"After 32"

Me, sprinting to the finish of the 1980 Mount Marathon race in Seward, Alaska.

AFTER 32

I should have written about this weeks ago, when it was still fresh on my mind.

Of course, there are many things I should have done sooner than I did.

For instance, I should have never waited 32 years from the time of my first running race as an adult until the time of my second.

But that’s what I did. After running my first race on July 4, 1980, I waited until June 9, 2012, to run my second race.

Then a week later I raced for a third time.

Now it’s possible that I’ll race again soon, and in the fall, if my body holds up, I may even attempt to run a relay leg in a marathon.

We’ll see.

The possibilities boggle my mind, whereas the reality of it all seemed like an impossibility only a year ago.

Let me explain, starting with a brief history lesson—a personal history:

·         I grew up liking to run. I was good at it. However, although I exhibited good endurance, I rarely ran long distances or for long periods of time. I made lots of one-, 1.5- and two-mile forays, but rarely anything more. I ran track in ninth grade; in my only meet, I finished second in the 440-yard dash, a gut-sucking torture event I was pleased to never run again. In high school, I ran in P.E. and exercise classes, but that was about it. If I remember correctly, I was timed in under 9 minutes for the mile and a half.

·         Mainly, I enjoyed other forms of exercise—playing football or basketball with friends, mountain bike riding, and hiking—lots and lots of hiking, especially in the mountains—and that’s still my favorite.

·         Then in 1980, during my first summer as a journalism intern for the Peninsula Clarion, my editor, Ronnie Chappell, asked me if I’d like to run the Mount Marathon race and then write about it. I said I’d do it, and proceeded to participate, despite almost zero training prior to the race, and despite having never even been on the mountain before—in fact, without even knowing how to GET to the mountain. On a 71-degree Fourth of July, I survived, and even out-sprinted another runner to the finish line to capture 139^th place in 1:28:58. That race remains for me one of the most difficult things I have ever done. It hurt, and it took a lot out of me.

·         But I never thought it’d be 32 years before I raced again.

·         In the early 1990s—only 3-4 years into my teaching career—I signed up to complete the biking leg in a local triathlon. Two miles from completing the big loop that comprised my leg, my bike got a flat tire; I had to push it up a long hill to finish. Other than that, however, I did not compete in a single biking, skiing, paddling or running race from 1980 until 2012.

·         To begin with, I professed not to enjoy running. But that was only partly true. Running, I began to think, really didn’t like me. I had back problems, and running exacerbated them. My teaching job kept me sedentary, and I did little to fight the inertia, so my physical limitations grew. I still hiked every summer, but each spring I had to endure a painful transformation from desk-bound slug to peak-bound mountain goat. And each autumn I allowed the process to reverse, binding me once again to my seat and bad habits.

·         In 2010—the year I got divorced after nearly two years of separation—I joined the Kenai Peninsula Outdoor Club and began working out with a  personal trainer, Darin Hagen. I was not fully committed to either, but I didn’t give up. Starting midway through 2011, I ramped up my participation and dedication, strengthening my core and losing 35 pounds and half my body fat in the process. And late in that year I met Yvonne, a member of the KPOC and an endurance athlete who enjoyed my company enough to keep walking and snowshoeing and skiing and, eventually, running with me throughout the winter and right up to the present time.

·         Actually, the “running” part of our relationship originated when I said I wanted to try the adventure-racing event called “Bushwhack This!” In order to participate, she said, I’d need to do some running—and that included some training runs. She took it easy on me at first, I think, running with me slowly on Ski Hill Road and at Tsalteshi Trails, and then, at higher speeds, down the Skyline Trail, the Slaughter Gulch Trail, the Fuller Lakes Trail, the Red Shirt Lake Trail.

·         Just before “Bushwhack This!” I decided to run my first five-kilometer race—the June 9 “Run for the River,” part of last month’s Kenai River Festival. I set a goal for myself of running under 30 minutes, and I finished in 26:13.

