tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3365846268350457882024-03-13T04:10:03.788-07:00browning base campKathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comBlogger124125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-31464554118076467672019-03-14T18:27:00.006-07:002019-07-21T12:30:24.904-07:00My Hearing Journey<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Have you ever been on a cell phone where there’s a poor connection and you’re only getting fragments of what the other person is saying? Then it’s like a puzzle with you trying to string together and make sense of the few words that you could understand while at the same time trying to listen to the bits and pieces that are forthcoming? This is what my world is like on a daily basis because I am hard of hearing. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">My hearing loss falls into the “severe” category (a loss of about 70%, slightly different for each ear) and is a special kind of sensorineural* hearing loss often referred to as “cookie bite” hearing loss. My audiogram shows some hearing at the low and high frequencies and almost none in the middle. The ‘bite’ that is missing are the middle frequency sounds. </span><span class="yiv6649903634ilfuvd"><span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">Mid-frequency sounds are where you can intelligently determine human speech (and music). </span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;">My loss in the mid-frequencies is 70-80 decibels (normal hearing is 10-15 dB). Above 90 dB is considered “profound” hearing loss where the use of hearing aids is no longer effective and cochlear implants can be considered.<span style="color: red;"> </span></span><span class="yiv6649903634ilfuvd"><span lang="EN" style="color: #222222; font-size: 10pt;">Low tones are also a problem, so I typically can hear/comprehend female voices better than male voices.</span></span><span style="font-size: 10pt;"> Sound has a tinny quality, which is something my audiologist works to correct. But at the end of a long day, most sound comes across as unintelligible noise and often I can’t wait to take out my hearing aids. But the benefit is that I sleep through everything. Noisy hotel rooms, not a problem!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">A cookie bite hearing loss is very often hereditary, and is probably the case for me because my paternal grandmother was completely deaf by the time she was in her mid 60’s. Often, such as in my case, a person experiences some hearing problems as a child but it worsens slowly but significantly later in life. For years I had a manager whose husband is hard of hearing and so she spoke loudly as a matter of course. This worked to my advantage but at the same time, it insulated me from my hearing loss.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">According to <span class="yiv6649903634MsoHyperlink" style="color: blue; text-decoration: underline;"><span style="color: windowtext;"><a href="http://www.hear.com/" rel="nofollow" style="color: purple;" target="_blank">www.hear.com</a></span></span>, this type of hearing loss can lead to social problems when individuals struggle with holding a conversation. Music is harder to listen to. Warning messages can be missed in public places, and sirens and alarms can be more distressing to the ear when you have cookie bite hearing loss. This hearing loss can go from being frustrating to severely limiting to a person. For example, when I travel, it’s hard to hear flight attendants or when they announce gate changes or boarding groups.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">About 8 years ago I finally acknowledged that my hearing was in serious decline. I received my first set of hearing aids and have had several upgrades since, including special in-ear molds to channel sound more effectively. It’s a scary and stressful thing to lose your hearing, one of your key senses in interacting with the world. It affects every aspect of your life: mental, physical and emotional. It affects all your relationships. But thankfully, technology keeps improving. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Last Saturday afternoon I took a walk to City Park. It was cold, but the sun was shining, and I was marveling that there was so much bird song in the air on this February day. I stopped walking and closed my eyes. I could hear the wind in the tops of the cottonwood trees, rattling the hundreds of dried leaves that held on through the fall. It wasn’t just the generic wind-in-the-trees sound that I heard. I could hear the sound the individual leaves made in the wind, plus the birds singing. A car drove by on the street behind me. I heard it, plus the wind in the trees, plus the leaves, plus the birds. There were kids playing on the other side of the park. I could hear them laughing and shouting. I thought, the world is so rich, and I am back in it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Flash back to a couple of weeks ago when my audiologist recommended a new class of hearing aid that is specifically engineered to clarify speech. She offered me a free one-month trial. I was hesitant at first because if I decided to purchase them, they would cost $6,890. Hearing aids are not covered by health insurance. My audiologist said that she thought that I would be less tired at the end of the day by having improved hearing, especially with the boost in speech clarity. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Being deaf isn’t just a problem of volume but of comprehension and clarity. Talking to people is exhausting as I hang on every word, trying to figure out if someone said “coat”, “boat”, or “float.” My son is great about providing context. For example, if he says the word “float” and I don’t understand, he will say, “You know Mom, like a root beer float.” Depending on who I am talking to, sometimes I only understand a few words per sentence and am continually trying to play catch up. Because of the energy it takes, I avoid unnecessary conservations with friends and strangers alike. I find that in group conversations, I’m quiet but one-on-one I am more outgoing. And using the phone with voice is one of my biggest challenges. I have a captioned phone, but the live transcribers only correctly interpret about 60% of what is being said, and that’s for “social” calls. For work calls the percentage is lower because the subject matter is technical.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">A huge thank you to the transcribers. It must be challenging work. For instance, take a recent phone conversation that I had with a girlfriend who asked, “If I say $#@!, will the transcriber type $#@! ?” Ha-ha, yes, they type whatever they hear!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Making small talk is an exercise in frustration. But it also takes energy to avoid conversations in the first place, so I am constantly weighing my options. I bumped into an acquaintance at the library over the holidays and because I found myself face to face with this person it would have been rude to pretend that I didn’t see him. So, I put myself out there and I asked how his holidays were. After several rounds of asking him to repeat himself, I walked away from the conversation still not knowing if he said that one of his parents had died! Of course, I nodded and made polite generic verbal responses hoping they were appropriate. (I have an entire repertoire of “faking it” – smile/nod/raise eyebrows to feign interest.) I think that he was also trying to tell me about his caving adventure somewhere in a foreign country, but I could have gotten that entirely wrong as well. My kids and I laugh at my hearing misadventures. Once my son was trying to tell me that he wished that wooly mammoths were still roaming the earth, but I heard “I miss going to the bowling alley.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Work meetings and social situations are the most taxing. Even with decent hearing you only have so much energy to listen, process, integrate and respond. Most of my energy budget goes towards listening and comprehending and at the end of a meeting I am exhausted and want to crawl under the table. Nowadays there is a myriad of ways of being trapped on a bad ‘sound stage.’ I work for a global organization and routinely interact with colleagues who are on headsets, cell phones, speaker phones, and group internet meetings. There are a number of webinars where I’ve called in, only to hang up due to the inability to hear. Even though my organization is supportive and accommodating, there are no captioning services for the many webinars and trainings that we have.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Social situations are a different problem because in work meetings, people make an effort to speak clearly and professional meetings are usually held in an adequate hearing environment (compared to a noisy restaurant). In social situations, for example, I never get a joke because they are said as an aside. At the beginning of a new situation, I will usually start by telling people that I am hard of hearing. But most of the time people laugh and say, “oh yeah, me too.” Lately I’ve switched to “I am deaf” because it’s more to the point and is taken more seriously. What I need is not for people to simply speak louder but also to speak slowly and clearly. I am not always up front and clear about what I need, because sometimes the situation doesn’t warrant it (the grocery store conversations) or I just plain don’t care – being an introvert as well as being tired of the hearing battle! And sometimes I just want to feel normal and fit in. I don’t think that most people really understand how hard it is to hear words and what is being said.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">For social situations I go through 3 stages. I start out engaged (if I’ve had time to recharge after work), then quickly get tired, then give up. You can only nod and smile (and pretend to have fun even though you can’t hear a thing) for so long before you want to run screaming for the door. The killer is that if I don’t muster the energy to nod and smile, then I appear disengaged, aloof and humorless. For people who know me, they understand what is happening but in new situations it’s tough. It’s also a learning curve meeting new people and understanding how they pronounce their words and getting used to their particular voice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I live in a small town and you can’t go anywhere without seeing someone you know. I can only guess how many times people have said hello to me when my back is turned and it seems like I’m ignoring them. This happened recently, and I only clued in when I randomly turned in their direction and caught the person walking away and rolling their eyes as in “what a clueless ditz.” I tend to annoy people with my deafness – such as when I mishear a waitress and respond with the wrong answer. Waitress: “What would you like to drink?” Me: “Blue cheese dressing.” I don’t get <i>anything</i> that is said in a restaurant and rely on my family and friends to interpret. Most of the time it doesn’t bother me that I’m inadvertently annoying other people, but some days it gets me down.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Then there’s the most significant and disheartening part. The less you hear and comprehend, the less you try to be in the world. A few years ago, for the most part, I gave up on phone conversations with friends and family. Thankfully, there is email and chat, but I really missed the sound of my loved one’s voices. Whenever I called my best friend, who lives in another state, I would end up asking her to repeat everything 3 or 4 times. And often after the 4<sup>th</sup> try, I still didn’t get what she was saying. After hanging up the phone, instead of being buoyed up after a good talk with my BFF, I would break down in tears. Or throw the f’in phone across the room. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">There’s also the problem of communication with my two wonderful, and mostly patient, teenage children. There have been countless misunderstandings, disagreements and even all-out fights because of my hearing loss. Things that they think I forgot which I never heard in the first place. There are the dinner table conversations where everyone is sharing their day and laughing about something that only makes sense after I ask so many times that everyone ends up slightly annoyed with me. Then the moment is gone. I can’t hear either of their voices without my hearing aids, making nighttime and mornings challenging. With them in I can hear my daughter better than my son so when we are out and about she is kind enough to act as my interpreter. But the upside is that in order to communicate, we have to stop what we are doing so that we are face to face and <i>really connect</i>, a rarity in our busy world.