A Room of My Own, But Not for Sleeping

Six hours of solid writing last night and I decided I should try to get some sleep.   My hands and forearms ached from typing.  My eyes blurred from too much time at the computer screen. 

In the six hours, I had mapped out my whole book in greater detail than before, organized the scenes in to four parts, wrote new scenes, and re-read chapters in the two reference books I brought along.  All good work and I was feeling proud of myself for not freaking out over being alone. 

The worst part of the afternoon/night was leaving the room for trips to the European-style common bathroom they have here at Edgefield.  I felt vulnerable to the large, unattended rooms, even worried that I might encounter a ghost.  The building felt too wide open to whoever might want to enter.  And there were plenty of drunken people out in the hallways throughout the night.  I even heard a boozy screaming argument out on the porch next to my room. 

Coming back from the last trip to the bathroom at 10:30 pm, I was happy to see a tall sign blocking the outside door nearest my room.  Presumably it said to enter through the main doors after hours.  Whew.

I clicked off all but the soft bedside light and settled in to the tiny but comfortable twin bed.  I swiped the screen of my Kindle to wake it up and read four chapters of The Boys of My Youth by Jo Ann Beard.  Knowing it was getting late and that I wanted to write more in the morning before check out, I shut down the Kindle, clicked off the light, and attempted to fall asleep. 

It was too hot, then the bed felt too small, then I couldn’t get the pillows right, then it was 1:30 am and I couldn’t have been more wide awake.  I had forgotten that I can’t sleep anywhere but my bed at home. 

After a decade of unrelenting insomnia and six of those reliant on prescription sleeping pills, the sleeplessness went away as if by magic and I rest well most every night now.  Except when I’m not at home. 

Now it’s 6:26 am.  I finished The Boys of My Youth (loved it and highly recommend), worked on more scenes, and am waiting until I hear other guests wake up and start moving around in the hallway so I can go to the bathroom.

Here's a photo of the actual room.  A bargain at $50 a night, even if I never slept.

 

A Room of My Own

Though I’ve set out to climb Mt. Hood this spring, the imagined snapshot of me standing at the peak, surrounded by white silence, alone at the top of the earth, makes my heart race.  That image in my mind and the fear in my body describe the feeling I avoid at all costs: loneliness.

I know other mothers who cherish alone time.  They are somehow refreshed by the solitude.  While I like the idea of peace and quiet, I am anything but refreshed by being alone.  My response to coming upon a free chunk of time is to make plans with a friend.  Otherwise I am in front of the TV, sucked in to the artificial world of sitcom, or drama, or reality show, or infomercial.  What’s on the TV doesn’t matter.

I know that sounds sad.  I’ve spent hundreds of hours dredging through memory as I write my book, so I know where it all comes from.  As a kid, I was alone too much.  And it was sad. 

But now as a nearly 40-year-old woman, this particular fear has become a problem.  There are things I need to do alone.  Like carving out large chunks of time to write.  And more chunks of time to exercise.  Unfortunately, neither of those things can be done effectively with other people.

I’ve spent a lot of time contemplating my “ideal” writing scenario, imagining a room of my own.  Currently I write while my family buzzes around me or after they all go to bed.  It isn’t necessarily the quality, focused time I need, but it works to a point.

In the vein of growth I began with my last birthday, I booked myself an overnight stay this Sunday at Edgefield to write.  Even though the hotel is probably haunted like they say, it “feels” right so I figure it’s worth a try.

Instead of the scared little girl at home by herself, a new image flashes in my mind.  It’s Monday morning at check out.  A woman stands at the counter, she radiates peace. It’s a woman who’s written 30 fresh scenes for her book.  And she’s ready to plan the next overnight.  Alone.

The Quest Resumes

The adipose tissue in my body is out of whack.  Adipose tissue is just another term for fat, which I’ve been reading about for the last few days.  A new book (there’s always a new book) has led to a new path for getting my body healthy.  I have to admit I skimmed through much of it, but generally I have the following understanding of what’s going on in my body. 

