"My girl, sometimes we think we've tackled the devil, but he's still right there on our shoulder, supporting us." -my mother

"I need to hear it's going to be ok," was the greeting my mother received when we met for lunch.
"From him or from me?" she queried.
"From you."
"It's going to be ok," my mother said to me.

Life is full of uncertainty, and sometimes I just need to hear from my mother that it's going to be ok. I've needed to hear this at different times, notably when I'm feeling overwhelmed: for example, the first time I got dumped when I was 20 years old, and what a shock that was. It's sort of laughable now, since it's hardly a big deal anymore, but at the time I was pretty upset. And so my remarkable mother whisked me away for the weekend to go south of the border. We took long, long walks on the beach, during which she taught me all about international economics. To this day I can tell you about the relationship between foreign investment and the value of currency. She knows how to distract me, by stimulating my inquisitive nature. Though I do remember at one point thinking back to my relationship that had just ended, and considering how my life would look different now that my ex was no longer a part of it. Change can be frightening.

"Am I going to be ok?" I asked my mother.
"Yes," my mother said, with such ease and confidence. "You're going to be ok."

I've needed to hear her say this at other times too. The day I called home saying I was leaving UBC to pursue nursing because I didn't know what the hell I was doing with my life. And then there are the days you simply feel rotten, not for a reason you can easily put a finger on, but you feel like the very worst person to ever walk the earth. Thank god they're few and far between, but I've needed on those days to hear that it's ok, to be reminded the feeling won't last forever. Another time I called my mother in tears because I'd just been told that I'd been cheated on for the first time. The next morning my mother came downstairs to find me on the couch reading. She stood by the fireplace a moment, watching me and then said,

"You know there's a softness about you now. It's as though I can feel your relief."

She was able to sense what I was feeling, that despite the unfortunate situation, it somehow seemed right. And really, it did turn out to be ok. I'm fine. He's fine. We're all back on good terms, even our friends and family. We're not together anymore, but that's simply the nature of things: life is fraught with change.

What I love about my mother is that none of my so-called crises seem to phase her -- she doesn't think these times bear a lot of gravity or weight, or that they define me in any way except to make me stronger and more self-aware. She says I'm one to learn from my mistakes. I've pulled a lot of stunts over the years, wreaked my fair share of havoc, been reckless and flighty, exasperated all of my close friends by making absolutely god-awful decisions, but my mother has never thought any less of me for it. This never ceases to amaze me. In fact, I know without a doubt that she loves me, what they call unconditional love -- I've thrown so many reasons at her to get fed up and leave me to my own devices. Yet we've stuck together all these years, and so I've come to really trust the woman.

"Will it be ok if this relationship doesn't work out?" I asked my mother yesterday at lunch. But this time, she didn't give me the response I was expecting, yet it turned out to be exactly what I needed to hear.

"Have you heard the expression, Don't go borrowing trouble?" my mother asked me from across the table, serious and steely-eyed. "Whatever has you so scared," she continued, "Your reasons aren't good enough anymore. I don't want to know all the excuses you're making up out of thin air to sabotage the very thing that seems to be making you so happy. If you want to keep running, call the poor man now," she gestured to my phone on the table. "If you're going to lend patience to misery, get it over with already. But that's what everyone is expecting you to do, and I know deep down inside you hate that."

"Listen to me," my mother then said,

"It's ok to fail. Calm yourself. Stop being so intense. And cease your dust storm, weathering those around you with your needless worry."

 "And bring him over for dinner," she added. "I want to meet this one." 

Like I said, she's a remarkable woman, and a wise mother, albeit stark-raving mad at times. She has always spoken to me as an adult and an equal, even when I was a child. I've often thought she is the only person I've known to deeply understand me, despite all my running, indecisiveness and frequent poor judgment -- she sees my searching heart, my curious mind, my adventurous spirit, and that I live with the valid fears of becoming stagnant and stuck. Everyone else will roll their eyes, or mouth the words Up to her antics again, or talk about another fiasco brewing, but my mother knows me well. She understands the way I think, what scares me, what fuels my choices.

In the play A Thousand Clowns, Herb, the protagonist refuses to release his twelve-year-old nephew to child welfare authorities, declaring

"I want him to get to know exactly the special thing he is or else he won't notice it when it starts to go. I want him to stay awake... I want to be sure he sees all the wild possibilities. I want him to know it's worth all the trouble just to give the world a little goosing when you get the chance. And I want him to know the subtle, sneaky, important reason why he was born a human being and not a chair."

Climbing the Needle

Francois the Francophone, the self-proclaimed Mountain Junkie.

 This past Sunday, I summitted Needle Peak in the Coquihalla region with an old hiking cat I call Pops, and a bunch of his mountaineering friends. Needle was no different from other hikes in the way that you can learn quite a lot about yourself and your companions when you land yourselves in stressful situations.

