Owning It

I’m on a roll. Having faced certain truths and accepted that the limits of my physical abilities no longer encompass tens of thousands of stone steps, I’m letting go of more outdated images from the past.

Another nostalgic pipe dream I had for retirement was also based on the image in that forty-two-year-old self photo (see my last post). I was thinking I could get back to that weight and cohesiveness of flesh. Despite efforts - I tried - I really, sort of, tried - that hasn’t happened. And isn’t going to happen. Instead I find myself, for the first time ever, accepting and owning the excess. Or at least some of it.

I let go of self-consciousness and wore a sleeveless blouse, which I haven’t done in several years. No one even noticed, of course. I didn’t catch anyone starting disapprovingly at my crepey underarms.  Not even me.

Growing up labeled a “big girl” puts down deep roots. Now, I’m digging them up, tossing them out and just accepting what is. Perhaps some of the recent press on and advocacy by fat girls has bolstered my shift. For example, check out local rad girl, The Militant Baker. However, those images are limiting – it’s always young women. With zaftig flesh, yes - but its firm, smooth - young  - flesh. I see the pictures and think: talk to me in four decades girlfriends, when gravity and time have worked their magic. That will call for a whole new support group.

On the other hand, there’s the photo-retouch-plastic-surgery-industrial-complex that creates impossible images to emulate.  I thought once I got older, I’d be free of that. But no, here we have Helen Mirren in her skimpy two piece bathing suit, Jane Fonda all sleek, Susan Sarandon's unrestrained boobs,  and Diane Keaton (skinny bitch!). There is no end to the images of the ideal. I just had to stop looking.

I still notice the number of products it takes to keep it all going though. I remember thinking when I was in my twenties, when I had not-much money and smooth skin and wore little make up: Who would pay $40 for under eye cream? Uh, your future self, sweetie. I’m not letting go of that hedge against deteriorating aesthetics.

Just as I’m not going to start sitting in cafes because I no longer will be doing tens of thousands of stone steps, I’m not giving up. I‘m still going to wage battle with gravity and time, but in a more aikido kind of way. With love and acceptance of what is no longer possible. And know that just as I look back on photos from decades ago and think “hey, you looked pretty good despite what you were thinking at the time”, I’m going to look back on photos from now and think the same thing.

Certain Realities Must Be Faced

After my trip to Nepal, it took me over two weeks to get back to normal sleep patterns and energy level. It wasn’t just the jet lag, which was formidable. It was 17 days of not-normal sleeping and the physical demands of eight days of trekking up and down tens of thousands of hand-hewn stone steps.

I’m caught up with myself now and back to the day-to-day. And realizing that the trek defined what my physical limits are now. Made me face some realities.

Many months before I went, I put a picture of myself on the refrigerator for inspiration.  Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I thought maybe I could be that woman again. As though looking at that photo and a little increase in my exercise routine would prepare me. My knees knew otherwise.

 

It was the early 90's. I was 42 and in great shape.  I’m standing on the side of a road where we had stopped for some reason, out in the middle of nowhere in Mexico. We were there primarily to climb Popocatepetl, Iztaccihuatl and Pico de Orizaba. They are all fairly non-technical climbs, which means walking zigzag up snowfields with crampons on your boots for traction and an ice axe for stability and to catch yourself if you fall and start sliding.  Beginner mountains. 

The “we” being my recently no-longer-boyfriend and his friend. Both almost a decade younger than me. I was big into bravado in those days. Probably still am - or was until now. My claim to fame – crouching behind a rock on the lip of Popocatepetl to change a tampon while looking down into the steaming caldera.  Booyah!  

I did some more mountaineering in the years after that. Even then it would take a bit to recover from the physical demands and depletion. So I’m not sure what I was thinking when I signed up for the trek. That, like then, I’d get out there and after a day or so I’d be adjusted to the demands? That I could recreate that level of fitness before I went? That didn’t happen. And it’s not going to happen.

Which is not to say I’m not going to keep doing as much as I can as long as I can. I’ve always thought that I can sit in foreign cafes when I’m old. Although my knees still hurt, I’m not there yet. I am here now.  At a point of realization. Of acceptance. I’m admitting that I need to rein it in a bit. Take it a little easier on the relentless ascent and decent.

I can look at that picture from 20 years ago with love instead of longing and think – it truly was, and still is, all good.  Even if I need a regular dose of Ibuprofen at the moment.

 

Fun With Avalanches

If there is such a thing, I had it.

