathe poetry. Thank you creative writing!

One of the other valuable things I learned in 2014 is that my whole being gets stagnant when I'm not trying new things and pushing myself out of my comfort zone.

So, I thought it was fitting that my last blog post of the year be my first shot at haiku. Here's 2014, more or less...critique away if you desire :)

One of many good nights in the jack pines...

Getting a dumping

Lake effect don't mess around

Stopping my going

Irking my candor

Superficiality 

Why can't you be you?

Gonna make mistakes

Frank Sinatra in the air

I did the right thing

Vomit the pain out
Phone is shorting from the tears

Thank you for the hurt

Footsteps chase my own
Is that how it worked inside?
One dead, one got life.

All in one weekend

Taught me to shift, her to steer

My dad is a saint

There's a storm coming
Kirtland's sing bombastically
Uppies wolf whistle

Sun kisses bare breasts

Paddling topless through cattails

You're welcome bitterns

I will not wear shoes
They separate from the earth
My toughening feet

A swish of the line
Ply the fly, flirt with the trout
Dance with the current

Your screens enter first
Preventing you from sensing
Life in the moment

Cherry pie and rum

Made spectacles and stories

This is 'Murica

Your words were full of
Flattery, empty promise
They cooked me a trout

Wearing a long skirt

Because last night's was too short

You have a girlfriend

Blueberry mouthfuls

Mosquitoes buzz in my ear

Stomach has regrets

That Jack Pine soundtrack
Hermit Thrush and machine gun
Nighthawks overhead

Kiss until we're numb

Standing in starry river

Wish it were different

Small fingers grasp mine
Balancing on beaverdam
Bring kids to nature!

She called diamonds trump
Daddy Longlegs fed the fire
She took it alone

More new horizons

Belugas, poutine, spruce trees

Fueling wanderlust

Lighter, pot, paddle

Gonna make swamp gas fireworks

Blazey Badger smiles

Usually we jam
Purple juice staining my walls
This time, we jellied...

Slept in Central Park

Thought we might get arrested

Stood up for our home

Walls refuse to fall

My hand between him and heart

Not ready for this

Make bread on Fridays

Then spear rats with kitchen knives

You're fun to live with 

Your money can buy
Fake tits for your trophy wife
But won't buy you abs

Streaming tears, again

Too much laughter and ginger

Overflow with love

Gray Jays on my hand

Otters sliding on the ice

Mom I hope you're proud

If my writing works
Through a documentary
Resurrect the dead

The Beckoning Tree

Most of the time, I consider my height an asset, but not this afternoon as I push my way through the clogged deer trail. I stop to untangle my hair from the briars firmly attached to my hair and realize my reluctant playing of the Absalom role. This happens pretty frequently; it is an understatement to say that feminity doesn’t come naturally to me. I spent one fall afternoon trying to flush Ammodramus sparrows by bushwhacking through a brushy field. Afterwards, midway through a date at a sushi joint—a sushi joint with bathrooms classier than any place I’ve ever lived—I discovered a substantial matt of burdock lodged in my tresses. Long legs and long hair can be advantageous, but I’m probably undeserving of them both. I impatiently reclaim my hair from the thorns. My quest may involve snarled hair, but the end result will be a detangled brain. Although the trail around me is thick with undergrowth to thwart my passage I push down the trail towards a thin place.

Albeit patience-testing, the walk is not long nor arduous, and it meanders over land that my family has revered for generations. I’m answering a tradition, one prompted by love and the desire for reflection that spurs me across field, swamp, and forest to The Beckoning Tree.

                Leaving the sandy field, I step into a fine fragment of northern hardwood forest. There’s no trail anymore, so instead I let a deeper pull guide me towards my goal. Over mossy hummocks, through swaley spots threatening once-dry socks, over fallen trees—I press on. Just before I enter her presence I push through a screen of young trees, which her crown towers above.

                She’s a gnarly old sugar maple; for many years, my family has made the pilgrimage to talk with the Beckoning Tree. Her lower limbs unfurl away from the trunk, reaching out to grab you and draw you in. Her domain is always shrouded in a strange quiet that settles you. She’s ever receptive to people seeking solace and slow time.

Slow time is one of the things I miss most from the Philippines. There, it is a natural part of life. Here, you have to make a concerted effort to find it. If you’re not vigilant, it’s so easy for life to become a sanity-annihilating whirlwind of keeping up—keeping up with work, with friendships, with technology.  On every side we’re assaulted by information. Society tells us that silence is no longer crucial. The last week of the semester was sheer hell for me. It’s been nearly two weeks since I’ve been in a classroom yet it was only yesterday that my brain stopped short-circuiting itself.

                So many people retreat to places like the Beckoning Tree in search of the same peace that I am. The spiritual capacity of nature is far from a novel idea, and it’s been exalted by many nature writers like John Muir, Thoreau, and Sam Campbell. Sam, describing his own sanctuary in Three Lakes says, “Here, silence and solitude are so profound as to be almost visible, beauty extravagantly lines the trail-sides, and the tranquility of eternity rides the breeze that sways the pines…it is my sanctuary…while I am sure that this mental state of peace, receptiveness, patience, free of hatred and vain striving, can be attained anywhere where one will honestly seek it, I know that the contemplation of natural beauty and grandeur is of tremendous aid.”

