Posts

Posted on

You cannot lose, you also cannot win – Silver Moccasin Trail Part 2

It’s almost 6pm and I’m totally fucking over it. I’m over this hike, I’m over the thigh chafe that’s forced me to hike in my thermal tights, and I’m certainly over the fact that this last climb to Chantry Flats is easily three times longer than I remembered it being.

And now, with everything that I’m over, I’ve suddenly entered into some sort of race with a dad and his crew of chubby children. “Push, push, push” he tells his brood as they miserably huff and puff their way to towards the parking lot, on what I can only assume is some sort of twisted family-bonding-bootcamp-fiesta which I do not understand. As he glances back at his winded family I can see the smugness in his eyes as they start to pull away from me. It’s a perverse sort of smugness that every female runner, hiker, cyclist, athlete of literally any persuasion has seen and instantly recognizes. It’s the smug look of a man who is deeply insecure about his masculinity, and desperately needs to demonstrate this by refusing to let you pass him.

For the male readers out there, it goes something like this. You (the lady) are running along, minding your own business when you start to overtake the runner in front of you, for the purposes of this post, we’ll call him Trent. Suddenly, upon realizing that you’re in fact, the host to lady-parts, Trent has to suddenly pick up the pace for 100 yards until he becomes fatigued and then slows down. Fuckin’ Trent. This whole charade – you approach, he accelerates, he then slows to a near walk, – will repeat itself, sometimes for miles! Trent the Insecure Runner Bro will continue to do his little insecurity dance until you either stop and let him get far enough ahead that you don’t have to deal with him, or pull the trigger and pass him like the god damn champion that you are.

I stop.

This weekend I have done enough. I have tried enough. And I do not need to prove it to anybody outside of myself. Certainly not a Trent.

In fact everything I’ve ever done outside is completely irrelevant to everybody, except me. I’ve never had to sprint for first place, I’ve never held a record, an FKT, or a first ascent. Everything I’ve ever done outdoors has likely been done before, done faster, done in better style, done with substantially less swearing – by some pro athlete, or some spectacular weekend warrior. And beyond that, my weekend long distance hiking and running pursuits are almost completely at odds with my day-job self. Very few people I interact with on a daily basis understand the what of my weekend adventures, and I’d venture to guess that almost none of them can begin to understand the why of any of this insane garbage I voluntarily – no – willingly put my body through. They say that if it doesn’t kill you, it makes you stronger. But the truth is that if it doesn’t kill you, it just makes you that much crazier the next time, and that much harder to relate to.

Most of my weekend adventures start with me sitting alone in a parking lot full of strangers, and end in roughly the same manner, except now those same strangers are giving me some crazy side-eye because I probably look vaguely homeless. Lord knows I’m certainly dirty and smelly enough to raise some concerns.

And this is exactly what awaits me as I finally, finally crest the hill into the Chantry Flats parking lot. Dude-bro-dad Trent is standing there with his miserable looking family, dozens of other clean LA locals are standing around with their small bottles of water and even smaller dogs, and a church group of Korean hikers has just loaded up and pulled out of the parking lot. And me? I don’t do anything. No one is there to congratulate me on one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Most people don’t even want to make eye contact with the dirty sunburned woman looking for her friends car. I simply load my gear into the back of Mac’s too-nice feeling BMW and send up a silent prayer that hiker stink comes out of a leather car interior.

Because this crazy idea that started more than a year ago with a line on a map, and ended in a friends car. The idea to hike 53 miles over an entire mountain range in just two days, climbing more than 10,000 feet of vertical, descending more than 14,000 feet into the deepest and most tree-chocked canyons of the San Gabriel Wilderness, the idea to cover an entire trail from start to finish as fast as I could, just to see if I could. The idea that stopped being really fun around mile 46, became really painful around mile 48 when I was running down the trail as black flies swarmed my legs, and then became some sort of transcendent type 2 style of suffer-fest joy around mile 50. That stupid idea that I managed to wrangle one other crazy person into (hi Mac, you’re a bad ass!) might just be the highlight of 2017.

And for all of that, none of this matters. I love that in crazy made-up outdoor adventures there is no real way to win, or to succeed (beyond the obvious one: getting home safe), and because you cannot win, you also cannot really fail. Literally, nobody gives a fuck. No one is watching. Everybody is too busy gazing at their own navels to give a fuck about yours. So why not try to do something amazing, just for you?

But what do I know? I’m just some crazy girl who hikes through the wilderness.

 

Posted on

Sorry I Crashed Your Wedding – Silver Moccasin Trail Part 1

Bright eyes flashed in the forest near me and I immediately froze. Which, side note, is definitely the wrong thing to do for pretty much any predator that you’ll find in North America. Realizing this, I started to get loud and big, waving my arms above me as I shouted “I’m a big scary animal” into the darkness. I mean, it’s not like the animal knew what I was saying anyway. Don’t judge.

Nothing.

Just some big round eyes staring back at me.

Oh god! I thought. Is that what mountain lions do? Is he sizing me up? Staring me down? Am I going to get mother-fucking eaten?!!

I turned and grabbed the largest thing that I could find, a sizable pine-cone, and lobbed it with all my strength into the forest, sending the creature in question bounding into the darkness with the speed and grace of a…. deer.

I had almost shit myself because a heard of deer were grazing in the field I was hiking through. Well. I guess that’s what I get for night hiking.

I started talking loudly to myself as I plodded through the dark on my way to camp. A late start to avoid, what turned out to be nonexistent, icy snow conditions meant that I would be night-hiking to reach my intended campground. Chilao Campground rested just past the halfway mark of the Silver Moccasin Trail, a 53 mile trail that crosses the entire Angeles National Forest from north to south. Mac and I had started on opposite sides of the trail, her on Friday me on Saturday morning, with the plan to reconvene at work on Monday morning. But at the moment I was just past the halfway point, it was well after 10pm, and I was crashing hard, coming down off the adrenaline high upon seeing the killer forest deer 20 minutes earlier.

Just make it to Chilao I thought. Hike hike hike. Just make it to Chilao. Hike hike hike.

At moments like this, there is really only one course of action. You get on your phone, and you blast the soundtrack to Hamilton.

I am Alexander Hamilton!

That’s right scary forest deer! I am Alexander Hamilton and I’m not going to let you eat me!

Fuck you bears and cougars! I’m Alexander Hamilton and I’m not throwing away my shot!

And so it was, deranged singing, headlamp beam swinging through the underbrush, profuse swearing, and trekking poles flailing that I stumbled into Bandito Group Campground. I checked the map. Nothing was supposed to be here, and yet here was a massive campground. A massive campground that was blasting Flo Rida’s 2008 classic song “Apple Bottom Jeans.” A massive campground that was blasting Flo Rida’s 2008 classic song “Apple Bottom Jeans” full of 100-odd people milling around in the dark.

To the adrenaline-tweaking night-hiker this can only mean one thing: water.

My initial plan was to approach the closest group huddled around a campfire, eloquently explain my situation – that I was thru hiking and had run out of water – and calmly ask them if they could spare a liter or two.

What actually happened was that I approached the closest group huddled around a campfire, not getting close enough to the firelight for them to actually see me, and with the awkwardness of a pre-teen at a school dance, asked if they had any water.

Silence.

“I’m hiking” I added somewhat lamely, as if that would completely clarify why a strange woman was asking for water, 50 miles from the closest metropolitan area.

Silence. And then.

“There is some water on those tables, near the bridal party.”

Sweet hallelujah! Oh lawd jesus I am saved! With the power of water I can do anything, I can hike all night! Wait… did she say bridal party?

And that, good readers, is how I accidentally on purpose crashed my first wedding.