On Monday,  the mid-point of our trek, we were supposed to reach Annapurna Base Camp (ABC)  (13,500 feet) which would have put us right at the base of the Annapurnas. We never got there. 

While hiking on Saturday it got a bit rainy and foggy as we got higher. We stayed that night, as planned, at Deurali (10,500 ft.)

   

  

When my roommate and I woke up at about three in the morning, which wasn’t unusual, and she when came back into our little room from her trip to the loo, I asked “Is it still raining?” Answer: “No. But it’s snowing”.  Yikes. We weren’t expecting that. So much for going back to sleep. We huddled in our sleeping bags hoping for the best. However,  as we emerged into the weak morning light, there were about three inches of snow on the ground and it was slowly still coming down. It must have been about 30 degrees, so it was that big, wet-flaked stuff. Unseasonable snow fall.

It was still coming down after breakfast.  Half rain. Half snow. As we took off for Machapuchare Base Camp (MBC), our next destination, none of us said anything even though we were all wondering what we were in for.  At that point I knew that reaching ABC the next day was in question because, if nothing else, if this kept up, we wouldn’t see anything. But in big mountains, you never know what is going to happen. Weather can change very quickly. So, we just … went. Following our experienced and enthusiastic guides. Up another 1600+ feet. More stone steps and muddy, rooty, rocky trail.

Hours later, when the buildings at MBC (12,140 feet) appeared from the behind the curtain of falling snow and clouds, there was more snow on the ground.  

 Arriving at MBC

When we woke up the next day - “summit “day - there was more snow. And it was still coming down. And was predicted to continue for three days. 

What we woke up to at MBC

We ate breakfast wondering what the plan was going to be. Stay here an extra day, people had been stuck at MBC before? Go down in poor visibility and conditions? The thing is, the trek crosses one small and one large avalanche chute. Spring, when things freeze at night and then thaw in the day time, is prime avalanche time.  That morning we could hear small avalanches happening at a distance, higher up. Like every 15 minutes. A rumbley rocky thundery sound. Yet I’m thinking: We’re fine. We have food, shelter, warmth (well, Himalayan-style warmth), competent guides, as well as contact with the outside world – there was Wi-Fi (what a world). Plus DK (our lead guide) carried a satellite phone. We were never out of contact with Active Adventures HQ.

Eventually DK tells us that we we're not going to ABC  - “too risky”. We’re going down – and that if it looks too dangerous when we get to the avalanche area, we’d come back to MBC. So we start out. The porters hiked with us, instead of bounding ahead as they usually did, for their safety and ours, and we all stuck together more closely. I felt calm and in-the-moment. I’d been in avalanche conditions before when I did some mountaineering in the early 90’s and I know that knowledgeable people can look at conditions and take a decent read on the risks. Gokul, our Nepalese guide, had been through that corridor dozens of times, including in snow conditions. I trusted his judgment.  I knew that he and DK wouldn’t be taking unnecessary risks.  So it was fun, despite the fact that it was very slip-slidey-slushy and everyone took at least one plop in the snow and me once in the mud.

As we’re hiking we can see small, brief avalanches happening at a distance, high up and on the other side of the ravine. Think of long, narrow waterfalls you have seen - it was like that - only it was snow. It didn’t feel threatening. Just surreal. Other-worldly. Indeed the guides and the porters all said they had never experienced avalanches happening so often. I have no pictures to show you. We were all focused on the conditions and maintaining our footing.

To add to the drama, as we’re about 15 minutes or so away from the main avalanche chute, other, faster hikers coming up from behind us (they must have left MBC a bit after we did) tell DK that there is a woman by herself struggling on the trail a ways back. I guess he looked like someone who could help because, of course, he was. The code of the mountains and guides being what it is, he goes back to check. The rest of us keep going. We get to the avalanche chute. Gokul and the porters are talking back and forth – in Nepalese, so we don’t understand a word. We get the signal that it’s a go. Standard procedure is to walk as briskly, but safely, as possible and not stop. That’s what we did. One does not dally in an avalanche chute.

All safely across, we go a bit more till we’re out of the avalanche area. Still no DK.

As we’re taking a break, DK emerges out of the fog, holding the hand of a Japanese woman who seemed dazed. She had become separated from her hiking companion, a major no-no, even under good conditions. And she was totally ill-equipped to be out there – her shoes were so slippery she had been sliding along the trail on her butt. DK had her put her socks on the outside of her shoes for some traction. See, experienced guides know these things. He said she could have so easily slipped over the edge. He pulled out some chocolate from his pack just as we all needed a boost and she hiked on with us.