There are days when the mountain feels anything but a friend, and each step of ascent is like a sacrifice to the mountain gods. Your legs burn, your heart throbs, your head pounds from the exertion, and yet so many of us refuse to quit and go back home before reaching the goal of clambering to the very top. I've had my fair share of days like these, the grueling ascents, but this day on Needle was a good one for me. I was flying up the mountain, at times even running, enjoying the freedom of what it feels like to be at such great heights, so light and spry and young.

We were reaching the rocky scramble, the last part before the summit, when the gal I was following took a trail of footsteps left in the snow from the day before. We traversed across a ways, which felt awkward even on a good day, and soon found ourselves before a slick slab of slippery granite. We had gone the wrong way and left our group who hadn't noticed our detour and were making their way up a safer route. We considered our options: risk going up the steep, slippery granite without any hand-holds, go back the way we had come, which would likely be tricky as it's easier to ascend than descend on that angle, or pull ourselves up through the dense, stocky thicket of trees in front of us, which was also anything but appealing. 

As I said, you learn a lot about people in stressful situations.

We didn't exactly decide on going up through the trees together, as it wasn't a joint decision. The woman I was with took off all the sudden, angrily and hastily, and what seemed to me nigh on the verge of panic, despite the situation really not being so grievous. As she made her way up onto the rock, I could hear her continuing on and was soon out of earshot, leaving me to fend for myself. I entered the trees, getting scratched, scraped and pulled at my fair share, but as I deserved for my youthful indulgence that had landed me there in the first place.

Eventually we both made it back to our group safely, by which point I knew not to go on ahead again, leaving the safety of numbers. Despite there being two of us in that small predicament, you cannot assume everyone has leadership skills and a cool head in sticky situations. Although we completed the rest of the summit as a group, there were a few more times when we all got to observe how each one of us reacted to the more technical parts of the scramble. There is often a certain level of fear that surfaces when you put yourself in the position that should you make a mistake, you will most certainly injure yourself seriously. Some people need space, others assistance. Some people react as I'd just experienced, with anger and a tendency to cast blame. Others strangely enough, become somewhat irrational, even belligerent. And then thankfully, there are the natural leaders in the group who are encouraging and helpful, and often intuitive, giving others the treatment they need most to complete the task at hand.

During scrambles I'm often afraid. I know by now that I like to feel in control, on and off the mountain; scrambles that require me to really trust in my abilities are often the times that fear and doubt make their way into my thoughts. I've never let them get the best of me, but I do sometimes let my head run wild with all that could go wrong until I have to force myself to focus on my shaky breath and ignore my shaking knees, and just put one foot in front of the other. The leaders of the group will often sense my willingness to be told what to do, and they'll instruct me, which is always a relief and also a good opportunity to improve upon my skills and my capacity to read the mountain.

The fear and the adrenaline, let's face it, are a large part of the reason we go to such great heights and distances. The views are splendid, but a minimal factor compared to the many others we have for investing so much time and energy to be in nature. 

The ascent to Needle

A tight spot during the scramble at the top

We reached the summit safely, and savoured the incredible sights in every direction. We took photos, ate our lunches, chatted merrily, and I put down a sweater in a flat spot and did a little headstand. Everyone laughed at my scraped up legs and dirty knees from the climb up, now waving around in the air like a little kid. 

The descent was speedy and so much Fun! as we got to run down in hops and giant leaps. The snow was perfect for it. A good day on the mountains can make best friends of perfect strangers, and many of us were visiting with each other as though we'd known one another our whole lives. Many in our group remarked it was one of the best hikes they'd ever done, and I would have to agree. Needle had everything: panoramic views, a rocky scramble, and to be honest, it was nice to do something a bit shorter as it was only a 13 km round trip. We were back to our vehicles in no time, cooling off our feet in the river and splashing water on our faces, some of us a little bit secretly sad that it was already over.

Views from the summit of Needle

There were so many lady-bugs right below the summit of Needle!

For insects, lady-bugs aren't the worst, but they still sort of creeped me out. I tried not to step on any. Not their fault they're creepy.

Not two weeks before I had just been across the highway from Needle's trail-head bagging Zupjok, Llama, Alpaca and Ottomite -- all of which which had made for one tired, happy gal. It had been a 20 km trek, 1600m elevation gain, and a long 10 hours of hiking, not to mention the early rise at 3:30 am and five hours of transportation.