Approaching the table like some skittish feral animal I scoped out the surrounding environment. Electric candles and discarded cans of PBR littered the picnic tables, drunk humans roved in loose packs all around me, bonfires illuminated the night, and literally not a single person seemed to register my presence. Filling my bottles with dirt-caked hands I only drew attention from one man, who seemed not to register the fact that I was toting a backpack, covered in dirt, and wearing an outfit that could best be described as a “dirtbag-hiker chic.” He grinned stupidly as his eyes roved from my feet, up my body, and finally resting on my face. Which, really should have alerted him to the fact that most wedding guests don’t wear headlamps and trucker hats, but what can I say, enough alcohol and you’ll start to think that boning a garbage can is a good idea. It was at this point in the evening that I retreated into the forest, set up my ground cloth on the outskirts of the revelers and was lulled to sleep by the sweet sweet melody of Shawty feat. T-Pain.

 

If you’d like an article about hiking the Silver Moccasin Trail that’s actually informative, check out the piece I wrote for RootsRated.

Posted on

Alone in the Desert

I’m walking by myself in the desert. Walk walk walk. The trail in front of me climbs gently, but relentlessly and I wait to rest until I reach the top of the climb. Around another corner, that must be the top I think, but it not. It’s not the top this time, nor the next time, nor the next. After a while I forget that I’m climbing. Maybe I’ll climb this hill forever I think. Maybe this is what hell is like, I think. Climbing an endless, unrelenting hill in the desert sun.

But it’s not so bad.

The sand is soft beneath my feet, and it’s not too hot yet. Maybe not hell, I think, maybe more like purgatory. It’s not so bad, out here all alone. Alone, but not lonely.

I look at the footsteps of those who have come before me. This trail is rarely traveled and so I can distinctly make out the two people who were here before me. Their footprints overlap, but it’s obvious to me that these people were as much strangers to each other as they are to me. You learn to pick up on these things when you spend lots of time hiking alone in the desert, or the mountains, or anywhere really.

A man in hiking boots, a woman in running shoes, Hoka’s I think. The woman was wearing Hoka’s. I fixate on her footprints as I climb and climb and climb up the hill. I wonder who this woman is, this trail runner, long distance hiker, invisible woman. She feels like a sister to me, this woman I’ll never meet. And now I don’t feel so alone out here, in this endless desert, under the biggest sky I’ve ever seen. Alone, but not lonely.

Unwanted, thoughts of my real life creep into my head and my mind spirals to everything that was left unfinished on my desk. All the people who want some little piece of my time, my energy, some little piece of me. I push the thoughts away, deep down where they can’t bother me anymore and I focus on the footprints of my desert sister.

Suddenly, I’m at a road crossing and a man in a white SUV driving too fast on the dirt road shoots past me. He has on big black Oakley sunglasses and looks angry in his big white car. I scurry away into the desert, further away from the road and the trailhead and the people. I didn’t come out here to be near other people.

For the next two days I’ll only see one other person on this trail. A man, covered in dust, with too big of a backpack going in the opposite direction of me. We smile, but neither of us slow down, we don’t stop to talk, that’s not why we’re out here.

I follow my desert sister’s footprints out onto a big plane that stretches out in every direction and falls away into the enormous blue sky. Out here I can only hear the wind, and the dry brush. The sun overhead is brilliant white and so powerful. But it’s not too hot today. And in between the breaths of wind it’s so so quiet. I’m all alone out here, just me and the desert wind, and my sister’s footprints. Alone, but not lonely, for the quiet is my home.

Posted on

In Short, I’m Lying to You

I wake up and scroll through Instagram, through an endless stream of beautiful pictures, places, people, food, fun, smiles, laughter, all captured in a tiny frame on my phone. I barely notice anymore who these pictures are from. Occasionally I double tap my approval on a picture. Do I even know this person? Does it matter? I open up my camera roll and I add my picture to the digital stack. I crank the saturation, add a vignette, up the warmth, gotta get those likes. It matters, doesn’t it? To finish it all off I type out a cheery phrase, detail where the photo was taken, some quippy remark that I’m certain nobody will ever read. Nobody ever does, that’s not the point. Gotta get those likes.

My photo says: adventure is so fun. It says: look at this effortless beauty. My phone says: travel is easy and carefree and I’m out there living my best life, just look at this photo, it’s proof. And you believe it. Don’t you?