·         A week later, on June 16, Yvonne, Mike Crawford and I competed in the 12-hour adventure race. There was very little running—mostly biking, trekking and paddling—but there was certainly exertion, and it was definitely a race. We finished fourth overall.

·         Now I’m looking at another couple of local 5-K races, and I’m considering committing (and maybe, in fact, I already have committed) to running the middle leg in the Equinox Marathon in Fairbanks in September. Times have certainly changed….

So what was my first race—after 32 years—like?

I was nervous, gathering with a herd of milling real runners just before the race began. I remember needing to pee. I remember wondering how I would do compared to people I knew who ran all the time. I remember hoping that I wouldn’t embarrass myself, that I wouldn’t have to walk part of the course, that I wouldn’t get hurt, that I would have enough reserves at the end to finish strong. I also remember that first stretch of sidewalk running before the big right turn onto East Redoubt Avenue: I found myself moving more swiftly than several of the people I’d been worried about—some older, some younger, some male, some female—and wondering whether I was starting too swiftly.

By about the mid-point of the race, I’d passed numerous other runners and had not been passed a single time. Again, I was concerned about my pacing. I knew nothing about race strategy. Would I flame out and find a flood of other runners zipping by me in the final few hundred meters? I tried not to look back, only forward.

Then my calves grew tight, and my shins began to ache, and I thought about walking but was too stubborn to allow myself to do it. So I continued to focus on runners ahead of me and try to reel them in, passing one after another.

Far up ahead was Liz Cristiano, the very fit mother of a friend of mine and only a year older than me. I pushed myself to catch her. With a half-mile to go, I had her within 50 yards, and at about that same time I came up on small thin girl of perhaps 10 or 12 who was dressed in pink and white and was walking with her head down as if dejected or upset. After I lumbered by her, she looked up and began to run again, easily passing me—only to suddenly stop a few seconds later and resume walking, allowing me to go her again. She was the only person to pass me during the entire race. And about a minute later I passed Liz, and then I made the big left turn back onto the sidewalk where we’d begun and accelerated. As best I could, I sprinted to the finish line from about a hundred yards out.

I knew that things had changed for me. I knew I could do more and do better.

And I will. Barring an unanticipated disaster, I will.

It just seems like a shame that I waited 32 years.

Maybe old dogs can learn new tricks.

"The View"

THE VIEW

I wonder whether even the experienced mountaineer

Sometimes stands atop the summit

And sighs to think

That he’s seen it all before:

Just another valley down below.

Just another ridgeline.

Just another endless sea of mountains.

Does he feel as if he’s climbed them all before somehow,

As if experience after accumulated experience

Has blended into one—

A single scene,

Still beautiful,

Still worth the exertion,

But bereft of uniqueness—

More geological curiosity

Than emotional attachment?

Well, I’m no mountaineer,

But I climb.

I love to amble to the top

Like some old billy goat

And drink in the pasture of possibilities.

If ever I have taken for granted

The view,

I will no more.

"Keeping My Eyes Open"

Me, shambling down the trail above Wonder Lake, Banff National Park, Canada. (Bryan Edwards photo)

KEEPING MY EYES OPEN

(This piece originally appeared in the Redoubt Reporter in 2009.)

Along the eastern shore of the Spray Lakes Reservoir, our taxi shuttle came upon a sight common to most Alaskans: a cow moose browsing on fresh willow leaves. The taxi slowed, and my fellow passengers became animated. Cameras appeared and windows opened.

The three Oregonians gesticulated and chattered, as I smiled. As much as I enjoyed watching moose, I couldn’t raise my level of enthusiasm to match theirs. I hadn’t traveled all the way to the Canadian Rockies just to see what I could view easily at home on the Kenai Peninsula.

On the other hand, I was amused by our driver: Our French-Canadian cabbie, who had lived for 20 years in Canmore, just southeast of Banff in Alberta, had just finished telling us that, although he knew moose lived in this area, he had never seen one.

And, after thus losing his moose-viewing virginity, he seemed doubly surprised when, five minutes later, we spotted another one.

I smiled again, knowing even as I did so, that I myself had been equally delighted by the sight of western Canada’s familiar white-tailed deer the day before, on our drive north from Portland.

Moreover, I knew this: It is easy for any of us to take for granted what we see every day—sometimes even what we see only on occasion—and to fail to look deeper. On this trip, I intended to do better.

Like many young Alaskans nowadays, I had (back in the late 1970s and early ‘80s) driven back and forth through western Canada, traveling between my peninsula home and college out in the States. And, I suspect, like many young Alaskans making such a drive, I had mostly hurried to get from Point A to Point B, giving barely a nod of acknowledgement to the countryside through which I passed.

On this trip, at this place, I was going to take a closer look.

With my friends—Monte and Bryan Edwards and Jim Bell, all from Gresham, Oregon—I had come to hike through a stretch of the Rockies that began at the Mount Shark trailhead (elevation = 5,807 feet) and traveled generally northwest over several high mountain passes for approximately 60 miles to our truck parked at the Vista Lake trailhead (elevation = 5,643 feet).

We would begin in Spray Valley Provincial Park, cross through the southern end of Banff National Park, hike inside the northeastern edge of Mount Assiniboine Provincial Park, climb back into Banff, and finish just outside the northeastern tip of Kootenay National Park.

Among the many passes we would ascend were four of at least 7,500 feet, including the highest, Wonder Pass, at 7,857 feet.

According to everything we had read, we expected spectacular mountain peaks, the possibility of encounters with big game, weather ranging from pouring rain to hot sun, mosquitoes along the many lakes and creeks, and a tiring yet exhilarating trek.

Once we shrugged into our 50-pound packs, the first surprise was the frequent pulse of helicopters on the first two days. Near the Mount Shark trailhead lay a helipad, and throughout each day dozens of visitors were transported over alpine passes to view the area glaciers before finally settling down on the helipad at the Mt. Assiniboine Lodge, two days and some 20 trail miles from our starting point.

The lodge (built in 1928 by the Canadian Pacific Railway) and its surrounding guest cabins are a popular destination for those unable to make the long trek from Mount Shark, or for those desiring to use the lodge as a starting point for a series of dayhikes into the surrounding countryside.

As convenient as that $160 chopper ride might have been, however, I wouldn’t have wished to miss the trail we took. After a stretch along Watridge and Bryant creeks, mostly through thick stands of spruce, fir, pine and hemlock, we camped along a middle section of Bryant Creek and in the evening watched Columbia ground squirrels pop in and out of myriad holes scattered across a marshy alpine lea.

When lightning began piercing the skies, and thunder rumbled up and down the valleys, we were already ensconced in our sleeping bags, waiting for sleep to claim us.

Our plan for Day Two included veering southwest along deeply turquoise Marvel Lake before turning northwest again and grunting up and over Wonder Pass. From the pass, we would hike past the lodge and lakes Gog, Magog and Og, named for archetypal enemies of God found in the Book of Revelations, before making camp for the night.

As we approached the pass, we met a group of six hikers going in the opposite direction. They warned us of a sow grizzly with three cubs up in the pass, then assured us that the bear appeared more interested in foraging than in humans. Just before we continued on up the trail, one of the women in the group smiled and said, “By the way, there are six switchbacks going up into the pass, just in case you get frustrated and wonder when it’s going to end.”

I admit to counting the switchbacks. When I got halfway along the fifth one, I looked at the mass of mountain above me and wondered briefly whether she’d been telling the truth. She had.

The only disappointment, after all that work, was failing to see the grizzlies.

