Day One of the Rest and the Best of My Life

January 2, 2015.

These mountains are again my home.

I have grown tired of floudering around wondering where home is (Denver? Missoula?Eugene?Flagstaff?).

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.

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.

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:

FEAR.

And we all know what happened to FEAR on New Years Eve:





I asked myself on the last day of 2014:

Why do I ride my bike without fear but fear being in a place where jobs and housing are not abundant?

Why do I fear living in a small town where people are happy and healthy and socially and intellectually engaging?

Why do I fear a place whose mountains bring light into my eyes and soul?

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.

I suppose the answers to those questions are an entanglement of relationships, jobs, money, goals, perceived lifestyles, houses, and blah, blah, blah.

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.

His answer was this:

"You need to master the art of not giving a fuck. Do what you need to do."

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.

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:

This is the fake smile of stress, exhaustion and too much "giving a fuck."

Now compare it to my year in Durango:

That smile is real. That silliness is envigorating and contagious. That is Jill.

So is Durango the answer to everything?

No.

Durango is home.

My home.

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.

One Last Letter...

Hey Mom,

I must tell you of my first day in this strange, new place. By the way, where are you?

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.

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.

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.

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!)

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.

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.

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.

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.

I miss you here, but I am happy and young again and I get to go hunting everyday. Everyday. Mom.
Cool, huh?

I love you,
Wheels

Psssst.....

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!




CCR'S HOT WHEELS

APRIL 30, 2001-JANUARY 1, 2015










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.

Because 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).

So, yeah, anyway, that list thing.

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:

Unnoticed photo bomb to the left...

My opinion of Denver currently....

My Mike's bottle one night...

Could we even wrap our heads around the notion of this?

Shotgun Rider.....

Yup...

Beards were cool before beards were cool....

I hope you realize this.....

Ha, and this.....

This is an actual store in Prineville, OR. Seriously.

Where it doesn't stop raining for weeks at a time.....

No caption necessary....

Aaaaaaand my all time favorite of 2014.........

Zoomed in for clarity:

Something worth giving more than a split second of attention in 2015....

Then What?

Much writing goes on in my little world. I am loving the act of handwriting, brainstorming, dreaming in journals. A little of this:

Along with napping on a lazy, sunny Sunday here:

And this constant reminder on my fridge:

Mixes rather splendidly (or....dangerously) and produces this spattering of ideas and goals:

MB from PA, I will get to you with details on the skinny tire expedition very soon...

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....

Sure will be fun to see where this all goes.......

A Winter of Return

My 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.

Prairie City, Oregon.

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.

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.

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.

In order to appreciate this gallery, one must have an interest in or appreciation for western and wildlife art.

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.

Sooooooo....why do I care about this art gallery in an economically stuggling podunk town with no intersections busy enough to warrant a stoplight? 

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. 

Oh, and she also was kind enough to give me an X chromosome a while ago.

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. 

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.....

Oh, and clear a space for my Pugsley. I hear its going to snow in Oregon this winter.

"Home is where the heart can laugh without shyness. Home is where the heart’s tears can dry at their own pace." 

                  ~Vernon Baker

South Colony

There 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.

Because clarity has arrived for a fleeting moment. Perfectly understood in my soul, yet unexplainable with human speech...

A campfire and tent in early October.

The moon rising long before the sun setting.

Rainbow trout cooking, caught less than one thousand feet away.

One of maybe five people in a gigantic basin at 11k'.

I lift my eyes from my trance induced by the patterns the red hot coals make in the ashes.

And see that God's hand left me this on the easel tonight.....

For what more could I ask?

Nothing.

Trees Always Win

I 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.

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:

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.

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?

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?

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"?

Whoa. Slow down, Cowgirl. Calm the brain.

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.

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.

Nothing.

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,'

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:

http://allthingsepicwithjill.blogspot.com/2014/01/project-disconnect.html

http://allthingsepicwithjill.blogspot.com/2013/02/a-break-from-fake.html

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.

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.

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.

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:

Buh-bye.

Especially when it involves the mountains, trees and trails of Colorado.


Oh, here is what Wheels had to say about the whole matter: