Backbone of the World

 My friend, Melanie and I planned to backpack for four days in July through the heart of Glacier National Park in the Northern part of Montana. Our plan was to follow the Continental Divide, along the Highline Trail, past Garden Wall, over Swiftcurrent Pass, and down to Waterton Lake in the Canadian part of the Waterton Glacier International Peace Park, the world’s first peace park. We envisioned ourselves crossing this imaginary boundary into Canada with only our packs on our backs. We even brought our passports. 

Backpacking in Glacier is sort of like gambling in Vegas. You need a little bit of strategy and a lot of luck. Unfortunately, for us, we had a lot more strategy and not a lot of luck. After waking up at the crack of dawn to be the first customers at the Apgar permit office, our bespeckled, pony-tail wearing ranger informed us that our intended itinerary was closed due to winter like conditions, “Unless you want to use crampons and ice axes, you’re S.O.L,” he quipped.

“What do you recommend is a good three to four day trip that has availability?” I asked. In Glacier, there is a lottery system: first come, first serve even for campsites where you have to work hard to get there. 

“There isn’t a lot open right now and you are a little late in the game,” he mused, “but, I might be able to reserve two nights; one at the foot of Glenn’s Lake and one at the head.”

We looked at the park’s map to see what he was referring to: Glenn’s Lake was in the northeastern most part of the park, paralleling the Canadian border and running along the Belly River. If the Highline Trail is the park’s heart, Glenn’s Lake is it’s right ear lobe.

“Looks great. Let’s do it,” we said in unison, not knowing where we were headed or what we were headed to. 

The drive out to the Belly River Trailhead took us out of the park and into the Blackfeet Indian Reservation. The Blackfeet were not the earliest inhabitants of the area, but they were the most dominant. They arrived around the beginning of the 18th century, taking refuge in the mountains, which they considered the "Backbone of the World." 

We returned into the park right next to the Canadian Border, and instead of taking a right into Canada, we took a left into the Belly River Trailhead parking lot. In the parking lot, we saw other people, groups of two and four, gathering their gear and making minor adjustments to their backpacks. 

“Where are you headed?” we asked. 

“We are headed to Elizabeth Lake...Crowley Lake...Mokawanis Lake…” they responded. 

In the process, we discovered that we were following the same itinerary as a couple from Florida, Chad and Jen. Chad was a wildlife biologist in the Florida Keys and a professional photographer, while Jen was a prescribed burn expert in the Everglades. 

The view from the Mokawanis River: a pretty typical view in Glacier. 

Our pony tailed ranger from the day before told us that the first day of hiking would be flat. However, an elevation change of 800 feet in the first three miles led me to believe that his definition of “flat” was different from the average American. After walking through aspen groves and wildflowers, such as Indian paintbrush, glacier lily, and fireweed, we entered the Belly River Valley. To our right was the river and to our left was Chief Mountain, a towering monolith that is sacred to the Blackfeet. Chief Mountain is one of the best examples of an event that occurred over 170 million years ago called the Lewis Overthrust. This region of rock was several miles thick and hundreds of miles long, and was thrust 50 miles east resulting in 1.5 billion years older Proterozoic rock being displaced over newer Cretaceous age rock. 

The scenery started to change as we left the valley and crossed the river along a rickety hanging bridge. The forest got denser and the possibility of running into a bear got likelier. 

My first encounter with a grizzly bear was in the Yukon Territory. I was backpacking with my high school outdoor program backpacking in Kluane National Park. The bear was 200 yards away and reared up on his hind legs. I’ve never seen something so big and so terrifying. We spread out, linked arms, and sang, “Give Peace a Chance.” The bear got the hint that we were human, that we meant no harm, and that we were terrible singers. He sauntered away in pursuit of more tastier treats. 

“Mel, bear.” I calmly said. She froze in her tracks, glancing to her right, making eye contact with the bear. This is the first thing rangers say not to do when seeing a bear. It was a small brown bear, possibly a juvenile grizzly or a light colored black bear. But, I didn’t care. I wanted out of there. Mel, on the other hand, was savoring the moment. Her camera snapping away, taking pictures of the bear staring at us and then running away. Ten minutes later, we saw another bear. 

We found out later when we got to camp at the foot of Glenn’s Lake, that no one else had seen a bear on the trail. “You’re so lucky that you got to see a bear,” they said. I suppose we were. It was nice knowing that there are still wild places in the world where people can see bears in their natural habitat. 

On the trail wasn’t the only place to see wild animals. At camp, there were resident deer that hung around to try to get a lick of people’s salty perspiration. Deer and mountain goats in Glacier are severely salt deprived and crave human pee and sweat. They are mostly harmless, unless they get a hold of your shirt and try to run away with it. 