My fat cells have gone haywire. 

Some people can eat sugar and carbohydrates.  Some people can eat them and not gain weight.  Some people can eat them and not need a nap.  A cream filled maple bar sends me to bed.  It produces flu-like symptoms.  One slice of whole-grain, whole-wheat, seed covered, organic dark brown bread and I crash.  So I didn’t need to read a book to understand that carbs and me don’t get along.  But before this new book, I didn’t really understand why they are all I want to eat. 

It’s because my fat cells have taken over. 

They shout the order, “Make more insulin!”  The insulin snakes to my brain, commands, “Bagels, cereal, toast, chocolate!” 

I can certainly override these commands.  I am not a robot after all.  But the trick is that no matter how much I eat of non-carbohydrate laden food, I feel starved.  Because that is what’s happening.  The fat cells are starving without a regular flush of sugar.  And I guess that’s what I’m after.  To take control back from the adipose tissue which is clearly trying to kill me. 

I’m on day two of no carbs right in the thick of Christmas cookies and eggnog.  I am literally surrounded by sugar, but I will always be surrounded by sugar. 

So here we go…

Totally Confused

My body utterly confuses me.  I am a brain that rides atop a device completely foreign.  Somehow the brain functions pretty well on it's own, but there are lots of things the body doesn't do.  It doesn't run properly.  It has no coordination for dance.  The skin burns easily or worse, gets covered by freckles with just a bit of sun exposure.  The nose doesn't lay straight, needs a full reworking, just to gain the ability to breathe.  The feet are too big.

But now that I'm trying to get the body in shape so I can climb Mt. Hood, I can see that a connection is necessary.  After all, if I don't trust my body, why would I have it take me up to the top of a mountain?  Plus, it might be nice to dance with Joe at a wedding.  Or run with the kids. 

At the moment, what has me totally confused is how much to eat so I will lose weight.  My handy app worked great the first week (down 10 pounds!), but now seems to have turned on me.  I faithfully type in every speck of food I eat, how much I exercise, suffer through hunger that is equal parts mental, and not only have I stopped losing, but I think I'm up a couple of pounds.  The only conclusion is that the app might have me eating too little.  Curse you!

So I've adjusted the settings to add a couple hundred calories and I'll try that for a week.  Maybe if I can make some sense of this dilemma, it'll be like a conversation starter.

Brain, meet body.
Body, meet brain.

Fighting Weight

I’ve known this since I stated out loud my goal to climb Mt. Hood.  I am not unaware or naïve.  I know that this endeavor, to climb the highest peak in Oregon, is more likely be a success if I can drop some weight.  I am not one of those people who claim to be healthy even though I am overweight.  Two blood tests at the naturopath confirm I have high triglycerides.  Too much sugar, too many carbs.  I’ve sat with this information for months and months and months doing nothing at all.  Until Monday.

Monday I started using a new app on my iPhone.  It tracks calories in, calories out.  I’ve lost 8 pounds since then. 

What’s the magic?

None of course.  I am hungry a lot.  I walk two miles every day.  I don’t eat the kids’ Halloween candy that thankfully is almost gone.

But so far, so good.  It’s a little weird, because this time I don’t feel like I’m going to die which is how I usually feel when I’m on a diet.  Irrationally, my brain tells me that controlling what I eat is like depriving myself and deprivation leads to death.  Craziness, right? 

I figure overthinking is going to jinx my efforts, so forget I said anything.  If I don’t notice I’m losing weight, if I just see it out of the corner of my eye but do not turn my head, maybe I can sneak up on this.

Story

What’s the big idea for this quest of mine?  Why does the goal even matter?   What’s really behind the idea?  And since an idea is really just an abstract concept, then what’s the concept? 

In writing terms, concept = question.  So what’s the big question behind my lifelong aspiration to climb Mt. Hood?

