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. 

I had dreaded this moment all day, maybe all week. It was done. All of my belongings were in karuts (rice sacks); my hut & the school were locked. Said (cried?) my goodbyes. I had done in one day a process that I'd hoped to spread out over a week, and I was done.

(The hut that housed me, gargantuan spiders, snakes, a scorpion, and an immortal rat for my stay in Kensuli) 

I felt like I was betraying my the people who had become my language teachers, family, friends, angel's helpers over the last year. Here I was -- mysteriously gone in the lowlands without a peep for two weeks, and then all of a sudden HEY I'M BACK! Except...not really, because I'm leaving tomorrow for good. And oh, by the way, I need you to carry my stuff down the mountain. It's a deal, right?

I steeled myself. "Kelu' muli kay ne damen!" ("We're going home!") I said, initiating the proper leave-taking the Palawanos use. "Inunga na' ge" ("Be careful") they responded. "Enu kasala" I replied, taking a step down the steep trail. Impulsively, I turned back. "Byeeeee. I love you." Sobbing unashamedly by this point, I slid down the steep trail from Sentul for the very last time, remembering vividly how the very first time I went down this trail, Kikid (a friend's daughter) tried to show me how to walk. Apparently, I failed that class.

(Kikid teaching me how to walk on a DRY trail -- another skill I never quite mastered.) 

 
Darkness was rapidly falling on Kensuli as I met Kiley & Kasia at my hut. And, to make matters worse, we soon found that between the 3 of us, we had no shoes and 1 light -- the quickly dimming light on my cell phone, good for illuminating 6 inches in front of you. After living in the jungle for nearly a year, you'd think we'd remember crucial stuff like this. But nooo. We'd forgotten in our rush to get to Kensuli early that morning. We had strict orders demanding we sleep in Kemantiyan that night, so after a quick prayer and singing our traditional pre-walk spiritual (I want Jesus to Walk with Me), we cautiously started down the trail. Each of us was carrying at least two heavy, unbalanced packages. And it was pouring rain. I was glad for the difficulty, though -- if you're worried about sliding off the mountain or stepping barefoot on a poisonous centipede, there's really no room left in your brain to mourn.

(On a scale of 1-5, with 5 being the best, this ranks about 4.75 for Palawano trail conditions...)

Kiley was in front and Kasia in the middle. I took the back, because my feet had walked this trail hundreds of times. It was a slow process -- even though there was ample vegetation to grab, Kiley would fall...then Kasia would fall...then I'd fall. And then, the cycle would begin again. We had made it perhaps 1/3 of the distance to the bridge, when two figures with headlamps approached us. "Menungang gebi." ("Good evening") "Menunga gasi!" we responded.

It was Rimun and Dineru, two young men from Kensuli. They insisted on carrying all our belongings, and walked behind us on the trail. We protested loudly, warning them of how slow we were. We apologized profusely for the hardship that we'd caused them, but they didn't seem to care. For awhile, we laughed boisterously about our outrageous falls, discussed how painful grabbing plants in the dark can be (Kiley: "Oh, I like grabbing thorns -- more traction!"; Rimun: "Lupa* -- that's my favorite!")

*Lupa is like Palawano stinging nettle on steroids.

(unfortunately, this is the best picture I have of Rimun... it's unbelievably awkward to photograph guys who are roughly your age...) 

Then, the guys started singing Palawano hymns, and we joined with all our hearts the whole way back to Kemantiyan. Harmony and everything. It was beautiful.

They dropped our bags at the top of the hill in Kemantiyan (it would have been very embarrassing for them to be seen after dark with 3 American girls), refused payment, and were soon on their way across the river.

Although I'd embraced the difficult conditions when we'd first left Kensuli, God had an even better diversion for my aching heart! As we walked to our house in Kemantiyan, Kasia said, "I feel like crying." The truth is -- we all did. Not for sadness, but for how the guys had rescued us. Palawanos -- even believers like Rimun -- are afraid of the dark for spiritual reasons, yet they bravely helped us, boldly singing hymns down the trail to penetrate the overwhelming spiritual (and physical) darkness. Never in my life have I felt more loved and taken care of. They were our Palawano brothers; we were always safe when they were around. It was a perfect "last-time" walk out of Kensuli.