We moved through the pass and down the other side, arriving at the Assiniboine Lodge just as lightning began to crack and thunder began to boom. We settled in under the gable above the front porch, ordered $7 beers, and relaxed with a milling population of friendly Canadians and a single German man on holiday.

Directly out from the front door of the lodge lay Lake Magog and, on its opposite end, magnificent Mount Assiniboine, a spire of layered stone often referred to as the Matterhorn of the Canadian Rockies. Clouds played around the nearly 12,000-foot summit as the storm provided us with a natural theater.

Arriving in the mist at the Og Lake campground some hours later, we barely erected our tents before a drenching rain began to fall.

Day Three featured a 10-mile hike, about six miles of which was waterless, through the rugged Valley of the Rocks and then over high Citadel Pass. Once again, after pitching our tents near Howard Douglas Lake and enjoying a freeze-dried repast in the sunshine, the skies darkened, the thunder and lightning returned, and the rain fell.

It wasn’t until Day Four that we spotted our first (and, unfortunately, our only) big game on the hike: a single white-tailed deer. Later that day, we would twice be warned about grizzlies ahead, once ascending Healy Pass through the largest mountain wildflower meadow I have ever seen, and once going down the other side toward Egypt Lake. Neither bear made itself visible to us.

Our camp at Egypt Lake was our first (and again, our only) camp sans precipitation. We had a beautiful, cold night beneath the stars, followed by a warm, sunny day in which we followed Pharaoh’s Creek down to its confluence with Redearth Creek, then climbed to our final camp near Shadow Lake Lodge, where were sat in the sun, swatted aggressive horseflies, and drank $6 beers.

That night, once more, the thunder and lightning returned. The following morning, we once again packed up wet gear.

On the hike up Gibbon Pass, our adrenaline kicked in when we recognized fresh cougar tracks in the mud. Alert for the remainder of the climb, we could not spot the elusive cat, and at the top we had to accept that, despite the incredible landscape surrounding us from the beginning, we were not going to see the critters we’d hoped for by leaving the road system.

Descending through a sprawling copse of larch, we left Gibbon behind and marched over rolling ridgelines of conifers toward Monte’s distant truck. That night, we toasted our success as we feasted in The Bison restaurant in Banff. I ate until my stomach was swollen and then smiled as I limped back to our motel.

The next day, on the drive south, I was reminded why so many people are satisfied with staying in their vehicles and just passing through: Shortly after we turned out of Banff National Park and into Kootenay, we spotted our first grizzly. The chocolate-colored bear stood on its hind legs at the edge of the opposite lane of traffic, before dropping to all fours and ambling slowly into the woods.

A few miles later, we spotted three timber wolves trotting through the grass just off the blacktop. Shortly after that, a coyote padded past. Then we started seeing more white-tailed deer, and a rabbit, and—just before we exited the park—a herd of seven bighorn sheep, including a pair of small rams.

Although I still believe that looking deeper is beneficial, the animals seemed to be telling us that sometimes, no matter where you are, you just have to keep your eyes open.

"Right Where I Was Supposed to Be"

Monte and Bryan Edwards and me, in Cottonwood Creek bowl above Skilak Lake. (Monte Edwards photo)

RIGHT WHERE I WAS SUPPOSED TO BE

(This story originally appeared in the fall of 2008, in one of the first issues of the Redoubt Reporter.)

I had just turned to see my fellow hikers, Monte and Bryan, perhaps a hundred yards back, stopped along the high mossy terrace above Benjamin Creek, gesturing and pointing at something I could not see. Another ptarmigan, perhaps. Or maybe just another element of the unbelievable scenery.

I didn’t wait to find out. In the contemplative “Zen” of the moment, I was eager to keep moving. So I put my trekking poles into motion and moved forward again over the undulating caribou moss and between the patches of scrub birch and willow.

Striding over a gentle rise, then, I saw a mass of red-blond hair, and for just an instant I flashed on my golden retriever back at home. But I knew immediately that I had stumbled upon a brown bear, and a moment later I realized that there was more than one: a sow with at least one cub.

