Bonus Round!

Another highlight of 2017?

Watching this guy win his first boxing match at The Fight Before Christmas at the Soldotna Regional Sports Complex.

As the main event.

So proud of him.

Skyline Trail

August 4, 2017: Major sandwich-making going on up in here. The fam & I, along with some friends, but minus Pazely, are going on a hiking adventure up Skyline Trail tomorrow. I've already heard the horror stories. I'm scared.

I don't care HOW long it takes me. I will get to the top even if I have to crawl there! Leaving early in the morning. Can't wait! #skylinetrail #hikingadventure #imightdie #caniridepiggyback #slowpokeaintnojoke

**********

I am not a very sporty human. Not athletic in the least. I like playing some sports. I'm just not good at them. I like being a team player. But nobody wants me there. If I ever am chosen, it is last. It's no hit to my pride. I have embraced my awkwardness on the field, on the rink, on the court, & now...on the trail. 

About an hour & a half drive, near Cooper Landing, the 4-mile round-trip walking trek began. Two miles one-way to the east peak, with an elevation gain of 2888', & described as "very strenuous".
It is a steep one. Everywhere. All the time. Extreme terrain.
The whole hike took us 6 hours. And, technically, I don't think what we climbed was called "a mountain", but for today's purposes, & for all the times I ever talk about this trip in the future, I will refer to it as such.

I am not particularly what one would call a "fit" person. I hate exercise. I am slow, I am a whiner. And although the Mr. gave me several opportunities to back out, leading up to the day of the hike, I insisted on this challenge.

Thirty minutes in, I was in tears.

Up. Up. Always up. The vertical was never-ending. 

I couldn't stop breathing so heavy, so deep. I am sure I broke the record for most breaks taken on the ascent. Obvs. Nine in our crew & I was in the back of the pack all day. I was jealous of little Henry, in the toddler pack, strapped on his dad's back. Do they make those in my size? I need to look into that.

My lungs burned.

One thing I was sure of: If I heard the words "We're almost there!" one more time, I was gonna throw some sand. Or kick a wildflower. Or do something equally as intimidating. 

Now, I have not described in much detail the mental game of endurance that I was subject to, or the physical game of taking a stroll from hell through this forest that would JUST...NOT...END.
But those things were all there.

Hours later, we made it to the top. I made it! I was sweaty & giddy! We looked over the flatlands. Those views were my motivation. I wanted to be able to say I'd been there, seen that.

I set my toes set free on the summit. Wiggled them in the fresh mountain air.

There used to be a book at the top, kept in a box, which hikers would sign, but it was missing. Instead, we found some signatures scribbled on a weathered wooden board. With a blue-colored ink pen left by a stranger, I signed my name alongside the others.

I pulled the sandwiches out of my backpack for some lunch on the summit. They were smashed & soggy. I couldn't stomach eating them. They didn't even taste sandwich-like. I decided the next time I climb a mountain, which I'll never do again, I'm bringing a gourmet meal. Maybe even some fancy napkins.

After some more jubilation, some selfies, some consumption of water, it was time for the hike back. 

On the way down, we found an enchanted forest, thick trees covered in moss, tangled limbs swooping low, tempting hikers for a sit or a climb. I saw fuzzy blooms on flowers. And red waxy leaves growing on charcoal colored lichen. Bright yellow fungus. Mushrooms of several varieties.

Down-down-down we went. The slope of the trail was beginning to hurt my feet. I took photos to take my mind off the pain. Eventually I was in too much pain to take photos. I was sure my toes were a bloody mess. The pain was so intense that I decided to just walk in my socks. For over half the descent, I walked without my shoes on. I have tough feet, but still. Ouchie mama. I got several wide-eyed looks from passers-by. 

The Mr. softened his stride to walk with me, sacrificing his position in first place, to make sure his wife was ok in the last slot. Because, apparently, everything is a competition for all the healthy people of the world, & I'm all back here just trying to survive.

We also saw a bear. So, not only did I have to worry about blood loss in my phalanges, but also getting eaten by a wild animal. This day was getting better & better all the time.

As I continued on with the hike, I had two thoughts:

1. Lord Jesus, send a helicopter NOW!

2. I would rather give birth again, than do this hike.

This was an intense experience. This was THE hardest thing I had ever done in my entire life. 

Even though each step was more painful than the last, I kept putting one dirty socked foot in front of the other dirty socked foot.

Because that's what you do when things get hard: you make footprints on a mountain. 

You also sometimes slide down on your butt because your feet hurt too bad.

But then you end up with a big 'ol spot on your rearend that looks like you pooped your pants.