It is my hope that the Villarica's work, and the work of all past and future SMs to Kensuli will someday establish that God's light overpowers even the darkest night.

A Look into Culture

Friday's are currently my favorite day-no work, no responsibilities-just a bum day most weeks. Friday is also the day of the big lowland market in Bingbilang, so almost all of Kensuli goes down to buy rotting fish and ice candy, visit with friends from different villages, and carry the project's stuff back up. (Fuel, rice, packages from America...) Because weekdays are a jumble of teaching, maintaining my house, and satiating needy children, I've designated Friday as my unofficial "mimic-a-Palawano" day. In a nutshell, that means that I attempt to do things that they're really good at and I'm really bad at-i.e. speaking Palawano, walking without falling, and figuring out how to put a box inside of a batik and not fall out. This week, I desperately needed my Palawano day after receiving some unhappy news from The Home front. Palawanos rarely act angry or sad-nor turn down any form of food-and since these were all things I'm struggling with, I knew a day with Ruwina would do me good. Defying the imminent typhoon outside (and inside) my house, I fell asleep thinking about calf muscles and dysentery evasion and reveling that I didn't need to speak English if I didn't feel like it.

The next morning, the rain had abated, so I begun my mimic-a-Palawano day right: chasing a rat around my hut with a machete, eating plain rice with my hands (best hiking food ever!) and donning a loose skirt. Soon, Miltiyur called "Mam? Panyap ke ne?" "E'be!" I affirmed, grabbing my tadyun and hurrying outside. I soon fell into stride behind his mom, Minan Narita. Ruwina, one of my Palawano best friends took up the rear. The conditions were awful for Duralites and awful for cleats, so I opted for tiked teng (barefoot), This should give me major Palawano points, but I only made it to Niyug before my feet started protesting. It wasn't just my feet that were protesting-my whole body was reminding me how stupid it is to try to keep up with a woman legendary even by Palawano standards for her speed-seriously, this woman has calves that most male pro cyclists envy. So, I stopped to put on my cleats and instead walked with Ruwina, who is a little slower. We laughed about how slow I am, how funny I sound when I try to pronounce new Palawano words, and how my cleats made me as noisy as a water buffalo.

We made it to Bingbilang intact, and Ruwina and I skipped around the market holding hands, ignoring the annoying amorous approaches of lowland guys. (Being tall AND white, I'm apparently trophy-wife material here...) I bought ice candy for me and all the Kensuli kids that came down. Ice candy is rumored to give Americans dysentery, but I've tried it 10 times and will continue to try it until it does indeed give me dysentery! At this point, I had to temporarily abandon my Palawano-ness; I actually searched out a trash pit to deposit my wrapper, instead of just tossing it on the ground like the Palawanos do. We winnowed our poison from the various rice sacks going up the mountain--Minan:14 kilos. Miltyiur:11 kilos. Ruwina: 17 kilos. Me? 8 kilos (just for the record, I have carried 22 kilos in, but that was when I was hiking with Americans...)

We started back up. The sweat running down my back-the strain of my neck under my load-my achy legs-I love physical hardship since after living here for nearly 6 months, I've determined most Americans don't really understand the concept of labor. Soon, we sat on rocks in the stream and shared out food-boiled sweet potatoes you peel with your teeth (from Ruwina) and banana bread I made in a wok that wouldn't balance resulting in deep-fried banana bread. Ruwina liked it so much that she demanded I bring a whole rice sack of it next Friday.

Between Bingbilong and Kensuli, we did more Palawano things; like, drink water out of a rock like Moses; stop at EVERY mango tree and gorge ourselves-I think I like 2 dozen-and, of course, shower in the Tamleng River.

