How I Tried to Go Skating

As part of my commute I often take a shortcut through the back of Harvard Yard, and some time around early December a mysterious construction site appeared there. At first I was annoyed to have to go around it. But as the construction took shape, it began to look suspiciously like... Could it be? Oh my goodness yes, a skating rink! One afternoon last week the construction fence was suddenly gone and the rink open. Just like that!





I could hardly pedal fast enough to get close and read the bright crimson sign. And guess what? It is free to skate there, and $5 to rent skates. Technically I still own a pair of skates circa 1995, though sadly I have not been able to find them since we moved to Boston. I can picture these skates vividly in my mind: They were white with jet-black heels and shiny blades, utterly beautiful, and they cost $29.99 at Olympia Sports. "I will buy them for you, if you really think you can do it this time," my mother said. And I nodded vigorously. Oh how I wanted those skates!





Perhaps now is a good time to explain that the intensity of my love for skating is matched only by my utter lack of ability. Born to a set of parents who skated proficiently since childhood and believed it to be the most natural thing in the world, I stunned them with my clumsiness and lack of coordination.



I remember my first time on the ice: It was a crisp winter evening not long before my 4th birthday, and a huge skating rink was set up in the park under garlands of lights. My mother - a slender, elegant beauty in a tailored overcoat - glided across the ice effortlessly with a serene smile on her face... as she dragged her little piggy of a daughter along, who flailed and stumbled and continued to be dragged to the sounds of Tchaikovsky blasting from the park's loudspeaker system. "Don't worry, you'll get it!" my mother would say as she glanced down at me occasionally. But mostly she lost herself in the music and glided, dragging me across the ice regardless of whether I was upright or not.





Attempts to get me to skate continued through that and a couple of subsequent winters, but my skills showed little sign of improvement. The "don't worry, you'll get it!" gave way to "but you're not even trying!" until finally my mother gave up. But my yearning for the ice remained, and every winter I sighed as I watched the figure skaters on television. As a teenager I asked for a pair of skates for my birthday and began to visit a local rink on my own - skating in a slow and duck-like manner close to the guard rail. I was remarkably bad, but somehow I still enjoyed it. I took these skates with me to college, grad school, and beyond, visiting local rinks for more of the same. And now I can continue here!



Yesterday I knew that I would finally have an hour gap in my day, and I made sure to withdraw some cash. I was ready to rent skates and I cycled to Harvard Yard full of anticipation.






But of course I should have known that it would not be so easy! Just days after the snow storm, the temperature had shot up to nearly 50°F by mid-day and when I arrived the rink was closed "due to weather." So, I have yet to go skating. But at least I tried. And I'll try again as soon as the temperature drops and my schedule allows.




Cycling past the rink last week, I did notice the skates they were using and was a little disappointed that they were a sort of brownish-beige. I want some white ones like I had before, and am thinking that maybe I should get a new pair of my own. Third time could be a charm, and I might actually learn how to skate... though I'm not holding my breath!

In the absence of flowers

I took a walk but couldn't find much blooming yet. There were two bloodroots coming up, but they were a little battered by the storm.

I had Jasmine with me and she battered one of them even further. She became very interested in whatever I was looking at. I don't think she sees the point of stopping to look at flowers.

Here are a couple of musical pictures from earlier in the winter.



Treble clef - I took a picture of the locust bean when the light was harsh. I continued my walk, thinking I'd come back later and get a better shot. But by the time I returned, a squirrel had stolen it away.



Quarter notes - Sycamore seed balls.

Jemez Creek

Took the dogs and when to Jemez Creek for a walk the other day.
There are several rest areas along the road that have acess to the creek for hiking and fishing. There are nice paths for walking. On this day we noticed the water in the creek was really low allowing us to see a lot of rocks we can't normally see. We also saw a few trees that some beaver had been cutting down for food or for damn building but no sign of a damn any where here like we see higher up in the mountains.

OR Day 3

I'm two days behind on this post already. The Show ended Saturday afternoon.



Day three for me was a marathon of appointments and wild eye wonder (as usual) generally finding something new around every turn.



The OR shows (summer and winter) are the ultimate toy store for grown ups. And thankfully for me...nothing is for sale that you can walk out the door with. Much of it not yet available but a 6 month wait on production.



This year three of us went down. And all of us had differing interests. Makes for some fun discussions.



Even with three of us looking there is no way we see everything let alone get all the details on what we do see.



I simply get over whelmed so I really try to concentrate on the alpine climbing arena and in general vendors I already am aware of. Point is I never see everything and what I do see is generally biased in part from the get go. (Part of that is I so easily get lost in the dang place it really is huge!)



One of the things I find of interest and likely out of date for most climbers trying to go fast and light is amini haul bag. I saw three that really interested me but there might be others I haven't seen or wouldn't recommend.



Grivelhas smaller two modelsI really like. And Metolius has a couple of smalelr bagsand nowsome "cross overs" as well. I'll come back to all of theselater.









The super skinny (7mm +/-) ropes from Petzl, Beal and Edelrid have me really interested. More on that subject shortly.