                Sam realized the need for a place—a sanctuary from the world. One representing not only retreat, but a spot where the curtain separating earth from spiritual realms ebbs, allowing you to see something of heaven itself. They’re places where it’s easier to listen to your inner voice, or the voice of God. Even though the world tries to thwart our seeking of higher things and places, nature is always inviting us to come and replace stress with the inherent silence and quietness of soul we experience from an environment conducive to thinking. It’s important that we find our thin places; one of mine is at the Beckoning Tree. Where are yours?  

Philosopher of the Forest: The Project

I’ll never be a student missionary. That’s why I spent 10 months teaching—and learning—in Palawan.

I’m never going to college. Three semesters now stand between me and graduation.

I am not going to be a writer. A bird bum, a lawyer, a logger, even—but not a writer. 

So, it should come as no surprise that here I am, in Three Lakes Wisconsin, using my Christmas Break as a sort of writing hermitage. I sit in the lobby of Deja Brews, drinking my caffeinated dues that endow both (a) wi-fi and (b) an escape from the curmudgeonly companions sharing my cabin 2 miles down the road.

Escape. Sam Campbell (1895-1962), one of the early voices of the early American conservation movement, journeyed to Three Lakes for escape too, then using the inspiration from his time here to encourage all that would listen to pursue their own nature escapes.

Sam Campbell

Encouraging conservation through invitation rather than regulation, Sam didn’t leave The Wilderness Society or the Boundary Waters in his wake. Sam’s approach to environmentalism instead employed his woodland friends to speak his message of stewardship; this strategy had an exceptional impact on his audience.

Ironically, these things setting Sam Campbell apart from other environmentalists of his era render him one of the least-remembered forces of the American conservation movement. This enigma is remarkable for a man who, in 30 years, delivered more than 10,000 lectures to a collective audience of more than 9 million, produced more than 150,000 feet of film, and published numerous books.  

Nature's Messages, Sam Campbell

One set of his books, the Living Forest Series, played a role in developing my own affinity for nature. Many nights my dad would tuck me in and read Sam’s tales as I fell asleep. The stories about adventures—and the animals and people he befriended in the process—excited me. I wanted to make my own escapades and nature friends!

Little did I know that, years later, I would be making my own nature stories. Right now, I write for TLD Productions, a video and production house in southwestern Michigan. Last May, their script writer for Philosopher of the Forest, a documentary film celebrating Sam’s life and legacy, flaked. I flippantly said that I would do it; here I sit in a northern Wisconsin town working to recapture Sam’s voice for presentation to a new generation.  

Enjoying an interview turned story-telling session with Judy Lehmkuhl, June 2014

As I get deeper into the project, I realize just how much Sam gave to the world. He used his gift of writing, movie making, lecturing, his sense of humor—and most of all, his passion and love for people—to build the bridges necessary to inspire people to awaken and warm to the idea of conservation. We need Sam’s message today at least as much as we did then. Our culture’s relentless pressure to achieve and maintain the American dream compounds our isolation from nature. Sam Campbell is a man worth remembering.

               

I write this to a soundtrack of Stevie Ray Vaughan. Just as the death of a musician doesn’t render their song obsolete, Sam’s message won’t fade—not if we don’t let it. His legacy will continue on in new ways, with new voices. I am honored to be one of those voices.

For more information and updates about the project, follow my blog and also visit:

www.gypsygene.blogspot.com

Follow Philosopher of the Forest on Facebook

Philosopher of the Forest homepage

Sam Campbell

Enter Writing Hermitage

Monday, 12/8/14: Unity, Maine; 8 hours at the library, 7,044 words written.
Tuesday, 12/8/14: See above, give or take a few words.
Friday, 12/12/14: Berrien Springs, Michigan to Three Lakes, Wisconsin. 7 hours driving through the Midwest's billboard community (strip clubs, casinos, pro-life messages, fireworks), three chocolate chip sourdough cookies, SERENDIPITY. 

Terry Dodge photo

Until mid-January, no more classes, no more exams, no more slipping on the icy death chute (benignly known as the Hills to Sea Trail) that I must traverse to reach campus. 

But, Christmas break is not exactly a break, either. Much needs to be accomplished, but unlike a great deal of schoolwork, the task at hand is not brainless busywork. Since May I've been sporadically working on a script with TLD Productions for Philosopher of the Forest, a documentary about Sam Campbell (one of Sigurd Olson's contemporaries). The impossibility of doing this task while taking a full load of writing classes dictated that I devote my Christmas break to a Writing Hermitage of sorts... 

So, here I am in northern Wisconsin near Sam Campbell's home, in a beautiful cabin with a wood stove and a pet crow. 

Things I plan on accomplishing over break:

1. Produce a workable script. I'm a capable writer. I love challenges. I've never attempted to write  a documentary script before. I feel like I'm clinging to a crumbling cliff, ready to leap towards the water below. And I freaking LIVE for that feeling. Sure I'm intimidated, but I'm embracing it too. 

2. Handfeed Gray Jays. And maybe hear wolves howl...and maybe see aurora borealis... I can't write all day every day, and enjoying the beauty of northern Wisconsin will rejuvenate my mind. Gray Jays are one of the most charismatic birds of the northwoods, and I anticipate forging friendships based on peanut bribery this month. 

