tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42883682028267649402024-03-04T20:47:04.034-08:00All Things EPICJi!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.comBlogger204125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-77356879981012101912017-10-11T01:20:00.002-07:002017-10-11T08:11:49.019-07:00The One About The GunsLet's start today's incessant rambling by taking a trip back to the mid 80's in rural eastern Oregon. I drove the feed truck for my dad before I could reach the pedals. He was on the back throwing off hay to the cows every morning before he went to work and I caught the school bus. There was always a .30-06 or a .222 in the front seat--stock against the seat, barrel on the floorboard. And a .22 in the gun rack. That was totally normal. Coyotes and badgers were the target. An occasional old cow who was suffering had to be destroyed out of mercy.<br />
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Fall meant hunting season. Hunting meant time off school and a huge elk camp. My dad and all his brothers knew where every deer and every elk in Grant County was and the patterns and weather in which they moved. This is evidenced by the amazing bucks and bulls on the walls of all their houses. Some people drop thousands of dollars to kill game like these. Not my family. It was just a way of life. We all had guns. I took hunter's safety. I shot a tiny buck in Council, ID when I was 21 and cried. I never pulled the trigger on a mammal again. That's just me. I was not hungry when I shot that buck and I personally prefer to see them alive and running through hay fields. If I was hungry, I would feel differently. I support those who hunt for sport. I have packed elk and deer out on horses and ATVs. I have helped skin and gut. I just cannot kill a deer or elk. My deal--no judgment or condemnation whatsoever to anyone who hunts.<br />
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Then I started working at a retriever kennel and subsequently hunting pheasants, ducks and geese. I bought a Beretta Urika AL391. God, I loved that gun. I shot a lot of clay targets and some birds. But I genuinely loved to see the dogs retrieve. It was in their blood, it was innate. I loved to watch my labs shake with excitement. I was observing pure instinct and DNA programmed to do nothing else. When I got my gun out, my dog knew what was going on. Gunshots meant it was time for her to find a bird. We were both in heaven. I moved to Colorado, knew absolutely no one who hunted waterfowl, my dog got old and I sold my gun at a show for money to buy a mountain bike.<br />
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Yes, I owned a gun. A semi-automatic, gas operated 12 gauge. I was stoked to not have to pump it like my brother's 870 I had been shooting. I drooled for months over the Bennelli SBE with inertia recoil, but it was out of my price range at the time.<br />
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My dad taught me everything about guns. How to shoot, what they were for, where they were kept, how they were to be cleaned, and most of all safety and respect. They were tools. My brothers and I knew they were not to shoot people and being stupid with them meant someone was going to get killed. So we weren't stupid with them. Because guns are tools. Tools to get dinner, tools to shoot targets, tools to have mercy on suffering animals or protect baby calves and the cats.<br />
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I would never trade how or where I grew up. I am who I am because I had parents who loved us more than they loved themselves. They knew they were responsible for cultivating little humans into good people and responsible citizens. Salt of the earth, kind, caring, hardworking people, my mom and dad spent time with us. They talked to us, taught us, made us work, supported us to follow our dreams and worked hard to raise us. We weren't rich, but we never went hungry, we always had clothes and they sacrificed so I could play every sport out there and compete with my horses. They did an amazing job. And it was a hard job, because my bothers were both absolute hellions in high school. I say that with loving humor. They were small-town boys who raised hell in a small town. They grew out of it eventually and we all laugh about the antics they will admit to today. I vehemently disagree with the political views most of the county promotes. I never did agree with any of it, and never will. My heart screamed out different views based on, ironically, the fact that I was taught to love and respect ALL people, not just those people like me. But, whoa there, Jill, this is a can of worms that doesn't need spilled here. Simmer down, everyone. I lovingly agree to disagree.<br />
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So, now, lets jump back to a couple of months before I was at the Route 91 Festival in Las Vegas:<br />
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On the night of some supposed meteor shower, a friend and I loaded up firewood, bikes and guns and headed up Missionary Ridge Road. We built a huge fire, solved the world's problems from the two lawn chairs we held down for hours and talked about our ride the next morning. The meteor shower only yielded one spectacular burst of light I saw from my sleeping bag and the impending pedal adventure and the thought of shooting some big guns the next day were the two things on my mind before hitting dreamland.<br />
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The following afternoon, a black case holding some kind of big gun with a huge clip appeared in front of me. It was a spectacular feeling to shoot a bazillion rounds into a plywood target. The force that splintered the wood was exhilarating and my respect for that kind of firearm and the people who shoot them accurately for sport, deepened. The handgun I shot after my friend unloaded the clip and mowed down a young Aspen tree could not hold a candle to the excitement I felt shooting a rifle like that.<br />
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Because of how I was raised, I had no fear of the gun. I was full of respect and awe. As I am not primarily composed of testosterone, I did not feel powerful or aggressive or violent. I did not grunt or spit or yell "Murica!!" But most poignantly, I never once thought about taking another human or an animal's life with this type of gun. This gun is meant to be shot at targets.<br />
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Responsible, ethical, law-abiding gun owners know this. They do and should have the right to bear arms. They know that guns are tools. Tools for sport and tools for protection if needed. They have respect for this tool and use it responsibly.<br />
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Is all of America composed of non-violent, benevolent citizens who uphold the values in the previous paragraph?<br />
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Do we live in a country where violent shootouts don't occur on the big screen and glamorize killing people to make millions? Are there are no violent ideas and effects that seep into minds of both young and old?<br />
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Do we live in a country where the NRA pumps more money into mental health education and care than the Trump campaign? Do they fund art and sports programs for schools to provide alternatives to gangs and violence like they fund Congress?<br />
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Do we live in a world that is supportive of all views, colors, shapes, sizes, beliefs?<br />
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If you have been living a life void of social media, the internet, newspapers and TV, send me an email and I will give you the answers to these questions. And probably ask under which rock I can join you. Otherwise, we all know the answers, so I will spare myself the needless keystrokes.<br />
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This leads me to more questions:<br />
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<i>How would you feel if the person you loved the most on this planet was one of the 59 you will only see in pictures from now on? </i><br />
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<i>Or how would you feel if your child was gunned down at Sandy Hook right before Christmas?</i><br />
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<i>What if your Colorado mountain wedding was in a month and your fiancee decided she wanted to see Heath Ledger play the joker in Aurora?</i><br />
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I kick myself for not speaking out more and speaking out loudly until I was the one who was running for my life because these guns (THESE EXACT GUNS) were being fired at me. Look closely. See those shells? They are the remnants of death, pain and suffering.<br />
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<i>These are two of the guns that stopped the hearts of 59 people who did nothing to deserve it.</i><br />
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59 people in Las Vegas paid for our failure to keep these guns out of the hands of a madman with their precious lives. They paid for our failure as Americans to track the killer's accumulation of 33 guns. They paid for our failure as Americans to come to terms with the fact that gun-control legislation is now necessary because of how we promote violence, how we hate each other because we are different, how aggressive and angry we have become and how no one has done anything that has even REDUCED the massacres.<br />
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The arguments "people kill people, guns don't kill people" "maniacs will get the guns somehow and continue" are outdated, incredibly selfish, extremely weak and hold no validity any longer. Taking a look at the number of people slaughtered for no reason and the number of occurrences should give any one with a shred of a conscience the sense of urgency to advocate for legislation to at least STOP these maniacs from obtaining 33 guns LEGALLY.<br />
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Perhaps the sentence that is plastered on the window of the NRA headquarters "if they can ban one, they can ban them all" infuriates and deeply saddens me the most. This is a disgusting use of one of the greatest forms of control of people--fear. There is no proof or logic or validity to that statement, but people will believe it and not even question it. They will band together in the name of fear of losing all their guns and polarity is created. Sickening!<br />
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FUCK YOU, NRA!!<br />
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Well, I opened the can I said I wouldn't. But I owe it to every one who died in Vegas and all the massacres prior to Vegas. My heart won't let me stay quiet any longer. The right thing to do (the way I was taught by my parents and my rural community) is to be part of a solution, not just a self-centered bystander too scared to speak up!<br />
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Below is a diagram. I was standing in the red that outlines the white dot.<br />
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Yeah. That's where I was standing.<br />
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Eric Church wrote a song titled "Why Not Me?" I have not listened to it yet. It will break me. I am not healed enough yet to process it in a healthy way. Why? It was the same question I was asking myself as I was hiding by the tire of a Ford truck in a parking garage, realizing I was going to live after running for my life. I do not even know why my brain went there. I cannot give you a clear answer yet. Pretty messed up, huh?<br />
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I write to heal. I write to inspire. Its raw and its real. I pray it stirs SOMETHING inside of you to do what you know is right. We don't live in 1791 (the year the Bill of Rights was adopted), we don't live in 1971 or even 1991 anymore. This is 2017. The weapons (and the number he stockpiled) the killer used must be made harder to obtain legally. Stop being controlled by fear of losing ol' Betsy and your favorite elk rifle. You are not going to lose those guns!! Stop being told what to think. Reject the bullshit you are being fed with a spoon that intelligent, strict gun-control legislation aimed at preventing massacres will result in you losing all your guns.<br />
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We (yes, we the ones who are living) owe it to those who are now dead at the hands of maniacs with guns they should not have acquired legally to reject this fear, get off our asses and do something!<br />
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<br />Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-28778117063799753992017-10-06T01:32:00.003-07:002017-10-06T07:47:12.098-07:00"What Do You Need?"<br />
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This is the question I have gotten more than any other in the aftermath of Las Vegas. From Sunday night to Thursday morning, I honestly could not answer that question. What exactly do those words mean?<br />
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Well, I want a cabin in Ouray, a massage in a remote and primitive hot springs, a plane ticket to Auckland, a horsetrailer, an amazing guy who wants to chase down epic shit, and maybe a stiff drink on Friday night.....Ok, ok, so I digress....<br />
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Oh, what do I NEED after being shot at a couple hundred times by a crazy guy who somehow got his arsenal of guns up to the 32nd floor of his hotel? Hmmmm, well, all my friends keep sending me all this PTSD stuff. What is that? What does that mean? Crisis debriefing? Take care of yourself? Go talk to someone? Why? I don't need anything. The replays of bullets in my ears and the pictures of the mass panic have stopped repeating in my head every 10 minutes. I am brimming with gratitude for the very fact that I have my precious life to keep living and as motivated as ever to help in any way I can to stop this from happening again. I'm good. What are you talking about? I got on my bike and rode it all out on Wednesday.....<br />
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So I thought. Enter yesterday morning when everything I did not feel immediately totally blindsided me. WTF is happening? Why am I unable to get out of bed after ten hours of sleep? Why does my brain feel like I am on a carnival ride? Why am I in my house but think I am in a hotel bed? Ummm, what day is it? I think I have a meeting or two at work today, but I am not sure what day it really is. Shit, what time is it? Hmmmm, I don't really care. I'll work from home today. What does this email say? Crap, I was supposed to get that done yesterday. Which client needs staff? Who is their case manager? I have no idea what I just read. Why do I want to cry?<br />
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Yeah, so maybe I do need some time off to heal mind and soul.<br />
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I cleared my calendar and took Thursday to go breathe some high mountain air and soak up the fall sunshine. I thought a lot about what I need. I found it extremely difficult to ask myself this question. The difficulty came due to the fact this is a question I only ask others, and never answer.<br />
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After returning home this evening, here are the words that so pitifully describe what is stirring inside my heart:<br />
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First and foremost, I need you to watch from about 1:07 to the end of this and listen to my voice as the clip closes. This was the first news I watched after leaving Vegas and I was stunned to see someone near me had submitted their footage.<br />
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/goog_1414441110"><br /></a>
<a href="http://people.com/crime/las-vegas-shooting-paramedic-recalls-agonizing-decisions/">http://people.com/crime/las-vegas-shooting-paramedic-recalls-agonizing-decisions/</a><br />
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Now.......I need you to look up from your screen and into the part of your soul that still harbors optimism and genuinely believes those words. And I need you to begin to nurture that belief again. I need you to water and feed it and let the light shine on it again.<br />
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<i>"It's gonna be ok guys, it's gonna be ok..."</i><br />