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Recently my children took a sign language class with me. The instructor is Deaf, since birth, and she was funny and engaging and we learned a lot. Since I have some hearing it’s hard for us to commit to practicing. But having a few signs in our back pocket has cut down on miscommunication. The class was a reminder of what a strange space I inhabit. I’m not part of the Deaf community, and will never be fluent in sign language but rather I am expected to be part of the hearing world, slugging it out day by day which isn’t 100% workable either. Prior to getting my new aids I wanted to take them out forever and be done with the struggle. I figured if anyone wanted to communicate with me, they could write a note (which is how we talked to my grandma).</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">So… back to my recent experience at the park. My new aids aren’t perfect, but they have helped enormously at a time when I felt like giving up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">First and foremost, they have brought my loved ones’ voices back to me. I called my Dad on Saturday and after the call I shed a few tears. Not tears of frustration but tears of gratitude. I thought, “oh, that’s what my Dad’s voice sounds like…. I remember!” We have special challenges between the two of us. He lives in another state and has Parkinson’s, which has made his voice faint if he’s tired it’s difficult for him to enunciate. It’s hard for him to type so we don’t connect as often as we should. The new hearing aids, besides the improved voice clarity, pipes phone calls directly to my aids. There is no substandard phone connection, headset, or other intermediary device to distort the sound. I didn’t track everything that he said but the frustration level on both ends was much less and we enjoyed the conversation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">The other milestone is that I participated in a staff meeting via phone and I could hear everyone on the call, differentiate who was speaking, and comprehend almost everything. Instead of being on the edge of my seat, I was relaxed and listening. It was wonderful and I felt like part of the team. In the afternoon I had another call, which normally would make me nauseous just thinking about two calls in one day, but it went just as well as the first. And my audiologist was right, I didn’t feel as tired at the end of the day. It’s estimated that people with hearing loss spend 40% of their daily energy on trying to hear!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">If you’ve read this far, here are a few other antidotes that might seem minor to a hearing person but were major to me:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I ran into a friend while out cross-country skiing and struck up a conversation, something I would normally avoid because I can’t hear her soft voice. It was fun to catch up on our kids and life in general.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I went to a going away party for a co-worker in a loud bar and didn’t hate it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I went on an epic outdoor adventure with friends in less than ideal conditions, but I was able to wear my hearing aids when normally I would have had to leave them out. We biked 30 miles over snow in gale force winds for an entire day, but the new aids didn’t cause “wind feedback” so it didn’t make me crazy like it usually does. They are comfortable enough to wear with sunglasses and a helmet, which the old ones were not. It’s a safety concern – I need to hear snowmobiles coming up behind me. I enjoyed the company of my friends and even listened to music via Bluetooth connected to my iPhone. It made what could have been a mentally challenging day not so much.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">In the last few years, without even realizing it, I voluntarily and involuntarily retreated from the world. To save myself and others from frustration. To avoid feeling left out and dumb. To avoid being viewed as humorless and aloof. Reflecting back, I can see that it was especially challenging because it was a time when I could have used the support of others as I went through some major life changes.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">It wasn’t only the “big” things that I was not fully engaged in – family conversations, social situations, and work. It’s also the small interactions that I’ve missed, such as small talk with the nice teenager that makes my Subway sandwich. These tidbits of social life contribute to mental health in larger ways than I’d expect and are not to be taken lightly. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">Imagine that every sound that you hear comes to you by way of a radio station that you can’t quite tune in. And everyone sounds like Charlie Brown’s teacher, but she’s on a cell phone with a poor connection. Most days were like that. Thankfully, now I have a clearer connection. To my family and friends. To the birds in the park and the wind in the trees. And the practical stuff: I can hear water boiling on the stove so that I remember to throw in the spaghetti. I can hear the doorbell ring or the dog barking. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">I can hear my kids laughing, even in the next room. It’s not perfect but it’s better. Someday I may be completely deaf like my dear sweet Polish grandmother but for today, I am grateful for every little thing that I can hear. I came into 2019 with a goal of taking charge of the aspects of my life where I can make a difference and ended up with improved hearing, a better attitude, and a more hopeful outlook.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 10pt;">This last tidbit is a funny story – a week ago while I was grocery shopping an elderly gentleman grabbed my buns. That is to say, he was passing in the opposite direction with his cart and grabbed the dinner rolls out of my cart. We laughed as he explained that in the big cities, it’s a “thing” where teenagers steal random items out of other peoples’ carts. Before my new hearing aids, I would have never been able to hear/understand a word that he said and would get frustrated. But we had a fun, brief connection that left me smiling. Something that I might have missed, although I still would have had to get my buns back.</span></div>
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<i><span style="color: #2b2c2d; font-size: 9pt;">* Sensorineural hearing loss means that you have damage to the hair cells in your inner ear or to the nerve pathways that lead from the inner ear to the brain. While much of sensorineural hearing loss is age-related, there are other factors that may cause it, too. Many people with sensorineural hearing loss report that the</span></i><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;">y <a href="https://www.healthyhearing.com/report/32039-I-can-hear-just" rel="nofollow" style="color: purple;" target="_blank"><span style="color: windowtext;">can hear, but they cannot understand speech</span></a><span style="color: #2b2c2d;">. This is especially true in the presence of background noise. There are two types of sensorineural hearing loss: congenital and acquired sensorineural hearing loss. (healthyhearing.com) Mine is likely a combination of the two. </span></span></i></div>
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<i><span style="color: #2b2c2d; font-size: 9pt;">What hearing aids do: </span></i><i><span style="font-size: 9pt;">Hearing aids don’t correct hearing in the same way that glasses correct vision. Hearing aids boost volume and the better ones try to approximate what noise sounds like with normal hearing. But everyone’s hearing loss is different, including differences between the right and left ear. That is why working closely with your audiologist is important so that she/he can adjust the volume to a comfortable level, tinker with the settings for clarity and try to minimize the areas that are grating.</span></i><i><span style="color: #2b2c2d; font-size: 9pt;"> Be patient, it will likely take repeated visits to get it ‘right.’ If you or a loved one suspects that you have hearing loss, please get your hearing tested. Sooner is better than later because the longer you delay the harder it is with regards to comprehension.</span></i></div>
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-45081077283602964942016-08-12T14:00:00.004-07:002019-07-21T12:29:33.188-07:00Rock Star Enduro Rider on the Bog Slayer<br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I am a rock
star.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rode my fatbike 70 miles in the
Laramie Enduro race last Saturday. Some things went wrong and some things went
right but the things that <em>mattered the most</em> went right. There was a good amount
of luck involved too (cool weather, no mechanicals).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most importantly, it was FUN, and I learned a
few key things for next year.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Holy shit,
did I say “next year”?</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">If you are a
racer looking for beta on the Enduro, you won’t find it here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I am not a racer, I just ride….<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Non-racer
status aside, here are the stats:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Bike weight:
41 lbs including gear and two water bottles</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Rider weight:
126-127 lbs, soaking wet, which I was for the last 15 miles of the race</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Rider age:
47</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Time: 10:27 </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Place:
198/200 (yes, third to last)</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Foggy cool start, a lucky break. Last minute decision to mount another water bottle cage.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">There were 5
aid stations on the course, the first one at mile 17.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is a cutoff time for each aid station
and if you don’t make the time then you get a ride back to the finish line and
a DNF.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This was my biggest worry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I have the endurance to ride that far, but
I’m not fast so I was worried about making the cutoff times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My race strategy revolved around getting to
the first aid station because the first part of any ride is the worst for me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I thought that if I could do that, in decent
time, I probably had a good chance of finishing the race.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Let me just say here that the
volunteers for this race were AMAZING. </span>There were super helpful at each
aid station and they were stationed at various spots along the course.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The course was extremely well marked, too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything about the race was <span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">top-notch.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The
breakdown by aid station:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Mile 0 to aid station 1</b> –The first 3-5
miles were horrible (at least on the uphills), just as I expected.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I couldn’t catch my breath and I felt like my heart was going to
explode. Maybe it was adrenaline, or maybe it was because I am always slow to
start and need a warm up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to
cry. I wanted to go home. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hated
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">To top it
off, my gas tank bag blew up on a section of singletrack, spewing gu’s, chamois
butter packets, etc. onto the trail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
overloaded the bag at the hotel, then meant to transfer the extra gu’s to my
jersey but forgot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Rookie mistake - I
knew I was forgetting something when I left the truck that morning.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a crummy place to have to retrieve my
stuff but leaving the chamois butter was not an option.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Head Freak was behind me and it was a bummer
because it put us behind some slower riders on the singletrack log jam. But, whenever we hit flat or downhill on the singletrack, it was way fun -- following behind the Freak and feeling like I was actually racing. Probably one of the best parts of the race. Once on the dirt road, though, I couldn't keep up and just settled into my own pace.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">A forever image
of the race will be of the next section when I was following fellow fatbiker Josh
down some fast dirt road with whoop-de-dos where he was blazing alongside a
herd of wigged-out cattle that had just seen 200 riders come screaming through.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was wide open country, really pretty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wondered for a split second if Josh was
going to shoot the gap and risk broadsiding a cow.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But