3. Destroy my hip flexors with the help of my snowshoes. I don't have a car here, which is fine; I have two legs that work just fine. For me, exercise is the most crucial step in achieving a clear head. By default I'll be sitting a lot this month, but when I don't have to be, I plan on destroying my body to restore my brain. 

4. SABBATH. I don't care what your belief system is; we all need Sabbaths. I haven't intentionally observed a Sabbath for too long; if I don't start off the month with this principle in place I know I'll be tempted to write on a rest day. 

5. Learn how to make sourdough bread. This might be bad, but I already TOTALLY have an old man crush on Warren, who I'll be sharing the cabin with. He fly fishes, makes violins, writes books, and walks 4 miles every day. He got his sourdough starter from Alaska and held it on his lap in a Dixie Cup on the flight back to Minneapolis. I can't wait to get to know him better, he's full of stories and laughs. 

6. See 8 owl species. It's a good irruption year, I'd like to find a hawk-owl here, but I'll hitchhike to the Sax-Zim if that's what it takes for Great Gray (and if I get enough work done to deserve a reward, you know...). I've already got Long-eared, Snowy, and Great Horned in the bag. 

7. Write a letter every night. I am so blessed to have a life full of amazing friends. Unfortunately, I don't often have the time to tell them this in more permanent mediums than in passing or over text message. So, if I don't use up all my words on the documentary, I hope to use this break as a long-overdue chance to drive home just how much they mean to me. I don't take you for granted, trust me. :)

8. Read some every day. You write a lot, you need to read a lot. Steve has a whole shelf full of Canoe Country anecdotes, philosophy, and lore, including some work from both Sam Campbell and Sig Olson that I've never read before. I anticipate spending most evenings in front of the wood stove, hot chocolate & Bailey's and good book in hand...

9. Have an adventure every day. I want to get a feel for Three Lakes--whether that entails shooting pool at a dive bar or exploring the XC ski trails or helping out with a Christmas Bird Count or...yeah. Possibilities are endless. 

I'll probably be posting quite a bit in this blog about the project, so stay tuned! Enjoy the holidays everyone! :)

Lunacy

Some people place the full moon as the culprit for making them moody, others swear it makes them angry. Me--I was born three days after the full moon and sometimes, I wonder if that's why it makes me so crazy. When the full moon rises, quivering over the horizon, I tremble with passion and recklessness. My general yearn for adventure amplifies into demand, and moon madness infiltrates my life.


I wake up, sit in creative writing, feel like running laps around the building and telling everyone that they write really well, because they do and they're too humble and I believe if someone is GOOD at something there's nothing wrong with being proud of it.


Instead, I ignore the prompt and write about my moon memories. There have been a lot of them this year: the day we celebrated Smokey Bear's birthday with hundreds of toddlers and their incontinent grandparents, and Hartwick State Park's toilets, in solidarity, took a holiday. Every aspect of the day proved disastrous, so the moment we shut the park down, Saraya and I sped into Dawson's, headed back to our kayaks, and had well-deserved shakes on the lake as the moon rose. When we got back in, I ran for hours, didn't even feel winded, although the next day I could hardly move.


There was the night we broke up a roadtrip by stopping on the shores of Lake Superior for a spontaneous night swim...and then another night where the Boy and I stood in the river, in awe of the river of stars above us. He broke the silence to ask a question I'd been hoping to answer all summer.  We shared our first kiss with the moon, and we stayed in that arc of rippling light, in awe of each other, until our feet were numb. I could write about that one for awhile...


Unity's night sky must be one of the best of any college campus in North America. I don't mind the night classes because I get to appreciate the grandeur--and this week, the moon. We've had snow since Halloween, but the top layer melted and refroze into ice. Treacherous, but beautiful, and I'm not deterred by the risk. Last night, I slid across the bridge. The night was austerely crisp, and everything was illuminated under the moon's beam. I wanted to talk with Barred Owls, but settled instead for kicking the ice off the bridge and reveling in its glassy shatter. The ice intensified the reflection; it was magical.


Right now is the crunch before finals. Although my schedule seems to be more sane than many of my friends, I still am anticipating my next full moon, when I'll be in a remote part of northern Wisconsin working on the documentary script. I dream of snow, snowshoes, the full moon, and the allure of the North Country to infuse my life with wonder once again.

Rat Season

I stumbled up the stairs, absorbed in the afterglow of the night's revelries. I could still taste the sweet potato fries, hear Dave's soulful guitar... 

Jake's voice greeted me from the top of the stairwell:

"Alison, we have a problem in our house..."

Last time one of my friends had a problem in their house, the problem manifested itself in the form of a leaking toilet that dripped through the bathroom floor, through the basement ceiling onto the drum set. 

This memory floated through my slightly intoxicated brain, jarring my reverie. 

"What's wrong?"

"Come here."

As I stepped into Jake's room, I was pleased to note that, like mine, it was cluttered. I'm pretty sure my professors convened last weekend and plotted how to best ensure an overwhelming week, but anyway...

"Look in the radiator."

"Whaaaa..."

Wrapped around the metal coils was a tail, a fairly substantial tail. Attached to this trail was a furred urchin with mean, beady eyes. There we stood, pitting our two partly-functioning brains against the rat's fully functioning brain. 