Today the question is:  What if I have a body and spirit that will drive me up 5,239 vertical feet to the summit of Mt. Hood? 

The question is not do I have these things, because clearly I don’t at the moment.  But what would life be like for a person who can do that?  Does she advance through life full of confidence and strength?  Can she work a full day, be a good mom and wife, and still squeeze in a life between work and bedtime?  Is her head clear?  Does she defy the label, older woman?  Does she trust her body?  Big questions, a big concept.

Beyond the concept, in writing terms, there’s the premise.  Or what’s at stake.  What might I win or lose by meeting the version of myself who is capable of climbing Mt. Hood?  I might be disappointed that she’s still full of self-doubt.  That she’s still immobilized at the end of the day and wants to do nothing more than sit on the couch and click around on her iPhone.  I might be disappointed to meet an old forty-year-old who is still absent minded.  What might I win?  Nothing less than life and love and clarity of mind.

Six months and twenty-one days to my story’s conclusion.

Straighten it All Out

A lot has happened and not much as happened since my last post in June.  The kids finished another school year, we moved, summer break settled in, we figured out our new neighborhood, Joe took on a commute, and the kids started back to school.  Life goes on. 

I figured this blog was probably dead and there was only a small remaining chance I would actually climb Mt. Hood to mark my 40^th birthday in April.  My current path does not lead me up 3000 vertical feet.  And it’s become clear on my numerous hikes over the summer; I can’t breath on the steep inclines.  I’m pushed to the brink of hyperventilation and the recovery is long.   I have a couple of theories about this.  First, I am not in shape.  Second, I had asthma as a kid and have always suspected my lungs were a liability.  Third, I can’t breath through my nose.  It’s blocked by a deviated septum and semi-collapsed nostrils.  My nose was broken a couple of times as a kid, first by a mini-golf windmill I didn’t notice and walked under as the blade swooped down.   The second was a hard leather basketball to the face, thrown by my sister who thought I was ready for her pass. 

In my world, all questions lead to Google.  First I typed in to my iPhone, “Is it best to breath through your nose when exercising?”   That led me to all kinds of interesting facts.  Mouth breathing limits the expansion of lung capacity.  Nose breathing oxygenates the blood better.  Expelling carbon dioxide too fast (when you breath through your mouth) makes you feel breathless and also drops the oxygen levels in your blood.  All interesting and troubling at the same time.   

Next I Googled “mouth breathing” and found some really scary web posts describing the effects of mouth breathing.  Facial deformity, sleeplessness, suppressed immunity, and even death.  Oh my.  But one bothered me the most.  A quote from Deepak Chopra, “Breathing is the link between the biological and spiritual elements of our nature."  The web post continues, “If you are in a meditative state, you are breathing through your nose.”  No wonder I’ve never been able to meditate.  And I had begun to convince myself I had ADD.

Further Googling led me to septoplasty surgery.   A nose job.  I know I need one.  Have even seen two different Ear, Nose, and Throat doctors for their opinions.  Tapping the play button on the You Tube video of a septoplasty was the wrong thing to do.  The patients nose stretched abnormally long and wide to fit surgical tools, crunching and cutting of cartilage, blood loss.  Oh my.  Just like when I was addicted to the childbirth shows on TLC while I was pregnant with Henry.  Horrific and mesmerizing at the same time.  A train wreck.  While behind the curtain, while they were slicing through my belly to rescue poor little distressed Henry, my brain contained a vivid image of what the whole scene looked like behind that curtain.  Now I’ve infected my brain with the images of a stretched nose and blood.  With the sound of crunching and clipping. 

Because I really need oxygen in my blood and because I would really like to meditate, I’ll plan surgery for just after the New Year.  At least I'll be knocked out.

Redirect

So the knee pain was simple, easily-healed, no-reason-to-worry, run-of-the-mill bursitis.