clearly he’s from Wyoming and has good horse sense.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Aid station 1 (mile 17):<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>When I hit the first aid station my
stomach hurt, not bad, but I couldn’t eat anything - no gu’s, no bars, nada. So
I paused just long enough to refill a water bottle and grab some food for the
road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Whenever I tried to eat something my
stomach would tie up in knots.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
plenty hydrated, making a few pit stops, so that wasn’t the problem. But the harder
I pushed, the more my stomach hurt so I slowed down to see if I could recover.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally I leaned my bike against a tree and curled
up in a ball in the woods and did some deep breathing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It seemed to help but as soon as I was riding
again it was awful. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was just hoping to
make it to the aid station 2, where I pretty much planned on calling it
quits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t even care. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">To add
insult to injury there was a stretch of not-fun gravel grinding road.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No part of me is a road rider.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was a headwind and I was demoralized
and lonely, wondering what the hell I was doing with some 60+ miles left to go.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Aid station 2 (mile 30)</b>: At aid station
2 they had some Tums!!! I was at the aid station for longer than I had planned
but at that point I wasn’t sure what I was going to do.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I ate a couple of crackers which seemed to
help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After a trip to the most beautiful
porta-potty ever, I was feeling at least mentally better so I decided to keep
going.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The folks at the aid station said that the next
10 miles were fairly easy (fast and flowy downhill with no particularly hard
sections.) I decided to do an easy 10 and then reevaluate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Aid station 3 (mile 40):</b> From mile 30
to 40, I was super happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Mile by mile I
started feeling better and by the time I got to aid station 3 I was able to eat
something substantial (PBJ squares, boiled potatoes and yessssss –
some coke and ginger ale!!!!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally my
legs were going to get some fuel, they were tanking.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I spent more time here too than I had planned
but I knew I need to eat something, and slowly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When I left this aid station I felt like I was finally in business! I
started reeling in riders that left the aid station before me and that gave me
a mental boost.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Somewhere… I
came across a monster truck heading in the opposite direction.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It was a really, really cool truck – beautiful
piece of machinery, gorgeous paint job. It wasn’t just a cowboy in a Chevy with
a lift kit; it was a real monster truck that was as big as a house.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The driver and I paused for a second to
admire each other’s rigs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I would have
loved to shoot a photo but in retrospect, I’m glad I didn’t, it literally would
have cost me the race since my time was so close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"> <table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSHQ0Rh3PWfMgqTBgHKmxh1BCu8B_ESN0Kl-cRvCn3uKHAsgaYb7TVsaD27iDOUvHuLyhnb-VzkGUatu1jRfDtHyv05cnNO8q6IxTHIlZTpTcMcK0n3V4HV6d2-aTk1S2JUmLp9wXHis/s1600/IMG_8728.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqSHQ0Rh3PWfMgqTBgHKmxh1BCu8B_ESN0Kl-cRvCn3uKHAsgaYb7TVsaD27iDOUvHuLyhnb-VzkGUatu1jRfDtHyv05cnNO8q6IxTHIlZTpTcMcK0n3V4HV6d2-aTk1S2JUmLp9wXHis/s400/IMG_8728.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Aid station 4</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Aid station 4 (mile 52):</b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Going into this race I couldn’t decide which
bike to ride. I trained on the fatbike, my Salsa Mukluk, all summer for two
reasons: 1) because it’s super fun and 2) I can carry what I need for long
self-supported training rides.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Most of
the advice I got was to ride my 29” hardtail which is light and fast. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I fully planned on it until the last second
and then decided I wasn’t excited about the race unless I pictured myself on my
fatbike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I decided to stay true to
myself and ride the fattie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’m not a racer
and it’s not about the time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For me, it
was about finishing and enjoying the ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The longest ride I’d ever done on the fattie was 6 hours and I only went
28 miles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was over 6600 feet of
elevation gain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">So…. if I
could make it 50 miles on the fatbike, it would be a major accomplishment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wasn’t even dreaming of finishing once I
decided on the fatbike (well, maybe a little bit!)<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I hit mile 50 on a pretty stretch of two-track
that was on a high open plateau with amazing hoodoo formations that looked
otherworldly.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I did it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>50 miles on fat, fucking A!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it was just a few more miles to the aid
station 4, with nasty storm clouds threatening and a pounding headache (complete with little blinking white lights in my right eye). I was kind of out of it with the headache.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I took a
long break at aid 4 and it started pouring as soon as I got off the bike.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Volunteers refilled and cleaned my water bottles
and a friend of a friend gave me a beer (he might just be my new best friend).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I took Tylenol with the beer, ate some
watermelon and more boiled potatoes, etc. and I was good to go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I left the aid station in a slight drizzle that
turned into hail that turned into a driving rain.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No problem, I would much rather be sopping
wet than have 90 degree heat!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There was
some really fun trail and I reeled in a few more riders who were pushing bikes
up steep and rocky singletrack.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I heard
that this part of the ride was pretty hard but luckily it wasn’t as hard as I expected
- another mental boost.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was starting to
feel a little fried physically and not super confident on the technical
sections so I walked more than I usually would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was fine, though. I was in my own groove, enjoying the scenery,
basking in the fact that I cleared the aid station in time and still had a
chance for a finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Funny, but I still
wasn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">expecting</i> a finish.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Somewhere
after a boggy stream crossing (manned by a volunteer) I was headed uphill when
my left inner thigh cramped up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I had a
life-flash-before-me moment of sheer panic.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I’d had a blood clot 15 years ago when I was pregnant with our first
daughter in the exact place that was now cramping.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The blood clot was about a foot long from my
knee to my iliac artery.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It nearly
killed me, and I spent weeks and months in recovery going from wheel chair to
walker to crutches.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And after that it
took years before it wouldn’t swell up and hurt when I exercised….I pushed the
bike slowly up the hill and tried to calm myself down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If it didn’t subside in a few minutes I planned
to ride back to the bog and ask the volunteer to call for help.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Luckily, it did clear up in a few agonizing
minutes and I didn’t have any problems the rest of the day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;">Aid Station 5 (mile 62):<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b>There was a guy on a flatbed pickup
giving away beers to riders at aid station 5.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>He asked if I wanted a beer and I asked him if I made the time and he
said yes, by two minutes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And I said,
“Hell yes! I would love a beer!”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I was
talking to him and his wife when one of the race volunteers yelled that riders
had 30 seconds to clear the aid station.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I grabbed more gu’s and was off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My stomach still couldn’t handle anything like bars, honey stinger
waffles, etc.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>but holy cow, I made
it!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I rode at a steady pace and caught a guy just
before the Headquarters Trail parking lot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>At the parking lot the race volunteer told us that we had to be at the
finish line by 5:00 or it was a DNF – we were cutting it really close.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He also said that we had 2 miles of uphill singletrack
before the downhill to the finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I
thought I had made it but really I hadn’t?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was still a crapshoot? WTF?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I didn’t
have it in me to ride all of the Headquarters Trail – it was rocky and I was
tired.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I figured either way, even with a
DNF, I rode the whole damn thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the
top of headquarters there was a super nice family and they said that I had it
in the bag, that there was indeed <b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no cutoff time</i></b> at this point and I was
<strong><em>not going to have a DNF</em></strong>.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At that point,
I fully relaxed and enjoyed the rest of my ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I stopped at an overlook and took a few
pictures, ate a snack saved just for the occasion, peed, and cruised the rest
of the way to the finish.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I know I could
have shaved a few minutes off my time by not dallying, but the light was so
pretty – the way the sky looks after a storm clears and the sun dipping
lower in the west.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I wanted to bask in
the moment and enjoy the quiet stillness of the forest and the success of the
ride.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it didn’t really matter if my
time was 10:20 or 10:30 when you are out that long!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At the finish I did a stand up sprint and was
psyched to see people STILL out cheering racers on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And of course, the BPR crew was at the beer
tent.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55HdtQ3Dhf_2a3jAxKgeafSbrSwdvvF2Ib0MPdM_FCs3NNuelQ-eO65XYjvgwZjDHak81c7WezbVynRfcrsf1c2jDvKcn36UFbWzDu7PoErTysTgBf8QCMqjh8iviYG-TztzfuiPIqJQ/s1600/IMG_8724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55HdtQ3Dhf_2a3jAxKgeafSbrSwdvvF2Ib0MPdM_FCs3NNuelQ-eO65XYjvgwZjDHak81c7WezbVynRfcrsf1c2jDvKcn36UFbWzDu7PoErTysTgBf8QCMqjh8iviYG-TztzfuiPIqJQ/s320/IMG_8724.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somewhere along the homestretch.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The thing
that I am most happy with, besides actually finishing the race, was that I did it
my way. I rode my favorite bike, on my terms, and had an awesome time doing it.
