Gut Check Moments

It is one of those gut check moments. You know the ones that I am talking about. It’s the moment like when your finger hovers over the button to call the girl you are crushing on. It’s the moment when you are standing on top of the cliff looking fifty feet down to the water. It’s the moment when you think about clicking that button that sends your application off to your dream professional school. It’s like a moment when you step up to that climb that has a high likelihood of kicking your butt. Like I said, it’s a gut check moment.

A lot could have passed to bring you to this moment. Maybe it was goals or maybe it was peer pressure. It could have been pride or it could have been dreams. It doesn't matter what brought you here; what matters is what you decide to do next. Each gut check moment is supplied with two doors: one in the front and another in the back, thusly providing you with two options. Option 1: You can sheepishly retreat through the back door, eyes lowered, tail between your legs, having decided that the risk is too great, your confidence too low, and your fears too large. Option 2: You can kick down the front door, knocking your fears and misgivings aside like bowling pins, and charge out ahead into whatever is waiting.

I suppose there are pros and cons to each option. Option 1 neatly eliminates the chance of failure, but just as succinctly destroys any chance of success in the unattempted endeavor. In order to bypass the possible shame, strains, and struggles involved in a botched attempt, one must take a detour which also circumvents the elation, ecstasy, and the excitement that accompany a successful one. Option 2, while holding higher risks, also promises greater rewards. When one charges out the front door, he does so fixed upon embracing whatever it is that lies on the other side, both the terrible and the terrific.

So here I am, in one of those gut check moments. For the last decade, I have numbered myself among the ranks of the snowboarders. Since the age of fourteen, I have always chosen to strap myself to one big piece of plastic when I go to slide over frozen crystallized water. I have always thought myself happy there and never have seriously considered the option of converting to skis. One day, on impulse, I borrowed some skis from a friend and spent half a day taking my first turns. This first exposure was enough to spark a curiosity within me. Somehow, this curiosity solidified itself into a desire concrete enough that this fall at a ski swap, I walked away with a pair of skis. Within a couple of weeks, I had also purchased boots and poles. I now had everything I needed to ski. Well, almost everything.

When Paul told me we should go follow some boot pack trails and then ski at Alta ski resort on Saturday, I envisioned finding a low grade bunny hill to match my low grade ski skills. I agreed and that morning found Paul and me en route to a pre season ski session. Low grade bunny hill didn't even register on Paul's radar though and after following a steep trail of boot tracks for almost two hours, I find myself high on a saddle of a mountain, a steep powder bowl directly below me. Paul has shrugged off my attempts to tell him that this is probably above my level, telling me that I will be fine. I take my pack off and set my skis in the snow, and then turn and look once again down the steep slope. I gaze back at the unfamiliar plastic pieces that lie there, looking back at me. I heft the poles in my hand and with some trepidation and hesitation, step onto the bindings of the skis. As the click of the bindings reaches my ears, I close my eyes for a second.

Here it is: one of those gut check moments. I can sneak out the back door. It’s still open. I can take the skis back off, slide down the slope on my butt, walk to the car, post the skis on KSL and forget that the whole thing ever happened. I can convince myself that I am perfectly happy as a snowboarder and that I never even really wanted to change.

I shift my weight from one foot to the other as the crunching of snow beneath my skis accompanies my movements. I look at the front door. This front door has double black diamond stamped all over it. Gut check time.

I shove both poles deep into the hill and push off down the mountain, out the front door, ready to face what may. For the first few seconds I glide effortlessly through the powder. A smile appears on my face. Then, as I attempt to make a turn, my skis cross, my body flips and the next thing I know, I am face down in the powder, my legs twisted awkwardly far behind me. I am still smiling though. No matter how sore I am tomorrow, it sure feels good to go out the front door.

The Best Things in Life are.....

The old saying goes that the best things in life are free. I suppose this point is debatable, but I tend to agree. There is a certain sweetness that comes with getting stuff or doing things without having to pay for them. This is evidenced in long lines for free stuff, people willing to go to extreme lengths for a gift certificate (for instance the nastiest kiss contest at the 9:00 bingo), or elaborate methods to sneak into events without having to pay. We seem to be wired to enjoy something for nothing.
Nothing helps me to enjoy free things more than a rapid dwindling of my bank account as the semester begins. First it’s a few thousand dollars to attend classes at this fine land grant University, then a few hundred dollars to buy the book so I don't fail said classes, then a few dollars to buy some chocolate milk to sulk when I do.

I suppose this was the initial inspiration for the pack trip from Tony's Grove lake, up and over Mt. Naomi, and down to High Creek. In these, the dwindling days of summer, the last few weeks of warm weather before the evil tyranny of old man winter once again gains his throttle hold upon Cache Valley, the hills beckoned to me and my three friends. They seemed to promise untold adventures, beautiful scenery, and the attractive price tag of zero dollars. What could top that?
The plans were set, the gear was assembled, and the rides were arranged. Since we weren't going to spend anything else, I justified buying a new headlamp and some dehydrated meals (I couldn't say no to the blueberry cheesecake). Six o'clock Friday afternoon found us in the car headed up Logan Canyon towards Tony's Grove. The windows were down, the weather was warm, and the traffic was horrible. Once we finally turned off of 89 towards Tony's Grove, I put the pedal to the floor, trying to make up for lost time. Maybe it cost a few extra dollars in gas, but the rest of the trip was cheap so I didn't stress.
Arriving at the lake, we quickly piled out of the car, shouldered our packs, and set off down the trail. The sun was sinking low in the sky and we set off at a quick pace to reach the peak before we lost the light. As we climbed upwards, the soft light of the setting sun illuminated the landscape. We were alone in a world of limestone, rocks, and dirt warmed in the last few moments of the day. As we hiked over ridges, scrambled up steep sections of the trail, and moved through groves of pine trees, my worries about school and money evaporated from my consciousness. Nothing to worry about here but moving up the trail.
We reached the peak just in time to watch the sun set over Cache Valley. We soaked up the view, and enjoyed some Sweet and Salty Bars we had bought just for this occasion. From the top of Naomi, one can see from Preston to Providence. Dusk settled over the valley before continuing down the trail on the other side of Mount Naomi. We followed the steep trail down for another two miles where we set up camp on a ridge above High Creek Lake.