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Roger that? Maybe your belief is alive and well and bearing fruit, maybe it looks like the wilted tomato plant growing in my office that did not get watered while I was on vacation or maybe it is a half-dead seed that has not sprouted? Whatever it looks like, I need you to get your gloves out and tend to it. Then I need you to start giving seeds and starts of that belief to others around you and others far from you.<br />
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That's the tough part.<br />
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You are likely shaking your head and half-smirking at your screen right now at the absurdity of the notion that you are going to make anyone believe that. And how weird of a conversation would that be anyway?<br />
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"So, hey, um, Mr. Pissedoffattheworldangrypassiveaggressiveaccountant, I just want you to start believing it will be ok"<br />
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"And, hey there, Ms. Mybackhurtsihavethreekidsandicantpaymybillsworkingattacobell, yeah, so, its gonna be ok"<br />
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"Whooooa there, Miss Iwillpostabsolutleyanythingonfacebooktentimesadayforattentionandvalidation,<br />
remember its gonna be ok"<br />
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Yeah, pretty weird dialogue. So try this instead.<br />
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<i>Learn how to feel empathy for others' pain or circumstances you do not personally experience </i><br />
<i><br /></i>And now you are asking your screen how the hell that is even possible anymore? I have an amazingly succinct and ridiculously simple answer. Turn your eyes outward and begin to SEE and LISTEN to others. I mean authentically, not out of insinuated obligation. Pay attention. Get your eyes off of yourself and your "problems." Tap into the humanity you share with those very like you and those very unlike you. The blood you bleed? The pants you put on one leg at a time? The loneliness you feel tapping a screen? The fear of failure/rejection you feel? The "something more" you can't put words to, but you are searching for? The confusion? The elation? We ALL feel it. We all go through it.<br />
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Reach into that scary place your feelings reside. Come on. Do it.<br />
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What do you feel and what do you need? A smile? A genuine connection? Some authentic interactions? An ear? 5 bucks for gas? A shift covered? A homemade dinner? A huge hug? A friend to make you laugh? A friend to hold a punching bag? Some encouragement? A kind compliment? Someone who can fix your car? Have a beer and a laugh with you? A babysitter? You get it.<br />
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Stand in their shoes. Empathize. Be kind. No matter how small it is or how long it takes. This is where it starts. Then watch people soften and watch the stress melt away. Some will react in the tiniest ways and some will begin moving mountains. Try it.<br />
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And, lastly, I need you to watch this. I need you to set all your devices and crap down and soak in every word she has to say. One of the best TED talks ever. And so pertinent to this moment. Raw, honest and unafraid. Begin here. Take my words and her words and put your beautiful and amazing self to work. You already know what needs to change and how to do it. Show the world in your own way.<br />
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<a href="https://www.ted.com/talks/ash_beckham_we_re_all_hiding_something_let_s_find_the_courage_to_open_up">https://www.ted.com/talks/ash_beckham_we_re_all_hiding_something_let_s_find_the_courage_to_open_up</a><br />
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<br />Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-4583465892010500272017-10-02T23:02:00.001-07:002017-10-02T23:10:21.603-07:00As Real As It Gets<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Last night, when I was standing in the middle of an enormous venue beneath Mandalay Bay on the closing night of a three day music festival with a nice little whiskey buzz going, the furthest thing from my mind was the unrest and uneasiness I had felt about 12 hours prior. For some reason when I got up yesterday morning all I could feel was a burning itch to get out of Vegas. My patience for lines and oblivious tourists was waning. I needed to pedal. Unfortunately, the junk they wanted to rent to me at the bike shop was not worth the astronomical rental fee, so I laced up my running shoes and drove to Henderson to scope out Sloan Canyon.<br />
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Meh. </div>
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I ran mediocre trails in the heat, took some mediocre pictures and climbed to the highest rock I could find. It felt good to move and felt good to get out of the smog, the lights and the repulsive cigarette smoke that filled the lobby of the casinos. Mostly, however, it felt good to shed the nagging uneasy feeling I couldn't shake that morning at the hotel. Everyone I saw seemed either angry, exhausted, annoyed or sad and unhappy. It was an overwhelmingly uncomfortable feeling, so it took me no time at all to get my stuff together and get the hell outta Dodge for a few hours.<br />
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When I returned all sweaty, stinky and rejuvenated, my friends were just getting back from the pool. I jumped in the shower, poured a Crown and Ginger for the shuttle ride to the concert venue and was looking forward to an awesome night with good friends and good music.<br />
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After the next to last artist, a lot of us dancing like fools, a bit more whiskey and a million laughs, Chelsea asked me if I wanted to go. I thought for a second:<br />
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"Ya know, I think I'll stay, the music sounds really good tonight..."<br />
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"Ok, well I don't think Julie is going to stay and we gotta get Kayla to the airport."</div>
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"All good, I will see you ladies back at the room."<br />
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Those were the last words I clearly remember saying or hearing before all hell broke loose. I was sitting in the middle of 25,000 people and really just taking it all in when I heard what I honestly thought was a kid's cap gun or redneck "Bubba" shooting off a bottle rocket he had managed to sneak past security. I looked to my right, looked up and the next thing I knew, the band was running backstage and everything went dark.<br />
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At that moment I think everyone said a collective, "Oh my God, this is real" and pandemonium ensued. I heard people screaming and dove underneath the makeshift bar I was near. Tables were being overturned, bottles breaking and purses, shoes, hats flying everywhere. A girl grabbed my arm and was shaking like I have never seen a human being shake. I was sandwiched between her and another girl who was calling 911. It sounded like a firing range or what I would imagine a war zone would sound like.<br />
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BapBapBapBapBapBap.<br />
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Hundreds of rounds were pelting the galvanized steel wall structure a few of us managed to get behind and underneath a table. My face and arms were slammed against the ground and the guy next to me was crying and yelling that he was not ready to die this young and asking why people do this. The girl still had a hold of my arm and was shrieking and crying. I closed my eyes and listened to another 20 rounds exploding all around us.<br />
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The silence that followed those rounds was spooky. An eerie calm came over everything.<br />
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"Let's go! Run!" a guy yelled to me.<br />
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I swallowed hard and opened my eyes.<br />
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<i>No. Don't move. Not yet. There's more.</i><br />
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"No, don't do it. Stay down!" I whispered. "Don't move, there is more. You'll get hit."<br />
<br />
I held tightly onto three complete strangers for the next five minutes while bullets zinged over our head and hit the wall and table around us. I was in complete survival mode which meant I could not let myself panic. It knew it was not my time to die and I asked God to just hold onto us through this.<br />
<br />
The gunfire stopped and my instincts said run. <i>Just fucking run and don't stop</i>. So I did. I ran for the gate and never looked back. I got onto the strip and ran for the Luxor. The police had opened up a door and were ordering people inside. About six or seven of us ran through all the secret security rooms none of us will ever otherwise see in a casino and ended up out on the gambling floor. I looked up and saw I was in Mandalay Bay. By this time I had heard people yelling that the shooter was in Mandalay Bay and every fiber of my being said get out, keep running and get away from the crowds. I ran through the parking garage, down the stairs and onto some side street that would take me to my hotel.<br />
<br />
I ran another 4.5 miles through back streets and parking garages following a road that paralleled the strip. I hunkered down beside the tire of an F-150 and looked at my phone. It was exploding with texts and calls from my friends who had made it back to the room.<br />
<br />
I just sat with my head in my hands for a second and talked to God. My head was spinning and the sounds of the bullets were loud in my ears for a second or two. This was real. It wasn't the news, it wasn't TV. It was real guns and real hate raining down in Vegas.<br />
<br />
<i>Enough, Jill. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Fuck fear. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Fear controls, kills and destroys. Keep going. Get to where you are safe. You know how to survive. </i><br />
<br />
I ran the last half mile amidst sirens, red and blue lights, horns honking and cars speeding by me. I got to my hotel just before it went on lock-down and sat down on the couch. I realized for the first time that my arms and legs were dirty and I had minor scratches on my legs. I also realized I had no clue where the elevator was. I had been on it probably twenty times in the last three days and I must have passed it three times already looking for it. Nothing looked familiar and I could not find my way to the restrooms or drinking fountains either. So weird.<br />
<br />
I finally found the correct elevator and headed up to my room in a complete daze. When I walked in, my friends had the news on, and at the time there were only two confirmed dead. The next hour was surreal. I don't really remember any of the conversations or what was said. It was like a big whirlwind of lights and TV and chatter that spun around and went in one ear and out of the other. I was still in my uber-calm survival mode, so every muscle in my body was tense, alert and ready to run. I don't remember falling asleep but I woke up at 3:30am on the dot and all I could think of was Cheryl Crow's song "Leaving Las Vegas."<br />
<br />
So that's exactly what I did.<br />
<br />
I drove nonstop to Hurricane, UT. It seemed like a 15 minute drive, as my mind was so focused on the feedback loop of bullets, screaming and sirens that was running in my head. I stopped for some coffee and a quick breakfast and was on the road again. My muscles and jaw remained tensed up until about Page, AZ when I finally started to relax and semi-process the fact that the guns and bullets were real. Not cap guns. Not fireworks. The guy was shooting fish in a barrel below him.<br />
<br />
I lost it.<br />
<br />
I pulled off and sobbed until I had no more tears. I answered a few texts and messages from friends making sure I was ok and that was actually what I needed at that moment. I got going again and cried a little more, wondering what happened to the young couple from Idaho who were pregnant, excited and so crazy in love. We rode the shuttle with them everyday. I wondered what happened to the old guy in the bib overalls that was a hit with all the women. I wondered who was searching hospitals for their daughter, their son, their mom, their dad, their husband, their wife, their old friend, their new friend or their co-worker.<br />
<br />
I am still pretty numb I think, but I had to write this. I did not get covered with blood and I did not watch any one die. Last night in Las Vegas, I lived a very different experience than the 58 dead and the 500 injured, however my heart is torn to pieces for the families and victims. I feel a mix of utter devastation for everyone and overflowing gratitude that I am alive and uninjured.<br />
<br />
The hardest moment of the entire night, the one where I was utterly terrified, was before we knew the shooter was on the 32nd floor of Mandalay Bay. I laid on the asphalt as flat and still as possible as I thought there were multiple shooters walking through the crowds gunning people down. For a split second I wondered if it was a matter of time before one of the gunmen would come upon us hiding and blow us away. Was this really the end?<br />
<br />
<i>No, Jill. Not yet. You are not done living. You are not done dreaming, loving and adventuring. You still have people to lift up and love with your whole heart. They need your kindness and encouragement. You have a reason to be here. You still have dreams to chase down and so much love to give. </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>And you still really suck at skiing.... </i><br />
<br />
<br /></div>
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Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-87105312090152479782016-04-04T12:11:00.000-07:002016-04-04T12:11:12.608-07:00The Deafening Noise<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ErO5Lg6WHjRdG5XrHgkWYrfQgf7WmFN3-hITuhF2TnsSc0pXFmEi-rheAad1LY647ewJmY-39OTRy8MmtmMj5d_5i9c4GHpq2EeoRf8hGmYsH8VWkxvoWv7zant8kS7NhtldVu6a6-Q5/s1600/1237068_714135438687534_7854614268632482851_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5ErO5Lg6WHjRdG5XrHgkWYrfQgf7WmFN3-hITuhF2TnsSc0pXFmEi-rheAad1LY647ewJmY-39OTRy8MmtmMj5d_5i9c4GHpq2EeoRf8hGmYsH8VWkxvoWv7zant8kS7NhtldVu6a6-Q5/s400/1237068_714135438687534_7854614268632482851_n.jpg" width="266" /></a></div>
<br />
During the past couple of weeks, many times this question has crept into the darkness just before I close my eyes and fall asleep. I thrive on blunt, raw and difficult questions that slap me alongside the head, so I have been welcoming and subsequently wrestling with this for a while.<br />
<br />
I remember a girl who just simply loved everything about being outside and feeling her heart, lungs and legs make a bike go in a forward direction. A girl who was in every sense of the word--a trail rat. Any trail that was open and legal to ride--the longer the better--was my own exhilarating adventure. An exhilarating adventure in every sense of the word. I didn't give a fuck who knew I was going to go ride it, that I was riding it or that I had ridden it. The noise of the world was relatively silent.<br />
<br />
Or, more accurately, I had very little desire to listen,<br />
<br />
I did not inundate myself daily looking at the same pictures and posts, reading the same scripted shit, the same complaints, the same six adjectives used to describe every weekend with friends, the sagas of every physical ailment, the incessant arguing and smug opinions....and on and on. I did not find myself shaking my head and lowering my face into my palm for my "friends" who hashtag 26 times after their posts. I had no desire to block people who were just too fake. I did not feel an ugly and growing disdain for the marketing (and mass promoting) of each new, amazing, 'best ever' product that came out. I did not have trouble turning down the volume and ignoring it all. I was not overwhelmed, frustrated and numb.<br />
<br />
I stared at the ceiling last night thinking about how to write about New Zealand amidst this deafening noise. I am struggling to find a reason to even share it. I want to write in a way that is poignant, engaging and funny. One moment I want to tell of my quirks, strengths, emotions, passions and interactions and the next I have myself convinced it is a waste of time and effort. Why does it matter when it will just become part of the noise? A noise that all sounds the same anymore.....<br />