In America, I would probably not be friends with a 21 year old who already has 3 children, but...Ruwina is pretty awesome and has brought me more joy than anyone else in the last few weeks. Her head might only reach my belly button, but somehow our hearts have irrevocably bonded. I can't wait until market day again-or until we're in heaven, with no malaria, cancer, or language barriers to come between us. Please pray that Ruwina's faith grows as she learns more about God, and that she's strong when Satan tries to dissuade her.

Hiking in Palawan

For the last 8 months—and for the next 3 to come—I am part of a culture whose sole transportation system is composed of a network of steep, narrow, dark trails and your own two feet (AND quads and calves and lungs and balance). If you think this is the essence of simplicity, you’re blissfully misled; with the ample opportunity I’ve had to make substantial observations on the complexities of trail conditions—and even so, with each hike, I learn something new and invaluable.

Before getting into that, though, I probably elaborate on the average Palawano terrain, since my own definition of “trail” has undergone dramatic reshaping since my arrival. The most rugged American trails seem like superhighways in comparison. Anyway, 1-they’re really narrow. Imagine a trough about 6 inches wide, with colossal drop-offs on either side, and you’re on the right track. My balancing muscles are always more tired than my actual walking muscles. 2-They’re not level. You’re always sliding off one side or another; hopefully, there’s a vine or tree to catch you. 3—they’re REALLY steep. Palawanos are short, but they have this super-natural ability of covering like 40 vertical inches with each step. Obviously this talent renders switchbacks completely necessary, so…there are none. If you want to get to the top of the mountain, you do just that—walk up. STRAIGHT up, your ankle joints will flex into contortions you never dreamed possible, if it’s a true Palawano trail. 4-there is a height limit, which I indisputably exceed. Every day, I experience “Absalom moments” when vines rake my face and branches ensnare my hair.

Now that I’ve established a picture of a Palawano trail in your mind, let’s get on with the variables.

·         On footwear:

-Tiked lang (barefoot): Although my feet are Palawano tough, they’re not Palawano flexible. The dexterity of their feet defies all the things I thought I knew about kinesiology.  While it’s possible for them to slide down a mountain and nonchalantly grab rocks and roots with their toes while balancing a 50-kilo rice sack on their heads, I come from lineage that has incarcerated their feet for too many generations, and my toes, when faced with such a treacherous obstacle course are like…”kaya sewd kay”. Hence I only walk tiked lang when it’s bad weather for cleats and bad weather for Duralites.

-Cleats: Every time I lace them up, it saddens my heart—cleats are decidedly UNpalawano, and my feet always protest at the confinement. On days when the trail is like one of those moving walkway things at the airport-but a moving walkway of mud, sticks, and leaves travelling downhill at approximately 30mph—they are indispensable; without them, there’d be no hope of ever matching Palawano pace. Downsides: they are deadly on wet rocks, and if you hike in them frequently you get this delusion that you are actually learning how to hike. This delusion will prove lethal the next time you wear Duralites.

-Duralites: for the unenlightened: Duralite: flipflop = Tacoma: Civic. They’re tough little shoes that have this annoying tendency of being entirely useless unless you need to kill a snake or have the urge to play a spontaneous game of shakoy, or you need a seat. And even then, because you wear were wearing Duralites, your rump is probably so muddy anyway that this application is vestigial. When traveling downhill with Duralites, my initial impression is that I’m skiing, but without snow OR skis. And then, inevitably, the Duralitie will hit a bump, and because my feet are so narrow, they’ll keep sliding right on through the Duralitie, until by big toe hits the next bump. By then, the Duralitie is mid-shin, and my ibas are doubled over laughing.

·         On conditions.

-Dry: Although it appears benign, dry is deceivingly undesirable. First, the ground hurts more when you fall. Secondly, your cleats don’t dig in; finally agis-best likened to thousands of marble-sized rocks-accumulates, and formerly trusty footholds become dislodged. And that’s when you learn experientially of course, how hard the ground is.

-Muddy (as in aqueous): muddy is why I have a designated hiking skirt; it’s also why said skirt has metamorphosized from white to varying shades of brown. The skirt isn’t the only thing to undergo significant pigment alteration, either. Some days, I shave my calves just so that I don’t forget that I am, indeed, white.