I learned on Wikipedia that bursae are small sacs of synovial fluid in the body (gross!) and the ones that live under my left knee cap got inflamed when I tried to take up jogging.  Good news though, I'm all healed up already and I can try jogging again if I get fitted for proper shoes and buy expensive inserts.  Better than surgery.  Better than forever pain.  Better than a lot of things. 

So while I wait for room in our budget, another mountain I want to climb comes back in to my view finder.  That mountain is the memoir I started writing in November 2008.  When the topic comes up and I tell people I'm writing a memoir, the response is often a funny look, then a pause, then I fill in the awkward space with details, "It's about about my life as a hippie kid, and some about me as a mother, and a little bit of me getting married at 22, and maybe some pieces about me and my tribe of friends when we were teenagers."  My explanation brings head nods, then follow up questions are asked, and inevitably the polite, "Well I can't wait to read it when you're done."  Me too.

I know somehow that the book will get finished and it will get published.  I don't know how I know this since mostly I feel uncertain about anything that is out there for me in the future.  I don't know if tomorrow morning with the kids will be lovely or exhausting.  With they be in a good mood?  Will I?  Will the kids learn to swim this summer?  Will Henry finish high school or drop out like I did?

But I'm certain I will finish my first memoir.  After all, I've been training for a long time now.  Maybe I'll climb Mt. Hood and publish by my 40th birthday? 

Sidelined

Second run in to my second week of my new exercise endeavor and my left knee goes out.  After I limped up the hill and logged on to my computer, there was an obvious diagnosis.  Runner's Knee.  I'm not even an official runner for crying out loud and I have runner's knee already?  Three days since the hurt began, and it's worse today.  I limp around, move slow, look and feel like an old woman.

Today I ponder whether to schedule an acupuncture appointment.  Since it's not just going away like I would hope.  I also ponder what my next step will be.  My Saturday hike will not happen.  Walking around my neighborhood is out of the question.  I could probably swim, though I am allergic to chlorine and recoil at the thought of appearing in public in a bathing suit.  As there is much suffering in this world both near and far to me at the moment, I feel foolish for worrying about such things.  Really, my biggest problem is feeling self conscious in a bathing suit?  How shallow and trivial can I be?

But my deeper concern, the one that lives in my gut and makes me nauseous, is that being sidelined will be the first step towards abandoning my goal to climb Mt. Hood next spring.  One thing leads to another and I tumble down the rabbit hole and lose sight.  This is familiar territory for me, my numerous starts and stops, my list of goals never achieved.  And for reasons still unclear to me, there is a glowing ball of fear resting on my 40th birthday next April 23rd.  The fear whispers, pulses in my ears. 

If you don't meet this goal, if you fail yet again, if you let yourself down another time, you will simply languish and fade away. 

But since I'm not one to sink in to the muck too far, an idea comes to mind.  I know where I need to steer myself.  The ball of fear needs to knocked out of the park.  Crushed. 

I just Googled the question, "What is the opposite of fear?"  Answers, "Bravery, courage, fearlessness (of course), heroism, unconcern." 

So I need to be the hero who bravely conquers the fear.

Conquer the fears of fading away, of letting myself down, of tumbling down the rabbit hole, and wearing a bathing suit in public.

Forward Movement

I think I'm making progress.  The three mile hike through gorgeous forests and meadows on Saturday felt easy, even on the hills.  I could have started over and done it again. 

On Sunday, I started a running program through an app on my newly purchased shiny white iPhone.  For the first time in my adult life, I ran.  I was the only person in sight on the track at Parkrose High School.  In the rain, ugly New Balance sneakers tied up tight, rain coat unzipped, hip hop song in my ear, a pleasant voice started me on the 38 minute program.   Nearly a dozen plump Canadian Geese lingered in grass in the center of the track.  I felt foolish for feeling self conscious as they noticed me, when stopped their pecking as I lumbered past.  One minute intervals of running should not have been so hard, but they were.  The 1 1/2 minutes of walking in between did not allow my lungs to calm.  I worried I might pass out on the track and that no one would find me until school started the next day.   I only wished I had brought a bottle of water with me.  But is that what runners do?  I never see them running with water. 