So there's that.

I called in the direction of several hikers heading up, "You're almost there!"
It was a cruel & false statement. Yet hilarious.
I snickered.
Loudly.

And then I saw it: telephone poles! I never thought I'd be so happy to see a telephone pole in all my life! Adorable cables connected to telephone terminals, all in a happy little row.
*sigh*

I cried.

It meant we were getting close. Not close enough, but my helicopter hadn't arrived yet.

Hundreds of steps later, I heard it: traffic! Vehicles whooshing by, right below us! 

I cried again. 

We were so close to making it all the way back to the cutest little parking lot where the cutest little mini van was waiting to take me to the cutest little house where I could take a hot bath, crank up the heating pad, soak my feet.
Where I could eat good things, & not walk.

Seeing the sign at the end of the trail, I cried.
Again.
They were weird happy-sad tears. Plus I was laughing, too. My emotions were a hodgepodge. It was pain & elation mixed all together. 

But I had done it.

Achievement unlocked.

On the ride home, we took account of our wounds & hot-mess status. Zoey had dirt leggings. Haha!

Though I was afraid to take my socks off, my toes were not bloody. (A few months later I would lose my big toenails. And I'm still tending my wounds: Hashtag fungus.)

After we got home, I hobbled around like an old lady for a few days. There were so many sore things all over me.

You can believe I bragged about this accomplishment for a very long time. I am so proud of myself. So stinkin' proud. Go me! And you can also believe I will NEVER do this hike again.

Yet even after all the pain, the hardship, the emotion, & misery this was one of my highlights of 2017.

I can do hard things.

A Fish Story

At the end of each year, I always like to look back on all the memories I've made. All the adventures collected. All the moments lived. I love remembering. I love the journey of retrospect.
Before 2017 comes to an end, I want to highlight a couple more adventures on the blog...

The first to mention is a fishing outing I took with my Auntie Val at the end of July. River fishing to be exact. Kenai River fishing to be more precise. As in, the world renowned Kenai River. Four species of salmon find their way into this river, as well as various Peninsula bays, rivers and lakes, to return to where their lives began: Chinook (King), Sockeye (Red), Coho (Silver), & Humpy (Pink). The river is also home to Rainbow Trout and Arctic Char (Dolly Varden). On this specific excursion, we were out for the Reds.

My first order of business was to pack a lunch: peanut butter Oreos + a PB&J sandwich + carrot sticks. Add a juice box + a mushy note from mom, & this meal would've been fit for any grade-schooler. But instead, it was made for this here adult woman on her first ever river fishing trip.

I'm not entirely new to fishing. But I'm pretty sure I can count on both hands the number of times I've gone fishing during my 42 years of existence. Included in the count is that one time I caught a boot in the swamp across the street as a kid, growing up in Louisiana. Or the other time (same swamp) when my dad bought super long bamboo poles that, if you weren't careful, tangled in the thick Spanish moss draping from the giant oak trees.
The last time I fished was several years ago when my brother took me trolling in his boat on Lake Wallula in Washington. We were out for 2 1/2 hours & hadn't caught a thing. I was talking with my brother about how we should maybe try some different bait—particularly some ham & cheese sandwiches I had spied in the cooler. He just thought I was weird, but I was seriously gonna pull my pole back in the boat & loop some hammy goodness on that hook of mine. Yet before I could do that, my line went taut & I reeled in a salmon! My brother didn't. #winning

River fishing, I was about to find out, was something entirely different.

Our spot on the Kenai, less than an hour drive away, was a private location. Cabins, each depicting a different Alaskan native word, were available for rent. Chickens wandered the property. Friendly dogs moseyed around the yard. A red picnic table welcomed visitors for a sit.

We dressed in all our gear. I hoped I looked the part in all my layers. The waders were a nice touch. It was my first time wearing them. They rose to my chest. I was prepared to get wet, to be cold. I was ready for the probability of stinky fish guts touching me. 

We walked through knee-high water, some mucky mud, & a small wooded patch to get to our "fishing hole". And then I did it: I walked into the river. I was in it. IN the river. People spend big bucks to come to these exact waters I was standing in, for fishing adventures of a lifetime. The current was strong. My waders felt cold as the heavy water, sometimes waist-high, pushed against my body on all sides. I was glad I had doubled up on socks. And pants.
The cool temp of the water was making me wonder if I should have tripled up.

We were gifted with blue sky. On occasion, the clouds stole the sun. The shadows made me chilly. 