"WHAT DO WE DO?"

"I'm afraid of rats."

"ME TOO. It ran across my feet and I was like, 'fuck fuck fuck"

The logical thing to do seemed to be to transfer our problem to someone else. As I pulled an unconvincing damsel-in-distress and frantically texted all the bearded, knife-wielding types in my phone, I heard snippets about BB guns and poison from Jake's conversation. 

We looked at each other blankly from opposite sides of the radiator. Obviously, passing our problem off was not going to be our way out tonight. 

"Weeeellll..."

"I'll go grab the cleaver, you guard the doors."

My words definitely ignited more fear into Jake than into the rat, but it was worth a try. However, it soon became apparent that the cleaver seemed more a threat to our radiator and our feet than the rat, cozily snuggled inside the contraption. This would never work. 

"What if...we got it drunk?"

The Alcohol Fairy gifted our house with coffee brandy the other day. Neither of us drink it, so the next line of action was to soak a bagel in the brandy and hopefully entice the rat to enter into a life of debauchery. 

This time, it was Jake who left me to guard the rat while he ran to the kitchen to concoct a potion we hoped would prove irresistible to our intruder. 

I sat on the floor, gazing into the urchin's eyes, willing it to stay put until Jake's return. During his absence, I had a flashback about the rat in my hut in Philippines. I hated that thing with a passion--it peed in my stove, ate the crotches from my underwear, and rustled around my thatch roof when I was trying to sleep. My detest for this creature was so strong that I had intense dreams about killing it on at least a weekly basis. 

One night, I was unable to sleep because of its incessant stirring and scratching. Having met my limit, I grabbed a machete as long as my thigh and started swinging desperately. Although my hut was, uh, remodeled that fateful night, the rat unfortunately was not. 

Jake returned, bearing a soup plate containing what looked like a hobo cocktail of sorts: coffee brandy, a chunk of bagel, two moldy grapes. We set it down next to the radiator, and waited for the rat to cave to temptation...

Waited a grand total of three minutes. Patience is not one of my virtues, and neither is silence, so Jake and I started discussing all the ways we could destroy it. 

"If I had my blowgun here, I totally could shoot it". (probably, I couldn't but that's besides the point...) 

"What we need is a spear... WAIT."

I ran downstairs once more and grabbed a long, shiny, brand new chef's knife. Its packaging promised it to be good for "slicing, dicing, and chopping". 

I handed the knife--and responsibility--to Jake. We made a barricade out of skis and clothing, then I crouched on one end of the radiator with the cleaver. 

The rat, antsy, started crawling around. Suddenly, Jake plunged the knife through a gap in the radiator, right into the rat's back. 

An awful squealing and thrashing ensued, but soon, the death throes were over and our house had one last rat. Jake and I high-fived and went to bed, proud of our teamwork. 

It may be deer season in Maine but rat season is open at High Street. 

REASONS WHY JOHN FOX SHOULD GO TO QUEBEC FOR FALL RECESS 2014

 1. You've sat in class a LOT this semester. Therefore, you need to stretch your legs. Quebec provides ample leg-stretching opportunities, like these places where I stretched my legs on the drive out.

2. I'm sure the Baby Beluga song made such a lasting impression on you when you were little that you've longed to see them -- or kayak with them -- ever since. THIS IS YOUR CHANCE! 

3. Quebec has Caribou. Caribou like these bulls, which consist of hair, antlers, and utter manliness: 

...and also signature Caribou drinks, which apparently consist of wine, whiskey, and maple syrup. 

4. When we get hungry, we can eat copious amounts of Poutine. I am of the persuasion that Poutine should constitute its own food pyramid -- after all, it is a balanced meal of carbs, proteins, and fats. 

...and then wash it down with intriguing bottles of Quebec beer. 

5. I have a talent show to get ready for -- you could have HOURS of quality entertainment in the form of Weird Al!

6. I googled "hot chicks from Quebec"; THIS came up. 

...and, with the language barrier, you might accidentally end up with a hot Quebec wife! That almost happened to me once, in Philippines. 

7. Quebec City is made out of stone, which means we could be renegade urban climbers.

...Orrrrrr, you know, we could actually do stuff like THIS:



8. We could creatively acquire signs like this:

...Or, if we went to Newfoundland, we could get even better ones.

10. Since you were sick this week, that means you should drink a lot of hot toddys to restore your constitution. I aspire towards making the best hot toddys known to man.

 

11. I wear cool pants.

You wear cool pants.

People who wear cool pants should go on kickass adventures, together, for fall break.

SO YOU'RE COMING TO QUEBEC RIGHT?!

Sundown in a Swamp

Soooo about two weeks ago, I learned something about myself: I actually enjoy some poetry. And, shockingly, I enjoy trying to write poetry. Every day at Unity has had its fair share of adventure since I got back, but those adventures aren't ready for the public sphere yet haha. 

So, this is about an experience I had this summer. Enjoy! (Or don't, I'm still figuring this whole poetry business out...)

Swamp sings a frog chorus -- "FEEL ME"

Sky whistles a snipe song -- "FIND ME"

Stomach growls a bittern chant -- "FEED ME"

My vantage to the display is prime; 

My bare toes burrow into the boardwalk's slime. 