<br />
So, yeah, I am struggling a bit as I return to our homogeneous, noisy culture. I spend too much time berating myself for not being better at silencing it and am grasping for my proverbial earplugs.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdFVlvEHn-CEMgXbleT3RKS3v1pnYxsbRaldXkYCb8HklgM21lVBl9EzETs7BSnjKVw0KLjTt8bguBPhFIIE3s8liIvP5k67zeDmb5gfrWEl17xL-J6N5qEaszt8K8bdaIreCJ94OUGfD/s1600/4475502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="276" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipdFVlvEHn-CEMgXbleT3RKS3v1pnYxsbRaldXkYCb8HklgM21lVBl9EzETs7BSnjKVw0KLjTt8bguBPhFIIE3s8liIvP5k67zeDmb5gfrWEl17xL-J6N5qEaszt8K8bdaIreCJ94OUGfD/s320/4475502.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
<br />
I need to not just remember, but <i>reconnect</i> with who I was.<br />
<br />
My brain (and I suspect yours as well) is not designed to handle an onslaught of surface level, fleeting quips of information on a nonstop basis. The effects of this onslaught are taking a toll. You see it and I see it. If you don't....wake up!<br />
<br />
I am hunting for my earplugs, because the noise is just going to increase and is definitely not going away. I am calling myself out to "turn the quiet up and the noise down" in a sustainable way.<br />
<br />
Then I will have something to SAY....not share.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0-SsNNI3Idn4GoJTNw7CDkRDSqoUbS7YacEonIDEGwmeVjJmq5Buo2lxBdTtEmCOJ5R1UaFe9PkYYZj6-llPXlKIDbUliBiMFXYPdTdjzwQjBgvBkluvn9sFSb243isVZ5iBhuQMUkre/s1600/unnamed.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhs0-SsNNI3Idn4GoJTNw7CDkRDSqoUbS7YacEonIDEGwmeVjJmq5Buo2lxBdTtEmCOJ5R1UaFe9PkYYZj6-llPXlKIDbUliBiMFXYPdTdjzwQjBgvBkluvn9sFSb243isVZ5iBhuQMUkre/s400/unnamed.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Rermarkables from Coronet Peak Rd...Queenstown, NZ Photo credit Tom Harris</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-67020523039767219782016-01-22T09:54:00.000-08:002016-01-22T09:54:06.457-08:00This is JillA cyclist and friend, whom I deeply respect, left this in my inbox last night:<br />
<br />
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<br />
There are few other words that could mean more to me. It encourages me in so many ways.<br />
<br />
Being called brave is the ultimate compliment. Living this way has been an evolving dance for me, can be misunderstood and very difficult. It is so uplifting when someone else sees, from afar, who I am.<br />
<br />
Thank you. Thank you so much.<br />
Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-19363952550174158662016-01-17T14:55:00.003-08:002016-01-17T15:08:04.684-08:00Mr. Misunderstood"Hey there weird kid in your high-top shoes, sitting in the back of the class, I was (am) just like you, always left out, never fit in, owning the path that you're walking in..."<br />
<br />
<br />
When I first met you, I was told you were weird. <br />
<br />
Looking back, now over five years ago, I cherish more than ever, your weirdness. <br />
<br />
It's why we can play cuss-word Scrabble and drink whiskey giggling like third graders at the words we create. Why we can talk three times a day about farting or hours about big things or not talk for a week. Why we can ride fat bikes down the train tracks at 2am, go on treasure hunts in the Sonoran desert, wild rides on snowy roads in South Dakota, solve the worlds' problems on top of a mountain, in a backcountry hut, at J.Bo's, in a hot springs, or between episodes of Grey's Anatomy.<br />
<br />
Our similar, "never fit in" qualities cement our friendship. Our differences challenge us to keep searching for understanding and growth. <br />
<br />
You are the one who wipes up the puddle of Jill when she falls flat on her face. You listen patiently to my trivial babbling about work, my funny (and not-so-funny) anecdotes, my "stupid/unfeeling/why did I date him" boyfriend ramblings and my crazy ideas that may or may not work. <br />
<br />
I look into your life and marvel at a heart that is so big and so true. I know the way you were raised and where you come from and am so thankful that we crossed paths and sifted through all the awkward and weird. You inspire me with your patience and kindness and loyalty. These genuine qualities are rare. You quietly embody these qualities. Most just talk about them.<br />
<br />
Your quiet nature is too much for most to understand. It was, admittedly, for me when I first met you. I felt awkward and at times confused. But we kept riding bikes and hanging out. We kept feeding quarters into the jukebox at dive bars. You wanted to listen about big bikepacking dreams and I wanted to talk about it. You always provided the pragmatic and logical piece that grounded me. I shoved you in the unsafe, untried, kinda scary direction you naturally gravitate toward. <br />
<br />
You never quit being my friend when I wasn't the most pleasant friend. You listened to emotional boring girl-shit that I trust no female to talk to about. And you remember it to help me navigate through rough waters in the future. You made a diaper for my old dog when I was gone chasing miles on my bike. Who would do that for a friend? You did. Quietly, patiently. <br />
<br />
Just like everything else you do.<br />
<br />
The world needs more friends like you, <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOuF3k_-asA">Mr. Misunderstood</a>. More souls like you. More of your qualities. Ah, but you are the quiet, soft-spoken, slightly awkward one that doesn't complain, whine, make waves or share much of his life. Often you are overlooked....misunderstood....and generally ignored by the masses. <br />
<br />
Their loss. Let the dumbasses be dumbasses. Let them continue to blissfully float along in their selfish bubble. If they can't get past the outside, they do not deserve the treasures that lie within.You mean the world to us weirdo freaks who love you. You are strong, capable and talented and your perceived social insecurities are (truthfully) your most beautiful attributes.<br />
<br />
I could not have lived the life I have lived in the past 5 years without your friendship. We have in the past and still sometimes do annoy the piss out of each other, but its called being a human.YOU have taught me so much and we have had enough laughs and adventures (crazy, epic, big and small) to fill a book--a book we will continue to fill and one I will cherish my whole life. Thank you. My gratitude knows no limits for all the things you have done for your fellow weirdo. <br />
<br />
Keep on keepin' on. Your Mrs. Misunderstood is out there. Headed your way, my friend. Soon.<br />
<br />
Right now "they are standing in line, chasing the buzz til the next big things and already was, and hell if they know what they are trying to find, if it ain't that same-old been done kind..."<br />
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Next up: Finding my SMILE again in Costa Rica.Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-71423401099237900492016-01-08T12:21:00.002-08:002016-01-08T12:42:11.265-08:00A Revival....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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"I feel like we were left with a cliffhanger and are waiting for the next season's episodes to start up again..."<br />
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Those words, from an (unbeknownst-to-me at the time) blog follower and his wife, came completely out of the blue late one night just a few weeks ago. Ok, I have to admit I was about ready to let this blog go. Not due to a lack of "epic" by any means. Just due to the fact that I found myself unmotivated and, honestly, struggling to convince myself I had a reason for sharing. I had a fantastic year filled with bikes, mountains, horses, new friends and adventures in Durango, but the desire to blog about it never really caught ahold of me. <br />
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I wasn't pursuing any crazy dreams or riding a bazillion miles taking pictures of it all. Truth be told, I worked my ass off this year. But, slowly in the midst of it, I met a collection of the best friends I have ever known. We rode horses and bikes. We ran trails. We went fishing. We drank whiskey around many a campfire. We made cilantro avocado margaritas. We howled at the moon and danced under the stars in the rain. We climbed to high peaks. We dressed up like fools and sang at the top of our lungs. We rode above 10k' every weekend this fall to see the colors. We smiled. We laughed. God damn, we laughed a lot this year. Maybe I was satisfied being filled with gratitude and appreciation for it all and savoring it in a very low-key way or just too lazy? <br />
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Maybe both? <br />
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So anyway, our conversation continued and we chatted bikes, adventure and our mutual friends from Back of the Pack Racing. Hearing their kind words of appreciation for my sharing my passion was very inspiring and made me stop and realize for a moment that maybe some were actually still interested in my writing. And maybe sharing the inner workings of my brain and its efforts to understand and navigate my existence was a good thing? It actually does inspire, motivate and cause some to take action or "live vicariously through..."<br />
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Ok, so with that in mind, let's get updated quickly:<br />
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The last post was a cry out for help with a sad situation with my brother. Writing is cathartic and sometimes the words need to bleed out. Without saying too much, I am overjoyed at the fact that he finally did make it home to where our family lives and a new start is looking very possible and real. He has chosen to not speak to me, and maybe never will again. If that is what I must lose for him to regain his life--I will take the blow a million times over. And a million more if my little brother gets to be his passionate, talented and true self again.<br />
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Now....where to start? Highlight reel in pictures? Chronological rundown of a crazy, awesome year? Work backwards from today as I sit and watch the white gold fall out of the sky?<br />
<br />
Uhhhh, lets do a highlight reel of all the episodes in 2015:<br />
(in a Morgan Freeman-style announcer voice of course)<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjirgsuFW4HLbk3_vRU-7aYCTqQdeGjkgAgNT1eTNdd4C2_tt9T-uQU6_3EngjMIbAHowE7MX1qNgoaZpDvUiavCgqRKSHhOLXqssXaRe0NAe6UVTnOZRgu7m_BFNg5kgkqGYKaU3rWSOeK/s1600/wheels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjirgsuFW4HLbk3_vRU-7aYCTqQdeGjkgAgNT1eTNdd4C2_tt9T-uQU6_3EngjMIbAHowE7MX1qNgoaZpDvUiavCgqRKSHhOLXqssXaRe0NAe6UVTnOZRgu7m_BFNg5kgkqGYKaU3rWSOeK/s400/wheels.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
I had to say goodbye to my oldest, dearest and most loyal friend of nearly 14 years. I packed my car with all my worldly possessions and cried all the way to Durango, Colorado. Crocodile tears flooded my steering wheel and I drove virtually nonstop. Happy memories of a part of my life I was able to share with her eventually took over. I was headed home. A home I should have never left in 2012. But we all make decisions we think are right at the time. This time it was the decision to pursue a relationship that was just not destined to work. But how do we know? Never one to sit and wonder "what-if", I gave it a whirl. It crashed and burned. But damage is not permanent, the wounds heal and in the end, each is truly a better person without the other. Anger, pain and sorrow fade. Good memories live in our hearts and the hope for the other's happiness minus oneself lives on stronger than any horrid words said. Some things are not meant to be. And we finally see and accept it. And set ourselves free to grow and thrive separately in ways that were not possible together...<br />
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I came back to where I feel and have always felt an authentic peace--the San Juans. I rolled into town on January 2, 2015, fed quarters into a six minute shower in the laundrymat on North Main, tried to fix my hair, put on some clean jeans and barely made my job interview in time because I had to take a nap in Salt Lake City. I got the job, checked into a shithole motel that was cheap and began to scour Craigslist for a place to live. I was the happiest I had been in a year. I was done with Denver, done wasting my life sitting in traffic and done with being always in a mad rush of unfulfillment. I was home. I had my bikes. I was in Durango. </div>
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Nowhere else do I look at the horizon and not flinch from the twinge of needing something more or hear the faint whisper of something unfulfilled. The San Juans are where I am still and silent. I am truly an alien anywhere else.</div>
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I found frozen waterfalls, a mare named Belle, a mare named Storm, rivers full of fish, a town on fire for bikes, a soul sister, a renewed obsession with cowboy boots, a world full of beautiful freaks into which I comfortably fit, a cute boy and a world full of color above 10k'....and this doesn't even scratch the surface of all the adventuring, laughing, loving, lounging, working, storytelling, exploring and just being rather than doing in 2015, but here are a trillion and one words and moments (in no particular order) represented by pictures. </div>
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Consider it my hodge-podge of cut and paste attempt to update a bit. My words are ready to come out again. I bought a big plane ticket back in September for some adventuring coming up in 2016. </div>
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Thanks to those who read and follow and understand the passion....you have given new life to this blog. </div>
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<span style="font-size: small;">So there you have it. Nowhere near a complete representation of 2015 in pics, but a crash course so future writing will make sense. Now that all of that is out of the way, I can write.</span></div>
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Up next: "Mr. Misunderstood"-- A post about the most beautiful, deep and passionate soul I have ever known (and coincidentally, my best human friend)</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpnhcgtAaM45Z52C3k-48zQI9NokGdFctUnZjxxLRM2ID5-4NPKWE9aHqq9mqvDYUckIhKAFXJms7jCBg1puvO46bCO06knb3k4My_IwzpAE08gZmTcREFAr06AfRPLU6RhvMiceFPkQLw/s1600/P7280113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; height: 657px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; width: 488px;"> </a><br />
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<br />Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-22088797768603673032015-08-31T03:23:00.003-07:002015-08-31T03:26:10.950-07:00Hope Rising<a href="https://scontent.fsnc1-1.fna.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xap1/v/t1.0-0/1913887_1290364176953_7008699_n.jpg?efg=eyJpIjoibCJ9&oh=fa0295836a19fc898a0f8b6f7a3aaa1c&oe=56768903">Stand Tall</a><br />
<br />
<br />
Dear God, <br />
<br />
Please open his heart to hope and life again. Release him from his shame and self-hatred, let him see the powerful and innate courage he holds inside to be willing to change.<br />
<br />
Help him release a past he remembers only filled with sharp pain, deep anger and constant disappointment. Open his eyes again to the things he loves and the remarkable man he is and always has been.<br />
<br />
Remind him of the mountains and the snow he loves. Help him know how much we all love him and miss him.<br />
<br />
You are running this show, God, not me. Open my ears to know what to do and say. Its been a long time. You answered all our prayers.<br />
<br />
Dont let me screw this up.....I am shaking with anticipation and insomnia prevails, yet inside I feel the warm light of hope, healing and love for my brother will shine through the darkness. Please let him see it, feel it and take comfort in knowing he is loved and not judged. Let his ears be open and his heart willing and calm....<br />
<br />
We all want our brother, son, grandson, nephew, cousin Steve back. Only you can do that. And I have absolutely no doubt you will....show me what to do today, God.<br />
<br />