After that hike when we were back in Vancouver my hiking buddy, Ryan, dropped me off at Ben's house where I spent the next hour zealously re-hydrating, nauseous, shivering and sweating, while Ben packed for a six day kayaking trip in the Broken Islands where he was to be a guide for three women. After a little while I had a litter of tea cups all around me, and could be seen splayed out on the hard wood floor looking pathetic and ill, holding onto my camel pack for dear life. Ben would glance at me every now and then, roll his eyes, or offer an occasional snap on how I needed more electrolytes on a hike like that, or more food, and how I should know better, something along those lines.

"You're not going to puke all over my house, right?"

I shook my head earnestly, though I wasn't all that sure. He went back to stepping over me, wandering back and forth from one pile of gear to another of clothing, muttering about what still needed to be packed for his trip.

***

It was on the road, on our way to Needle, when the thin veil of cloud and fog lifted in the Fraser Valley, and the morning revealed the beauty of the mountains in the distance. It was a combination of things, the warm chatter in the car, the sweet, old taste of coffee lingering in my mouth, the promise of adventure, and I began to miss to everything all at once. Perhaps it was the anonymity of being in a car, our destination unknown to those driving around us; it could have been the steady feeling of motion, the driving onwards, having a day that began with a dream, with the hope for something great to happen. All of this struck me in the backseat of a stranger's vehicle, where no one else on the highway gave a thought to our plans, let alone the happenings of my life, and so I began to realize the gravity of the situation, and allowed myself to ponder for the first time what exactly was passing me by.

 

Mountain Gal's First Video Blog ~ Mt. Harvey!

Something wonderful is moving in my desk, making a tik tik creak sound and I have no idea what it could possibly be. Maybe a cricket, or a springy little rocking horse. Whatever it is, I love it.

I'm going to leave it at that for today. After all this is my first ever VIDEO blog!!

Who loves, raves. - Lord Byron

The last little while I have been wearing my long hair down and letting all sorts of beautiful strangers run their fingers through it. Though somehow I'm not feeling their touch or caress while being grinned at with all those teeth. In the city they’re hungry for something more than they know and while I remain unwilling to feed them, I likely don’t have anything to offer either except to bring forth my own longings.

Last night at a party in the industrial district of the city my girlfriend absconded to a dark corner with one of the two most beautiful men in Vancouver, or so I’ve been told. The theme of the night was circus carnival, so those in attendance wore outrageous and glittered costumes or exposed themselves under the paint of bright colors and outlandish designs. The top floor of the building held the dungeon where those who wished could take off what little clothing they wore, if any, to be hog-tied and swung in the air, pleasured with a feather, spanked with a paddle or jolted with an electric prong. I had never been to anything like this before, nor had I ever dressed the part. With every color of feather weaved in my hair, wearing a leopard print dress, black stilettos and mermaid blue glitter all over my eyes, I watched along with the others and swayed atop a table, soaking in the slow luxurious Indian beats of the room. The energy was that of the spectator: carnal, thick, and starving for more.

Throughout the night men and women would call out to me, and I thought to rush over to them, put my lips close to their ears and with an urgency I’ve never known tell them to call me by any other name but my own. For fear I should vanish into nothingness, should Kendra, the idea of my identity show itself in that place, I’d just stand there watching it float beyond my grasp and soon find myself without a body, without the desire to clamber up rocks and trees, to sink toes and fingers into the dirt, to drop little seeds into the earth and watch my own growth. They would be the authors of my disappearance, these strangers who will never know me, never know the depth of my love for lakes, rivers, streams, the vast space of mountains. They parade brightly for all to see, but shroud their hearts and disguise their movements, and I'm afraid when they devour me, I won't just cease to exist, but that I'll become this way.

After the carnival party, I wound down in a hot tub under the cover of night with my best friend and the two most beautiful men in Vancouver. I found myself turning my glistening back to them, thinking more about the sound of rain and the coolness of it, the breeze in the mild air, how I loved its touch against my face and the way it teased the branches and leaves of the overhanging trees.
“How erotic,” one of the men said, “that you two have never been nude in a hot tub before.”
I might have looked at him next to my best friend for a moment and considered his words, how they held no truth for me, how thrilled the two of them looked to have found each other. I went back to gazing at the night because I am the irritable cat who has been petted too much, and it would be uncouth to bite the hand stroking her.

I may live in the city, but it is not my home. My wild self is my best self, and I have yet to meet someone who brings this out in me. So far I am the only one who can, which pleases me in a way. For all the times I withdraw to drive long distances, venture into the cold and snow, climb up valleys of trees, river and rock, I just need to be lost for a while, playing and free. I'll be found some day walking through the woods, swimming in hot springs, perching myself on the top of great heights to watch over the world, humbly and in awe of all there is to see.

In a city of chaos, boiling over with absurdity, it is the only way for me -- to remain unseen. But I know the truth of my nature. I am simple. I long for what is real. All else remains a small matter of curiosity.