Thighs were a solid burn and so heavy as I started up the hill for the walk home.  I wished for a minute I had some bread to feed the geese to thank them for not laughing.     

My thighs still hurt two days later.  The last running I can recall would have been for basketball or softball during my freshman year of high school.  I hated it then too.  My lungs do not support running.  Breath sucks in so hard I can feel a scary indent in the small of my neck.  My pale freckled face turns such a bright cherry red that people notice and ask me if I'm okay.  Also, Joe tells me I'm flat footed, that I don't look right when I run.  Just like dancing, he said, some people just know how to do it and some people don't.

Run two is tonight, likely in the rain again.  This time I will bring water and bread crumbs.

Quiet

I am just-exactly-peaceful-right in the natural world.  Or at least the natural worlds I know in Western Oregon.  The moist day glow green ancient forests pump out super oxygenated air that gives me a natural unclouded high.  Makes me feel extra awake.  The pulse of the forest floor keeps time, grounds me to the moment.  Layers of fallen and decomposed leaves create a soft landing for my chestnut brown hiking shoes.  The ground springs.  Rocks and roots in the path force focus that quiets my mind.  My head is cluttered with details, distracted by flashes of memories, and sometimes a song I may have caught snippets of gets stuck on a tortuous loop.  Quiet is priceless and I know where to get it.

What is The Secret?

I think I need a motivational speaker.  Or one of those seminars at the hotel banquet rooms where I can learn how to make all my dreams come true.  I've set this goal, to climb Mt. Hood in 344 days from now, yet there is no plan.

And that is how I roll.

I'm a fly by the seat of my pants, get there when I get there, it all comes out in the wash kind of person.  Despite my late arrivals and the chaos that comes without planning, I sort of admire that I can pull off so many things that seem impossible. 

But I'm pretty sure it won't work this time.  A three mile vertical climb will not just happen.  Training is required.  My lungs must be conditioned to deliver oxygen efficiently to keep muscles moving for 11 hours. 

Do I need a guru?  A personal trainer?  Do I need an app?  Must I simply imagine myself as a fit climber and I will become that?  Maybe I need a spreadsheet? 

Three Generations on a Hill

Lungs burn.  Thighs aflame.  Big breaths blow out through puffed cheeks.  Miriam has given up on our hike so I pull her up the steep path through thick trees.  Behind us are the Cascade mountains, much taller than the mountain we climb now.  We are in LL Stub Stewart State Park, 30 miles west of Portland, on the pack-up-and-go-home day of our overnight.  It's not tent camping, but the small cabin we rented isn't really a house since it doesn't have a kitchen or bathroom.  So it's known as glamping (glamorous camping).  It's the only way we like to camp outside the months of July and August. 

The morning invigorates.  The early sun warms the pure air that smells like damp soil and thick green undergrowth that's lush this late in the spring. The most remarkable thing about this park, to me, is the lack of noise.  It's not silent with so many birds and people, but there is no sound of a highway or airplanes overhead.  Peace.

Behind me being towed is my six year old daughter Miriam.  She wears dark blue skinny jeans and a light pink t-shirt under a turquoise puffy coat.  I talked her into wearing her gray tennis shoes instead of the pink Mary Janes for the hike.  She carries a half eaten Hershey's chocolate bar that she ate on the downhill portion.  Her hair is stringy and tangly from a raucous night around the campfire and in the woods running with her friends and cousins. 

Behind her is my 63 year old mom Carol.  She wears faded mom jeans and a clay colored fleece.  Her short blond hair looks about the same as usual.  She wears purple Keen sandals with white socks.  

Ahead of us are a bunch of friends and their kids, my sister and her kids.  We bring up the rear.  My 10 year old son Henry is playing disc golf with his buddy and my husband Joe on the other side of the park.  