-Me<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-7146152336848974032015-04-19T00:34:00.000-07:002015-04-19T00:37:54.280-07:00I Want to WonderDear <a href="http://www.adventuresofscatman.com/">Scatman</a>,<br />
<br />
You are about to begin your quest for your third crown. All day, I have been thinking about what I want to say in this send off letter to you. I could go many ways with it, but I decided to let my heart do the talking (like that is a big shocker) because that is the language you understand. And that is why I am your biggest fan. You hear the hearts of others and you listen to your own. You are a dreamer and an explorer with a touch of nomadic fire that has not been extinguished by naysayers or perceived societal expectations. <br />
<br />
But, before I dive in, let it be known:<br />
<br />
I don't speak in hashtags. Any time and effort muddling through all the utter bullshit behind the pound sign is "wasting my life." Not even going to pay attention to them.<br />
<br />
I will never look at your Instagram, your Flickr, your [insert whatever thing is now cool to use here].<br />
<br />
I am going to block you on Facebook so I don't see the posts from this hike. (I will soon FINALLY conquer my on and off again usage by reclaiming my old brain, axing the addiction to "sharing" life and walk away from THAT waste of time once and for all.) But until then....sigh.<br />
<br />
I fully recognize that you are a master of clever, daily social media usage and it has brought many sponsorships, connections, opened many doors and has landed you some really cool gear AND bikes, but I honestly do not really care.<br />
<br />
<em>Uh, what a bitch. Who would say that? </em><br />
<br />
I say it because I care more about this journey you are about to undertake and learning how it will change you, inspire you and make you the man you want to become. I WANT to wonder what you are experiencing and I WANT to hear it on the phone in your funny Boston accent when you get service along the way. I want to hear the elation, the exhaustion, the confidence, the uncertainty, the highs and the lows in the tone of your human voice. I want to see the expressions on your face when I join you for parts of Colorado, Montana and Canada and hear the words that come to your lips when you become one of the few human beings who have completed the AT, the PCT and the CDT on foot. To pollute something of that magnitude by an inundation of postings, arm's length selfies, clever captions and pictures is a shame. <br />
<br />
Scatman, you are one of the most true, loyal and courageous people I have ever met. You are also extremely logical, smart and organized. Follow your wanderlust, bask in the bliss of this adventure, take some chances out there, listen to the stories the cashiers and waitresses will tell you about their hikes, skinny dip in the coldest river in Montana, make snow angels in the San Juans and embrace the pain you will feel at some point everyday. <br />
<br />
Then tell me about it in words. Not posts. I see those every day to the point they mean next to nothing anymore....<br />
<br />
I want to see your eyes sparkle. I want to hear of your awakenings, your growth, your struggles, your boredom, your triumphs, your pain, and mostly what your heart has to say about it all.<br />
<br />
Go get this, Craig. I want to see that third crown sitting on your mess of grey hair at Waterton. <br />
<br />
I want you to do on your feet what I did not do on my bike last year. I do not want your heart to have to experience that ache. So, on the days that you are tired and hungry and it rained all night and it just straight fucking blows out there, think about all the stories I want to hear when you finish....and get your skinny butt moving north!<br />
<br />
Be safe, strong and slightly crazy on your journey from Crazy Cook to Waterton. This is yours.<br />
<br />
-Your biggest fan<br />
<br />
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<br />Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-14802023134497667722015-04-08T23:35:00.002-07:002015-04-08T23:35:39.626-07:00GutsI have been <a href="http://trackleaders.com/aztr15">watching my AZT 750</a> record being dismantled by Alice Drobna, whom I have never met and only briefly saw just north of Rawlins this past summer on the Tour Divide. She is cruising through my very favorite part of Arizona right now. She looks to be camped in Washington Park and will be pushing up to the Mogollon Rim tomorrow. Word is the Highline Trail is in much better shape, but that doesn't matter. Every mile of the Arizona Trail is tough. Damn tough.<br />
<br />
And, oh how I am smiling. <br />
<br />
Smiling to see this Oregon girl getting it done. <br />
<br />
Smiling because as I watch her dot move, I can see every tree, turn, rock and viewpoint she is passing. These memories I can recall in vivid and precise detail. I remember my thoughts, the smells, the sounds. the aches, the hunger and the true joy and peace I felt everyday no matter how hard it was. <br />
<br />
Smiling because I will never have to wonder or talk about or use anyone else's experience to guess what it would be like. <br />
<br />
Smiling at the memory of the lifelong friends I met in the miles she just covered today and the miles she is going to cover tomorrow. <br />
<br />
Smiling because I now have another bikepacking hero besides Jefe.<br />
<br />
<br />
Go, Alice, Go. Get up the Rim!!<br />
<br />
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Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-75775067647896219172015-03-07T16:59:00.000-08:002015-03-07T17:01:14.975-08:00Meh.Everyday here gives me a better perspective on the word <a href="http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/meh">"Meh..."</a>. I feel so lucky and so gracious to breathe this air, be a part of these mountains and, in conversation, never have to silently be screaming this:<br />
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Today's time on the Venge helped me realize how spoiled (gracious) to have this as a backyard:<br />
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<br />
So, today, the spectacular sunshine, coupled with a pedal through these kings that towered above me, elicited a tongue-in-cheek redefinition of "meh."<br />
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<br />
Anything that is non-San Juan mountains. <br />
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For today anyway...... *Grin*<br />
<br />Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-72702001885927744882015-02-12T09:09:00.002-08:002015-02-12T09:16:42.548-08:00Silverton Whiteout 2015White.<br />
<br />
Used loosely, the term describes the course for the inagural Silverton Whiteout Fatbike Race. I navigated my way over Coal Bank and Molas Pass about three weeks ago on a Thursday afternoon to scout the course. It was about 1pm or so, 25F and covered with the white stuff we (now) only hear about falling from the sky in the eastern part of the country. <br />
<br />
Yes, our winter has been stolen. Please return it. Please?<br />
<br />
Anyhow, the first preride included the ski area climb and some sketchball (and inherently fun) singletrack through the trees. The course had to be changed for the race, but a fun eleven mile loop was concocted on the remaining snow and six of us made the trip to one of my top 5 favorite towns in Colorado. Team Epic Steel and The Front Range Fattys both turned in fourth place finishes and a bunch of smiles and jokes.<br />
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No big tributes or deep meaning in this race. It kind of felt like playing outside during recess at school with an awesome bunch of friends. Yeah. That's pretty much the vibe in this part of the world.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the preride days....</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgROjfEyOmjrkmsn5u32cbMlmT3ZbTFGnu-87Lqx1HxZM1tLM2KNSThwyvgpnLpD5LKG2eAAlSnW67w0tNas2kIQKmzOrzWfQq3xIvTX-DntKOm_pQJgcpS4kcE6C9FYTZNgQuNjrGukVdM/s1600/10253944_739036839520270_5784537802087987121_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgROjfEyOmjrkmsn5u32cbMlmT3ZbTFGnu-87Lqx1HxZM1tLM2KNSThwyvgpnLpD5LKG2eAAlSnW67w0tNas2kIQKmzOrzWfQq3xIvTX-DntKOm_pQJgcpS4kcE6C9FYTZNgQuNjrGukVdM/s1600/10253944_739036839520270_5784537802087987121_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The BPR Founding Fathers..MAD RESPECT for the plaid and the Ti...and yes, that case went to the top of Shrine Hill....</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDifWZ4XDI4n1UWkltWWHp6OepqlowrN2V0JAs_Zp4q4MP1-LxUODdXlnqUSnW72otEpBusa1lwwQ6PlgAKItUOWSU1fgCbwm6_NJJic0fcd1P7FxCPppY0IGAhfacWlDTNm3b5QmALT5J/s1600/20150122_133428.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDifWZ4XDI4n1UWkltWWHp6OepqlowrN2V0JAs_Zp4q4MP1-LxUODdXlnqUSnW72otEpBusa1lwwQ6PlgAKItUOWSU1fgCbwm6_NJJic0fcd1P7FxCPppY0IGAhfacWlDTNm3b5QmALT5J/s1600/20150122_133428.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Shrine Hill three weeks ago...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOrUH_CQmaNA3bXZa_4q-9o6tKqNzJkhDFRqxFq0irNNOnHvckRtALRU236YcX6IKPexikryj2kvtMCQ4E99Vj_hOhFJTTXR2_LJhrU5W6RE2PCQrmzhuRRgZcHTZfOSKiJ8-QK6ajYoHB/s1600/1723939_872608106131175_11065198226983973_n+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOrUH_CQmaNA3bXZa_4q-9o6tKqNzJkhDFRqxFq0irNNOnHvckRtALRU236YcX6IKPexikryj2kvtMCQ4E99Vj_hOhFJTTXR2_LJhrU5W6RE2PCQrmzhuRRgZcHTZfOSKiJ8-QK6ajYoHB/s1600/1723939_872608106131175_11065198226983973_n+(1).jpg" height="266" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pre launch.... (photo credit due here and a few others)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohY3n3UkwHAkEOlzRVuaOJ0xd23wAZgDGxE8fFQxpOerBas3JrznLb-iuPq1Q7ORFl2BGGCKqOK6byrszqLA5BuGYqQx3ppUKD3QfyaOXiFDggnJuFJNBsbc8IcdqJJSFO_r1y8HP39LY/s1600/20150207_085502.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgohY3n3UkwHAkEOlzRVuaOJ0xd23wAZgDGxE8fFQxpOerBas3JrznLb-iuPq1Q7ORFl2BGGCKqOK6byrszqLA5BuGYqQx3ppUKD3QfyaOXiFDggnJuFJNBsbc8IcdqJJSFO_r1y8HP39LY/s1600/20150207_085502.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Front Range Fatty CEO's<br />
<br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYE9VtW5k-JDGC8bIJwJ15TKma0hZ7xJRcw5836Wr8Z8zJClpncSC-42dJat4SULvXVTV55TCrTff2TdU3hDfHr_zrbV0BuErFtIvdTQISJIL5z4HS4jvWHuKjdxeA5Ql0anvBg8FWlkfz/s1600/20150207_130232.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYE9VtW5k-JDGC8bIJwJ15TKma0hZ7xJRcw5836Wr8Z8zJClpncSC-42dJat4SULvXVTV55TCrTff2TdU3hDfHr_zrbV0BuErFtIvdTQISJIL5z4HS4jvWHuKjdxeA5Ql0anvBg8FWlkfz/s1600/20150207_130232.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yep. Serious business. Can they race without a USAC license and a hundred hashtags?? </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXZiEQm5y-RFCt1CBe9WUTqsRkiKAkjftndrMAGE8Fi1-tOuzpJeUpoRvu4EeOXIghQ_T2m4UPM_K3iVWjRO5TN2IPKHuZ6iR_EGIG6dgz7rEwtOHw0ASvyUsAbwC2IDB1HskXvLtGlTGq/s1600/20150207_184441.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXZiEQm5y-RFCt1CBe9WUTqsRkiKAkjftndrMAGE8Fi1-tOuzpJeUpoRvu4EeOXIghQ_T2m4UPM_K3iVWjRO5TN2IPKHuZ6iR_EGIG6dgz7rEwtOHw0ASvyUsAbwC2IDB1HskXvLtGlTGq/s1600/20150207_184441.jpg" height="225" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Four friends forged some Epic Steel<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPf7yX4BNTn6eaeeVK4FTP2cHrLEIPYk9knxkvl3pXBi-wLTVqLVgXzRkNwDz8AZy38UcZsBxEL59GZBCT8dmsz-eR_bqe076dEkeq1DCMtLkJCajHj9d2CeEBApsAIIBV7bgvWaB15uh/s1600/IMG_7318.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivPf7yX4BNTn6eaeeVK4FTP2cHrLEIPYk9knxkvl3pXBi-wLTVqLVgXzRkNwDz8AZy38UcZsBxEL59GZBCT8dmsz-eR_bqe076dEkeq1DCMtLkJCajHj9d2CeEBApsAIIBV7bgvWaB15uh/s1600/IMG_7318.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
Some epic faces.... </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjD59NynkLTmy6GFiBybqA-dg5l5JR1CGQT3EgDcB-QBbipQJ6GSTmHlOv35KqbzdctaJDuTq6wYDRp738TjYMRZG3wQ7scxjsMAqni51poQh2s2Fbl70Pe9RXHItSt8gDuKSRnX0QTC0Kv/s1600/IMG955854.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">And an Epic Smile for ten hours...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
A good one to add to your calendar for 2016.<br />
<br />
Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-32335533031487873402015-02-03T20:30:00.001-08:002015-02-03T20:30:07.321-08:00 Do Not Wonder What If. Be the One Who is Not Scared.<a href="https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=lpy_-exWeCo">Dreams</a><br />
<br />
<a href="https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=BkXAGD7up5Y">Fear Kills</a><br />
<br />
Be the dreamer and not the critical cynic. Wake Up. Live YOUR life and listen to YOUR heart.<br />
<br />
Just for 2015:<br />
<br />
It is hereby ok to feel inspired and moved by powerful ideas and words. You dont have to reason them away. Put on your grey sweat pants, run to the top of the stairs and punch the air.<br />
<br />
Adriaaaaaan....Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-66048536971894467032015-01-13T14:16:00.000-08:002015-01-13T14:16:42.568-08:00Rogue PandaYou need a framebag. <div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To carry your groceries home.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To haul your beer to the bonfire.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So it can bulge with burritos when you leave Silverton/Buena Vista. Because you will inevitably decide to do the CTR someday...(cough, cough, ahem.....MB)</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To empty all over the living room floor as you stress over whether or not to take 3 bandaids or 4 on the TD.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To mail home when you get to the South Rim.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To look really cool.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To make people wonder what the hell people haul around on bikes.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To haul the bottle, not just the flask.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To load with rocks and send your significant other uphill to the store.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
To support the little guy from <a href="http://roguepanda.com/2015/01/13/80-days-80-framebags-80-dollars-each/">Rogue Panda</a>. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Unique, simple and intelligent. I used his framebag and handlebar bag last summer. Nick is very clever and pays close attention to detail. Very small additions/adjustments set his bags apart in the bikepacking world and simplicity and affordability for those who want to haul groceries and beer. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Everyone has their own personal "what works for me" preferences. The bags I used: they worked. Well. I used another very well-known brand of seatbag that, honestly, I felt like burning at one of my bivvy spots. Capacity sucked. design made it a pain to access things quickly and it didn't compress very well. It was a gift from a dear friend, for which I am very gracious, but my next seatbag will be Rogue Panda made.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
He has a great deal on framebags going. Send him a picture of your bike. It arrives in the mail and it fits perfectly. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You need a framebag.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="http://roguepanda.com/2015/01/13/80-days-80-framebags-80-dollars-each/">Check it.</a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr8JhX-PL0kGzpAfXh42GmrDGY3O80DuY1XiAbdIfUiB7Vd5ffcAapNBvskoPjBb8Kolq2RWhMoY6rq4jwGuIyI-s0_eEqKY3hBLRo_vaJIyqZV0rHc1ZiGhqg7ZBYV0Hugj2Xci-p-WV/s1600/10325290_10203401062765026_689719670550672486_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNr8JhX-PL0kGzpAfXh42GmrDGY3O80DuY1XiAbdIfUiB7Vd5ffcAapNBvskoPjBb8Kolq2RWhMoY6rq4jwGuIyI-s0_eEqKY3hBLRo_vaJIyqZV0rHc1ZiGhqg7ZBYV0Hugj2Xci-p-WV/s1600/10325290_10203401062765026_689719670550672486_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Custom<a href="http://roguepanda.com/2015/01/13/80-days-80-framebags-80-dollars-each/"> framebag</a> for my full suspension used on the 2014 AZT 750.<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjKuxOdCg_luIktMOQiARdBVfhq3STUhLeTQq67m_rZXoHgXgZuuI_Du9Ob0oxj02Y1nh5YDF7NQ-xARLATcfRHtqnJ8LrVp68OelHBKWh3Z7qB9lbL8k6yOnzXZ_Rb9w4S3vZYQTIP60-/s1600/10313487_10203708612453576_6740993561279415043_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjKuxOdCg_luIktMOQiARdBVfhq3STUhLeTQq67m_rZXoHgXgZuuI_Du9Ob0oxj02Y1nh5YDF7NQ-xARLATcfRHtqnJ8LrVp68OelHBKWh3Z7qB9lbL8k6yOnzXZ_Rb9w4S3vZYQTIP60-/s1600/10313487_10203708612453576_6740993561279415043_n.jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Handlebar bag that took a ride to Canada from Mexico this summer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I like simple and intelligent. I like things that can withstand the abuse of a long journey or the weight of a case of beer headed to the woods. I like giving my money to the little guy. </div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I like <a href="http://roguepanda.com/2015/01/13/80-days-80-framebags-80-dollars-each/">Rogue Panda Designs.</a></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