Photo posted, I ease my body out of bed, my left knee is stiff and doesn’t straighten all the way, a holdover from two ACL surgeries during college that flares up after hours of walking. My feet pad onto the tile floor of the bathroom. The cool tiles feel soothing on the bottom of my swollen feet. Nobody tells you that when you walk all day your feet swell up and they’re hard to put into your cute flats for work on Monday. Nobody ever told me that after hiking through the wilderness for hours and hours on end that my skinny jeans would dig into my calves and ankles that are still puffy as many as three days after I’ve come home. Nobody tells you that. I won’t tell you that.

I don’t think I’ve ever told anybody how truly, remarkably, terrible adventure can be. How much chafe was endured just to get that fucking photo that get’s all those little likes. Because when you write it down like that, adventure doesn’t sound fun. And in many ways it isn’t fun. Pushing yourself outdoors, traveling cross country, seeing new things, climbing big hills, walking all the miles for all the hours until it’s dark and I climb into my little tent alone in the dark. It’s not fun. But it does bring me joy. It brings me more joy than almost anything in my life ever has.

But, nobody ever tells you that either.

 

Posted on

Your Adventure Doesn’t Need to be Sexy

 

Look at this fucking shit! You could go see this! For real!

I recently told my boyfriend that I harbor a secret fantasy. One in which every young person I see driving a Sprinter van, or a Ford econo-line is a total dirtbag, living out of said van and traveling the world, and that I’m incredibly envious of these fictional people that I’ve created in my mind. He was kind enough to burst my bubble and inform me that no, these people are probably just working delievery jobs and that not every 20-something is living the #vanlife and traveling the country. But it sometimes feels that way, doesn’t it? How many times do we check into social media only to see beautiful images of professional athletes in remote countries, or that one friend who just #wokeuplikethis to a stunning view of the Grand Canyon? Isn’t everybody traveling to some remote place without me?

The answer is simple: no.

And it’s probably for the exact same reason you’re not quitting your job, traveling the world and giving the proverbial middle finger to this capitalist quagmire that we’ve told ourselves is so important. It’s because they have debt, jobs, and responsibilities that they have to attend to. And besides, who has time for a real adventure like that! I mean, doesn’t every true adventure require quitting your job, or at least getting a job where you get paid to be a talented athlete and travel?

Again, the answer is a simple: no. Actually, it’s longer than that. It’s a fuck no, and I’m going to tell you why.

The internet is full of the best and worst versions of humanity, but what people tend to really fixate on is the best. Instagram and Pintrest are especially good at propping up every beautiful person who is #livingthedream in their #vanlife with their #adventuredog. These people are aspirational sure, but they’re also not real, or at least, they’re not honest. In the same way that the abs on whichever actress is on the cover of Glamour this week are not real, nor are they an honest representation of what that woman looks like. Those images are nothing more than the best snapshot of an event, with some heavy-handed photoshopping or filtering done before you get to see it.

The problem with these social media adventurers is that it gives us the impression that you have to chose between an epic adventure and an average life. That small adventures aren’t worth it, and that you as a “regular human” can’t attain them. But nothing could be further from the truth.

Your choice isn’t between climbing Everest and watching Netflix at home. Your choice isn’t between quitting your job for six months to hike through the Amazon, and sitting in a cubicle working forever. Your choice is as simple as choosing to go home and watch Netflix, versus hiking up a local trail and spending the night camping. It’s not all or nothing. It’s something attainable or nothing.

These small, everyday adventures are just as valuable as grand expeditions for one simple reason: you’ll actually do them. And better yet, you can do these small adventures and still be home to watch your kids soccer game. Yes, they will require some sacrifice, typically in the means of time, money, or energy, but if a small investment is enough to put you off of trying something new, then have fun beating level 12,456 of Candy Crush, we’ll be sure to put your high score on your tombstone.

Still reading? Cool.

Think about the time you have that isn’t already dedicated. The time before and after work, the weekends, the moments you spend watching TV or playing garbage games on your phone. What could you be doing with these moments instead? What could you accomplish if you forced yourself to do something new every weekend, or every day on your way home?