I learned more again about fitting boots and ice boots in particular as the science and design continues to getter better and better IMO on alpine/ice boots. (8 boot reviews will go up shortly)



Clothes and technical wear? Oh, my! There are so many new pieces of clothingand so many exceptional fabrics and insulations. I started climbingin wool, nylonand Ventile cloth.



What we have easily accessible now, I never imagined when we started climbing.



I still think all the mountain sports fromtrail running, skimo, skiing, and any form of climbing (rock or ice) are getting closer and closer every season. The tools and clothing we use now have morecross over usethan ever before. As they get more specialised with every season and every generation as well. More specialised and still more more cross over applications? One wouldn't think that would be the direction, but IMO it is.



Many of the cutting edge designers are starting to think along those lines as well...just as they continue to design more and more specific garments.



Much of my driving is along theold Oregon trail from Seattle to SLC to attend OR. The major portion of that drive from the Columbia River to just north of SLC in fact.



In totalis a 800+/- miles/1300kmdrive one way. I have a lot of time to think and review what I have seen at OR.



What we have now for hard goodsand software for climbing is as diversein useand application as transportation,infrastructureand the generations of windmills inthe currentAmerican West.



Amazing time to beclimbing. But like the newest windmills...not all good or all bad. It will take some time to digest all the new products and add some context to what I think interesting enough to write about. Cams, passive pro, biners,ropes, boots, packs, haul bags, watches and as always some new clothing and some of the newest TECHNOLOGY (that I think will go much much farther) will all get some coverage..along with those man sized baby wipes :)

Angie, Angela

The beach closest to the house is a small and rocky one that
all but disappears at high tide. But I know a spot - behind all the rocks,
in a little hollowed out nook in the side of the cliff - where I can sit on the
wet dark sand, hidden, reading. Well I
call it reading. Only half the time I am lying face down, my cheek pressed into
the open pages of the book.




Once in a while a noise prompts me to look up. Few people come here, most preferring the main beach down the road. But
now I hear the unmistakable sounds of flip-flops.




There are three of them, making their way along rocks
half-submerged in water. The man is athletic and agile, with a deep tan and
spiky brown hair. Close behind is an equally lean and tanned woman, blond ponytail
swinging as she hops from rock to rock. The couple moves with the lightness of teenagers, and only when I catch a glimpse of their faces do
I see they must be in their early 50s. They could be professional athletes. Runners
maybe.




As I contemplate this, they pause, waiting for the person some
distance behind to catch up. It is an elderly female form: soft, hunched-over
body, sagging chest, thinning hair, unsteady mincing gait. The mother or aunt of one of
them, I decide, and go back to my book.




Then I hear the blond woman’s voice and look up again. “Come
on honey,” she says - in the sort of firm but gentle tone used to encourage children. “Come on honey, give mommy your hand.”




I see now that she is a girl of around 14, though it is difficult to tell for sure. She stands awkwardly on the uneven rock, her shoulders hunched forward stiffly, hands at her sides, fingers fanned out, slack mouth
emitting a low pitched moan.




I feel a jolt to my system that I am instantly ashamed of. But it is the unexpectedness, the contrast of it. The couple'seffortless movements and theirbeautiful, youthful bodies, each stretching out a perfectly formed hand toward their child.






“Angie! Angela” says the man now, trying to get her to
look at him rather than down at the water. There is a big gap between the rock
she stands on and the next one, and she is terrified to cross. Her moans grow louder. “Angie! Angela.” The man’s tone is even, patient but not
exaggeratedly so, almost matter of fact.




When she still does not respond, both the man and woman step down into
the water and, in what has the look of a practiced maneuver, pick her up by the upper arms and swiftly move her to the next rock. She is large, and at once so limp and so stiff, it is as if they move a life-sized ragdoll. And then they go on with their trek.




Soon they are gone from my field of vision, but I continue
to think of them. Their light, graceful limbs and her heavy, awkward ones, the sun lighting up her sparse wisps of hair.




In my younger years, I could dwell on such a scene indefinitely,
crying over it without really knowing
why. But now I am better at willing myself to forget, at
removing thoughts and images from my mind, almost surgically. Eventually I go back to my book - reading it, then lying face down on it again.




It is not until three days later that I see her. A girl in
a halter dress, riding her bike along the tiny main street.Her left foot is missing a sandal.And she is coasting, round shoulders relaxed, head tilted back, short sandy hair ruffled by the breeze. She is squinting into the sun and
smiling so broadly, I cannot help but grin back reflexively.



In that moment I
recognise her. I look around for the tanned athletic couple, half
expecting them to be following on bikes or watching from the sidewalk. I don't see them. But the girl is unmistakably her. The face, the body, the hair, the
way her clothing does not sit quite right.It is all there and it is all
perfect, in the utter abandon of her posture and smile.

Lilics

Battleship Rock

This is a big rock cliff sort of north west from Jemez Springs called Battleship Rock. There is a big parkinglot so visitors can park and view the cliff or take a hike down into the canyon below it where Jemez Creek flows.