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Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-29782438436935253542015-01-06T21:17:00.002-08:002015-01-07T13:45:56.226-08:00Jill. Explained.<br />
<br />
For all those who just sit back and scratch their heads and wonder what the hell I am thinking/doing/saying/feeling and what could possibly be coming next. For those who share my DNA. For those who love me, hate me, judge me, criticize me, support me, gain inspiration from me, get a good laugh out of me, resent me or are generally indifferent and bored by me. For those who have dated me or befriended me with or without success. For those who have struggled to or truly do understand me.<br />
<br />
I think, possibly, after three decades, I may have finally opened the cereal box containing the magical decoder ring to myself:<br />
<br />
<br />
For those who like pictures:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPRwwYk3mhvImGTHl88MVrwq4n3gznP9Qaxwp2wuzi2jbInZLXf_WFMwLBcOxXV3WZOxV6GKvvhkXPQFhCiHutCOkW67eF83nTEn6V6CPd8kBEDEs5HPmULjIrHsiiK7yfDGAd2icmQ1j/s1600/me3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfPRwwYk3mhvImGTHl88MVrwq4n3gznP9Qaxwp2wuzi2jbInZLXf_WFMwLBcOxXV3WZOxV6GKvvhkXPQFhCiHutCOkW67eF83nTEn6V6CPd8kBEDEs5HPmULjIrHsiiK7yfDGAd2icmQ1j/s1600/me3.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Blame it or praise it, there is no denying the wild horse in us"<br />
-Virginia Woolf</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
For those who like words:<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I am stunned that someone was able to pull the words (that I have been searching for and unable to say) directly out of my soul and put them in print. I aspire to write like this.</div>
<div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
<a href="http://www.rebellesociety.com/2015/01/05/tender-of-heart-and-wild-of-spirit/">Tender of Heart and Wild of Spirit</a><br />
<br />
"I believe that to feel so intensely is, paradoxically, what sets us free. To experience the ecstatic joys and the bitter lows and everything in between is to live from the heart."<br />
-Zoe Quiney<br />
<br />
<br />
Head itchy?<br />
<br />
<br />
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Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-58133176153309887902015-01-03T18:56:00.002-08:002015-01-03T19:19:45.121-08:00Day One of the Rest and the Best of My Life<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-1Yy1_3Gh42kP__toLM2y8RXDXBLFQRJ6fK__-HMBi6xX5A75fa3I4ajYQ7rLw1nqonD5Bhi2_H6O_p37rfI-1E9329K_N6UO1pcXt7aKHe9L3jDK1XMVp1OOFj2Isn7ZBFhFJoQBVBxs/s1600/20150102_115011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-1Yy1_3Gh42kP__toLM2y8RXDXBLFQRJ6fK__-HMBi6xX5A75fa3I4ajYQ7rLw1nqonD5Bhi2_H6O_p37rfI-1E9329K_N6UO1pcXt7aKHe9L3jDK1XMVp1OOFj2Isn7ZBFhFJoQBVBxs/s1600/20150102_115011.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
January 2, 2015.<br />
<br />
These mountains are again my home.<br />
<br />
I have grown tired of floudering around wondering where home is (Denver? Missoula?Eugene?Flagstaff?).<br />
<br />
For 26 months and 2 days, the time since I ceased being a resident, I have asked myself so many times which place felt right. Yeah....I never could come up with a satisfying answer. I tried to force each place feel like home. I became one helluva actor. I thought I could love each of these places, but I never was able to shake that empty, barren, unfulfilled feeling.<br />
<br />
Sometimes this feeling came to me in a whisper and sometimes it grasped my throat and slammed me up against the wall. I closed my eyes and silently longed for something more. Trying to explain this longing to people close to me was a mixed bag of results. Some truly identified and conversations would flow into the wee hours of the morning. Some identified but are far too scared to change what they have grown into believing or have been told is "comfortable." They actually had more interest in their phone/the weather/[fill in the blank]. My sense of longing increased exponentially after these trainwreck attempts. Some had already found their home and had satiated that deep longing. These conversations fostered hope for my own journey within my soul.<br />
<br />
But throughout this time the question I kept asking myself was why I ever left? I came up with many excuses and reasons but they all boiled down to one word:<br />
<br />
FEAR.<br />
<br />
And we all know what happened to FEAR on New Years Eve:<br />
<br />
<img src="https://scontent-b-sea.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xap1/v/t1.0-9/10898282_10205268557171219_5117331859878760386_n.jpg?oh=8312c85a40e0c0bf798e9c4f601ed6a7&oe=5529BD61" /><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I asked myself on the last day of 2014:<br />
<br />
Why do I ride my bike without fear but fear being in a place where jobs and housing are not abundant?<br />
<br />
Why do I fear living in a small town where people are happy and healthy and socially and intellectually engaging?<br />
<br />
Why do I fear a place whose mountains bring light into my eyes and soul?<br />
<br />
I am not scared to bite off more than I can chew, go big and fall flat on my face/ass on two wheels or two feet or four hooves, so why do I let fear jumble my thoughts and reasoning and send me on a wild search for a home? Especially since my heart knew where home was the first time I drove into the San Juan and La Plata mountains 10 years ago.<br />
<br />
I suppose the answers to those questions are an entanglement of relationships, jobs, money, goals, perceived lifestyles, houses, and blah, blah, blah.<br />
<br />
Perhaps the best answer came from my brother, Brian. We sat down with a fifth of Crown one rainy night and talked until 4am when I was home in Oregon just before Christmas. He is not a phone talker or a texter and the last ten years have been quick, time-limited phone calls and visits. He is not eloquent with words about emotions and feelings, but he is true, genuine and deep. He is honest and compassionate with his actions, He is also intimidatingly intelligent and talented. If you need it fixed or figured out, he is going to be the one who will do it. He has the heart of a child that is quite refreshing. He gets giddy over Christmas lights and will ramble on about them like I do my bike. He National-Lampooned 20 acres with lights, powered largely by a windmill and a solar panel. And I think my best Christmas gift ever was watching him giggle as he turned them on and off with his cell phone from the couch.<br />
<br />
His answer was this:<br />
<br />
"You need to master the art of not giving a fuck. Do what you need to do."<br />
<br />
And it is that simple. My heart tells me what I need to do. Somehow, in a whirlwind of expectations, worries, stressors, goals reached and unreached, failed relationships, money, traffic, exhaustion, lack of intellectual challenges and a hundred other pieces of debris from this storm, my ears grew deaf to the voice of my heart. Coupled with my horrible, destructive habit of expecting instead of accepting, I lost my smile and my silliness.<br />
<br />
I took a picture of myself in the mirror at my low point, just before the 4am Crown-induced sibling solving of all the world's problems:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUwnFE9teEBOpUJLFGSbnKRz-0mlhvYDi62P9NaJ83nhl9ASwxaCohhyphenhyphenRtOXUdFUeRJHWdXVLi_ugGr8SOLEt7LrxSKEpqDLF892cD9ynUiZm3SRC7x0UyXeS_Tsv50R0fd5DQQyeyKRQo/s1600/20141216_121709.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUwnFE9teEBOpUJLFGSbnKRz-0mlhvYDi62P9NaJ83nhl9ASwxaCohhyphenhyphenRtOXUdFUeRJHWdXVLi_ugGr8SOLEt7LrxSKEpqDLF892cD9ynUiZm3SRC7x0UyXeS_Tsv50R0fd5DQQyeyKRQo/s1600/20141216_121709.jpg" height="360" width="640" /></a></div>
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This is the fake smile of stress, exhaustion and too much "giving a fuck."<br />
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Now compare it to my year in Durango:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUZCTFuctR6dsK9ReOz85J469YGo44h8QXhC1kJI3uozWnti1sMPYJYHo7vstfZoMBLp_r0sweXkt-znv7YFaxpY3_KlFowvULFjuUdKTMvTvOpP7-n7Z6suBBgbCWYf8uD4oBD1Jg_Tv/s1600/2012-05-15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifUZCTFuctR6dsK9ReOz85J469YGo44h8QXhC1kJI3uozWnti1sMPYJYHo7vstfZoMBLp_r0sweXkt-znv7YFaxpY3_KlFowvULFjuUdKTMvTvOpP7-n7Z6suBBgbCWYf8uD4oBD1Jg_Tv/s1600/2012-05-15.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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That smile is real. That silliness is envigorating and contagious. That is Jill.<br />
<br />
So is Durango the answer to everything?<br />
<br />
No.<br />
<br />
Durango is home.<br />
<br />
My home.<br />
<br />
And the people with whom I am meant to chase down dreams, adventures and all of the beauty waiting to be discovered in these mountains already live here or will find their way here someday. Because this is where Jill lives and who Jill is. The old woman in the mirror is someone I never want to look at again.<br />
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<br />Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-74595852795380980272015-01-02T16:05:00.001-08:002015-01-02T16:18:19.942-08:00One Last Letter...Hey Mom,<br />
<br />
I must tell you of my first day in this strange, new place. By the way, where are you?<br />
<br />
I figured you were out riding your bike so when a bearded guy with kinda long hair carrying chest waders and a shotgun let the tailgate down on the truck, I jumped up into the bed and into the porta-kennel. The morning was cold and foggy but my legs are strong and young again. I shook with excitement as I saw him load the decoys.<br />
<br />
I scratched the bottom of the kennel with excitement and spun around a couple of times as he opened the door but I waited for the command to release. The power in my back legs shot the kennel backwards as I jumped out of the truck. My nose led me in circles and I never felt fatigue or fell down. My old mossy oak neoprene vest fit around my shoulders and belly and all the lipomas were gone.<br />
<br />
I sat as tall and straight like you told me and I could see all the ducks circle above. I couldn't help but wiggle because soon I was going to get to swim out and bring them back. But I held steady like you taught me. You would have been proud too, as I left all the decoys alone when he was setting them out.<br />
<br />
Boom! Boom! I heard the gun and saw two mallards fall into Lake Lowell. But I waited like you taught me. I wanted to do my best. I heard my name and then did my best cannonball into the water. I brought them both back with only a little help with hand signals on the second one that got trapped in the bushes. I remembered the wagon wheel drill when he signaled I turned to the left on a left-hand back. (Instead of to the right. That was always hard for me, but I got it!)<br />
<br />
We hunted all day, Mom, and I didn't lose any birds. I love bringing birds back. I held on softly and sat quietly at his left knee until he asked for them. I was careful not to put toothmarks in the ducks.<br />
<br />
I loved my day. I get to go again tomorrow and the next day and the next day and the next day.....all I want. I can go all day and not get tired, All I think about is getting those ducks. I love it here. My legs work again and they are strong. Nothing hurts and I never get tired or thirsty. I feel like I am four years old.<br />
<br />
I had the best steak dinner ever and curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace where he pet my ears until I fell asleep.<br />
<br />
I wonder when you and I get to go hunting again? The bearded man said in about 70 years. So I will see you then. I will know where all the birds are and I will practice all the things I know to do so I can bring back all the ducks for you someday. I only really care about making you proud by bringing back ducks.<br />
<br />
I miss you here, but I am happy and young again and I get to go hunting everyday. Everyday. Mom.<br />
Cool, huh?<br />
<br />
I love you,<br />
Wheels<br />
<br />
Psssst.....<br />
<br />
Jesus is a lot better shot than you, so use the next 70 years to practice up and I will be waiting by the fire on the couch!<br />
<br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">CCR'S HOT WHEELS</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-large;">APRIL 30, 2001-JANUARY 1, 2015</span><br />
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<img height="480" src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-f-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-xfa1/v/t1.0-9/163966_1776276604460_1764374_n.jpg?oh=d6142164313bafd384f3bd4e6ef866f6&oe=552E2A76&__gda__=1430454429_1c8abe254e5c8f935374bc600cfda8da" width="640" /><br />
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<img height="640" src="https://scontent-b.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xpf1/t31.0-8/q83/s960x960/979977_10201067982439476_1671068179_o.jpg" width="562" /><br />
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<img src="https://fbcdn-sphotos-d-a.akamaihd.net/hphotos-ak-xfa1/v/t1.0-9/384174_2561474393914_1370538575_n.jpg?oh=b40e1fd8f16d522018496fe67ad7073b&oe=5540A515&__gda__=1429866460_368307a7832cb31e6056974913ff209a" /><br />
<img height="370" src="https://scontent-a.xx.fbcdn.net/hphotos-xfp1/v/t1.0-9/423429_3224253802985_7405616_n.jpg?oh=39672eefdc967b60b6434a7d2dc17475&oe=553E5183" width="640" /><br />
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Your soul is full of nothing but love and your heart knows nothing but loyalty and kindness...You never had to know pain. I love you and you will always be with me on every 14er, duck hunt, hike, ride and nap in the grass until I see you again......Be good, little girl.Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-9855655619372283872014-12-30T00:57:00.002-08:002014-12-30T00:57:40.479-08:00Because I Am Too Lazy to Write.....As the year winds down and I find myself wide awake at 1:32am looking through pics, a jolt (mmmmm....maybe more like a slight twitch) of motivation to actually publish a post this month rather than talk myself out of it like usual, produced this list. A list. Yeah. Because lists and bullet- pointed blurbs are about as long as anyone is going to pay attention anyway. And even that is pushing the outer limits of the common attention span. (C'mon, admit it).<br />
<br />
So, yeah, anyway, that list thing.<br />
<br />
All of these bumper stickers (well, some are bumper stickers) prompted me to fumble with my phone while driving, focus in and take a picture, thus endangering the safety of myself and others. Well, it would have been a danger except I was in Denver and traffic does not move that fast. So, I did not put anyone in danger to create this blog post because my average speed while fumbling with my phone was >5.3mph:<br />
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Unnoticed photo bomb to the left...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Bc7NKpvpdmn1ckNc-7z20SZDlehJQ4wvnN9gESRI7kpkYNfPrGSXxsENssgWg1J8yv8qZ6AS2zejvdC6K07oFz8Xx1J8p0k9wnR39H6Vl1mrjFGjrGuCT4bo6bU8AcXwP7Y1MLmY2NUp/s1600/20141022_160418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Bc7NKpvpdmn1ckNc-7z20SZDlehJQ4wvnN9gESRI7kpkYNfPrGSXxsENssgWg1J8yv8qZ6AS2zejvdC6K07oFz8Xx1J8p0k9wnR39H6Vl1mrjFGjrGuCT4bo6bU8AcXwP7Y1MLmY2NUp/s1600/20141022_160418.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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My opinion of Denver currently....</div>
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My Mike's bottle one night...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOx1UDZA6SAdX9Sao_p434-LKzsy5GvZRqosBVcDtRQzwmEHvWI7ohHxkuSdbNmjV14hTE96vqY3jASDMTRAAORtE9AH_aKNWg2NeT5MML3I3hWL5RtWn_t6Tru0QMLoo8axYTWpHzS_U/s1600/20141125_141132.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmOx1UDZA6SAdX9Sao_p434-LKzsy5GvZRqosBVcDtRQzwmEHvWI7ohHxkuSdbNmjV14hTE96vqY3jASDMTRAAORtE9AH_aKNWg2NeT5MML3I3hWL5RtWn_t6Tru0QMLoo8axYTWpHzS_U/s1600/20141125_141132.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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Could we even wrap our heads around the notion of this?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0b3UpvEkYSanjG2pBhoZsFTp3bSgVmpxwyTcUY7U3Tw7owe4shMttNFcYhu6AXmzS_mYc2_zbhdPZ7l-h_Zhtxd8Bi7W0v43bhw2QzQuKy7413rEJPxbbsseALgq6TD7dUqfK5fzA42Bw/s1600/20141130_133811.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0b3UpvEkYSanjG2pBhoZsFTp3bSgVmpxwyTcUY7U3Tw7owe4shMttNFcYhu6AXmzS_mYc2_zbhdPZ7l-h_Zhtxd8Bi7W0v43bhw2QzQuKy7413rEJPxbbsseALgq6TD7dUqfK5fzA42Bw/s1600/20141130_133811.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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Shotgun Rider.....</div>