The sweating, leaking pipe burrows into my back. 

Tonight, I'm a Marsh Pilgrim

Someone motivated by unholy reasons

To journey to the Holy Land

The Marsh is my mecca, 

I seek life. 

Life not eternal -- mere mortal life would suffice. 

Alive by appearance although dead on the inside--

That's me. 

Marsh Mecca explodes with Life:

Dragonfly squadrons patrol the channel

A Sedge Wren taunt seeps out from grassy fortress

New cattails erupt from last winter's detritus

Wish I could do that. 

There is an impossibility of feeling entirely dead

In a place brimming with life

My environment's abundance diffuses into me

I feel, for a moment

The sky loses color

Swamp smells ferment

Mosquitoes whine --flatten them

My heart falters again -- forget it

Fog glides in, kisses the marsh goodnight. 

It’s the point in the semester where we’re smothered by mountains of homework so dense that even creating a to-do list seems insurmountable. My bedroom currently resembles the aftermath of a Laundromat tornado; this is a direct result of my life being thrust into modes: writing papers and (regrettably brief) intermissions from writing those papers. And, those intermissions typically encompass activities like making leaf scarecrows, canning elderberry jelly, or jamming out – not laundry. 

An afternoon well-spent...

I hit this state of homework suffocation about two weeks ago; ever since, I’ve been dreaming of release from routine. Those dreams have become less nebulous as fall break draws closer. There’s so much to anticipate – an escape from campus dining; new adventures with old friends; sleeping in…

All I know is that in less than four days, the Dirty Dasher, some friends, and a bunch of outdoor gear will be driving north towards the Quebec border. Our plan is only to recapture the revelry and liberation that Break encourages: Uninhibition! Vivacity! Spontaneity! These values in my life have come dangerously near to falling by the wayside this semester as I struggle (and mostly fail) to keep up with work. I can’t wait to do my life justice again, even if only for a long weekend.

Parc National de la Jacques Cartier

Although our ideal vacations come in different flavors (mine is decidedly Poutine), they all provide the same nourishment: release from routine; release from societal demands; release from others’ expectations of us. However, it takes intentionality to prevent vacation from becoming simply another permutation of stress – the stress that comes from painstakingly documenting every moment and memory on social media.The following link is a collection showing our reluctance to relinquish our smart phones, even when in the presence of others! 

http://www.boredpanda.com/the-death-of-conversation/

Our fetters to social media have the capacity to compromise the very escape we crave in our vacation experience. One of my first weekends back at Unity, we went adventuring at Cadillac Mountain. As we reached the summit, I was dismayed to see how many people were seeing the scenery through the screen of an iPad or iPhone -- and not putting the devices down to experience it raw. It’s tempting to force an experience into preservation as a perfect memory – a memory whose perfection is blatant to all who follow our social media feeds. This obsession detracts from the spontaneity and relaxation we crave.

the iPad brigade?

Why is vacation so essential to our beings? Because as humans in ever-intensifying worlds, we’re learning that money and status doesn’t equate to internal satisfaction and peace. National Geographic defines the purpose of vacation by saying that “time off is medicine”, and the International Business Times goes so far as to say that “breaks from everyday life have shown to be profoundly healing to our physiological and physical selves”. Money and status are qualities hinged on the opinions of others, not how you feel about yourself. To reach a deeper level of satisfaction in life, you must take some time to remove yourself from the demands and appraisal of others, and this includes making a conscious effort to sever from the constant ego feed that is social media.

Whoooo narcissism fix!

When I went to Hawaii in 2013, it was the first time I'd seen my family in seven months -- and also the first time that I'd had access to social media for seven months. I found it extremely stressful to try and document/post/share everything on social media. So stressful that when we hiked the Na Pali Trail for two days, I was relieved to be forced away from the social media and concentrate on what was most important -- quality time with my family.  

           

Kalalau Trail, Kaua'i -- ironically my sister's facebook cover photo

Why are we so infatuated with social media? Because we’re attention whores. Many of us—myself included—use social media as means of exhibitionism. With each mark of affirmation – shares, likes, comments on our content– from other users, the part of us craving instant gratification and rewards is fed. When that constant feed is severed, we get bored. And, boredom breeds unhappiness.

The more things pulling at our attention, the less capacity we have to meaningfully engage in each activity. We become more disconnected, bored, and unhappy, yet we keep logging on to social media and falling victim to its addictiveness. We're missing out on life, because of our ties to social media. This video is a poignant reminder of this: 

 How many of us do actually use social media during our vacations? According to ragan.com, 74% of social media users stay active on it during vacations; their reasons include “staying connected so they don’t miss out” and even the less-benign “making friends jealous with travel updates” as for why they don’t disconnect and enjoy the full, in-the-moment potential of their vacation.

 But although social media feels good to the part of us that constantly craves validation and approval from outside sources, unplugging is vital. Huffington Post says that the more time you spend disconnected from social media, the better your mood, relationships, and overall health.