And look, I hear you life is complicated and hard and it takes planning and maybe you don’t have every weekend free, maybe you’re a mom with kids and you can’t get away that frequently. But just because you can’t get away every weekend doesn’t mean that you should never try.

Change is scary, trying something new is scary, stepping outside of your routine is scary. But you know what is also scary? The idea that you’re on this planet for a very short time, and that your ultimate goal should be to conform as strictly as possible. That’s a crazy fucked up idea! When was the last time you even looked around at how beautiful, how insanely incredible this planet is?

Let’s just take a moment to appreciate the fact that you live on a planet that has elephants, and ice cream, and pizza, and freaky fish with lights on their heads, and also giraffes, and balloon animals, and flowers that smell good, and fruit that smells like ass but somehow still tastes good, and blue skies and fuzzy slippers, and grass that just grows out of the fucking earth like a giant green carpet, and you’re telling me you’re fucking bored? That you’re “too busy” for adventure?

Well fuck that.

 

 

Posted on

A Motionless Purgatory

This was one of those rare days where I was powering uphill away from Keith. Normally, I’m the one in the back, slowly working my way up the hill as I watch Keith’s butt stride away from me. My method has always been: move slow, rest infrequently. My body is slow to warm up, and quick to cool down, meaning that a 15 minute rest doesn’t equal recovery, it means I now have to spend another mile getting my body warmed up again. Beyond the inner workings of my cardiovascular system, this hiking method works for me. I get bored really easily and I detest sitting still.

But, today was one of those rare days, and so I waited patiently for Keith, slowed my pace and stuck with my buddy as he has done countless times for me. Actually, what really happened is that I took the lead, put on the soundtrack to Hamilton and proceeded to have my own Broadway show as I danced and sang my way up the trail. Nothing slows you down quite so much as attempting to belt out show-tunes at 7,000ft. I think it’s fair to say that I’m an absolute joy to hike with.

Our original plan for the weekend was to practice snow safety skills with my brand new ice axe. But as we climbed it became apparent that as much snow as we had this winter, it was going to be hard to find a slope to practice on. With poor snow conditions and a tired boyfriend we opted to set up camp and spend the day relaxing in the mountains. It was certainly a novel concept, and I’m open to trying anything once.

With the tent pitched, pads inflated, and sleeping bags unfurled we were all set. Well, Keith was all set to nap, and I was all set to LOSE MY GODDAMN MIND! WHAT THE HELL DO PEOPLE DO FOR HOURS! WHAT EVEN IS RELAXING? LIKE, WHAT DOES THAT MEAN? While Keith dozed, I was in my own personal purgatory.

To most people the idea of sitting in a beautiful campsite overlooking an expansive valley would sound ideal. These are the same people who plan beach vacations, who use phrases like “time to unwind,” enjoy such “activities” as sunbathing, and that nebulous and insidious word “relaxing.” I don’t trust these people. I am not these people. I do not relax. I move. I walk. I interact with my world via passing through it. I appreciate nature and our wild spaces almost exclusively by traveling and being challenged by it.

How I passed the afternoon I can hardly recall. The pot that I had left in my food bag probably helped.

Luckily for me, Mama Nature is nothing if not a provider, willing to look after even her most fidgety children. That evening she put on the most spectacular sunset just for us.

Perched on a large rock just outside of camp Keith and I watched as the sun began to dip behind the hills and the high cirrus clouds were lit afire with the fading rays. The green pine tree-clad hills dipped to a royal purple, a distant lake glowed a shocking pink, and Catalina Island rose up from the golden waters of the Pacific Ocean like an ancient beast. As the scene dipped to black the lights in the valley below began to twinkle into life, a few at a time, and then all at once. In the dark we were the only two people on that mountain, holding court above the thousands of people below, evident only because of the lights of their homes, and cars, and parking lots.

As my butt fell asleep on that cold rock I thought about all those people down in the valleys and basins of Southern California. Did they even know we were up here? Do they look up to these mountains and feel the same pull that I do?