The fattie was a blast; I am rechristening her the “bog-slayer.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She climbed like a demon… she blasted
through the stream crossings and plowed through the bogs – all with grace and
style - or at least as much as I could muster.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The big fat tires simply hummed on the flowy downhill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And
while not particularly fast, she did make me feel like a warrior.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Besides, being fast is overrated; and time is
an illusion….</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<div style="border-image: none;">
</div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 10pt;">
<div style="border-image: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="mso-ansi-language: EN-GB;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">The illusion of time is akin to the old
world idea that the earth is flat, and we seem to be completely ruled by
the concept…. Quantum studies are showing science, at the
fundamental level, that our concept of time as thought of as a linear passage
of events is totally wide of the mark, and in fact there is no mark.</span></span></i></div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<div style="border-image: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: #444444;">All
points of reference are arbitrary, they are conveniences, they are non-existent
in fundamental reality.</span></span></i></div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<div style="border-image: none;">
</div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<div style="border-image: none;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: #444444;">What’s
actually happening when we denote a point in space is we are collapsing a
fluctuating field of vibration into matter.</span></span></i></div>
</div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: #444444;">--From
The Illusion of Time by Larry McGuire</span></span></i><br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFLPTOQWUW7djmFZYdqHRIMrbE2mQTJhLvMeWrccj40oUyMiYH1XqQohW-V8LwAy9vsAj93REuasA6O7JdDxyJCzNxj_Fq62s4Ap7qszElk8kqhpe1zjkNRajIf4HDW96hMlnqCLZdfF8/s1600/13882468_1342150155802777_8862773218599801500_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFLPTOQWUW7djmFZYdqHRIMrbE2mQTJhLvMeWrccj40oUyMiYH1XqQohW-V8LwAy9vsAj93REuasA6O7JdDxyJCzNxj_Fq62s4Ap7qszElk8kqhpe1zjkNRajIf4HDW96hMlnqCLZdfF8/s320/13882468_1342150155802777_8862773218599801500_n.jpg" width="180" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDp1_JmvAPWx3fdmW_mxvVAxt-iaLtqYIX15ENdOVDJdRdZoP9JhcQYakU9Yq6FE-UJiO4QWZj1JqM_u0f6_G5kVJJo-pKwTQydpLWnd_OI1uGJAk4RMemFlUbnlWsJMjcok4lA5SEjS8/s1600/13962648_1208533459188005_6034480978085016859_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDp1_JmvAPWx3fdmW_mxvVAxt-iaLtqYIX15ENdOVDJdRdZoP9JhcQYakU9Yq6FE-UJiO4QWZj1JqM_u0f6_G5kVJJo-pKwTQydpLWnd_OI1uGJAk4RMemFlUbnlWsJMjcok4lA5SEjS8/s320/13962648_1208533459188005_6034480978085016859_n.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Back of the Pack Racing, Wyoming style.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlXyjCJbBvDEBlfydprZCdTvk4-68eXafKgilF83AKHXEDlfTTV0Zgh76Uii-PiX-ZWtLU8nJrD2lUNJKTF4rnP0lDQbxSXiizy70r8igsNS6aubmtvtPveMqfO286stFAU1mUXIcEQc/s1600/IMG_8727.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNlXyjCJbBvDEBlfydprZCdTvk4-68eXafKgilF83AKHXEDlfTTV0Zgh76Uii-PiX-ZWtLU8nJrD2lUNJKTF4rnP0lDQbxSXiizy70r8igsNS6aubmtvtPveMqfO286stFAU1mUXIcEQc/s400/IMG_8727.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<em><span style="color: #444444; font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span></em></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span lang="EN-GB" style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif"; font-size: 11pt;"><span style="color: #444444;"><br /></span></span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
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</div>
Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-3361257697648935992016-05-31T20:57:00.002-07:002019-03-12T17:03:53.641-07:00Happyness and Fatbikes Explained<div style="border-image: none;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMu_Mi2aoAUzpvWDOnK5pXI9mt-g9DFrnFtAVN8ZwV6aixmUydxbK1zKrCNcklJQTb_1q64MOOv5o7Nhwf5wGs5P9lMG8Jyp_DUlBWPLLJQOzBVwN5t9lGgULGuSn1rEWXLnwFo86MFKs/s1600/happyness.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMu_Mi2aoAUzpvWDOnK5pXI9mt-g9DFrnFtAVN8ZwV6aixmUydxbK1zKrCNcklJQTb_1q64MOOv5o7Nhwf5wGs5P9lMG8Jyp_DUlBWPLLJQOzBVwN5t9lGgULGuSn1rEWXLnwFo86MFKs/s320/happyness.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<br /></div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
Yes, it's a cliché that happyness means different things to different people. A tailwind, a windfall, Wind River Mountains or wind in your sails. But trying to explain or defend your particular brand of happiness to someone else is annoying.</div>
<div style="border-image: none;">
<br /></div>
<br />
This weekend I was on my fat bike and ran into another rider that I know. Inevitably they always say something like "so...you're on <em>that</em> bike…" Or they ask "how do you like your fat bike?" Well, duh, it's like explaining cold beer on a hot day. It just is. <br />
<br />
Perhaps they are jealous....<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9AfJKv3woe-HZLA8r6AE3YfxrfuyDA1SvIjgUjSL2-xUbRQLfTiPljrik_hyphenhyphenY1Jc9VHMkP6yRgi7vaXdwCyczcBD3OeUQZGjAlxWH8rTXUApvXF-jyaIIPWf1ZnMLR-NbgclE40zgbE/s1600/13336265_10155428637268504_321975856_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjC9AfJKv3woe-HZLA8r6AE3YfxrfuyDA1SvIjgUjSL2-xUbRQLfTiPljrik_hyphenhyphenY1Jc9VHMkP6yRgi7vaXdwCyczcBD3OeUQZGjAlxWH8rTXUApvXF-jyaIIPWf1ZnMLR-NbgclE40zgbE/s640/13336265_10155428637268504_321975856_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-39129682434545830032016-05-24T06:40:00.001-07:002019-03-14T18:02:33.272-07:00Feeling Stuck<br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">When I was out riding on Sunday I
came barreling down a steep hill where I could see a mud puddle at the
bottom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I didn’t want to slow down so I
took my chances with the mud, thinking that just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">maybe</i> the muddy ravine had a hard bottom.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> I skirted the edge, b</span>ut naturally it was a full-on bog. As
soon as my front tire hit I was sucked down, hard.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then my left foot went in deep.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yes, I can read dirt and mud
and I knew better -- but I did it anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>I guess in the back of my mind, against reason, I thought if I could
just ride fast enough I would sail through.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>My own fault.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So I paused, said a
few cuss words and then pulled and pulled on the damn wheel till it broke free.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
</div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"></span><br />
<div style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif; font-size: 14pt;">There’s a moment when you
break free that puts you off balance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But if you wait too long to pull yourself out you just get sucked down
deeper.</span></div>
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-69796301522768623572016-03-15T12:28:00.002-07:002017-03-02T07:17:08.963-08:00Beautiful Nora<span style="font-family: "calibri";">After several long days of travel, worry, sleep deprivation, and endless frustration, I broke down in tears in a restaurant in a small town in Colorado. I had been with my dad at the hospital for several days before and was exhausted. He was admitted for heart trouble and on this day I had driven him 6 hours back to his hometown after getting up at 3 am. But Dad, having more energy than me apparently, insisted that we go out to dinner -- when I was ready to pass out in bed. He wanted to go out to eat with his good friends, a couple in their early 70's.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I don’t think that Dad even noticed when I burst into tears and excused myself to the bathroom to try and pull myself together.<span id="yiv9961739719yui_3_16_0_1_1457640061259_2399"> </span>When I got back to the table, Nora (Bill’s beautiful wife who has Alzheimer’s), asked if I wanted to share her chocolate cream pie with her.<span id="yiv9961739719yui_3_16_0_1_1457640061259_2400"> </span>I was surprised because she and I had just sat through the entire dinner not talking - she being locked in the netherworld of dementia; and me - I didn’t have an ounce of energy left to puzzle out conversation that I couldn’t hear.<span id="yiv9961739719yui_3_16_0_1_1457640061259_2401"> (My dad's Parkinson's has made his voice soft and garbled and with my deafness, the last 48 hours put me at the end of my rope.)</span><span id="yiv9961739719yui_3_16_0_1_1457640061259_2402"> </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">I felt like both Nora and I were invisible through the entire evening, nodding and smiling the best we could.<span id="yiv9961739719yui_3_16_0_1_1457640061259_2403"> </span>But then in a way that only happens when two souls really meet, she reached through both of our barriers with the chocolate pie.<span id="yiv9961739719yui_3_16_0_1_1457640061259_2404"> </span>One plate, two forks - and we had a real conversation.<span id="yiv9961739719yui_3_16_0_1_1457640061259_2405"> </span>I told her that she made my night and she nodded and smiled back in complete understanding.<span id="yiv9961739719yui_3_16_0_1_1457640061259_2406"> </span><span id="yiv9961739719yui_3_16_0_1_1457640061259_2407"> </span>She told me a few things in my ear, just for me, that saved me that night.<span id="yiv9961739719yui_3_16_0_1_1457640061259_2408"> </span>I so wish I’d known her back in the day, but I <i id="yiv9961739719yui_3_16_0_1_1457640061259_2409">see</i> her, still.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br /></span>Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-25882467424562479372016-02-22T07:29:00.000-08:002019-03-12T17:06:11.803-07:00WYO Back of the Pack Operating Instructions<br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">WYO BPR Operating Instructions</span></div>