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Yup...</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyzcxGEztwTJb32EIk3gQ-D-vPwcWO3wZMqayNFmuXJYfGbpQTWYgJvZBkAzJ-UyV8gc4skJpgYUuPRPjmwajsdgq1b_p1ATF3Yqpcx0Ud4f-cfAmW_VXv07bkGScxYCfexfWIi_0okBcO/s1600/beardpic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyzcxGEztwTJb32EIk3gQ-D-vPwcWO3wZMqayNFmuXJYfGbpQTWYgJvZBkAzJ-UyV8gc4skJpgYUuPRPjmwajsdgq1b_p1ATF3Yqpcx0Ud4f-cfAmW_VXv07bkGScxYCfexfWIi_0okBcO/s1600/beardpic.jpg" height="320" width="319" /></a></div>
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Beards were cool before beards were cool....</div>
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I hope you realize this.....</div>
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Ha, and this.....</div>
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This is an actual store in Prineville, OR. Seriously.</div>
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Where it doesn't stop raining for weeks at a time.....</div>
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Aaaaaaand my all time favorite of 2014.........</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIQMcsXHChJjmmGYPqZEzvXLpOI3dzrnuQh0ttr9DKIgtEm583n_3CBI2zxOXjC9oO9xASTPPa-BjClvs9XUHizey3QfV1meGDJ75Ky05xaSnef_iN4A6Uk9GxUxLndvw6sIahIhyphenhyphen7uWa/s1600/20141228_145422.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBIQMcsXHChJjmmGYPqZEzvXLpOI3dzrnuQh0ttr9DKIgtEm583n_3CBI2zxOXjC9oO9xASTPPa-BjClvs9XUHizey3QfV1meGDJ75Ky05xaSnef_iN4A6Uk9GxUxLndvw6sIahIhyphenhyphen7uWa/s1600/20141228_145422.jpg" height="180" width="320" /></a></div>
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Zoomed in for clarity:</div>
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Something worth giving more than a split second of attention in 2015....Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-42321263596506044952014-10-30T15:00:00.001-07:002014-10-30T15:00:10.342-07:00Then What? Much writing goes on in my little world. I am loving the act of handwriting, brainstorming, dreaming in journals. A little of this:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8rMYfQ2rMKYkvAD5MGd9YfUreNMfRtMqy7e9QT1NXtfOsUJCXDa9XLFIvOloBO57IrkroCg9rsZ9OdVhkblqmXVDJsivTmGLMBw1RioRJ-kK1f25pOv2YO0s0RM6uxCyRyFhaRj5RHM8/s1600/20141018_132838.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjl8rMYfQ2rMKYkvAD5MGd9YfUreNMfRtMqy7e9QT1NXtfOsUJCXDa9XLFIvOloBO57IrkroCg9rsZ9OdVhkblqmXVDJsivTmGLMBw1RioRJ-kK1f25pOv2YO0s0RM6uxCyRyFhaRj5RHM8/s1600/20141018_132838.jpg" height="400" width="225" /></a></div>
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Along with napping on a lazy, sunny Sunday here:<br />
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And this constant reminder on my fridge:<br />
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Mixes rather splendidly (or....dangerously) and produces this spattering of ideas and goals:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuBpYKidRzvsRcbQUv5hkSnRCng4XqJWEBtTr9js7SGVwbAFUgkq0-UC_YR5J_7E2uU3jroeTX5J_DH96juZez-KeldSHI5vshd1fsiJ1XTWUoWiv7UdU4v1sHXXPbNESK0diNUG8pwuT/s1600/20141030_154230.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghuBpYKidRzvsRcbQUv5hkSnRCng4XqJWEBtTr9js7SGVwbAFUgkq0-UC_YR5J_7E2uU3jroeTX5J_DH96juZez-KeldSHI5vshd1fsiJ1XTWUoWiv7UdU4v1sHXXPbNESK0diNUG8pwuT/s1600/20141030_154230.jpg" height="320" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">MB from PA, I will get to you with details on the skinny tire expedition very soon...</td></tr>
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Wasatch will happen. Cross country ride will happen, 14er finish will happen (4 left). Nolan's---eeek! Unsure when on this one.....late July? Late Sept? Won't happen in 60 hours, or anywhere even close, Crazy, painful, yet slightly enticing RAAM ideas have been planted in my head for 2016.....May and June's adventure will give me a good idea if that silliness will happen....<br />
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Sure will be fun to see where this all goes.......Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-8244144510042355592014-10-27T04:43:00.000-07:002014-10-27T04:52:59.128-07:00A Winter of ReturnMy thoughts today took me to the main street of a tiny town. If you look very closely at a state map of Oregon, you will barely see the minute black dot in the small font that represents this little town.<br />
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<a href="https://www.google.com/maps/place/Prairie+City,+OR+97869/@44.4598095,-118.7096631,14z/data=!3m1!4b1!4m2!3m1!1s0x54bafe14999a0453:0x323f154572634beb">Prairie City, Oregon</a>.<br />
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Home of the mighty Panthers that (hopefully still) draw the majority of the town to the football field and the gym on Friday nights, this little-known gateway to the rugged, pristine and relatively untouched Stawberry Mountain Wilderness harbors exactly zero stoplights. The old Chevron station on the east end of main street probably sports its usual "Welcome Hunters" sign by now and I bet either Kelly or Barb would still pump my gas. The grocery store, the bank, the cafe and the mini-mart all lie on the quarter mile of blacktop where I rode old Jazz with my freshly polished boots, pigtails, spurs and cowboy hat in the 4th of July parade in the 80's. I yelled, screamed and cheered with my class on our float, pulled by Reuben's 1960 Chevy in the Homecoming Parade in the late 90's, and then only set foot on it maybe five times after the turn of the century. A few GO PANTHERS banners and window paintings in orange and black and jack-o-laterns, ghosts, skeletons and witches decorate the rest of the window spaces. Friends I graduated with probably work for or own some of the businesses that hope for an influx of western Oregon and out of state elk hunters, followed by a good tourist crowd next summer to keep the lights on. I took my color-book offerings to my great-grandmother and great aunt in the nursing home across from the Chevron when I was very young and then in highschool, cruised up and down the street it faced in Jennifer's white Ford Escort.<br />
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Cattle ranches still surround the tiny town in almost every direction, but the sawmill on the west end of town that, at one time, either directly or indirectly fed and clothed every child in the school district sits silent. I would bet heavily that The Hitchin Post still serves the Logger Burger and a caramel Coke, both of which we used to preorder for lunch from the rotary dial phone in the hallway right before Mr. Gerry's class. Well, that is, when we had a few extra bucks that hadn't gone into the gas tank to get out to the woods to stand around the bonfire the night before.<br />
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Today, there is an art gallery that sits next to the bank with a copper horse hanging outside. It is filled with hundreds of pieces of creative work representing thousands of hours behind an easel or throwing clay. There are pieces that have hung in Las Vegas at the National Finals Rodeo, there are pieces that have hung in reputable juried art shows, there are pieces that have hung in galleries all over the western United States, there are pieces that have been commissioned by people from everywhere and there is, most recently, gorgeous pottery (one-of-a-kind tooled leather style) sitting on every available flat surface above the floor.<br />
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In order to appreciate this gallery, one must have an interest in or appreciation for western and wildlife art.<br />
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Passion and talent to create artwork such as this is as foreign to me as riding a mountain bike from border to border is to the artist. I could not imagine finding the time, ability, inspiration or motivation to even begin to draw a stick horse, in the same way the artist would never dream of riding a balloon-tired, heavy, obnoxious looking bike in freezing cold temperatures for miles on snowy roads and trails.</div>
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Sooooooo....why do I care about this art gallery in an economically stuggling podunk town with no intersections busy enough to warrant a stoplight? </div>
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Because I actually have much in common with the phenomenal, passionate, brave, compassionate and beautiful soul responsible for the creation of this art and the existence of the Copper Horse Gallery. We both think big and dream bigger. We feel the pull of the words our hearts speak to us. We do not choose to ignore it in favor of being who we are not. We pretty much laugh at the absudities of conventional thinking and doing when it discourages following an innate passion, promotes caring only for oneself and denies any human soul to shine. </div>
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Oh, and she also was kind enough to give me an X chromosome a while ago.</div>
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I am returning to help my mom live her dreams, just as she has unconditionally supported mine from the first breath of Oregon air I inhaled. It is time. For two months this winter, before I move back to Durango, I will be giving everything I have to see her gallery built out of sacrifice, hardwork and determination succeed. This gallery and the work it contains needs to be known. This gallery can and will thrive despite its location. </div>
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Mom, Wheels and I will see you in November. I know you have been waiting for this post for a long time. Somewhere deep inside I think all the miles of pedaling this summer helped me to realize how much I needed to write this.....</div>
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Oh, and clear a space for my Pugsley. I hear its going to snow in Oregon this winter.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqesYAjop8HsvE-oc7XEXuW51ojF2Tfd4Qiv61ACHBYzCGlL4YACJ4l2qkA88E7KSZIsb7S-azXWDt8LxzcWIEae_ejUqnu3ljbeV6qmtFI5EX0dy8V27LIMZMdrGa3ZL-UXhynDhyphenhyphenTnwJ/s1600/20141027_052524.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqesYAjop8HsvE-oc7XEXuW51ojF2Tfd4Qiv61ACHBYzCGlL4YACJ4l2qkA88E7KSZIsb7S-azXWDt8LxzcWIEae_ejUqnu3ljbeV6qmtFI5EX0dy8V27LIMZMdrGa3ZL-UXhynDhyphenhyphenTnwJ/s1600/20141027_052524.jpeg" height="225" width="400" /></a></div>
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"Home is where the heart can laugh without shyness. Home is where the heart’s tears can dry at their own pace." </div>
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~Vernon Baker</div>
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<br />Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-56457175781209101812014-10-07T21:26:00.003-07:002014-10-07T21:34:07.385-07:00South ColonyThere are moments when it all makes sense. The pondering stops and no words need (or can even be) uttered. There are seemingly no thoughts. yet they do exist. They just don't need clarified.<br />
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Because clarity has arrived for a fleeting moment. Perfectly understood in my soul, yet unexplainable with human speech...<br />
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A campfire and tent in early October.<br />
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The moon rising long before the sun setting.<br />
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Rainbow trout cooking, caught less than one thousand feet away.<br />
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One of maybe five people in a gigantic basin at 11k'.<br />
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I lift my eyes from my trance induced by the patterns the red hot coals make in the ashes.<br />
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And see that God's hand left me this on the easel tonight.....<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9YToPzhSNa8Kcjvbt6mv6RI607l75UFTnayPz0eVVZV2Ac3kv4fCaIMIfe7oxxRyyOofZNVRil06MuRYt_XT_KJ4FpwAMprLJU7weeK5EW9uAg07PqGF_skARuBNnpb8WCLNlVhTSMAo/s1600/downloadfile-2.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV9YToPzhSNa8Kcjvbt6mv6RI607l75UFTnayPz0eVVZV2Ac3kv4fCaIMIfe7oxxRyyOofZNVRil06MuRYt_XT_KJ4FpwAMprLJU7weeK5EW9uAg07PqGF_skARuBNnpb8WCLNlVhTSMAo/s1600/downloadfile-2.jpeg" height="223" width="400" /></a></div>
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For what more could I ask?<br />
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Nothing.Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-55364373382361950472014-09-30T18:29:00.001-07:002014-10-01T08:43:18.123-07:00Trees Always WinI sat just below the trail and gazed at a pristine valley in front of me last weekend in the middle of a lazy fall ride I joined in on after much debate within. I love Kenosha to Breck. It was my first overnight bikepacking trip three years ago. On every previous trip, I have felt alive, inquisitive and free. I imagined wings on my back and reverted to my ten year-old self at some point every time. Why, then, was I just sitting here with a blank semi-stare, clearly NOT present? I am not sure where my mind was, just not there. The trail was like the Cherry Creek mall on the weekend before Christmas. Hoards of people.<br />
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I thought of taking a picture of the parking lot and shoulder of 285 that looked (sticking with the mall image here) like, yeah, the parking lot at Cherry Creek. And I thought about taking a picture of the trees. But I had no desire to replicate the 50 or so pictures I had seen posted on Facebook the day before. Yawn. So, instead, I took a picture of the results of my short standoff with an Aspen tree on the descent to the parking lot:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwDrh5gUYNVtg3-YjBgLjAJMjhVNKZzI79Fftv8hywFWM9X0C6c9Eez559DoyEocf4091gOJOl16ZtZn9fFvjI92vH84a0sXuyAlslZMH0PLjHT4_Lti6d6EByHGtCMLXN5VfGd4awoO-/s1600/2014-09-30+16.17.58.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXwDrh5gUYNVtg3-YjBgLjAJMjhVNKZzI79Fftv8hywFWM9X0C6c9Eez559DoyEocf4091gOJOl16ZtZn9fFvjI92vH84a0sXuyAlslZMH0PLjHT4_Lti6d6EByHGtCMLXN5VfGd4awoO-/s1600/2014-09-30+16.17.58.jpg" height="400" width="300" /></a></div>
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Why did I just post my bruised shoulder? Yes. As humans we want to share, talk and laugh about our triumphs and follies. And it has become kind of fun to show "damn, I was lucky but check this out" pictures. I love it when it involves voice and facial expression but I also know that the world and life and social interaction is different. That I accept and feel fine with.<br />
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But my own, personal struggle that bothers me is the ever-lingering (almost annoying) desire to take a picture to let everyone else know what I am doing. Why do I feel this?<br />
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Where has this demon been lurking and why do I let it steal the moment from me? If I don't share my view of the yellow trees between Kenosha and Breck, is it not as valuable? Is the current moment not satisfying enough? Am I looking outward for validation that yes, indeed, I am having fun?<br />
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I honestly don't even want to take a picture, maybe in this case because I have seen so many already, yet I feel an (urge? habit? duty?) to do just that. Isn't that strangely approaching an addiction-like definition? Is that addictive part of me taking away from what I strive/love/yearn to do--be present and aware? Instead, I am distracted by the part of me that wants to record/share it. Wait, then am I even actually "here"?<br />
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Whoa. Slow down, Cowgirl. Calm the brain.<br />
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I closed my eyes and looked deep inside. I tuned out the voices, footsteps and noise from all the people passing by, laid back in the grass and took about ten deep breaths. I opened my eyes and watched the white clouds above me and the black mass of clouds approaching from the west. My nostrils felt the slight tingle from the cool air of an approaching thunderstorm. I just lied there for about 20 minutes thinking of, well, nothing really.<br />