As we were moving on, the most spectacular avalanche across the ravine stopped us all. We were spell-bound watching it.  It was coming over the top of a small high saddle and looked like a liquid snow fall. There are high lakes on the other side, so it could have been a combo of water, ice, and snow breaking through. I’ve never seen anything like it. We all just stood there mesmerized. It went on for so long we just had to move on.

As we moved lower and reached the tea house for our morning break, I wondered whether the rescued hiker realized that she could have died that day. By contrast, we had experienced something truly unique and exhilarating.  We were fully alive and engaged for a fleeting magical morning.

                                                   

Himalayan Freak-out

I went to Nepal with a New Zealand company with which I had done trips before:  Active Adventures. There were six of us in my group, plus two guides – one Kiwi/Maori and one Nepalese (and four porters – who were always well ahead of us, despite their loads).

Some of us were more fit than others. Some of us were younger than others. I was an other, not an us, on both accounts.  The  first day of the trek was a little rough for me. My primary thought: I should have taken training for this a lot more seriously. The terrain was mostly steep up and steep down (and then up and down again) on hand-hewed stone steps (uneven surfaces, uneven heights – I’m guessing over 100,000 of them all told) or on rocky, root-strewn forest trail.

It was humid at the lower elevations and I’m not used to that. So the strenuous first-day uphills meant lots of sweating. After half a day of this, we had to rather quickly step up out of the way of a donkey train (the method for moving goods at the lower the elevations). As I stepped up off the track to let them pass, I got an intense charley-horse in both of my hip flexors, from knee to groin. The definition of OWWWWW. I had to consciously relax them. The muscle cramps subsided soon enough and I moved on (one guide took my day-pack, which helped). I had experienced this once before, years ago after a strenuous hike without enough water, so I knew it was continuous use coupled with a bit of dehydration from all that sweating.

That evening, after arrival at our tea house, settling in a bit and downing an electrolyte packet and lots of water, I had to watch how I moved so as not to set off the charley-horses again. Worrisome, but so far so good. But as I lay in my sleeping bag after dinner, ready for sleep, I start to shiver – although I wasn’t cold.  My mind raced – “What was I thinking? Can I do this? Maybe I should turn around.” And I couldn’t stop – till I realized that the shivering was probably a physical manifestation of anxiety and I had to consciously corral my thoughts and attitude or I’d be quaking all night. So I switched to deep breaths and:  “I’ll make it to Chhomrong (which was an actual small village more on the main track and our next destination) and then I can go back down if I have to. In the morning, I’ll talk to DK (our competent, patient and experienced guide). We’ll figure out options. It will be alright. I will be alright. It. Will. Be. Alright.” And it was. I calmed down and when I woke up I was fine. Physically and emotionally.

Although the relentless up and down and stone steps never stopped … neither did I. It never got easy, but I gradually got into the rhythm of hiking six or so hours a day - about 2 hours at a time (we stopped for morning tea breaks and for lunch): Breath deep (especially as elevation increases), drink water, keep moving forward … slow but steady. It is cliché to say, but now I know what Lance Armstrong meant when he said: It’s not about the bike. Now I see: It’s about the psych. I’ve never experienced that so poignantly. THAT will stick with me. As will the melodic sound of the donkey trains. And I have a (hopefully temporary) aversion to stairs.

Time Warped

It is 6 p.m. on the clock in my kitchen. I need the clock to orient me, although it is just a number - it doesn’t feel like anything. It is out of context as I slowly emerge from my longest journey so far - almost 40 hours of travel, including one 16 hour flight. I left my hotel in Kathmandu at 8 p.m. on Sunday night and arrived at my house at 10:30 p.m. Monday night. Nepal is 12.45 hours later than Tucson (yes, they use a quarter-hour difference; no, I don’t know why). I lost track of time, day/night, breakfast/lunch/dinner somewhere over the Arabian Sea when I awoke from my first of many “naps”. I didn’t even try to keep up - I just reset my watch each time I landed. I practiced “be here now” - ate when there was food, slept when I was tired, watched movies, and read. Not bad really.

Wading through the return time warp is different this time. First, my luggage is still on its way back from Houston, so I’m not engaging in the usual unwinding of all that prep and packing as things get washed and put back in their usual places. (All went well in the developing world, where we assume there will be problems. The Kathmandu airport was hot and crowded and chaotic but they managed to get my luggage tagged and on my plane just fine. Here, in the developed world, we have all kinds of computerize systems on which people depend.   Things can look ordered, but there is chaos - like three different places to drop off your baggage after clearing customs and misinformation from people not really paying attention. Welcome home!)