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Promote <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Courier;">Peace,
Love, and Harmony and total commitment to The Alternate Reality, Wyoming Style.</span></div>
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Always bring beer for the Leader.</div>
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Office of the Leader.</div>
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Always bring beer for the Leader (see #1).</div>
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The Leader, being a Dudette, can arbitrarily
change the Operating Instructions at any time without prior notice. See 5.2 and
5.3 - Back of the Pack Operating Instructions
http://backofthepackracing.com/bpr-operating-instructions/.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>(<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Courier;">The
BPR Operating Instructions are ONLY applied to Dudes.) </span></div>
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The Crew is under the Leader’s sole reign and
power, a.k.a. The Leader’s Realm.<br />
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1.4<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
Leader shall not be referred to as the Leader (for obvious reasons) but as The
Goddess, The God-less, Bad-Ass Biker Chic, hey Fatbiker, or other appropriate term
of endearment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For purposes of this
document the term The Goddess will be used.</div>
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Uniforms.</div>
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Must be naked under your uniform.</div>
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Dudes attired in spandex are discouraged; dudes
wearing tight green leather pants wielding bow and arrows are encouraged. </div>
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WYO Crew.</div>
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WYO rolls phat and rigid.</div>
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Phatbikers are sexy.</div>
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Any potential Crew member must undergo the
Initiation Ceremony.</div>
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(a) There is no safe word for the Initiation
Ceremony and personal safety cannot be guaranteed.</div>
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Persons with Disabilities and Metahumans.</div>
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The Goddess is deaf.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Any crude or inappropriate remarks, dirty
jokes, politically incorrect statements, or sexual innuendos must be uttered in
a clear and loud fashion for the enjoyment of all.</div>
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Anyone consistently riding at the front of the
pack on uphill grinds is a show-off and a metahuman will be ridiculed
accordingly.</div>
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Morale.</div>
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No pissing and moaning (COWBOY UP), unless the
wind is blowing, and only The Goddess is allowed to P & M.</div>
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Whilst operating in the Realm, talk of jobs,
spouses, children, in-laws, or other so-called ‘realities’ will NOT be
tolerated.</div>
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Deviants and deviations. </div>
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Any disagreement with the WYO BPR Operating
Instructions or proffered changes must be submitted to The Goddess in Time Lord
writing.</div>
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Firearms and alcohol.<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
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1.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lock
and load: this is Wyoming.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">*Fatbiker/phatbiker is one word.</span></div>
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-53878738106040169582015-11-08T10:03:00.003-08:002016-10-24T17:08:36.383-07:00November light through the pines<br />
<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">Yesterday I was biking in the canyon and the afternoon light coming through the pines seemed like a gift - an extravagant gift on such a chilly, snow-dusted November day. This time of year the sunlight doesn't reach parts of the canyon until late in the day. The single shaft of light was so subtly beautiful that it was almost heartbreaking. But maybe it was just my mood.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">I ride and hike this trail in every season and never tire of it. The shadows are different depending on the time of day and of course, the plants and flowers change with the seasons and so there's always something new. There is a peace and comfort in knowing a place this well. And since I usually mountain bike it, I sometimes feel like I could ride it blind, like the Jedi force ~ bumping my way down it from sheer memory. Groove and flow.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white;"><span style="color: #141823; font-family: "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 14px; line-height: 19px;">The trail is a steady and steep uphill climb to a meadow. Yesterday I wanted to make it to the meadow where I knew I'd be flooded with light and rewarded with a beautiful view. But the snow got deeper the higher I climbed and turned to a sugary consistency - I couldn't get traction. I had to turn around just before the meadow, I was out of steam to push my bike the rest of the way. But here is the reward - I pointed my bike downhill and let 'er go. First without any regard for the skiff of snow until I had one scary skid that made my legs shake. I stopped to put on a jacket and my chin bar and rode the rest of it a little slower. But still on the edge of control, letting it rip on the bare dirt, careening over the rocks, popping over obstacles and feeling every molecule of my being entirely alive and in the moment. When I got back to my truck at the trailhead the sun was low enough in the sky to hit me full on and I finally warmed up, hot tea with honey, sitting on the tailgate of my truck -- and feeling like the luckiest person in the world.</span></span></span><br />
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-74697153660308656462015-10-03T08:44:00.004-07:002016-03-15T12:48:53.922-07:00White Rim in a Day - Canyonlands National Park<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">I was invited by a dear friend to join her and two other friends to ride the White Rim in a day (WRIAD). I was plenty intimidated - the White Rim Trail is a 103-mile loop on a jeep road through Canyonlands National Park. We did 85 miles by cutting off the boring pavement section. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The route isn't technical. Still, I had to train for it and truth be told, I'm a tad lazy. My most favorite thing to do is ride downhill ~ as fast as a middle-aged mom can. But it sounded fun: 1) this bunch of women would be a blast to ride with 2) it would be beautiful; and 3) you are only young once (as said to me by a very courageous and adventurous woman that I admire!) But cheese and rice, I'd never ridden more than 50 miles on my mountain bike in day (and the 50-miler was when I was 22 years old).</span><br />
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As for elevation gain, the bulk of the ride is pretty easy. Most of the climbing is tackled with three major climbs (Murphy's Hogback, Hardscrabble Hill, and the Mineral Bottom Switchbacks). The average grade is only 2% and the maximum grade is 56%. The killer is at the end with the Mineral Bottom Switchbacks netting 1400 feet in elevation gain in the last mile and a half.</span><br />