To me, these mountains are my home, my safe place. My heart lives in the mountains. And they have ways of teaching me things that I could not have learned myself. Without even noticing it I had sat on that rock, motionless, as I watched the sun set. I had found a way (or been forced), to relax for once and enjoy the moment, the company, and the view. I guess today was just one of those rare days.

Posted on

Backpacking – A Checklist

Backpacking is the best. It just is. You get to walk into nature with everything you need for your own survival on your back. You get to see more nature, fewer people, and most people will think you’re a crazy bad-ass for even attempting it. However, a lot of people hit a barrier when they attempt to make the transition from day hiker to backpacker, and that stumbling block all comes down to one thing: too much fucking gear.

I subscribe to a style of backpacking I’ve dubbed “comfort ultralight.” And while this may seem like a contradiction in terms, I think it’s a style of backpacking that everybody should adopt. And I’m not just saying that because it’s my personal preference. Ok, maybe I am saying that a little bit, but I have other reasons too! Promise.

I used to not be the biggest fan of backpacking, I hated lugging all that shit around, being weighed down, and seeing less stuff in more time. At a certain point backpacking just becomes slow-hiking-with-camping-thrown-in-because-you-packed-too-much-crap-and-now-you-can’t-walk-fast, and that sucks. However, if you can cut down on your setup, you’ll move more comfortably, see more and enjoy those sights more without the strain of a 50lb pack on, and once you’re home you’ll have way less garbage to unpack and wash. There are so few downsides to this style of travel it’s incredible to me that people pack any other way.

The largest outcry that random old white dudes on the internet named Trent, or Chad, or Brent or Wally have expressed with this kind of travel is safety. How can a poor little girl travel safely in the wilderness without five extra pairs of wool socks!?!?!? They exclaim. Well, Chad, I do it by ensuring that everything I do bring on the trail has a specific function in keeping me alive. I also make sure to tell people where it is I’m going, and unlike angry Facebook Brent, I have a strong predilection for bailing in sketchy situations. Besides, when stuff goes sideways, having two extra pairs of underwear isn’t going to be the X-Factor in keeping you alive.

Ultralight comfort could be summed up with the following: every piece of gear should serve at least one necessary function, be light, be durable, and have no redundancies.

So what does that actually mean? Probably not a lot, unless you already have a gear list in mind. So I’ve created a list for a typical three-season set up that is light, safe, and comfortable.

Comfort Backpacking

 

Hey guys a little housekeeping here! First off, did you know that you can subscribe to this blog? Yep, just scroll down to the bottom of the page and enter your e-mail and you’ll be automatically notified when I post (ahhh the future). Second, if you have any questions about this list post a comment on this post and I’ll make an effort to respond!

Posted on

Do it Yourself – Build Your Own F–king Fire!

 

 

From the saddle above Romero Canyon near Santa Barbara. SB is a great area for beginner bacpackers.

Last weekend I built a fire. And it burned, nicely. And I put it out. And it was great. And I was very proud of myself. Very proud. Stupid proud.

So, why am I telling you this?

Because, if I’m camping with my boyfriend, 90% of the time I’ll let him light and tend the fire. And until recently, I used to let him pick the routes we hiked, I’d follow his path when we needed to route-find, even after learning that he’s not very gifted when it comes to a sense of direction (sorry babe, but we both know it’s true). Even in all the situations where I knew I could lead, I would simply let him do it. This fire was one of the first I’d built and tended myself in years. Years people!

But, why?

The answer is simple: because there was nobody else to do it for me.

Looking south along the coast on Romero Road.

I grew up in a household with a strong and fiercely intelligent mother, she was the breadwinner in our family, and she worked to show my sister and me that we were no less competent, intelligent, or valuable than our male peers. My father was also instrumental in this process, teaching us how to fix things around the house, as well as how to cook for ourselves. However, as I grew up and made my way through the world I quickly learned that my parents feminist views were not universally shared. Going through highschool and college I gravitated towards male-dominated careers, and it was here where societies little standards began to creep into my head.