I had my wits about me enough to realize two things: The wind was in my face, and the bears were feeding with their backs to me.

I retreated.

Within seconds I was below the rise again, turned 180 degrees, and hastening back to my companions, poles held above my head in an X, as if to say, “Stop! Don’t come this way!” I glanced behind me as I hurried along, hoping to see no furry forms in rapid pursuit.

“Brown bears!” I hissed. “Two or three of them! Just over that rise!”

“Bryan just saw a brown bear, too,” Monte said.

“Yeah,” said Bryan, gesturing to open terrain below us and about a third of the way to the creek. “Down in that grassy spot. It was big, too. It went into that brush over to the left, but I don’t know where it is now.”

Then my own bears appeared, feeding as they ambled slowly to higher ground. There were four of them, a sow with three cubs. Palms gravitated to pistol butts, just in case.

Ten minutes earlier we had been blissfully unaware of the danger. We were a day and a half into a remote-wilderness experience, and, despite multiple black bear sightings, we had felt confident and enthusiastic about our ability to cover great distances safely.

Suddenly, we were in the midst of five brown bears—no help within miles of us, should disaster strike. And although our confidence was somewhat shaken, the truth is that we couldn’t have been happier. We were exactly where we wanted to be.

It’s easy to become a part of the madding crowd in our attempts to escape to the great outdoors.

We troll for king salmon among an aluminum armada on the Kenai River or cast for sockeye in a thicket of limbs and rods on the sparkling Russian River. We cram ourselves into overflowing campgrounds and share community outhouses, or we hike groomed, well-marked trails throughout our state and federal lands.

And we accept it, often, because the burgeoning number of people who occupy the Kenai Peninsula—particularly in the summer months—means we must share our experiences, must move in close proximity with others. Or at least that’s what we’re led to believe.

But the reality is that we can still have true wilderness adventures. Getting away from it all may be more difficult, but it doesn’t have to be prohibitively expensive, and the reward is well worth the extra effort.

Within the Kenai National Wildlife Refuge lies a massive wilderness, isolated within and given special protection among the refuge’s nearly 2 million acres, and entering that wilderness can set visitors far from the hubbub of civilization, grant them a humbling sense of insignificance, and test their mettle in ways beyond the ken of those bound to the usual highways and byways.

It had been many years since I had entered this wilderness, opting instead for quick day-trips closer to the roads. And it had been many more years since I had hiked with my old high school buddy, Monte Edwards, each of us having allowed careers and family and distance to limit our friendship mainly to annual Christmas correspondence.

Last week, however, we changed all that.

Monte and his 21-year-old son, Bryan,  who had never been to Alaska or seen a bear in the wild before, arrived Aug. 2, geared up and ready to go. The following morning, my friend, Drew O’Brien, acted as our portal to the wilderness as he ferried us across the smooth surface of Skilak Lake and deposited us at the Cottonwood Creek trailhead, promising to return and pick us up on Aug. 6.

From that moment, we were on our own. Our rough-hewn plan: ascend the Cottonwood Creek trail to treeline, climb over the top end of the drainage, descend to and cross Benjamin Creek, then follow its high terrace to a notch in the mountains that would lead us down to Twin Lakes, nestled at the foot of an unnamed 5,200-foot crag. There, if we had time, we hoped to make a quick side trip over to Skilak Glacier before returning to Cottonwood Creek via a scree-strewn pass on the northeast side of the drainage.

Some things went according to plan: Bryan got to see his bears—12 blacks in addition to the five brownies. He spotted his first ptarmigan, first hoary marmot, first bear den, and caught his first grayling. He missed out on caribou but we did gather one discarded antler.

With Monte and me, he also crossed four icy stream channels barefoot, logged at least 30 miles of challenging travel, and climbed an aggregate of more than 6,000 feet. But his badly blistered feet, nearly 36 hours of intermittent rain, and the constraints of time—in a land seemingly apart from such considerations—kept us from going beyond Twin Lakes to the glacier.

Still, in four days we saw no one else in our travels, walked on only 4-5 miles of actual trails, and reveled in a sense of vastness and isolation impossible along the winding blacktop of civilization.

In the end, the sow and her trio of cubs eyeballed us for a few minutes, then wandered over a snow-splotched sidehill and disappeared from view. This time, in this place, she seemed as content with her isolation as we were with ours.

"Expectations Are Overrated"

EXPECTATIONS ARE OVERRATED

(This is a slightly modified version of a Redoubt Reporter article from June 2012. It was one of three articles—the others written by my teammates—and an explanatory sidebar to appear in the newspaper concerning the adventure race called “Bushwhack This!”)

Lying inside a down bag in the bed of my truck, I had almost drifted off to sleep when another burst of automatic-weapon fire jolted me awake.

I cracked open my weary eyelids, noted the greying skies of evening, and wondered if the shooters were ever going to tire. For three hours now, and with a wide assortment of guns, they had been plugging away at targets propped against a copse of birch trees on the nearby hillside.

Just then, a trio of four-wheeler riders blasted past us, jumping a nearby ditch and roaring off into the gloom down inky trails dotted with puddles and lined with sprawling alders. It was nearly 9 p.m. Our race was slated to start at midnight, with a pre-race meeting scheduled for about 10. I doubted I would get a moment of real sleep before the race began.

Nestled in her own bag, my teammate, Yvonne Leutwyler, had remained motionless throughout the latest artillery barrage. Either she had actually managed to drift into a sleep deep enough to escape the noise or she was simply remaining stoically still. Ensconced in the cab of the truck, my other teammate, Mike Crawford, also seemed immobile.

We were entered as a coed team in the 2012 “Bushwhack This!” adventure race, billed as a 12-hour competition encompassing approximately 40 miles of mountain biking, orienteering, trekking and paddling. At about 10:30, we were to be informed of the exact nature of the race course, along which we would be expected to locate nine hidden checkpoints and punch a card proving we had passed through.

Of the three of us, only Yvonne had had experience with the race. A strong athlete with solid endurance, she had participated in 2011 in a cold day-long August rain and had vowed never to do it again. Mike, in great shape from his continual triathlon training and his work as a P90X instructor, had, like me, no experience with a competition of this duration. And I, as the oldest member of the group, was by far the biggest racing newbie—having entered only two races since graduating from high school: the 1980 Mount Marathon race and the 2012 Run for the River 5K.

Yes, there are 32 years between those experiences.

On this particular weekend, with Father’s Day looming only two days away, the campers, motor homes and heavy-duty trucks had infiltrated the site en masse  with trailers packed with motorcycles, ATV’s, and four-wheelers, providing us with myriad illustrations of the Doppler Effect, and creating a makeshift RV Village.

And it was literally in the middle of all this motorized mayhem that a group of 22 helmeted, sleep-deprived adventure-racing participants were about to clamber onto their mountain bikes and launch into a fully human-powered competition.

Before any of us contemplated another good night’s sleep, however, we would be pedaling about 25 miles (over muddy mining roads, along stretches of highway, down a deteriorating old railroad bed paralleling the Matanuska River, and through the streets of Palmer), trekking approximately 10 miles (down empty city streets, up a pair of wooded buttes, along mosquito-infested trails and swamps, and even down a hard-packed gravel road), and paddling six miles of slack water in one-person flat-bottomed pack rafts.

Prior to race-start, I laid out my goals: (1) Avoid injury to myself or my teammates. (2) Finish the race. (3) Have fun. I assumed that success in the first two categories would ensure success in the third. I also assumed that the high character and athletic prowess of my teammates improved the likelihood of accomplishing all three goals.