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<tr><td width="100%"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">The major climbs add up to 4000 vertical feet, but if you recorded every little up-and-down it's more like 6000 feet total. Per <a href="http://utahmountainbiking.com/" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">utahmountainbiking.com</span></a>, most riders spend 3 or 4 days riding this trail and use a support vehicle to haul their gear to the campsites...two days = Monster; one day = Lunatic.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br />We were going for lunatic, but w</span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">e did have a support vehicle, which met us for lunch and resupplied us with water. It would have been near impossible to carry enough water for 90-degree heat. He was also our shuttle at the end.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><br /><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 23.79px;">The riding surface on the four wheel drive jeep road was packed sediment, sand pits, silt pits and slick rock.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 23.79px;"><br /></span></span><span style="background-color: white;"><span style="line-height: 23.79px;">It was an amazing and epic trip. The country is so vast that you can't even fathom it. The area is by permit only so we only saw about a dozen vehicles and people the entire day. And at the end of the day, I felt pretty darn good. I was saddle sore and my triceps ached, maybe from hanging on to the brakes on the first descent. I would do it again -- but next time I'm riding fat.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 23.79px;"></span><span style="background-color: white; line-height: 23.79px;"></span></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPd7_DnO9K9tFVCKt3l8omzyv5JvrocO3loi0g8vMJgAv_3rxS2xtb7xXEKN9ItxpvKgKAZZvkHdump81-H0iz_aKjljokr8ISbFr0oy9mm2i3nBNpqpV_kvWBC8wfiDPYwoAT_ANiXZs/s1600/aa_dark.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPd7_DnO9K9tFVCKt3l8omzyv5JvrocO3loi0g8vMJgAv_3rxS2xtb7xXEKN9ItxpvKgKAZZvkHdump81-H0iz_aKjljokr8ISbFr0oy9mm2i3nBNpqpV_kvWBC8wfiDPYwoAT_ANiXZs/s640/aa_dark.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">I love this picture. You can see the barest hint of a headlamp on the right, and two morning stars. There was no ambient light when we started out. Kristin's headlamp died and so I had to be her wingman on the descent. It was a little hairy.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYOc9OPcgZfKhhrGK0wLjZVpIXpqrRXQ_CZ9p1CMeAMc2DuV7OR-oRvL_3ce5MwjDw1sS8NI4JFWnalOi9QMi4JySNZepLPojDh4cV2OKBt1Cc12OYU97df1C4kO3nkQ_pb_1UPx0rg3E/s1600/aa_descent_road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYOc9OPcgZfKhhrGK0wLjZVpIXpqrRXQ_CZ9p1CMeAMc2DuV7OR-oRvL_3ce5MwjDw1sS8NI4JFWnalOi9QMi4JySNZepLPojDh4cV2OKBt1Cc12OYU97df1C4kO3nkQ_pb_1UPx0rg3E/s640/aa_descent_road.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">These are the Shaffer Switchbacks that we descended in the dark. We knew it was a drop but I don't think we grasped how big. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjuz9Oe2tjDCWcW7ffXjWrw2apZ5-gwfEcFnJzEy8_JI-Lqqne-OtaCRszPfRyTwp0mYLsevvyTdLATdQUpIK0oQDxIuZ_-PYpQhTBlg3c04Lb5G0TKU-GWumkuPpkaVpRvST4vVndaE/s1600/aa_descent_singleswitch.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPjuz9Oe2tjDCWcW7ffXjWrw2apZ5-gwfEcFnJzEy8_JI-Lqqne-OtaCRszPfRyTwp0mYLsevvyTdLATdQUpIK0oQDxIuZ_-PYpQhTBlg3c04Lb5G0TKU-GWumkuPpkaVpRvST4vVndaE/s320/aa_descent_singleswitch.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Another view of the switchback descent.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-d5S_9vPWI4vHOAeENv-Zxl-Onn6QAKZ4mhVmnkZn2FM5seg0RgsSVZnSSE38tFRrxSNu72AmcPDl-WrNSeQCf0E4Y0C2f90it1dTi1IF6DraD6x_JlhBdRT7xxPToyMm_oy52UcmjA/s1600/early_road.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiU-d5S_9vPWI4vHOAeENv-Zxl-Onn6QAKZ4mhVmnkZn2FM5seg0RgsSVZnSSE38tFRrxSNu72AmcPDl-WrNSeQCf0E4Y0C2f90it1dTi1IF6DraD6x_JlhBdRT7xxPToyMm_oy52UcmjA/s400/early_road.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Easy miles - while it was cool out.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTZo0DzaBp715TbUTS8mZnUE6PySLmGrOzXlrvXGimwdeiFQOlxEDuPa1lTE_t8xYITqW0OTjPpRTRKtxWsq4fekHmr_REBsynjU74SteGEBrqh7JnWDYRPKPwmSiR7Ul9vO8xPPTTc0/s1600/IMG_0844+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGTZo0DzaBp715TbUTS8mZnUE6PySLmGrOzXlrvXGimwdeiFQOlxEDuPa1lTE_t8xYITqW0OTjPpRTRKtxWsq4fekHmr_REBsynjU74SteGEBrqh7JnWDYRPKPwmSiR7Ul9vO8xPPTTc0/s400/IMG_0844+copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Suzanne, who did a fabulous job planning it all!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hhIE5nnSVLQXwTQFO3w_P963AvTYNDF0ieki3CTtqz3U8mbpqYhT13RC_v3joyXNcekWb0DRHaT8qEfVazBuoDTsm-5fhHIV-ImPw0K3Tj_vDQ_Zag9zHanODz87BzFme59Nqreukx4/s1600/earlyK.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1hhIE5nnSVLQXwTQFO3w_P963AvTYNDF0ieki3CTtqz3U8mbpqYhT13RC_v3joyXNcekWb0DRHaT8qEfVazBuoDTsm-5fhHIV-ImPw0K3Tj_vDQ_Zag9zHanODz87BzFme59Nqreukx4/s640/earlyK.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Kristin. We put away a good number of miles before the sun even came up.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">It wasn't technical but most of the road was varied enough to be interesting.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Emma - who never once walked her bike - not through sand or silt nor up the steepest hill.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Murphy's Hogback was the first major hill of the climb. We hit it right before lunch at about mile 40. It was so hot on the back side (with no breeze) that I felt like throwing up. Except for right after lunch when I ate too much, this was the only time that I didn't feel so great. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuff0htpd5rYxVJcMo69hR3J_8PWEMd1xO7sfdQQQhWWMwNEIToZPQq1GA9TExDjiEAzkjB9Ta4hkK126uzxJaT9-Wgb8Wbb9c1jMxJE5hoA8lEtYkYekZUk0RBpWQClyaRkMh5F-UzQ/s1600/IMG_0892+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvuff0htpd5rYxVJcMo69hR3J_8PWEMd1xO7sfdQQQhWWMwNEIToZPQq1GA9TExDjiEAzkjB9Ta4hkK126uzxJaT9-Wgb8Wbb9c1jMxJE5hoA8lEtYkYekZUk0RBpWQClyaRkMh5F-UzQ/s640/IMG_0892+copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The bathrooms were about 10 miles apart and the only shade. We took advantage of them.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIyc3Stlxdg0UyWbAlhx9Ba_waidM_Izk_Z7HjmCius2IaRAh1wcJBnqtmyfdXyC9U1IjIxXUSj_6mjAfObSuXJT-OwT7UQK_Rf5rza2yMRrNIWV8JQ3lFubeNIThBXxIm7qOoD1zeivM/s1600/IMG_0903+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIyc3Stlxdg0UyWbAlhx9Ba_waidM_Izk_Z7HjmCius2IaRAh1wcJBnqtmyfdXyC9U1IjIxXUSj_6mjAfObSuXJT-OwT7UQK_Rf5rza2yMRrNIWV8JQ3lFubeNIThBXxIm7qOoD1zeivM/s640/IMG_0903+copy.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is later in the day when we plugged into our music and dug deep. I was listening to a kick-ass soundtrack (from Where the Trail Ends) and watching these women fly through the vast desert. It was magical.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNGMY6zOlXO2apdmgwyklriwV1nyvI6SaoV4qnc3CQE7y34aBycxK0IlmMTM9b6nTqMhsZC5I4lq-V8RgMchC_gerAg4zf2BnhoIfuOagpZ8X5ZcDJHqe72Fo_omQC2yysbtFDVv_UK2s/s1600/IMG_0905+copy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNGMY6zOlXO2apdmgwyklriwV1nyvI6SaoV4qnc3CQE7y34aBycxK0IlmMTM9b6nTqMhsZC5I4lq-V8RgMchC_gerAg4zf2BnhoIfuOagpZ8X5ZcDJHqe72Fo_omQC2yysbtFDVv_UK2s/s400/IMG_0905+copy.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">It was great when we finally dropped down next to the Green River. It felt a little bit cooler, at least psychologically.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Emma, climbing everything. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">The last 20 miles or so had a series of sand and silt pits.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Lunch included cold watermelon and ice water, woo-hoo!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Shade at lunch.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS9GJNZQedTi02r5h24v_QBBJUD3x-a_oUi204kG00z9lfg_ebSM3CgLhyoUkmh4QSIVdq9UkV8HPhDbwOZvoX8z_NZwZngIn3BcsbTRFi8WXPFZUfptn9l0lFlyZwXt_jVRBC_lvSFBs/s1600/midday3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjS9GJNZQedTi02r5h24v_QBBJUD3x-a_oUi204kG00z9lfg_ebSM3CgLhyoUkmh4QSIVdq9UkV8HPhDbwOZvoX8z_NZwZngIn3BcsbTRFi8WXPFZUfptn9l0lFlyZwXt_jVRBC_lvSFBs/s320/midday3.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Next time I'm carrying my water like this.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5XuFcoQQpsNYQrRPW5dqee5dgYNmcEdHckCHufXvlf_4ewA8aQzhyphenhyphenb1PwQowivmRirSC0Q1NPI9-swauQFfTC6cmrscE1Deju1Ck-QF3lwtgdtTkOXtycyb-bwutE11DtoTNvfVNDjVk/s1600/midday5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5XuFcoQQpsNYQrRPW5dqee5dgYNmcEdHckCHufXvlf_4ewA8aQzhyphenhyphenb1PwQowivmRirSC0Q1NPI9-swauQFfTC6cmrscE1Deju1Ck-QF3lwtgdtTkOXtycyb-bwutE11DtoTNvfVNDjVk/s640/midday5.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">There were some fun sections, too. Punchy little uphill and downhill.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Em and K</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhnHPrcxJgPx3E86hoxVkMK7lhdMES0AmG5g7g1DpDpHWejcC6sWWYC-dTJ8BV0VH6lSefUSnyqVBgiVaGaAmiHAlV_J2iPmqw3aTg5uDeDk5PHVGJQRtiiH8rj4AAlQ4GM_tu0UIVWA/s1600/middayshade2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuhnHPrcxJgPx3E86hoxVkMK7lhdMES0AmG5g7g1DpDpHWejcC6sWWYC-dTJ8BV0VH6lSefUSnyqVBgiVaGaAmiHAlV_J2iPmqw3aTg5uDeDk5PHVGJQRtiiH8rj4AAlQ4GM_tu0UIVWA/s320/middayshade2.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">My family wrote inspirational messages that were sealed in an envelope - to be opened at mile 40, 60, 70 and at the end. For me, I dedicated a 10 mile section to different friends and family. The last 15 miles were for a very special family friend, Chryssie, that encouraged me to do the trip. I probably wouldn't have done it if it weren't for her. </span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">!</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvAkjXJBLxZVLidgD2JJoJxlHWHIK8vq3GrfSJ3qItMCqFxuELbrmFtZ6b1ZuBDvCleFnSnin7veB8IJb1lAuIH29UDYLKqLhaMS4JermWoykknQc2guTFE2mX2ee12g-gFtftv1YiyEg/s1600/zz_ascent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvAkjXJBLxZVLidgD2JJoJxlHWHIK8vq3GrfSJ3qItMCqFxuELbrmFtZ6b1ZuBDvCleFnSnin7veB8IJb1lAuIH29UDYLKqLhaMS4JermWoykknQc2guTFE2mX2ee12g-gFtftv1YiyEg/s640/zz_ascent.jpg" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">This is the end. Climbing from the river bottom 1400 feet to the top of the rim.