  Don’t vacations emphasize escape and relaxation? It’s unnecessary to constantly be productive or measure ourselves to other peoples’ standards and expectations at every moment. Although we live in a world that tells us the off switch has ceased to exist, it does. We just have to be intentional about turning – and keeping – it off to get the most out of our breaks. I am a firm believer that more can be gotten from vacation if we unfasten our chains to Social Media. When I go to Quebec this weekend I will be leaving my phone and computer behind, and focusing only on making memories without the aid of social media. I challenge every fall-breaker who reads this to consider doing the same. 

de nouveaux horizons

When the Perseids streak overhead, when the white mayfly hatch is manna to hungry trout and nighthawks, when the bonfires toast not only marshmallows but our chilly bodies, summer wanes. Like the warblers and thrushes winging south under a starry ceiling, my own thirst for travel becomes more desperate. I love movement, hate stagnation. New places, new things, new people, new experiences... a chance to wander and wonder.  

It's late summer again. My truck is packed, canoe on top. I fold the hammock my sister and I shared last night. (Per usual, she had a bad spider dream and socked me in the face.) The Highlander, loaded with those I love, rolls away from the campsite where I still stand, shifting my own gears. My summer of indulgence is over; I've kissed my flings goodbye. The new bite in the morning air tastes like trepidation and change. 

Trepidation (my quarter-tank of gas), change (where English existed before, a wall of noise now), and frustration. It's 0700, two days, many hills and rivers, and thankfully no moose collisions past Grayling. I stand barefoot and disheveled on the concrete at a Quebec City gas station. I can decipher some of the words on the screen, none of the words buzzing from the speaker above my head. "I can't speak French", I offer; another volley of French descends from the speaker in response. I retort with a few choice words in English, then some more in Palawano for good measure, and then leave, painfully aware of my quarter-tank. 

I love and hate Quebec. Love its scenery and ample opportunity for feasting on the outdoors. Hate that I understand very little of the going-ons, hate that I can't comprehend (or speak). I gave myself a full day off to explore the province, but the language barrier rendered explorations intimidating. Could I winnow one last adventure from summer? I stopped at a tourist information center to find out. The to catch my eye was in English. More importantly, it informed me that there was a FJORD with BELUGA WHALES about two hours away. 

I did some quick calculations. I had three hours of daylight left; the jaunt would add about four hours on to my already long journey. But, I applied my "cave to impulse" principle that's defined the summer, justifying my decision by the knowledge that I wouldn't be this close to beluga whales again for a long time. 

So, I pushed the Dirty Dasher to her limit. We flew down the hills, toiled back up. I was on an adventure of a magnitude I hadn't planned on, driving too fast through beautiful mountains and river valleys. The Black Keys were screaming on the radio, the wind was in my hair, and as we crested another hill and dropped down into the valley, I had to megbansag -- a Palawano yell that's a means of releasing the joy inside your soul so you don't explode. In that moment, summer was touching again, and I felt orgasmically alive, unburdened from responsibility.

I rolled into a parking spot at Parc national du Fjord-du-Saguenay, with less than an hour of light to spare. I found the path leading me to Halte du Beluga. The sign informed me it was a 3km walk -- screw that; I made it a 3km run. As I chased down the trail, grasping at summer for a few more unbridled moments, desperation wore at me. "What if the tides are wrong?" "What if they're not here anymore?" "What if the time of year is not right?" As I reached the observation deck, I stopped short. In the fjord under me, the Belugas cavorted and sang and porpoised and I was overwhelmed by the beauty of it all. Until a few hours prior, I hadn't even known that Belugas were found this far south, and I dug everything element of the evening. I lingered in the sunset, surrounded by magnificent cliffs and Beluga Whale huffing... In that surreal moment, summer had been revived for a proper burial, a fitting bookend. 

River Race

Dusk cloaks the river and its banks. 

Any minute now, the first paddlers will blow around the bend. 

We're poised -- straining -- for their approach. 

Mayflies spiral through the air toward our lights. 

They ricochet off my face. 

Listen -- a faint, excited roar crescendoes upstream. 

THEY'RE COMING!

Pistoning paddles hurl fireworks of spray

A canoe shadow barrels downstream

Our landing erupts into a yell medley:

"YEAAAAUUHHHH! GET IT! LOOKING GOOD! PUSHHHHHH IT!"

Cacophonous yet not discordant. 

They launch into every stroke

Milking the river in unison for all it can deliver

Leaving a trail of fading "hups" they tear into the night

Their wake slops over the bottom step

This year I cheer; next year I paddle. 

This year I shudder with desire

Next year I shudder with exhaustion

We get into the car, chase them downstream

Chasing the paddlers, chasing a dream

Mayfly Moon

Before my words run rogue as I attempt to present the magic of river therapy, I need to place the family I met at CCC bridge in the spotlight. Prior to our run-in, I’d sacrificed my only pen to the river gods while attempting to simultaneously jot thoughts, eat an apple, and steer my canoe. You counteracted this tragedy by giving me various writing implements. I can confidently say this piece would have been impossible without your generosity. It was fun meeting you; may you continue to foster your boys’ exuberant enjoyment of nature!

Sunday morning, I woke up victim to a relentless urge to go canoeing. This summer has been epitomized by my tendency to cave to impulse. I’m learning that, to keep my regrets at a minimum, I need to follow – not curb – such whims. Craving liberation from routine and society’s demands, I fled to the river. I needed to eat when I was hungry, sleep when I was tired, jump in the river when I was hot. I needed to be unbridled from my phone, time, from structure. I longed only to read the river by day and Sig Olson by night.