More importantly though, wading through the time-warp is different because when I was working there was a need to get “caught up” - to get “back to it”. Now, there is no back to an it, there is only forward. I can let this re-entry unfold at its own pace.  Integrate the experience in a new way. At some point I’ll catch up with myself and the time zone and be able to process it all. And see how it will shape what forward means. Time will tell.

Stripping

No, I haven’t taken up some geriatric version of burlesque. Rather I’m talking about what comes next, after cultivating boredom (see Dare to Be Bored, Feb 2013), namely: stripping away of expectations.

In preparing for my trekking trip to Nepal, I’ve found myself on the excitement/anxiety edge. While I have some sense of what it will be like, the trip is so different from those I have taken in the past (which was the point) that I don’t know what to expect, really. That had me on the edge. But as it gets closer, and all the little details are taken care of, I am anticipating the unfolding. The revelation of the unknowns. Gradually sitting deeper into the moment…becoming more “present” with the experience. I want to make that way of seeing – that way of being - part of me and bring it back. If I can, that will be my most valuable souvenir. If I need some guidance, perhaps one of these Hindu holy men will have some insights:

For now, I’m noticing how good home can feel when you are about to leave it.

Looking for Lessons

I haven’t written in a bit because I have been distracted and a little anxious. In February I wrote about seeing more clearly in the figurative sense (Post: I Can See Clearly Now) and the consequences of that. Now I literally cannot see clearly. I’ll spare you the details, but the vision in my right eye is blurry, so everything is a little off. I can’t tell if having this kind of thing happened now that I am retired is better (I don’t have to be reading emails all day in order to get my work done  - and there’s more time to run around to appointments and to get meds) or worse (more time to dwell … worry about what is going on and feel the frustration of navigating doctor office gate-keepers who aren’t listening and cause days of delay as my vision gets worse).

I’m not one to think that everything happens for a reason. I’ve seen some pretty random stuff – good and bad - happen for no discernible reason – to people who did, and people who did not, “deserve it”. Yet I do like to explore whether there is something to be learned or experienced from an altering of things as they were, to something else. An opportunity to see things differently (in this case, literally).   In that I am not cultivating a new career as an impressionist painter, I haven’t come up with anything for this yet. Blurry vision has not enhanced my worldview.

At its simplest, it has been a lesson in dealing with anxiety: think positive – “it’s something that can be dealt with” (which, it turns out, it is) – rather than negative -  “I’m going blind”  - and dealing with frustration: be patient with people who are not entirely competent, or more likely, working in ineffective systems. I failed both these lessons in the past few days. And I kinda don’t care. There is probably a lesson in that too. If only I could see it.

P.S.: Just as I was putting final touches on this and about to post, a friend posted a poem about Dukkha  a Buddhist term, and the first of the Four Noble Truths,  commonly translated as "suffering", "stress", "anxiety", or "dissatisfaction". I think there is a lesson in there somewhere. I’ll have to look for it.

P.P.S (about 5 days later): I think the lesson revealed itself: Admit that I might actually need some help. Ask for help. And the help will appear.

Animal Husbandry

Another thing I thought I would do at some point after I retired was get a dog.  Up until 2004, when my last dog went to doggy heaven, I always had a dog - and a cat.  My last two dogs were wonderful companions and lived to be 12 years old. I fed them basic dog food, trained them to  sit, stay and come (sort of). Gave them their shots and brushed their teeth myself.  Took them backpacking and hiking with me.  And attended to emergencies (like when one of them got too intimate with a huge bull while we were hiking and ended up with a 3” by 3” skin-flap-wound right through to the muscle. Fun times.) But that was pretty much it.

Now there are so many expectations to dog ownership. (Note I didn't say “parenthood”. I just can't go there. Those of you who see that differently, please do not report me to the ASPCA.)  Now you practically have to put them on a list to get them into a good doggy preschool and, as a recently-viewed pet food commercial opined: attend to their needs - physical, emotion, social (and one other need I can’t remember  - maybe spiritual - we’re not far from that folks). Although I did refer to my dogs as Canine-Americans, I just can’t live up to current expectations.  Plus, and probably most important, I don't know how much traveling I'm going to be doing as an ongoing thing, so the timing is just not right.