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcPU1PcYgstg3CSPHZRCQJ-WpeTtbn3YWm36q6zEVsFHS1cgYmrgp1uBgWB7H8KU0AlkFoFmI81wijo3ojf_Xj94dZR2itIi6Cf4LRRy-NepsYU3gJ_Myx2lxa2-BtGsE2mrk6IzKj-o4/s1600/zz_end_2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcPU1PcYgstg3CSPHZRCQJ-WpeTtbn3YWm36q6zEVsFHS1cgYmrgp1uBgWB7H8KU0AlkFoFmI81wijo3ojf_Xj94dZR2itIi6Cf4LRRy-NepsYU3gJ_Myx2lxa2-BtGsE2mrk6IzKj-o4/s640/zz_end_2.jpg" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">When I finished I felt like I had just joined the bad-ass girls' club. These women are amazing.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt61uZW5fxGqS0xCkwsFVzeWpJ8yOTW-xT6MsDnaKSyUJ04wq1hyphenhyphenucoRdLjnm-9NMkp-yHtHgsloUlLMhkgycoRkFywFpmLfm_dlzMcuFXxjWf72SDNDF7svDZifhuUq4pjND5RZQJ1Nk/s1600/zz_end_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt61uZW5fxGqS0xCkwsFVzeWpJ8yOTW-xT6MsDnaKSyUJ04wq1hyphenhyphenucoRdLjnm-9NMkp-yHtHgsloUlLMhkgycoRkFywFpmLfm_dlzMcuFXxjWf72SDNDF7svDZifhuUq4pjND5RZQJ1Nk/s320/zz_end_3.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Suzanne - YESSSSS!</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdNYREdaNKIGTbYJp_D0wnrRMwFz5hI_hTxnRwLLykGKUg9aMs3navkZa4nkQCgNfHKXzhOkYTMr4mNwQXxH5uIIS-m9ymsHKr9YtD4za-ITRf903y9dTr18Y2p-FcYlXKHJMQ90jhNrQ/s1600/zz_end_4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdNYREdaNKIGTbYJp_D0wnrRMwFz5hI_hTxnRwLLykGKUg9aMs3navkZa4nkQCgNfHKXzhOkYTMr4mNwQXxH5uIIS-m9ymsHKr9YtD4za-ITRf903y9dTr18Y2p-FcYlXKHJMQ90jhNrQ/s400/zz_end_4.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Friends, a beautiful sunset and beer.</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-hJb5IStqNoaG_3pzA6o06qcVyLa5eLHzDBS9jTVzzFtoYJ1HC1AUUxZ1H0pOjwTMHalfJiNF8IBlnDij3sDtkALRgB1x8eQa-CaigYMqOBPPBGe7mmd-lt08jx2uicLK6_JwgVyv70/s1600/9E9p0hMdRwE45rp8Dlod7QHHjrrDbeVLrEvBJkOxf1Q.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz-hJb5IStqNoaG_3pzA6o06qcVyLa5eLHzDBS9jTVzzFtoYJ1HC1AUUxZ1H0pOjwTMHalfJiNF8IBlnDij3sDtkALRgB1x8eQa-CaigYMqOBPPBGe7mmd-lt08jx2uicLK6_JwgVyv70/s400/9E9p0hMdRwE45rp8Dlod7QHHjrrDbeVLrEvBJkOxf1Q.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<img height="71" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYL8OELoAYFIuIl9thyphenhyphenMJ2CVvbZWJJG-l6npYQ26-7PZ7GlDeJqwoQcgQ_7REUYkECVJjEX1BY20PWo84aF6ETwqTXybcZaUI33dJhe4aIBL4xcJV1GL6fZ_Gs5pMrrmysM-gtTA5ryrU/s400/aa_descent_Z.jpg" style="left: 496px; opacity: 0.3; position: absolute; top: 1954px;" width="96" />Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-56829532827001817172015-09-18T12:00:00.003-07:002016-01-08T13:22:52.555-08:00A Famous Outhouse<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXrw7CvAe4BqUjvUCT7DqBPk2oLb2jpOovKfowqhIGpAX7p4of1J8-TtGm9y0lw8yVquAJ66E3pckJBPocHb-gSc5PIUgHIP_-NEwHGaNOsz8t-dnpv2qJnItGqhXHiwIinKBxCqGriHY/s1600/010.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXrw7CvAe4BqUjvUCT7DqBPk2oLb2jpOovKfowqhIGpAX7p4of1J8-TtGm9y0lw8yVquAJ66E3pckJBPocHb-gSc5PIUgHIP_-NEwHGaNOsz8t-dnpv2qJnItGqhXHiwIinKBxCqGriHY/s640/010.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">When you have an outhouse in a beautiful setting, you should leave the
door open for the view.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">You hear of people relocating a historic cabin, timber by
timber.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>On this easement property the
landowners relocated an outhouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
story is this:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Back in the day, this outhouse was located at the airstrip in Sinclair, Wyoming - about 50 miles from it’s present location.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When Amelia Earhart flew her famous cross-country
trip in an autogiro (a ‘near-helicopter’) in 1931, she stopped at the Sinclair
airstrip to refuel.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>So one
would assume that she probably needed to use the facilities.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">With a sense of humor that I can appreciate, the landowners relocated
the outhouse to their land at the base of the Sierra Madre Mountains and named it the "Amelia Earhart Memorial Outhouse."</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">This is not a traditional ranching family but their property is a place that has
brought the family together for decades.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Their children and grandchildren come from near and far every summer to
enjoy this beautiful and special piece of land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></b></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9QuiKWHbIPsGZC2AT4U6dGxRK8W0tQDlgGJgieFZt_CaJp3NYYLIye_3TyNgb2N82nqskayh6CoQ-sK463_P5EwFoEQHlxHwSpg1iw_F9b4f3XV-U7hEIzakEPY5vhCITRazo9pTfWNk/s1600/011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="236" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9QuiKWHbIPsGZC2AT4U6dGxRK8W0tQDlgGJgieFZt_CaJp3NYYLIye_3TyNgb2N82nqskayh6CoQ-sK463_P5EwFoEQHlxHwSpg1iw_F9b4f3XV-U7hEIzakEPY5vhCITRazo9pTfWNk/s320/011.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Truly, this is my favorite area in Wyoming - the Saratoga Valley. My
family is from a farm in northern Colorado and my grandpa used to fly fish the North Platte
River near Saratoga.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He always said that
Wyoming is what Colorado used to be. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";">The valley has a number of big ranches
that are still intact - there are no subdivisions or summer homes littering the
valley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s remained unchanged over the
last 20 years also because many of the private ranches are under conservation easements (held by a variety of entities).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I come here to the Valley and life slows
down. Everyone waves as trucks pass each other on dirt roads, a throw-back to
how the rest of Wyoming used to be.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT_j577yAFZD6PFWHHwzkcpFmv2gqmBT2VXWW5YAVPHCeRLaEIuNq0C9_bwgkQUxdKb7lyBCUq7_E2ghUVhrIve7gz6Z1CopIC3ECyyHNgvEiwMuaXH460ZINcQAY7NZWkaAwZA7GAuSQ/s1600/020.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="478" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT_j577yAFZD6PFWHHwzkcpFmv2gqmBT2VXWW5YAVPHCeRLaEIuNq0C9_bwgkQUxdKb7lyBCUq7_E2ghUVhrIve7gz6Z1CopIC3ECyyHNgvEiwMuaXH460ZINcQAY7NZWkaAwZA7GAuSQ/s640/020.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif; font-size: x-small;">Swing that was put up by the owners - for their grandchildren. </span> </td></tr>
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-77450258801370240712015-07-28T13:15:00.001-07:002019-04-29T19:27:32.257-07:00Either Sh#$ or Get off the Pot - the Speed Dilemma <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyoRMmfBaUhDz6At0JFc6xMvCPfCLSeXQ-Hmn30NFNNStwRCY7XyoIwoLGWBydbeiGWl9Qlg76JHyApkBviHLY-FMXYvMJl2QFDXWNAM3QumCz842irX2Mk6tA4Rh2M5JKxY_zvHwrsN0/s1600/IMG_0126.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyoRMmfBaUhDz6At0JFc6xMvCPfCLSeXQ-Hmn30NFNNStwRCY7XyoIwoLGWBydbeiGWl9Qlg76JHyApkBviHLY-FMXYvMJl2QFDXWNAM3QumCz842irX2Mk6tA4Rh2M5JKxY_zvHwrsN0/s320/IMG_0126.jpg" width="236" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">New purchase. Keep or send back? <br />
Speed up or slow down? </td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">There’s moments in life
when you <strong><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">just have to
decide</span></strong>. It makes me weary to be on the fence about
something. I’d almost rather make the wrong decision than be struck dumb
with indecision.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">And so, I’ve come to a
major juncture in my life. This is my <em>'Come-To-Jesus-Meeting'</em> with myself.<em>
My 'Shit or Get off the Pot'</em> moment.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">New helmet with chin guard -- or not? <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">Obviously I’m not some freerider sponsored by Red Bull or Kentucky Fried Chicken (KFC would in fact be my
preferred sponsor.) I'm just a middle-aged mom <strong><em>for cripes sake</em></strong>. But for the past year I’ve been quietly feeding a speed
addiction. As my skill climbs a notch or two, so does my speed. I
flippin’ love it. Now I understand adrenaline junkies.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">In fact, I don’t want to go
for a ride without some sort of hard and fast payoff, preferably at the end of
the ride and followed by an ice cold beer. Hey, we all get stuck in our
routines.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
<u1:p></u1:p>
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">But this passion for speed has been to the
detriment of why I fell in love with riding in the first place: the
beauty of the mountains, the quiet and solitude that feeds my soul, inner peace
and enlightenment, blah blah blah. It used to be about a lot of things
but lately it’s about the One Thing. And if that one thing doesn’t pan
out because I'm having an off-kilter day then it makes me cranky. In my book, being cranky on a bike is sick and wrong.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";"></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">Mountain biking is
on par with good sex. A mountain bike ride <strong>with awesome downhill when you are totally
in the zone</strong> is on par with great sex.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And who doesn’t want great sex? </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">The conundrum is this.