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Then I sat up and saw so much more than a bunch of yellow trees. I saw intricate details and patterns in scars on the trunks, I saw the color gradients on individual leaves as well as entire stands. I saw and inhaled and felt each second as it passed. I thanked God for the opportunity I had to be exactly where I was at exactly this moment and the light it brought to my soul. It took effort to bring my mind to this place but I was instantly filled with joy that I was still capable. Nature brings me here when I let her. I am fully aware, free of distraction, free of expectations and truly cherish the gift of simply being, living and existing. I want nothing more. There is nothing better.<br />
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Nothing.<br />
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And that, is the main reason I quit Facebook. My addictive tendencies are stirred enough by social media that they steal the present moment from me. Similar to the way worry, stress and exhaustion functions to do the same thing, I can't deactivate my "worry, stress and exhaustion accounts" (heh, wouldn't that be cool?), I can only manage them and reduce them. They have been part of my existence since I was old enough to worry about an upcoming spelling test in the first grade and they will always be around. Those I know very well, I know their tricks and tendencies. They are old demons. I know the punches that will knock those bastards silly. But this newer demon, ahhhh, he pulls some sneaky shit. He tries to steal my mountains by keeping my brain occupied with recording the moment. Thankfully, I can learn ways to knock him to the ground by hitting 'deactivate account,' <br />
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This is not a brand new battle for me. I have been fighting it for almost 4 years but it has grown a lot in 2014 and I have just chosen to write about semi-recently. If you have read my blog for a long time you may remember these as well as many thoughts from the Tour Divide postings:<br />
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<a href="http://allthingsepicwithjill.blogspot.com/2014/01/project-disconnect.html">http://allthingsepicwithjill.blogspot.com/2014/01/project-disconnect.html</a><br />
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<a href="http://allthingsepicwithjill.blogspot.com/2013/02/a-break-from-fake.html">http://allthingsepicwithjill.blogspot.com/2013/02/a-break-from-fake.html</a><br />
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The above are just the published version of my struggle. Some who know me personally have engaged in lengthy conversations about it, know the issue weighs on my mind and have watched me swear off it only to gradually slide back. I told my roommate about two weeks ago that I could feel a Facebook hiatus coming on and my target date was October 1st. Yesterday, two days earlier, I socked the demon in the mouth.<br />
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I have learned it is in my best interest to not use the word never, but I am pretty sure this will be quite a bit longer than a 30 day hiatus like the three times before. And (all of you reading will applaud this) I am done talking about it. But I need to do some last minute processing, which is the reason for this post.<br />
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Again, this is a personal struggle I need to come to terms with. I have some work ahead of me. It is a habit and habits take time to break. I still want to talk about the places I love and I still want to write about them, but I have to make my heart right with it. I need to live/pedal/run/climb/explore/laugh/cry/play for me. Me. Like I used to when the thought of posting something did not even exist. I need to rid thoughts of "Oooooh, that would be a good profile or cover photo" and the term "blog fodder" from my brain. Live first, document second. I am not judging anyone, I am explaining my own issues that plague me. If you relate, you get what I am saying. If you look at it differently, that is fine too. There is no need to agree on this as everyone is completely entitled to their own relationship with social media. The point of this is to reiterate to myself that I need to look within and slowly untangle my grey matter from this habit/addiction/demon--whatever the term is. Maybe someday I will be right with it, but until then, I think I have some internal exploring and realigning to do.<br />
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But for now, as humbling and embarrassing (yet cathartic in a way)as it is to admit: I know that it steals my present moment and brings (crappy-to-me feeling) urges to record it, share it and have it acknowledged. And for something that brings such things: I have two words:<br />
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Buh-bye.<br />
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Especially when it involves the mountains, trees and trails of Colorado.<br />
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Oh, here is what Wheels had to say about the whole matter:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionaNywLETK-K80csySJbnaxCSZSs4_10uPDdBt7WjEZKk9hgpdzjIUpnRoP8PiDJ_3xp95lY13cn3T8a-mdTXkiODwV2hZKFHHFLr66MV_Y9vHHutL6yOGY2FuS7rjwkeneB2PPU5S8tb/s1600/2014-09-30+16.16.15+(1).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEionaNywLETK-K80csySJbnaxCSZSs4_10uPDdBt7WjEZKk9hgpdzjIUpnRoP8PiDJ_3xp95lY13cn3T8a-mdTXkiODwV2hZKFHHFLr66MV_Y9vHHutL6yOGY2FuS7rjwkeneB2PPU5S8tb/s1600/2014-09-30+16.16.15+(1).jpg" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-24318527660112112782014-09-28T01:25:00.002-07:002014-09-28T01:46:02.459-07:00I QuitI found this in my unpublished post list tonight. Its not a letter from my dog (yes, I am having fun being silly with this), rather it was one of those that I started, thinking I had something to say and a direction, but it just kind of fizzled out. Tonight, I revived it and wrote the ending:<br />
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The early morning sunlight grinned at me as I rounded the turn and started up Marshall Pass. I thought of the previous day's miles and memories, the absolutely shitty, laborious plodding through a sandy stretch leaving Del Norte, I remembered Carnero Pass's beautiful climb and anti-climactic summit. I thought about meeting Bill, my new favorite photographer ever; the heat going over Cochetopa Pass and the fantastic conversation with the good ol' boys from Durango (and their horse!) at the top.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSxDaaMPMSpMxRg1bU54M85niYFWnzs33-HIXGJ1iOIw4uvCYMMC9WzVsvw9kEf1qRxhvDcB7Fy56Gj2f2m24uv3AQEha8TV9WroYHpYXF-feLkdPRxPRQiAMJgsvTP1-Fyemx6BhbMmPh/s1600/DSC_5018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSxDaaMPMSpMxRg1bU54M85niYFWnzs33-HIXGJ1iOIw4uvCYMMC9WzVsvw9kEf1qRxhvDcB7Fy56Gj2f2m24uv3AQEha8TV9WroYHpYXF-feLkdPRxPRQiAMJgsvTP1-Fyemx6BhbMmPh/s1600/DSC_5018.JPG" height="263" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">photo credit: Bill Baca</td></tr>
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I thought about my previous climbs to Marshall Pass and smiled even bigger when I looked down and saw my feet clipped into the pedals. Ride Foose's Creek to the top and then fly up the 4% grade on the road and you will know just what I mean. </div>
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Winding up around the turns, climbing in the cool morning air, knowing the screaming descent into Salida that awaited my tires--my mind was clear, my legs were being cooperative and amicable partners and my soul floated along through the trees. The Tour Divide elicits these storybook portrayals everyday for at least a few hours, usually in the early mornings and late evenings. My brain leisurely waltzed through today's storytime and began thinking back to the maroon Honda Ridgeline I saw stopped along the river south of Carnero Pass the previous day.</div>
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The driver stepped out and pointed a camera with a lens longer than my arm across the river. I glanced over to see nothing really and stopped to inquire as to the subject of the photo.</div>
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"That Golden Eagle trying to fly off that rock."</div>
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"Ahhh, now I see him...Wow!"</div>
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"Where are you headed?"</div>
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"Canada."</div>
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"Really?'</div>
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"Yep."</div>
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Questions about my bike, setup, route and the night's destination ensued and I learned that Bill was an avid mountain biker in his day. And a very lucky one as well....</div>
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While training for the Leadville 100 MTB race, he decided to go on a 20 mile ride in the area where I was headed over Carnero Pass. Rolling along through some Aspen stands, he stood up off the seat to pedal and an Aspen tree fell, clipping the edge of his seat and completely destroying his rear wheel and tire. </div>
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After Bill completed his story in a much more lively and descriptive manner than my short summary above, I shook my head, blinked a couple times and felt my jaw dropping in amazement. How many people do you know have survived a tree falling on their bike? How many trees fall on bikes? What are the odds? And had he not stood up at that exact moment, I never would have heard that story or met such a friendly, cool dude who continued to follow my progress throughout the rest of the journey. But more importantly, think how thankful his kids are that he decided to stand up....</div>
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Once I summitted Marshall via the lazyman's route, I turned on the afterburners, turned up the tunes and played speedracer all the way into Poncha Springs. Vrrrrrooooooooom! I kept catching myself making moto noises and giggling immediately afterward. I hit 44.3 mph, which wasn't too shabby for my skeletal self, tucked tight onto the aerobars.</div>
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Soon I was at Absolute Bikes and found that it was going to be a while before I could head out, so I went in search of food.</div>
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"Are you doing the Tour Divide northbound also?" </div>
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A late thirty-something man in a red jersey, cooked by the sun was sitting at an outdoor table at a pizza place in Salida. I did not see his bike anywhere, but noticed he did not look overly happy and sensed the day had been a rough one for him. I wondered how anything but a smile could grace one's face after the descent off Marshall Pass.</div>
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"Yep, I am. How is your ride going?"</div>
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"Ehhh, it kinda sucks."</div>
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"Really? Was Marshall not a good ride for you?"</div>
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"Marshall? It looked really steep on the map so I took Monarch Pass to get on some pavement and had to walk my bike for miles. I finally got so tired and pissed off that I slept somewhere near the top. I hate all the cars, I feel like I am putting myself in danger everyday and its just not fun...How long did it take you to get through New Mexico? I was hot and miserable and felt like it would never end."</div>
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"Five and a half days."</div>
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"Shit. It took me eleven....but I am just touring. I have all summer off, so time doesn't matter."</div>
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"That's great that you have all summer, I would love to have the time to spend a day or two at some of the places in northern New Mexico and near Horca. What a surreal, beautuful and magical area, huh?"</div>
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"Not really. I just had to push my bike all the time. I mean, it was ok I guess, but I don't really know why I am out here, I planned for so long and am not sure why I am doing this. By the way, is that all the gear you have?"</div>
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His voice was rough and I could sense a slight aura of anger in his words. Trying to lighten the mood a little I made myself the butt of a couple of humorous minimalist jokes that did not even elicit a return smile. Whoa, this dude was really in a hole of miserable. A deep one.</div>
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"Yeah, I am weighing in around 40-41lbs depending on how much food I have on board."</div>
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"Hmmmm, do you ever push your bike?"</div>
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"Not much so far."</div>
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"Well, I don't stay in hotels, I don't shower and I don't even stay in campgrounds. That's my rule."<br />
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I had to turn my head away and cover my mouth, pretending to clear my throat so he would not see my smile and so I could stave off laughter. "Hmmmm, I see, but what prompted you to make that rule for yourself?"<br />
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"Because I can."<br />
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Wow, that was pretty much my cue to wander down the street to another place to eat. This guy didn't want to casually chat, he wanted a sounding board. I opened my mouth and took a breath to form a polite exit excuse and then stopped myself. This was the first cyclist I had encountered since I saw Big Dave in Cuba as he blew by. As unpleasant and gruff as this guy was, something told me that I should accept his offer to sit and eat some lunch. Maybe it was my fascination with understanding the psychological workings of people who choose to ride the GDMBR and their motivations, maybe it was just my intuition telling me to be a kind ear or maybe I needed a good example of a bad attitude to avoid.<br />
<br />
I took off my gloves and helmet and sat down. The midmorning sun was beginning to heat up and as rough and dirty as I surely looked even having taken a shower since I started, he looked pretty exhausted, sunburned, windburned and harbored a fulltime half-scowl on his face.<br />
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"I wonder if you would enjoy the ride a little more if you took a shower?"<br />
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"I don't know, this is just not that great. It's not what everyone says it is. It's really hard and I am tired of pushing my damn bike all the time."<br />
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He pointed at my bike.<br />
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"Really, Jill, where is all your stuff? And your wheels are bigger than mine. But I am not SPOT-tracking and I don't stay in hotels or shower, not even a campground. I have all summer off to do this, I have a great job."<br />
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Whoa, where do I even start in replying? I played the positive/pretty places card. "Wasn't La Manga Pass a beautiful descent? How did you like the views from Brazos Overlook? Did you eat good food in Platoro?"<br />
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"I have pushed my bike so many hours. I think it may be too heavy...."<br />
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The negativity continued for another ten minutes. I let him vent his doom and gloom, offering only subtle and kind suggestions of ways to be more comfortable and allieviate his misery, getting only anger-filled justifications for responses. Having been in very similar gloom/fatigue holes, I empathized, but was secretly relieved when my food came. I wished him luck and headed for the bike shop with my right hand on the handle bar and my left stuffing my face with food.<br />