So I'm thinking about these things when I see a little ad about a desert tortoise adoption program. Eureka! I think. Just at my skill and commitment level, I think. When I was working, I assisted with collaboration on the recovery of the Mojave population of the desert tortoise and learned a lot about them.  I’ve run into a few out there in the natural world and marveled at their ability to survive on so little.  So I go online to check out the details. And find that there are six steps to the requirements, including numerous yard modifications -  not to mention the things you are supposed to grow for them to eat (yes, store-bought produce is inferior for these guys). I don’t put that much effort into feeding myself. And my frontscape re-do (to create habitat pleasing to me) is yet to get underway. Geeez, I think. I don't even measure up for a tortoise.

So I guess I’ll be leaving the animal husbandry to the 4H-ers for now. I wonder how long one can wait to get a pet to reap the live-longer benefits that supposedly flow from pet ownership? At some point, it is just a little too late. I’ve got awhile before I get there though. I think.

One Small Step. A Giant Leap

… into cyberspace.

I’ve been doing comparison looking (teed. e. ous) into tablets.  I want to have something to take with me when I travel so that I can keep in touch a bit and have access to information. Particularly for my upcoming trip to Nepal which will involve many, many hours on airplanes and in airports.

I have this weird bias: if it appeals to soooo many people (like McDonald’s), how good can it be? Hence, I resist. I figure I’m just paying extra for a brand name when some less expensive, off-brand would suffice. But I have several friends who are enthusiasts (and don’t eat at McDonald’s) so I included the apple’s in my research. Try as I did to avoid the i, I succumbed (to the mini).

And I can see why it is so popular – easy, easy, easy. I even synched up with my desktop. On my own. Needed fewer hints than getting through a game of spider solitaire. Of course it would probably still be sitting in the box if my visiting friend (a former engineer) hadn't gone shopping with me and then hooked up a wireless router (magic!) so I could use the thing at home.

And for many of you this may just be in the same category as this post: Revelations Probably Already Known to Others (August, 2012), but I feel as though I have crossed a new threshold.

Maybe I’ll see some of you on Facetime (although that fun-house-like camera was obviously tested by young people. It's kind of a sobering experience for us semi-oldsters).

P.S. (a couple days later): Oh. And if you hear me referring to Siri as though she is my new BFF, please stop me.

I Feel Weird

Probably a combo of too much caffeine on top of jetlag. Just got back from a five-day trip to Florida for a family wedding. First time I’ve flown since I stopped working. I used to travel every three weeks or so. Got used to it. Sort of.  Sounds more glamorous than it is. That cosmopolitan feeling wears off after about six months (although I never got tired of cool hotels in the center of hip DC neighborhoods I never could have afforded to live in).

Traveling for pleasure is a lot more … uuhhm ... pleasurable. No stress worrying about  whether your package of training materials arrived  or whether you will get in on time to get the room set up for the early morning meeting. No need to check the smartphone to keep up with emails.  It’s easier to go with the flow and just let it happen. And I was traveling with my mom who uses a wheelchair at airports because of the walking distances. What a gig.  Long security line? No problem. Go directly to the head of the line. Priority seating? Yep. First on. Royal treatment. All for a few dollars in tips. I’m surprised people don’t take advantage of this. (You didn’t hear that from me.)

And there is also the post-trip “let down” (not that I am not glad to be home). A weekend of events and socializing with family - functioning in groups - is immersive.  The tide just floats you from one thing to the next.  

I’m the oldest of 15 cousins. Quite a few of them, and their children (my second cousins – yes, I looked it up) most of them in their twenties, plus a couple little ones, were there – along with my Aunts. We don’t get together much as we are scattered across the country. It was really good to spend time and to catch up on the trivial and the important. Yet not enough time one-on-one to really dive in.  Just enough to make me wish we were closer geographically. That little bittersweet taste lingers longer when not facing an onslaught of work-related things to deal with.

What is the same though, is the first-day-home feeling. It was the equivalent of 2 o’clock in the morning when we got to my house, so I still have that time-warped-weird-sleep-fuzzy brain that used to be all too familiar. Throw in no real exercise for five days and lots of eating, and you have quite the travel hangover. When I was working, I’d just go to work and stumble through. But with nothing distracting me now, I can really feel it.

Finally, this trip made real just what I got myself into with traveling to Nepal in April: four times the travel hours that this was. Yikes. I might need to adopt the work -travel mode for that trip: don’t think about it - just do it. And make sure to have spare batteries for the noise-cancelling headphones.

P.S. It's a day later and I can still feel it. Weird.