The potential for challenge coupled with pain to fuel this impulse. Entwined in Jack Pine country lies a long string of memories, and many of the beads – too many – were molded with my iba. Not long ago, we were two kids on a perpetual adventure. Then, one of us grew up too fast, the adventure terminated, and now there's one kid on an adventure -- an adventure haunted by old rememberings. Each memory bead hurts, and frankly, I’m tired of reliving them. This summer, I’ve been revisiting our old spots to rewrite those memories. The Manistee – the river where we floated four days without a fight – represented my last place to hold a memory exorcism.

So, mere hours after the temptation's arrival, I determined to live out this whim. I packed his letters – figured that I’d burn them to keep me warm, since he’s not here to do that anymore. Therefore, snubbing rationality, I muscled Lena, my trusty solo canoe, through the stump prairies of Deward. I shook off the deer flies – and the misgivings – and slipped her into the clear, cedar-bound Manistee headwaters. Shit, I’d just committed to this adventure.

I jolted a couple hours (and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups) downstream from my put-in. It wasn’t a log, but a realization: I’d inadvertently embarked on my first solo expedition. Sigi lang. Ordinarily, I would’ve welcomed a companion, but this time, I wanted to be alone with my reminiscings. Besides – this adventure was so ill-planned that I doubt anyone would’ve been crazy enough to join me. Every thrust of the paddle propelled me further into my quest, and I dug the familiar sights and sounds. Squadrons of Ebony Jewelwings hovered over the water; kingfishers rattled at my approach.

The bends unfolded behind me as I kept stroking downstream. Flute melodies wrought by White-throated Sparrows emerged from the bog. I knew as the light faded, the river would become less familiar, but as the shadows grew, my excitement was infused again: since the first time I knelt in Lena, I’ve lusted to paddle her under the full moon. Tonight, that dream would be fulfilled.

As the sun sank even lower, my soft hands began their protest; it’d been far too long since they’d gripped a rough paddle. My heart soared with wild Winter Wren bubbling from the darkening thickets. I love Winter Wrens; I’ve long held that if I hear one and fail to smile, it’s time to seek professional help. Tonight, I was definitely smiling – and not just because the deer fly wars were finally reaching ceasefire for the day.

It’s hard not to smile when I’m in the canoe – having a paddle in hand is such a primal feeling, and I’ve always felt at home in Lena. She's such a responsive craft -- all it takes is a slight lean or shifting of my weight, and she’ll follow my lead. I needed to devour some distance before I lost the sun, so I stretched forward, coaxing Lena towards my paddle as we flew through the maze of cedar sweepers. Lena leaped forward in response to my strain, and so did my heart as the river dropped towards Lake Michigan.

Evening was well underway, but the hatch was just starting. The river seemed to take flight as mayflies of all shapes, sizes, and colors materialized from the surface.  The mayflies are celebrating their simple lives that consist of fluttering, fucking, and feeding the hungry trout that explode from the river in their pursuit. The trout celebrate the abundance of food, and the fly fishermen are celebrating the trout. As I approach many a bend, the sigh of a line and the aroma of cherry tobacco alert me to the anglers’ presence. These men love the river like I do; they stand in the cold current swooping past their knees, plying the fly as they flirt with their quarry. Like me, they fish not only for the electrifying feeling of their line attaching to something live, but for a setting conducive to long, uninterrupted thinking.

Inspired by the mayflies, I celebrate my simple life too. Right now, I can’t think – I’m just absorbing and feeling the night, for to think would ruin this moment. As the light wanes, delicious trepidation greets me at each dark bend where I strain to see renegade ripples. I get high on the rush of pinpointing the obstacles before they can reach out to take a toll of canoe paint – or, worse, flip me. Like the bats sweeping the surface, I use echolocation to dodge danger in my path as my eyes become useless in the dusk. Funny – I never noticed how the river gurgles as it circumvents the hurdles. I feel the rush of nighthawk wings, hear the Whip-poor-will chant in the distance. The aroma of swamp, cedar, and basswood intensify as the fog cloaks the evening.

Finally, the moon quivers above the horizon. I feel wild and uninhibited, like every other creature reveling in its gleam. The night chorus swells and my heart joins it – Ovenbirds sing under the light, coyotes carouse to my north. The water shimmers; a headlamp is extraneous and the woods are illuminated. It seems sacrilegious to paddle, so I just float under – and through – the stars, suspended in the reflection of the night sky. Under the full moon life is all adventure. Sure, I don’t understand why the moon makes everything crazy, but I don’t need to.

I play hide-and-seek with the moon in the river bends all the way to CCC camp (which divulged its presence with the lingering smell of S’mores and bonfires). I was so exhausted that I dragged my canoe up the bank, overturned it, crawled under, and crashed. My muscles were shaking and it felt glorious, like my body was finally meeting its potential. The night could not have been more perfect.

I write this 36 paddling hours and 110 river miles later. My hands are sore and chafed, I have a pretty gnarly sunburn, and I’m in desperate need of a masseuse. But, my heart is rejuvenated. Remembering the moon brings chills. All the animals were playing and the birds were singing in the night and I was a part of it. Like the animals, I forgot the seriousness of living. The wonder of that moves me almost to tears. 