Water was soon boiling on the stove. The food was rehydrated, masticated, swallowed, and enjoyed by all. We lit a fire and passed around the bag of freeze dried cheesecake savoring each mouthful. Stars filled the sky, and the night was the epitome of calm. I settled into my hammock and let the events of the day run through my head. Here I was, free in the wilderness, on my free backpacking trip.
As I thought about it, I guess I couldn't really say it was free. I had bought the headlamp, moleskin to cover the blisters on my feet, granola bars, food, and gas to haul our butts up to the trailhead. I guess this “free” pack trip had also wreaked its havoc on my bank account. I had to admit though, it was worth every cent. Thinking about the cheesecake we had just eaten, a smile creased my face. As I thought about it, I decided that maybe, just maybe, the best things in life are freeze dried.

An allitererative.......

As an aficionado of alliteration, allow a personal aspiration to be actualized.
Basic beliefs benefits the bearer by bearing the brunt of the brutality.
Careful charitable choices can cause the cessation of cynical calls.
Doing dangerous deeds does not definitively demand the defiance of the denominator Death.
Effective effigies encourage endearment.
Fears frequently fight for failure and freak outs.

....to be continued

Échale Ganas

Heads up boys, its time for war. Nine months of preparation, nine months of work. You will get to rest after today, you will get to be done. 

We go to war.

I don't mind

I don't mind it when my water tastes like plastic. That is because when my water tastes like plastic, I am usually wearing a Camelback. If I am wearing my Camelback, I am usually on my mountain bike. If I am on my mountainbike wearing my Camelback, I am usually somewhere up a canyon on a trail, my legs burning, my heart pumping, and my face smiling. So I don't mind it when my water tastes like plastic. I actually sort of like it.

I don't mind it, when my hands turn black. This is because when my hands turn black, I have been handling a rope. If I have been handling a rope enough that my hands turn black, its probably because I have been belaying someone while they rock climb. If I am belaying someone while I rock climb, its also very likely that I myself have been rock climbing. My arms are tired, my blackened hands covered in chalk, and my face smiling. I don't mind it when my hands turn black. I actually sort of like it.

I don't mind it when I get grease under my fingernails. This is because if I have grease under my fingernails, I have been working with something greasy. It is likely that I am in the shop, tearing down a bicycle, or an engine, or something that I work on with my hands. It means that I am not in the library, studying until my brain hurts, or bored inside. I have things to do and hands to do it with, and if they get greasy in the process, then so be it. I don't mind when I get grease under my fingernails. I actually sort of like it.

I don't mind it when my brain hurts. This is because when my brain hurts, it means I have been thinking hard. If I have been thinking hard it means I have been studying and learning. If I am studying and learning, then I know more now than when I started the day. I may not be able to remember my phone number or how to get home, but man do I know a lot. I don't mind it when my brain hurts. I actually sort of like it.

I don't mind it when I am alone sometimes. This is because when I am alone, I get to listen to my thoughts, and think of why I thought them. I get those precious moments of silence, when I remember that when I am alone, I am not ever alone. I don't mind when I am alone. I actually sort of like it.

I don't mind when life gets hard. Actually, in the moment, I do mind when life gets hard. It really sucks. But life doesn't stay hard for that long. Life has a way of knowing how much I can take, and lightening up when I am about to crack. Life has a way of taking those hard times and flipping them into some of the greatest lessons I have ever learned. Life takes those hard times and makes me out of them. So in the moment, I do mind when life is hard. But I hang on, my neck bent to match my knees. Eventually I won't mind when life gets hard. I actually will be thankful it did.

A short analysis,

I took some time to ponder on why I overanalyze things. Futility at its finest.

Dear Dusty,

I started wondering what if would be like to get letters from future me. I thought of the pleasure and convenience of receiving instructions, warnings, and hints about what was coming my way. It would take out all of the guesswork, the unforeseen disappointments, and surprise gut shots that life has a tendency to throw in one's path. How would it feel to know what was around the next corner and be braced and ready for it when it came? To know not not to try to ride your bike with no handlebars, that that girl will only break your heart, and that you would make your best friends at college.
I thought about wise old me, about to die, finishing the instruction book for my life. It would read like an autobiography, telling the story of me. I would have taken a red pen though, and edited the parts I wish I could have changed, and with a green pen, circled my favorite parts. The margins would be filled with notes and warnings written by myself to myself, a careful guide to make my life perfect. I would sign the inside of the cover to make sure I knew it was from me, because I knew that I would trust myself. I would seal the book in a manila envelope addressed to myself decades before and send it off.
Or would I? Wise old me would heft the book filled envelope, testing its weight. Decisions lay heavy on all of us, but a life of decisions made for us is even heavier. The postage would be ridiculous.
I got a letter from myself today. It was a single sheet of paper, with only one written line. It read......

Dear Dusty,

Enjoy the Ride.

Dusty