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I saw Mr. Angry three more times before the Canadian border. Once a few minutes later at the bike shop as he was starting out for the big climb out of Salida. I saw him again about three hours later on the climb pushing his bike. I offered all the genuine encouraging words I could think of and pedaled on, figuring I would never see him again and silently hoping he would lighted up the 85lb menagerie he was pushing (no exaggeration, as I saw it on the scale at the shop in Salida!) and somehow find some happiness in his journey. <br />
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A couple weeks later in Whitefish, MT at a street festival, my jaw dropped. How in the world could he have gotten here so quickly? Yes, I had a major mental collapse in Pinedale which put me in a deep, dark, shit-filled gloom hole and lost an entire day, but there was just no way.....<br />
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I smiled. "Hey, you are almost there!"<br />
<br />
"I finished."<br />
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"Holy crap! Did you trade your bike for a motorcycle?" "Or a rocketship?" I tried the make-a-joke approach but the same scowl that I saw back in Salida still prevailed. "Did you have a cold Canadian beer in Banff?"<br />
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"No, I am only riding border to border. No sense in going to Canada. I am catching the train outta here in an hour. I took some highway detours. Just wanted to get this over with so I can say I did it."<br />
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I stood in the middle of the food vendor trucks and tried to pay attention to the conversation, but I was pretty much done. He was no happier than when I first met him in Salida, so I let him vent all his disappointment of the journey once again. When he finished, I smiled, congratulated and complimented his effort with the friendliest and kindest words I had and just walked away.<br />
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To. Say. I. Did. It.<br />
<br />
I thought about those four words and wondered to whom he was going to say he did it? To himself? To his family and friends? Students? To Facebook? To his blog? He was clearly miserable the whole trip and would not take a shower or change a bike setup that he disliked having to push up all the hills. This guy was tough as hell. He held strong to what he set out to do but suffered the whole way and took paved roads to make it easier. Not knowing him and going off only what I observed and heard in conversation with him, I kept wondering if he would have finished if no one had known he was riding? If he had no one to tell of his showerless month of riding and camping, would he have finished it? Would he have held fast to his rule or would he have made himself more comfortable and found some enjoyment in what he was seeing along the route?<br />
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My thoughts returned to this guy as I pedaled the days away and my mind wandered here and there. I had never encountered such a genuinely unhappy cyclist. It was totally foreign to me. Sure, I have seen many riders in pain and agony from fatigue, but it is all a bit tongue-in-cheek, because in a weird, sick way, we all love the suffering we inflict upon ourselves. Those who truly hate it quit racing. I think that's what puzzled me a great deal as well: the guy was touring, NOT racing, and suffering like a dog. But, as I mentioned before, I do not know him, so my only conclusions are based on inferences.<br />
<br />
Running across this guy and his words "To say I did it..." kept haunting me and I chose to elaborate so extensively because it relates directly to a recurring issue I have yet to make right within myself. Miles and miles were spent pedaling and thinking about my ongoing struggle with and social/relational challenges in the<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> I SHARE THEREFORE I AM</span><br />
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world. I do not have the personality type that will ever see social media as "real life." It does not sit right in my heart the way we connect and communicate. I need words, emotions, facial expressions, laughter that I can hear, not laughter I see written as LOL. Yet I do it. Everyday. Whether I want to or not, I habitually log into Facebook. I get completely bored with the overly-enhanced pictures and wonder about the <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-waJH2lUJ5M#t=63">compulsion</a> to make real life pictures better. I eventually get tired of the constant noise and deactivate my account, but anywhere between two and four weeks I am back. Why?<br />
<br />
Time to get real honest.<br />
<br />
I, too, feel some sort of compulsion to share. It exists. I share because I want to tell people what I am doing.<br />
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I questioned my heart for many miles on that topic. What the hell have I become? Why did this compulsion arise? Why does it feel so wrong yet I do it? Why do I ignore that feeling and do it anyway? I ultimately wished I could find a culture where sharing every aspect of our lives was done through human interaction instead of electronically. Ha, yeah right, Jill. It is 2014, not 2004. I thought about how when I started this blog and joined Facebook, my brain was different. It was not a habitual thing to post and record my life to put on display. I honestly wanted to use them as a memoir of my own and to inspire people to chase big dreams. Because, hey, if a complete no one from nowhere can make a run at some crazy dreams that fuel her inner fire......<br />
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But somewhere, somehow, someway life is becoming this:<br />
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<br />
Yeah, I laughed too. But then it hit home pretty hard.<br />
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My quit date is October 1.<br />
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The personally negative (addictive) effects I experience and am acutely aware of everyday, yet for some reason choose to basically ignore coupled with the degradation of my friendships and relationships far far far outweigh the good things social medial has brought.<br />
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Yes. There are good things. Many.<br />
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But not enough anymore.<br />
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I checked and I joined Facebook in July of 2009 and I immediately wished I had back just half of the time I have wasted. I don't want to wish for time back ever again. I don't want to struggle with it anymore.<br />
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I want it gone from my thoughts. I want to deepen existing relationships with the beautiful, inspiring and genuine people I know the old-fashioned way. I want to continue to do epic shit and not feel a compulsion to post a picture of it. Call me an old soul. Call me overly-sensitive. Call me an over-analyzer. All I know is that my heart is not right with me having a Facebook account.<br />
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And I must listen to what it says.<br />
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Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-54025798502664791532014-09-24T19:04:00.000-07:002014-09-24T19:04:03.804-07:00Advice From the Wisest Old Lady I Have Ever Known<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: fenwick-1, fenwick-2, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9r3-LHAHSnWDSH8LeUandpNn_z6_EhZHZr3ln0uCIc-Mt3rrkd77l3xBSVkovFADw23ysyp7Qs33-_rrzMYvwsg_vDk5T4YRj0eSyE1HhICj5e1Z9XUJm2v29sKh7LXSmXa6-pkRA3oJJ/s1600/P1010471.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9r3-LHAHSnWDSH8LeUandpNn_z6_EhZHZr3ln0uCIc-Mt3rrkd77l3xBSVkovFADw23ysyp7Qs33-_rrzMYvwsg_vDk5T4YRj0eSyE1HhICj5e1Z9XUJm2v29sKh7LXSmXa6-pkRA3oJJ/s1600/P1010471.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">From <i>The World According to Wheels </i>(a collection of letters written to me, Jill, by my 13.5 year old black lab as I navigate/pursue a maddeningly beautiful existence):</span></div>
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<span style="background-color: black; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 21px;"><span style="color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Ok, what the.....??</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 21px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 21px;">I have to experiment, explore and breathe a bit of life into this blog. The fact is, I am really bored with it but want to continue posting. Thus, I am taking a small hiatus from aiming bunch of cliched adjectives and clever one-liners in your direction, opening the lid of my soul and dumping it out through my fingertips and then pasting a buttload of pictures (which I still refuse to enhance with technology) of my bike with hopes of inspiring you to do what you think you can't. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: large; letter-spacing: -1px; line-height: 21px;">Don't get me wrong, my utmost hope when I began this blog is exactly that and it has not deviated one bit still today, but I just need to do something a little different for a while. So, let's see where it goes. There probably won't be a ton of explanation as to what I am talking about or the premise behind the randomness, but I am betting you will relate in some way (or you won't). Either way, feel free to laugh at me.</span><br />
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<br />Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4288368202826764940.post-68767899287341986212014-09-13T01:55:00.000-07:002014-09-13T09:22:11.546-07:00More from the Journal....Very Random<span style="background-color: white; color: #181818; font-family: georgia, serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; line-height: 18px;">June 30, 2014</span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">As I look at my bank account. I feel like Harry Dunne: "I spent my life savings turning my van into a dog..."</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">July 4, 2014</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">I saw the fireworks over Seeley Lake tonight. I am writing from my "pent(out)house suite" at the Nordic Trails trail head. Sleepy but restless as I mull over the fact this state has taken ahold of my soul a bit. From Red Rocks Pass and the Centennial Valley to Seeley Lake, there has been no part of Montana that I did not feel myself wanting to further explore and stay longer.</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">Serenity is the concept my brain and heart kept playing with today as I rode. Serenity. The rivers, lakes and mountains exemplify the word like no other. The mountains do not hold my attention and lust like those of the majestic kings of Colorado, but they call with a softer voice--comforting and peaceful.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">I ride without lights--in complete daylight--until 10pm. I drink in the cool pockets of air, I smell pine up high and fresh cut hay down low. The people of this land live with a great contentment and reflect a simplicity that is alluring. </span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">Could a move to Missoula compete with a return to Durango this fall? I think I need to find out.....</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>July 5, 2014</span><br />
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While waiting for my precious and steaming hot French Toast breakfast at Pop's Place the next morning, I looked out the window, then looked into my heart, grabbed a napkin and my pen. </span><br />
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Here is what came out:</span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">Note: After I got back to Denver, I did return and spent a week in Missoula. Me being me, I had to see. I had to explore the possibility of moving to Missoula even though I can't see myself calling anywhere but the San Juan mountains my true and permanent home. </span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">Missoula is an incredible place. Great people, small town feel, good culture, community, fishing, biking, hiking, you name it. And I could live in Missoula. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">If Durango, Colorado did not exist.....</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">June 24, 2014</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">Rawlins, WY.</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">My Wandering Jew died here....I loved that plant. Funny the little things that I remember. Each place I have been to along the TD brings back many, many memories. Mostly good. But not this one.....</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">Little did I know the plant and my marriage would share the same fate. Looking back, I think I kind of wondered. You know what they say about hindsight.....</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">Wow, that seems like an eternity of lifetimes ago.....wonder where he lives now? Haven't thought of him in probably 5 or 6 years. It took Rawlins to stir the memory.</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">Funny life is. sometimes.</span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br />
<span style="line-height: 18px;">(Ok, I will give you the backstory: Rawlins was where we (myself, my ex-husband and his son) stopped to stay the night on our move from Eugene, OR to Denver 9 1/2 years ago. We had a horse trailer packed with our belongings and it was freezing cold. I knew that the plant was going to freeze overnight but there was no way I could get to the tub to bring it into the motel. It did. I tried to save it but no luck. I got a tiny start a couple years ago from a friend in Silverton. It is currently thriving in my kitchen window.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">July 7, 2014</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;">I have no words to write. None. Already written them all in my head and I am too lazy to jot them down. The Canadian Nazi Border Patrol lady is ridiculous. Don't let her get you down. Setting my alarm for 2am and will be climbing Galton Pass to see the sunrise from the top. </span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">I found this in a magazine at the Grocery Store in Eureka. It speaks to me. I like dares.</span></span><br />
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<span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Dare to Be</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When a new day begins, dare to smile gratefully.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When there is darkness, dare to be the first to shine a light.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When there is injustice, dare to be the first to condemn it.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When something seems difficult, dare to do it anyway.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When life seems to beat you down, dare to fight back.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When there seems to be no hope, dare to find some.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When you’re feeling tired, dare to keep going.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When times are tough, dare to be tougher.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When love hurts you, dare to love again.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When someone is hurting, dare to help them heal.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When another is lost, dare to help them find the way.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When a friend falls, dare to be the first to extend a hand.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When you cross paths with another, dare to make them smile.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When you feel great, dare to help someone else feel great too.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>When the day has ended, dare to feel as you’ve done your best.</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>Dare to be the best you can –</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><i><br style="line-height: 18px;" /></i>
<span style="line-height: 18px;"><i>At all times, Dare to be!”</i></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span>
<span style="line-height: 18px;">― </span><a href="http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4491185.Steve_Maraboli" style="line-height: 18px; text-decoration: none;">Steve Maraboli</a></span>Ji!!http://www.blogger.com/profile/14677872237766965992noreply@blogger.com