My memory eradication mission seems almost an afterthought now; the healing abandon elicited by the full moon outshines the journey's resentful beginnings. I put the empty promises and flattery to good use cooking a trout, but I didn't need them -- or him -- to keep me warm. My last night out, I had the good fortune of passing a flask with some new angler friends and that good cinnamon whiskey sufficed quite well. 

Jack Pine Warbler

The breeze played the antagonist in the Jack Pine barrens west of Grayling this morning -- the Kirtland's muttered from the lower branches, reluctant to leave his shelter from the gusts and the gallery of hungry eyes and lenses. July 2nd, but it might as well be September; this breeze carries blackbird flocks, and unprecedented chill, and change. Tour season is running out. If you're going to come on one of my tours, EVER, you have three shots left (less if, like expected, I meet my demise biking home on M-72). This is my third -- and FINAL -- year of being the K-Dubs bouncer. Every year, I pledge to never return, but Grayling keeps cajoling me... 

The heartland of Kirtland's Warblers, Grayling, is the archetypical northern Michigan town: conceived during the logging boom, christened after an organism exterminated because of the logging boom, and today sustained by affluent tourists with an appetite for the outdoors. It's the kind of place where the locals are hospitable, the type who will pick you up when you're hitchhiking, offer you a donut and a beer, then pop a cold one themselves while they're driving down the road. It's a town where going to the bar in your waders is perfectly acceptable. 

Even though its namesake grayling are long gone, the area is a mecca for another unique animal: Kirtland's Warblers. Grayling is one of two places offering tours into the Kirtland's nesting habitat, so birdwatchers from all over the world are drawn to the town for a summer pilgrimage into the Jack Pines. It's the Kirtland's Warbler that's brought me to Grayling for the last three years, too -- as Michigan Audubon's tour leader, I provide a gateway for those interested to connect with the K-Dubs.

Every morning, I introduce myself to the eager assembly by stating, "I know why you're here: you want to see a Kirtland's Warbler. That's why I'm here, too -- so I can show you one." My minions come from all over the world with one goal: to connect with this slate-and-lemon meringue songster. My duty is unchanging: Rain or snow, sinus infection or hangover, black flies or gale-force wind -- just deliver their damn warbler, preferably unobstructed by twigs, in perfect lighting, and somewhere closer than halfway across the clearing.  

Before we leave for the tour site, I ask if there are any questions. There are, and they're always the same. 

"Will we see one?" 

"I'll be out there until you either see the bird or you get tired of looking for it."

"What do you do with the cowbirds?"

"We relocate them." (Unless they press, I don't specify that the relocation is permanent and subterranean) 

"Can we come out by ourselves and look for them later?"

"Nope. Please don't, because it's not fun for me and it's even less fun for you when I find you out here without authorization!"

I wish they'd ask me if they can take me to Dawson's for a milkshake later, but they never do. 

--------

This morning, as my group paced like tortured border collies between two male warblers that refused to show, I waited patiently next to a pin cherry. They were chasing their phantoms while I chased mine. But, their target had feathers. Mine -- memories. 

I was wearing one of my favorite shirts: slate blue with bold yellow lettering, inspired by the colors displayed by the very species I slave for. It boasts, "Cowbird Assassin: Saving the Kirtland's Warbler one Brown-headed Cowbird at a time." When our field crew placed the order, the boss man abstained, deeming the design unprofessional. Therefore, I wear it proudly -- it's really useful for when people ask me what we do to the cowbirds -- I can just turn around. 

I'm sure my boss deemed me unprofessional, too, and that judgment isn't unfair. When I took this job for the first time in 2011, it was my first "grown-up" job and although I was old enough to drive the work vehicle, I was young enough to be kicked out of Spike's at 9PM sharp.  The things I needed to learn abounded: how to use the government credit card; how to tactfully tell someone they were a law-breaking asshole; how to stay up until 2 A.M. yet maintain a cheerful countenance when I clocked in at 6:30 the next morning. It was the summer I learned how to work -- and to play -- like an adult. 

2012 was full of memories that I'm dousing and bridges ablaze. 

And now, here we are, at the end of the 2014 season... 

I've spent endless hours in a plantation of Charlie Brown Christmas trees helping thousands of people get their first glimpse of a Kirtland's Warbler. I've assassinated hundreds of Brown-headed Cowbirds -- and eaten one. (For the record, it tastes like chicken.) I've been the recipient of far too many black fly hickeys. I've driven countless caravans to the tour site -- and only lost a vehicle once. The video I show before we head out is embedded permanently into my brain, and I even dreamed that I was a Kirtland's Warbler once this summer. 

But, lest anyone think I'm jaded about my job, I'm not. Most days, I can hardly believe that I'm getting paid to amble down a sandy two-track through pungent sweet fern. My favorite mornings are those that start foggy, and the group is enveloped in ethereal Hermit Thrush melody. I stand there barefoot in the springy lichen, waiting for the fog to lift. When it does, everything explodes into song. Joy exudes from the group as they relish a particularly obliging warbler. He unleashes his song again and again, his body trembling like my own heart as I watch him. I know what I do is helping his species, that I am making a difference. I've grown to love this bird more fiercely than I love my solo canoe or curried jackfruit. And that's a pretty big statement.