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.