Then—despite whanging my left kneecap on a sharp chunk of granite when I fell along the river, despite unnecessarily carrying a spare inner tube and a patch kit during the non-biking portions of the race, and despite our group making a navigational error that added about three miles and an hour and a half to our time—I succeeded in all my goals.

Me, Yvonne and Mike atop Bodenburg Butte in Palmer, Alaska. (Photo by
Vyonne Leutwyler)

Of course, the rest of the 12 hours wasn’t exactly a walk in the park—well, part of it was, with a bit of biking and running at 4 a.m., as we searched for Checkpoint #4.

There were plenty of moments at which we could have allowed frustration or fatigue to overpower our good natures and cause us to snipe at each other. But we kept our attitudes positive, even when Yvonne hooked up me and Mike like sled dogs to tow her up Bodenburg Butte, even when our butts were getting wet as cold stream water pooled in the bottoms of our rafts, and even when we climbed the wrong mosquito-ridden summit of Burnt Butte and then had to descend and go climb the correct mosquito-ridden summit to find a checkpoint.

In fact, our team, the K-Pen Cats, was the first to arrive at checkpoints 3, 4, 5 and 6, and to the transition area, where we swapped our muddy bikes and wet clothing for our rafts, paddles and a few dry items before hurrying off down another trail.

By the time noon rolled around, we were cruising over flat water at about two miles per hour, and the 40-something-degree temperatures of pre-dawn racing had been replaced by 70-something degrees and bluebird skies. To end the race, we pulled our crafts from lower Jim Creek and shuffled with them across sandy flats to the north bank of the Knik River, about two miles upstream from the Old Glenn Highway bridge. And from there, we could see on the far shore the support vehicles, the finish line, and a chance to rest in the sun.

After a few hang-ups on sandbars, we arrived, rang the finish bell, changed into dry clothes, then stuffed ourselves full of peanutbutter-filled pretzels, Red Vines, and chips and salsa before dropping onto the soft gravel for an attempted snooze.

Across the river, on the Jim Creek Flats, motorcycles and four-wheelers roared back and forth, but it didn’t seem to matter anymore.

The last two photos are courtesy of Yvonne Leutwyler. To read our full accounts of this adventure and see all the photos from the newspaper article, follow this link: http://redoubtreporter.wordpress.com/2012/06/27/take-a-whack-at-adventure-backcountry-race-tests-navigation-endurance-teamwork-sanity/#more-8381

My Education in Five Chapters   

Chapter 1

My education begins.

I learn the faces of my parents,

and their moods.

I learn the basics: how to crawl, how to stand,

how to walk, how to speak.

I learn “please” and “thank you.”

I learn to ride a bike, smash a bug,

catch a fish, throw a ball.

I learn to make friends.

Chapter 2

Formal education takes control.

In public school,

I learn to read, to write, to do math.

I learn to fill out worksheets and take tests.

Teachers add rules

and expand my views.

Classmates add more rules.

I learn to share,

to show-and-tell, to put my things away.

I learn to stand in line, toe the line,

and cross the line.

I learn that good citizenship is hard work.

And I learn that I can get as much or as little

from my education as I desire.

Chapter 3

I follow the expected path: a college education.

Independent for the first time,

I learn to make my own rules,

to suffer my own consequences.

Class work guides me toward a career,

but life itself guides me toward adulthood.

I learn to balance my own checkbook,

do my own laundry, take care of my own car.

I learn to live away from home.

I also learn firsthand

that relationships can begin and end.

I learn that heartache hurts.

 

Chapter 4

An irony occurs:

The problem child becomes a teacher,

and he learns in the process

that no one escapes the need for education.

As an educator, I learn to teach others—

Some of whom

are as resistant to education

as I once was.

As an educator, I learn

that teaching is learning—

that, indeed,

learning may be the best part of teaching.

Chapter 5

The most recent revelation

in my education

arrives in the form of fatherhood.