My grandpa Joe, a Nikiski homesteader, had taught my Auntie Val to fish. And she was teaching me. So I like to think that my grandpa was, indirectly, instructing me as well.
The setup on the rod & reel for the type of fishing we were about do isn't anything fancy. All you need is a weight attached to the line several feet up from a bare hook. The tackle box was full of some colorful beauties, but we just used a tiny fly.
I wondered where the bait was. Any worms? (Or even ham & cheese?) This did not make any sense to me. Although, not gonna lie: I wasn't disappointed at the absence of worms.
No bait needed. The red salmon had their minds on one thing: procreation. They were working hard to get upstream to lay or fertilize eggs. Ain't nobody got time for snacks!

The casting technique I learned is sometimes called "the Kenai flip" because you begin by flipping your line upstream, 45 degrees from the shore. The salmon stick close to shore, where the water isn't moving so fast, so all you need is about 10-20 feet of line. (It was so crazy to think that fishies were swimming just feet away, right under me!) Your reel is never in use. (Unless you make a catch, of course.) The process is a pulling of the line with one hand, while flipping the rod with the other.
As the current began to pull my line quickly downstream, the lead weight on my line hit the bottom. I continued to sweep the pole with the current, as my hook spread out under the water, "flossing the fish" as it went. It's called "flossing" because your line is literally flossing their mouth, passing right across their nose. I kept my pole level with the water, a few inches above the surface. As my line became perpendicular to the bank, I gave the pole a quick jerk, hoping the hook would snag a salmon in the 'ol kisser. The whole motion of flipping took about 15 seconds.

Flip. Sweep. Tug.
And repeat. 
All. Day. Long.

I learned that red salmon are plankton eaters, not meat (or cheese) eaters. So they're not gonna bite. Instead, their mouths open & close as they breathe. It seems it's luck where the hook lands. As I flipped & flipped & flipped, I began to recognize the feel of the weight hitting the bottom, even the fish bumping the line. As I gave that all-important final jerk-of-a-tug at the end of each flip, I could feel the "close calls", the "I almost had 'ems", the "I lost its".

It was motion & rhythm. And I was getting the hang of it as the hours went by.

I was enjoying the repetition. The countless casts. I was half hypnotized while watching the line get pulled along by the current, again & again. Fishing was peaceful.

A blue jay landed on a tree branch near our private cove. Ducks flew in & out. Across the way a group of guys hollered & hooted after catching & netting a big fish.

A weird eel swam by me. And then an apple core, a snickers wrapper.

The water flowed so fast. Once, the current caught me. I dug my toes into the bottom of the river & held on to tall grasses to steady myself.

It was quiet.
There were friendly chats when someone new showed up on the scene to flip their line alongside you. I watched an old man across the river fishing from a dock. I saw boats drift by, filled with people & poles, trolling while watching.

I'll cut to the chase: My aunt & I eeked out every minute we could from the 24-hour fishing licenses we purchased. We were able to fish twice. TECHNICALLY I hooked two fish. On the first day I caught a small one, so we threw it back. And by "we" I mean my Auntie Val. I wasn't at the fish-touching level in this game yet.

Later, during the second day, I caught a fairly decent sized fish—I could tell it looked like a nice one when it jumped out of the water after I hooked him. Feeling the fight was exhilarating, even if only for several seconds. Unfortunately, my line was twisted & caught all funky on the reel, so the line snapped. I was mad about that one for a few days. I can attest to the heartache in "the one that got away". It's like when you have all these dreams & plans, and then your lover leaves you, stranded, without hope, lost to drown in sorrow. Ok, maybe not that dramatic. But there IS a sting.

My aunt caught one salmon. So, though we stood for hours in the river, our reward was a humble one.

As our day was coming to a close, my aunt & I waded through the water toward the bank.
"One more time," she said, as she tossed her line in the river for the last time.
(Always hoping the next one could be THE one.)
"OK, one more time," I agreed as I tossed my line in as well.
Then, I cast a second time. "I lied," I confessed.
"Me too," my aunt admitted as she flipped her rod again.
We laughed.
At least 40 casts later, we finally walked back to the car.

The heaviness of my body on land took several minutes to get used to. And the chill to some of my bones had me desperate for a hot shower & warm socks.

I came home empty handed & exhausted. The anticipation, the buildup of possibility, the potential of a catch had tired me out. My back & wrist ached from, oh, I don't know, the hundreds of times I cast my line out!
I know my aunt really wanted me to catch a big one. To bring home a trophy, so to speak. But I got an authentic experience with her, in a place she's called home for most of her life. A place I now get to call home. And that's a prize to me.