As my lungs get worked over on the steep climb, I notice my two companions and it reminds me that I have a long way to go to be ready for Mt. Hood.  I'm climbing with a child and a senior and we all seem to be struggling about the same.  I think about the posting for a recent bear sighting at the park and wonder if I could outrun a bear.  Not likely. 

I step over a gurgling stream that crosses the path, listen to the water fall over the down slope.  I stop to take a drink of my now cold instant coffee with milk.  It's bitter, more so than brewed coffee, but I'll take whatever caffeine I can when I'm camping.  I had also grabbed a bottle of water from the cooler before we left, but Miriam talked me into having a drink, which resulted in swirls of chocolaty backwash mixed in.  Miriam lets go of my hand, unscrews the top and gulps down her brown tinted water. 

Mom breathes heavy, drinks from her bottle too.  

Forward movement begins again without a word.  Miriam lags behind a few feet, then runs up to grab my hand to continue the tow.  I tuck the empty disposable coffee cup into the pocket of my black hoodie, pull off my camping hat, and let it hang down to my back with the string about my neck.  The wind cools my sweaty head, feels better than perfect.

My mind wanders to last night in the cabin, when my insomnia took full control and I only slept around one hour.  I cut myself a little slack.  Maybe the hill would be easier on a real night of sleep?  I had drifted off sometime after 5:30 am when I put down the People magazine and clicked off the flash light I had propped up for a reading light.

"Are we almost there?"  Miriam whines.

"Yep, just around one more corner and we should be able to see the cabins," I say.

"Do you think we'll see a bear out here?" she asks.

"No, everyone's making far too much noise.  They'd be scared off my now."

Mom chimes in, between breaths, "When your mom was little...............we used to see bear all the time...............where we lived...............we just steered clear though...............and they never bothered us."

"Yeah, bears are nice," Miriam adds.

We take a dozen more steps and see the row of little brown cabins.

More Roadblocks

This one didn't even make the earlier list. 

Birthdays 

In the months of April and May, we have six significant birthdays starting on April 17th and ending on May 23rd.

Starts with Joe, then me, then Henry on the same day as my old friend Lori, then brother-in-law Jeff, then mother-in law Delores.

This means parties every weekend and parties trump hiking every time.  It's a good problem to have, so many loved ones and friends, but this is where I get knocked off course and typically do not get back.

This roadblock shines the light on a flaw in my training schedule.  I can't just train on Saturdays if I want to climb Mt. Hood.  Seems obvious, but I'm not skilled at this goal setting business.  In fact, other than graduating from college or the occasional diet here and there, I can't think of any other goals I've set.  No five year financial goals, no will, no vision of where I will be in ten years.    Writing that makes me feel pathetic.  I see Suze Orman's face, watch her shake her head at me.  

But back to the problem at hand.

Ready for another roadblock?  I wake up at 6:00 am, get myself and the kids up and out of the house, work until 4:30 or 5:00 pm, commute 30-60 minutes home, make dinner and finish up eating around 6:30 or 7:00 pm, load the dishwasher, hang out with the kids until their 8:30 pm bedtime, and try to get to bed by 10:00 pm if I can.  As I write this, I see there could be a half hour of exercise thrown in to the mix after dinner.  Or I could wake up earlier to exercise before work.  

Ready for another roadblock?  I've got insomnia.  Not the, "it's hard to fall asleep" variety, but the, "I haven't slept in a week and am hallucinating" kind.  For the last seven years, I had slept sound with the aid of Ambien.  Last month, I weaned myself off and now getting a night's sleep is challenging to say the least.  One of the items on the "sleep hygiene" list I took home from the Naturopath, No vigorous exercise in the evenings.  

So 5:00 am it is.  

Roadblock cleared.

Roadblocks

For me to get to the top of Mt. Hood and back home safe to my family, I need a body I can trust. But right now, my it's in dismal shape. Yet I don’t have any disease or disorders. I don’t have chronic pain. I would not need a doctor’s clearance to start any new physical routine. I could theoretically take up a new sport. Theoretically, I could kick Joe’s ass in tennis once again.  