The next day we hiked a short distance to the head of Glenn’s Lake and set up camp for the night. Since the hike was short, we decided to day hike up to Stoney Indian Pass, a 13 mile out and back that took us past alpine lakes, cirques, and waterfalls. 

As we began the descent back to camp, Melanie spotted something moving in front of us. “Hannah, look, what is that?” Melanie pointed to a shaggy, chocolate brown shape scampering across the snowy path. I walked up next to her just in time to catch its backside. 

Sight of the elusive wolverine as it was running away.

“Is it a bear? Or...oh my god, is it a wolverine?”

I have always wanted to see the elusive wolverine. My obsession with them started while skiing in the Sawtooth Mountains of Idaho. A field biologist stopped and asked if we had seen any wolverines recently. He was studying their migration habits and had heard reports of wolverines in the area. The range of a male wolverine can be 240 square miles, often covering hundreds of miles in a few months. In the Rocky Mountains of Montana, Idaho, and Wyoming only 28-52 wolverines have been tracked over the last 20 years. This is mostly due to the fact that much of their range is uninhabitable to humans, less so with the advent of global warming and the receding of the glaciers. 

Melanie putting her hand next to the wolverine’s paw print to compare sizes. Relative to its size, the wolverine’s paws and claws are very large and act like snowshoes that help the wolverine travel at fast speeds across the snow.

Up until that point I felt pretty good about the wildlife that we had seen, but it wasn’t until we saw the wolverine that I felt we hit the wildlife jackpot. When we got to camp that night, we checked with Chad, our wildlife biologist friend to confirm whether what we saw was actually Gulo Gulo or the mysterious wolverine.  

“It’s hard to see exactly what it is, but from it’s size, markings, and habitat, I would say it was wolverine.” He concurred. 

Whether or not what we saw was a wolverine, the experience of witnessing a wild animal made me feel more alive. Connecting to the primal, reminded me that we are part of a larger system. Understanding this connection, dissipated my fear of the unknown, and built my sense of self. 

The Blackfeet believed in a supernatural world that was dominated by the sun. The sun created the earth and all its beings. In Glacier, the supernatural is abundant, whether it’s in the mountains, the rivers, the lakes, or the wildlife. We experienced Glacier’s supernatural beauty as we called it a day and watched the sun set behind the glaciated mountains. Sometimes the best laid plans often go awry and they may turn out to be better than expected. In our case, I’m happy that they did.

One Good Egg

Three years. That’s how long it took me to conceive. At first I wasn’t really trying because I didn’t think I was really ready. I was selfish and wanted to continue living my life without children. I thought it will happen when it happens. So, after a year of trying half heartedly and after making my first appointment with a fertility expert, a sensation came over me. I was irritable, tired, and bloated. I already had an appointment with my doctor, so I kept it. I went in and got the whole talk about how ovaries work, and how eggs are produced, blah blah blah. I said, “I think I might be pregnant.” They looked at me like I was crazy, but said, “let’s take a pregnancy test just to make sure.” I peed into a cup and waited. 10 minutes later the nurse came in and told me the news that I wanted to hear. I was ecstatic. I immediately felt life inside me. A little embryo burrowing itself into my uterine wall. I put all those thoughts of infertility and desperation behind me. I was pregnant!

That afternoon I was flying out to San Francisco to attend a silent meditation retreat for five days. The timing of it was surreptitious. I got to sit in silence with my baby, eat nutritious food, walk, and be surrounded by nature. I met my friend, Lindsey in San Francisco who was also doing the retreat. I had to tell someone besides my husband the news. I’ll never forget waiting in line at a popular brunch spot, my stomach was grumbling, and I was anxious to not only feed myself, but to feed my baby too. It felt so good to tell someone. 

The retreat is located in the redwood forests of Marin County, near Mt. Tam. Wild turkeys, deer, and rabbit call it home. It is peaceful and comforting, like a wool blanket on a cold day. Every morning I would wake up and make my way down the hill in the mist to get my earl grey tea. This was my favorite time of day as I sat and watched the world through my steamy cup of tea. The rest of the day we sat in meditation, listened to dharma talks, did our mindfulness chores, hiked in the forested hills, ate wholesome food, and existed in silence. The only being I talked to you was my baby. The silence outside allowed me to connect deeper with the life growing inside me. 