My male peers often assumed I was less physically able, weaker. That they were inherently more talented than I was. I even had a male subordinate tell me that I needed to “show him more respect,” and that by expecting that he do his job without complaining, I was somehow shattering his worldview in which he was the center of attention. Society has told men all their lives that they had the right to be leaders, the privilege to speak for the group.

Meanwhile society told me, my sister, and every female friend I’ve ever had that we should be seen, not heard. Women are meant to be consumed in our society, we’re meant to be pretty, quiet, passive little creatures. And slowly without realizing it, I began to accept these views as truths. I began to let my boyfriend light the fires, even though I was no less capable or knowledgeable.

And this my friends, is where I get to the point. I think women need to take every opportunity they can to be placed in a position to lead. Whether that be through solo adventures, or with groups of women. This is the real power of solo female travel, and female-only spaces and events. They’re not meant to be exclusionary to men, they’re intended to show women how much power and competence they have. When you’re by yourself, or surrounded by other women, there are no societal pressures to cede your power to a man, you have to learn to suck it up and become the leader you already are, use the skills you already have, build the fucking fire you already know how to build!

Heading into Blue Canyon and the true backcountry.

So Wait, How Do I Actually Build A Fire?
Building a fire is really not as hard as people make it out to be, but it does take some practice to get right. Here are the six steps I follow every time:

Fires are cool kids. Just remember to put them out fully.

1) Prep.
Look around your campsite and gather the following: kindling, in the form of dry leaves, small dry twigs, and or dry pine needles. Why do I feel the need to keep saying ‘dry’? Because it’s going to make this whole process a heck of alot easier and faster. You’ll also need second stage burners. These are sticks that are about a thumb thick, and 7-18 inches long. Last you’ll need your big logs, think larger than your forearm, smaller than your thigh. Gather lots of the above… and by lots I mean double what you think you’ll need.

2) Build your base.
I know everybody wants that picturesque tee-pee fire like you’re used to seeing on TV, but it’s not a very effective way to start. The easiest way is to build a lean-to fire. Take one of your big logs that will fit in your fire pit and lay it flat on the bottom of the pit. Next pile your kindling next to the middle of the log in the bottom of the pit along with some small sticks propped up against the log. This gives your kindling air-flow, and positions a big log to start burning right away.

3) Light your kindling.
Have your matches/lighter and your kindling as well as small sticks and second stage burners all on hand. Light a small section of your kindling on fire and blow to spread the flames.

4) Move fast.
Once your kindling is lit, you want to start throwing on lots of kindling quickly, followed by the second stage burners, and one big log. One of the biggest bits of misinformation I hear thrown around is that you’ll smother your fire. You won’t. Your fire is more likely to go out because it didn’t have enough to burn. Throw a bunch of your little sticks and kindling in there, and once those are lit throw on a few of the mid-size sticks. The kindling will burn bright and hot, but not for very long, so you need to take advantage of the burning kindling to ignite your larger logs.

5) Time for the Big Guns.
Once your mid-sized sticks are fully burning, throw in one or two of the big logs, using the base log in the bottom of the pit to prop them up, to allow air to circulate, and give the fire someplace to go. (Remember: Fire burns up, not down).

6) Tend.
A fire isn’t a one and done. You’ll need to be placing new logs on the fire, moving the existing ones around, and tending to it. The good news is, as an over-stimulated millenial, this will give you something to play with since your phone won’t have service to refresh your Twitter feed.

Posted on

Monday Action Post – March 13

Look, the world seems messed up and scary right now, it’s crazy and I totally hear you. I also know that it can seem so overwhelming to reach out and do something without any guidance on how best to spend your time, efforts, and energy. Again, I totally get it. But let’s make a collective move from Freakout-Ville and take the productivity train to Change-Town! It will be fun, I promise.

Each Monday I’ll be doing a quick post that helps you get involved, and better yet, gives you an asset or information for something you can do right now.

This week, I’m not pulling any fucking punches. President Trump has repeatedly shown that he views women as less than human, less than deserving of medical care that treats them in their entirety. And you know what? Reproductive health is human health. And sometimes that health means getting an abortion.