Even so, there are many roadblocks in my way. Can I really share my long list of excuses? The list that rolls over in my mind, runs on a loop while I’m at work, while I sleep, while I drive to Dairy Queen at 8 pm at night for a butterscotch dipped cone.

Here goes.

I am too busy.  
I can’t afford to join a gym. 
I have to choose between writing and exercising.
I have to choose between exercising and spending time with the kids.
I can’t breathe through my nose.
I am uncoordinated.
I don’t like to compete.
I don’t have good tennis shoes.
I don’t like to be around other people while they sweat.
I don’t like to sweat. 
I don’t like the way sweat smells.
I don’t like to get heated up.
I love to cook comfort food.
I love to eat comfort food.
I have to cook for my family.
I am too busy to make two meals.
I can’t afford to cook two meals.
I feel like I’m going to die when I’m on a diet.
Food on demand feels like love.
Food on demand has brought fifty unnecessary pounds and high cholesterol.

These excuses need to be answered, one by one if necessary.

11,239 feet...pshaw

I'm reading Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer.  I hadn't felt compelled to read this bestseller before now, but since I'll be a mountaineer come next April (smile), I thought it should make my list.  

It's a good read so far, though I wish there were more sensory details.  I'm about halfway in and I haven't felt the sub-zero temperatures.  Nor have I smelled the glaciers.  But maybe that will come?

In any case, this book is offers great perspective.  Mt. Hood is no Everest.  A piece of cake by comparison.  Easy as pie.  A walk in the park.  Like a knife through hot butter.  Climbing Mt. Everest is something entirely different.  I can only imagine what might fuel such an undertaking—insanity, obsession, a colossal ego, expendable fortunes, an expendable life?

The climb from Timberline Lodge to the summit is a short three mile climb.  5000 feet are gained in those three miles, but still.

Today's hike will be Triple Falls in the Gorge.  It's a little over four miles with a 740 feet elevation gain.  Gotta start somewhere.  

Why?

Why the need to climb to the top of Mt. Hood?  I don’t want to dominate or conquer the mountain like an extreme sports enthusiast.  I don't really like to take risks or feel adrenaline pump through my body.  I think I would like to see the view from the top though.  Maybe that’s what I’m looking for on my fortieth birthday—perspective?  Maybe I’ll catch a peek of what the second half of my life will be?  Yes, I think that’s it.

It's a Start

Today I am 39 years old, with an emphasis on OLD.  Today I have exactly one year to get myself ready to climb to the summit of Mt. Hood, something I have wanted to do for a very long time.  Probably since my friend climbed it in high school and I was surprised at my jealousy.  Or maybe it goes back to when I was eight and my family moved from Southern Oregon to the Portland suburb of Gresham that's well within view of the mountain. 

I love Mt. Hood, perhaps more than the average Oregonian.  I love that from a distance, the mountain is a near perfect white triangle in the winter and spring.  I love that it helps orient me wherever I am in Portland.  Mt. Hood equals east.  I love that it has been here waiting for me every time I've left and returned.  When I lived in California for three terrible years as a teenager, the sight of Mt Hood out the airplane's thick elliptical windows made my heart beat fast each time I came back to visit.  It signaled that I was nearly home.  Like a billboard, but so much better.  A beacon or search light.  Mt. Hood found me and I had found home once again.

On the drive up highway 26, when you round the bend past Shorty's Corner and clear the thick evergreens lining the sides of the four lane road, the mountain looks so close it startles me every time, fills the view through my windshield, and takes my breath away.  Massive beauty, overwhelming power, the earth shoots towards the sky.  

So to mark my 40th birthday, I've set the intention that I will climb to the summit of Mt. Hood.  I've said it out loud.  My training schedule has started to take shape.  I will hike this Saturday and the next Saturday and the next 50 Saturdays leading up to April 23, 2013.