I ended my trip with an extended stay in San Francisco. My friend, Hye was traveling and offered me her place in North Beach. North Beach was the perfect launching pad for my San Francisco adventure. It is in the center of many historical and urban landmarks. Saint Peter and Pauls Church, Washington Square Park, Telegraph Hill, Chinatown, Russian Hill, Fisherman’s Wharf, and Coit Tower were all within walking distance. Every morning I would run down to Ferry Building and get a latte from Blue Bottle, then make my way back via an alternate route that took me past the City Lights Bookstore and other sights of the Beatnik generation. At night, I visited with friends in Russian Hill and went to a Peruvian pop up restaurant with my friends, Georgia and Peter and their friends, all endurance runners, one having just won the San Francisco marathon the day before. It was a fairytale trip. 

Eventually I made my way back home to Sun Valley. I was now 7 weeks along, feeling more pregnant and confident that my baby was growing inside me. After hiking with a friend, I noticed some blood in my underwear. My heart sank. In my experience, blood was not a good sign. I called my doctor immediately. She ordered a lab to test my Beta level. This was to see if the baby was healthy and doing well. My level was positive, but I had to take a follow up test to see whether the levels had doubled in two days. Two days later I took the test and my greatest fears came true: my levels didn’t rise like we wanted them to. I still wanted to hold on and believe my baby was going to make it. I continued to treat my body like it was pregnant, took more tests and had a couple ultrasounds. On the first ultrasound they found a faint heartbeat, on the last ultrasound the heartbeat was gone. My world shattered. My baby that I envisioned holding in my arms, watching their first step, teaching how to ride a bike, sending off to school, and loving with all my heart was taken from me. 

I had what was called a spontaneous miscarriage, which is the loss of the fetus before the 20th week of pregnancy. Even though I felt so alone in my pain, as many as 50% of pregnancies end in miscarriage. Usually, it is a hormonal imbalance or a chromosomal abnormality. Regardless of statistics telling me that miscarriages were typical, my pain still felt isolating. Not only was it emotional painful, but physically painful. Since the fetus never emptied completely, I had to “expel” it through drugs. I wanted “it” out of me as soon as possible. I didn’t like the feeling of “it” being inside me. So, right before school started, I took some drugs that took a few hours to kick in. It was in the middle of the night when the pain tore through my stomach. It was like the worst period cramps rolled together with food poisoning and dipped in influenza. My insides felt like they were tied in knots, as I threw up and expelled copious amounts of blood. I thought I was dying and might need to go to the emergency room, but relieving the pain with heated water bottles and funny movies, I made it through the night. 

I had heard about women having miscarriages, but it was a distant reality. After having my first miscarriage, I was thrown into the world of fertility doctors, drugs, acupuncturists, chinese herbs, and emotional upheaval. I was now part of a tribe of women around the world who have unexplained loss. I blamed myself and felt that the universe was telling me that I wasn’t cut out  to be a mother. It was a downward spiral of inadequacy, self-loathing, guilt, and mourning for my lost baby and my lost identity. 

A journey to quench my thirst

Portland, Oregon is a walker’s city. Lovely neighborhoods, like Mississippi, Hawthorne, the Alphabet District, and Division/Clinton dot the city and make Portland feel like a collective of small towns, each representing a kaleidoscope of businesses and residences. 

I recently visited Portland in June. June is when roses are in full bloom releasing their sweet perfume, skies are robin egg blue, and temperatures are a comfortable 70 degrees. It is no coincidence that the annual Rose Festival takes place this month to commemorate the proliferation of these flowers. June is also the time of my annual visit to see family, eat local food, and do yoga.

Growing up in SW Portland, the eastside of Portland seemed as far away as Australia. But, after living in Portland as an adult, I lived in NE Portland and got to know it intimately. So, now when I visit Portland, I find myself gravitating east. The abundance of locally-sourced restaurants, eclectic boutiques, coffee shops, and yoga studios excite my senses. So, on this particular day, I have selected to do yoga at People’s Yoga on NE Killingsworth. With two locations in NE and SE Portland, this yoga studio offers yoga classes for the frugal yogi. Their approach to yoga is that it should be available to everyone. I like to take yoga classes at People’s Yoga as much as my wallet will allow.

Today, after an invigorating class of forward bends and hip openers, I feel a thirst coming on. New Seasons Market on NE 33rd Avenue isn’t too far away, so my noodle legs and I take a nine block walk to the market for some fresh juice. I decided to take a side road so that I can notice the everyday existence of the NE Portland neighborhood. As I walk, I notice that each house has a personality like that of its inhabitants. Sidewalks become extensions of the yard. Pea shoots grow from a garden box built into the curb, as well as broccoli, lettuce, chard, and cabbage as big as my head. A lady pedals by on her squeaky bike. Lanterns are strung across a back porch; red, green, and yellow. From all four sides of the street, mothers and grandmothers stroll by with their baby carriages. I wonder is this a sign, am I next? The thought fades as I hear a gleeful chirp. I look up to see birds flying high in the blue bird sky. My legs keep moving and I see pink roses, red roses, white roses. City of Roses. As I start to approach my destination, I see a parking attendant with a reflective vest and people pushing their grocery carts. As I cross 38th street, the Trimet bus driver wearing hologram glasses waves at me to cross. I think to myself how friendly Portland is.