I change diapers, feed hungry infants,

comfort them when they wake from bad dreams

or cannot sleep at all.

I sing them songs, read them stories,

build them snow forts,

hold the fenders of their bikes

as they try to learn to ride.

I discover

that my own parents were smarter

than I believed possible.

My children teach me

as much as I teach them.

I learn that the very cycle of life

keeps education alive.

"Lightning out of Place"

LIGHTNING OUT OF PLACE

June 2003

When I was growing up here on the Kenai Peninsula, usually once a summer, we would be inside the house and hear a booming noise. Since we were in no normal jet path, the likelihood of a sonic boom was slight. So we knew—especially if we had previously spotted threatening black cumulonimbus clouds on the horizon on an otherwise sunny afternoon—that were probably hearing thunder. Typically, we would hurry outside to the front or back porch, hoping maybe to see some lightning and hear some more thunder. In this part of Alaska, thunder and lightning are rare, although less so in the mountains where the air pressure is more volatile than out here in lake-and-ocean country. If we were lucky, we might see three or four lightning strikes in 5-10 minutes before the show was over. Always it was a big deal. At times it seemed less common than earthquakes, certainly more unusual than the aurora borealis. On hike with two friends last week, however, I had a thunder-and-lightning experience different than at any time in my life. With me were Drew O’Brien, who has lived here about 40 years, and David, who has lived here nearly 45 years. All three of us have spent a great deal of time outdoors, much of it in the mountains. None of us had experienced anything like this in Southcentral Alaska. And what’s more: When it was all over, it appeared that no one else had even noticed.

The three of us had had a beautiful sunny hike up from the Sterling Highway to a mountain saddle on the Skyline Trail, and we had left the main trail behind to follow what is essentially an animal path down through a valley between a pair of prominent ridgelines. Our plan was to hike all the way around the peak and ridge on our left and then return to the highway via a different route. We knew that, at the end of the valley we were descending lay an illegal horse camp and a trail. As we approached the camp, however, we could see, over our right shoulders, huge dark clouds piling up over the ridgelines. We knew it was likely that we might get dumped on by a brief mountain downpour. But as we headed downhill from the horse camp, we heard thunder for the first time…. To make a long (and electrifying) story short, we heard perhaps 50 peals of thunder on our descent, and we saw maybe 30 flashes of lightning. In the beginning, the interval between lightning and thunder was nearly 10 seconds. Later on, lightning and thunder were almost simultaneous, the action so close to us that were ducking on the trail and cringing as the thunder boomed directly overhead—so loud it seemed as if the sky were breaking. Meanwhile, the rain started and quickly evolved from scattered drops to a light shower and on to a deluge.

We were scuttling along in one of the heaviest rains I’ve ever encountered. Puddles were forming on a sloped trail. I was soaked through, and everything in my knapsack that was not encased in plastic became saturated. My boots and socks bubbled with water as I walked. My bare legs were flecked with mud. And all we could was keep moving, and try to laugh despite being scared.

We had almost three miles to cover from the first sound of thunder until we reached Drew’s truck back out near the highway. Water was running over the blacktop as he drove us back to the original trailhead, where our other vehicles awaited. The thunder-and-lightning show had lasted 60-90 minutes. And—as we all suspected might be the case—the entire storm was very localized. In Anchorage to the north, we learned later, they had had a beautiful day; in fact, they set a record-high temperature (79 degrees) for that date. And here at home, they saw no lightning, heard no thunder, and had no rain. Here, the kids were so hot in the afternoon sunshine that they stripped naked and run in the sprinkler on the lawn. Here, when I arrived, Karen was feeding the kids dinner picnic-style outside on the porch. Here, everything was still sunny and bone dry.

I trudged sloppily into the garage, where I had to wring out the sopping-wet contents of my pack and actually dump out standing water from the bottom. Nothing I had worn or carried was remotely dry.