Our president, serving on behalf of right-wing religious groups, has taken steps to limit access to health care and reproductive health care for people in this country and outside of it. Remember, this is the man who signed the Mexico City policy back into effect as one of his first actions in office. You can read more about that here. It’s for these reasons and others that I want to draw your attention to an organization that is working to protect and facilitate access to reproductive rights.

Donate to The National Network of Abortion Funds, an organization that works to remove the financial barriers that some women face when seeking an abortion. Another good option is donating to Planned Parenthood who have been under repeated attack from our government, despite the fact that offering abortions is only a small portion of their mission.

Remember, reproductive rights, are women’s rights. Women are humans. Thus, reproductive rights are human rights. So don’t let president cheeto take that away from you.

Posted on

A Dumpster-Fire of Joy

I think we’ve all seen those commercials for Las Vegas. Lots of pretty, generic-looking women, decked out in ankle-breaking heels and sequined dresses. You know the ones. Groups of Jersey Shore rejects dancing to top 40 songs, drinking Malibu, and pretending that they’re having a wild and crazy experience. What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas they say, pretending for just a minute that they’re not going to spray this all over Instagram the second their hangover let’s them look at their phones again. This is the time of your life! Aren’t you wild! they say.

Those ads are bullshit. If you want to see some wild crap, spend a weekend in the woods with the raging freak-show that is a Purdue Outing Club reunion or, POC for short. I’ve spend three such weekends with these loveable weirdos, and let me tell you, they’re one David Attenborough voice-over from something you’d see on Discovery channel. And I mean that in the best way possible.

The view from our cabin.

* The names of people have been omitted because, let’s face it, your mom probably doesn’t want to know that you ate an Oreo out of your boyfriend’s butt crack (note: this was not me).

**What, did you think I was fucking kidding when I said these weekends we’re debaucherous? POC don’t play around when it comes to truth or dare. 

When I think of my undoing that weekend, it all comes back to a single contraption, brought to the party by an endearingly sadistic POC-er. Picture a hastily-made miniature wheel of fortune in which the only outcomes are either increased alcohol consumption, or public humiliation. You know, like playing russian roulette with a fully loaded gun. It’s fun.

The evening started off innocuously enough, with a fully-nude hot tub session in which we managed to cram 15 grown-ass adults into a single tub. I’ve never been entirely sure where the propensity for nudity came from at POC reunions, but it’s safe to say that anybody who has attended one has been subject to at least one accidentally seen asshole. Or, as might be the case from my first POC reunion, the asshole you’re trying not to stare into like the Eye of Sauron from the Lord of the Rings, is being intentionally displayed for your viewing pleasure. My precioussssssssss…..

Anyway.

The night began to unspool in an endless stream of drinks, laughter, magical hamburgers, and spin after spin on the drink-wheel-0f-torture/fun. People swirl in and out of the room. Another hot-tub session is instigated. A man takes a naked lap around the house in the snow. Then a woman does the same. Shots are taken off of previously-unthought of body parts. The man that I love shotguns a beer like a champ. People cheer. Clothes are swapped and then swapped again until the women in the room look like Tom-Boy children and the men strut around the room in skin-tight yoga pants. I laugh until tears stream down my face and I cannot breathe. Everyone in the room is hysterically, and unendingly funny.

The next day we’ll get up and hike to a lookout high above the verdant Washington forrest. We’ll sit around eating cold leftover hamburgers as our hangovers leach out of us into the cool Washington air. That night we’ll do it all again. On Monday we’ll ski, making lap after lap through the powder  which barely conceals the blue ice, working feverishly for a few good turns each run, and raucously cheering on our fellow skiers from the chairlift in a way that is hilarous only to us.

On Tuesday morning I’ll return to Los Angeles where people will ask me how my weekend was. I’ll say it was fine. Fun. We went skiing. The askers will smile in a vague sort of way and the conversation will move on. In truth, I barely have the words to explain these POC reunions. I’m stuck relying on a phrase, drunkenly uttered into the dark amongst friends and half-strangers in a hot tub. It’s like a dumpster-fire of joy.