As I enter New Seasons Market, my senses become alive with the scent of fresh fruit and baking bread. I take a lap around the store until I settle on my juice. I chose a Green Juice from Columbia Gorge Juices, an “honest to goodness” juice packed with fruits and nutrients to make my cells sing. 

On the way back to the yoga studio, a man with a black shirt and pot belly leaves the store right after me. We walk in unison across the busy intersection. As soon as he gets out into the fresh air, he lights up a cigarette, outweighing the effort of his healthy deed. I look down and see grass that grows wild and untamed by its urban surroundings. The breeze hits my face and feels warm and soft. The sound of skateboard wheels gets my attention and I look to see a man and a woman struggling to stay upright on their boards. Orange buckets leaning against fledging trees that are straining to touch the sky. There are more birds on telephone wires. I think that there is truth in the “put a bird on it” from the IFC Portlandia show that mocks Portland and its idiosyncrasies. I look to the left and see a house built with stones or river rock. It looks out of place amongst the wood shingled houses. A car is parked in the driveway with a sticker that reads 26.2 miles. Running a marathon is something to feel proud of. I see another car, a red Subaru with a Thule rack. It looks like the owners like to play outdoors. I think, “I would like to get to know them,” as the sun shines through the clouds creating a light mosaic. Another mosaic catches my eye, a post with pieces of glass shards. There is a poem attached to it by Billy Collins, called simply, “Nostalgia”. In the poem, he writes of longing for the past when life was simpler. Collins writes, 

Even this morning would be an improvement over the present.

I was in the garden then, surrounded by the hum of bees

and the Latin names of flowers, watching the early light

flash off the slanted windows of the greenhouse

and silver the limbs on the rows of dark hemlocks.

As I read Collins’ poem, I realize that his words and my walk have a secret understanding: when one distills time into its most basic parts, it becomes alive. My walk becomes more than just a journey to quench my thirst; it becomes a journey of the present moment and watching what happens when life slows down. 

America's Shangri-La

 Sun Valley, Idaho. 

The name alone denotes vacation. While it is true that Sun Valley is where people come to play, relax, and get away, it is also home to an outdoorsy, eclectic, and passionate group of people. Many of whom aren’t originally from the area, including myself. I am what people call a “transplant”-seeds that are planted indoors that eventually need to get moved outdoors to thrive. There are many “transplants” in Sun Valley, some who come for the winter and stay for the summer or some who come for the summer and stay for the winter. Those seasons turn into years and before people know it, they have planted roots.

In the 1930’s, Averell Harriman, chairman of Union Pacific Railroad, sent Count Felix Schaffgotsch to scour the countryside for America’s first destination ski resort. After almost giving up, the Count overheard locals talking about “America’s Shangri-La '' called Ketchum, an old mining town in the mountains of Central Idaho. When he went to see for himself, he was immediately spellbound by the magestic mountains, clear, blue skies, and friendly locals. He wrote to the Chairman about Ketchum and said, “This combines more delightful features than any place I have ever seen in Switzerland, Austria or the U.S. for a winter resort." Soon after the land was purchased, the resort was built, and flocks of people started arriving to ski, hike, fish, and play in the mountains of Central Idaho. 

This same sense of awe greets me every time I take a left at the “blinking light” onto Highway 75. Driving the thirty or so miles to Sun Valley takes me past Bellevue, Hailey, and Ketchum. Each town has its own flavor and mixture of amenities. Some people prefer the down-home, rancher life of Bellevue or the quirky, residential life of Hailey, while others prefer the glamor and resort life of Sun Valley. Ketchum rests somewhere in the middle of this continuum. The alluvial layout of the Valley creates a community that is separated geographically, but joined spiritually by the mountains, rivers, and forests. 

Whatever your pleasure and whatever the season, Sun Valley has it all. After living here for 22 years, I have distilled my perfect day into a few elements: coffee at my new favorite cafe/wine bar, Velocio, mountain biking with friends on the myriad of single track around the Valley, jumping in the Big Wood swimming hole, followed by a picnic dinner and drinks on the Sun Valley Pavillion Lawn listening to the sweet sounds of violins and violas played by the Sun Valley Summer Symphony. Laying on my back, I look up at the blue sky and smile to myself; happy to be alive and happy to be thriving in the place that I love.