I am 46 years old and in good health. I thank the heavens for every day that I
can get out and pedal. Shouldn’t this be enough?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Shouldn’t it be enough to be <strong><em>getting any</em></strong>
at my age? </span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">It doesn't seem to be
'enough' because I just bought a better helmet with more coverage. It has a removable chin bar, effectively turning it into a dumbed-down version of a full face helmet. Is this silly? Shouldn’t I just slow
the heck down? Where will it end? Full body armor? </span></span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJOxN3dsAgBVCNW2S0OGs0ZWHNTOA3fkFYLahdYFB2ne9gaSLKEgVGNoLwE4aEi1HnqlHgwltdk2DnzY9hnDVbNyrL4xN6vQ87ncGK1HFYad-T93fpHbCwAjqYDjpj3KMn5g3FTVVgUc/s1600/P1100248.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPJOxN3dsAgBVCNW2S0OGs0ZWHNTOA3fkFYLahdYFB2ne9gaSLKEgVGNoLwE4aEi1HnqlHgwltdk2DnzY9hnDVbNyrL4xN6vQ87ncGK1HFYad-T93fpHbCwAjqYDjpj3KMn5g3FTVVgUc/s320/P1100248.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A little bruising from Sheep's Bridge Trail.<br />
This one left a permanent dent in my thigh.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">If I’m honest with myself (yeah, right!) I might
consider that it’s <em><b><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">because</span></b></em>
I'm 46 that I'm pushing the limits. It could be about <strong>embracing my
inner child while I still can</strong> - and swinging her joyfully around by the arms. Or
it could be about <strong>bucking middle age.</strong> I'm like one of those guys that buys a Harley plus all the requisite black leather and loads it on a trailer bound for Sturgis (I know, ick). </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">Which is it? Indulging the little girl that likes to feel like she's flying or fighting the backside of 40? Or both?</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">Recently a friend of mine
got hurt and is sidelined for the rest of the summer season. This made me
take stock. It’s always the most random things that throw you out of the
saddle without warning. Something I don't want to happen at 33 mph on a nasty
jeep trail.</span><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri" , "sans-serif";">But damn, as with anything
in life, if you don’t keep pedaling (especially on the downhill) then you’re
just along for the ride. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri";"><o:p></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "times new roman";">
</span><u1:p></u1:p><u1:p></u1:p></span>Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-26299416857063141152015-07-17T13:36:00.002-07:002019-04-29T19:29:21.050-07:00Field Notes 17 July 2015: Ode to Hay<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="290" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidoUVtGASd8xR_JzgxM-ZJws6VEHJd-VSxPjgSwf5xDlZ3r_hA9QyaOujqpmZ35zvBCRGrR8S4Edbw83sP4eQuZFxXn3g2kEDRNKf424Vr4g2MbIKmorcpP5gR0cqsxhzDuJwQZlIHKgw/s640/022.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I visited a ranch near Lander this week, pictured here with Table Mountain in the background. The old-timers in Lander used to say that you were safe to plant once all the snow was off Table Mountain.</td></tr>
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The smell of fresh-cut hay is one of the raptures of summer. It sends me back to my childhood: staying with my grandparents on our family farm, shucking sweet corn in the front yard, riding our motorcycles through the fields, and playing with my cousins in the barn.</div>
<br />
Most of the easements I visit are on working ranches and some of the most important land they conserve are the riparian bottomlands. These areas have been irrigated and hayed for well over a hundred years. Even though it's not a 'natural' system, they provide important habitat for a number of wildlife species. Flood irrigation in the spring brings an array of water birds, shorebirds and ducks. Simply put, because birds' natural wetlands are shrinking, flood irrigation offers increased foraging opportunities. Hay meadows are a great place to watch for sandhill cranes caught up in their mating dance each spring.<br />
<br />
Somewhere, someone must have written a beautiful poem as an ode to the hay meadow. Let me know if you find it.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTg45ypvn2o4hd4WMk6b_IOci0xzHgIYY7WEA602j_j88-u4_QM0jRi29ImUR2ZGwr2IK5XZTDfzH4OWN0WsjYHjw_tf5EqqWswIA3AQtIVNP3PBK1hssckf07hgEUvXoEhAXj28XRhz4/s1600/016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="476" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTg45ypvn2o4hd4WMk6b_IOci0xzHgIYY7WEA602j_j88-u4_QM0jRi29ImUR2ZGwr2IK5XZTDfzH4OWN0WsjYHjw_tf5EqqWswIA3AQtIVNP3PBK1hssckf07hgEUvXoEhAXj28XRhz4/s640/016.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Also visited a ranch near Elk Mountain, WY, this week where they were trying out a new mower. Because of the phenomenal amount of rain we've received this year, ranchers have hay coming out of their ears, a nice problem to have.</td></tr>
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-67399691737376091662015-07-10T14:22:00.002-07:002016-01-08T13:22:31.297-08:00Field Notes 1 July 2015: World Cup Soccer and the Whiskey Tent<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">On a beautiful summer evening a few years back I found myself inside a
crowded bunkhouse watching World Cup soccer with about a dozen Peruvian sheep
herders, subjecting them to my bad spanish and swapping recipes with the camp
cook.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I always love visiting the Ladder Ranch....<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Ladder Ranch entrance with Aldo Leopold Award sign.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Ladder Ranch sits at the base of Squaw Mountain in the Sierra Madre Mountains of southern Wyoming. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is the only part of the state that has Gambel oak (which makes it a stunning place for a fall visit).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The easement helps protect a number of species and habitats including key habitat for mule deer and elk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It also ensures that the land will remain in agriculture for many generations to come.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">The Whiskey Tent on the Ladder Ranch - the American
Mountain Men Rendezvous was held here in 2013 (photo by Sharon O'Toole).<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> The area is rich in history: Jeremiah Johnson, trapper and mountain man, lived in the area near the confluence of the Little Snake River and Battle Creek in the late 1840’s.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></div>
</div>
<o:p style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;"><br /></o:p><span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">
<o:p style="font-family: "Trebuchet MS", sans-serif;">T</o:p>he ranch has been in the O’Toole/Salisbury family for
over a century.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The family runs sheep
and cattle and have been widely recognized for their excellent stewardship of the
ranch: in 2014 they received the Leopold
Conservation Award.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are currently working
with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife to conserve habitat for the greater sage-grouse, a
candidate species for protection under the Endangered Species Act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> On my visit this year they showcased </span>the latest work they've done on Battle Creek to improve stream quality for the Colorado River cutthroat.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "helvetica neue" , "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Battle Creek stream improvements include deepening the channels with boulder placement, restoring eroded banks due to flooding and planting willows. It was about 20 years ago that I worked for the Medicine Bow National Forest doing stream enhancement on this very creek, just a few miles upstream. I always feel like it's a homecoming when I'm in this neck of the woods.</span></div>
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-34389128480094504232015-06-20T11:49:00.000-07:002019-04-29T19:29:49.459-07:00Field Notes 19 June 2015: Sandhill Cranes <span style="font-size: large;">Sandhill cranes sound so ancient and primeval to me. And no wonder - the oldest fossil record for sandhill cranes is from 2.5 million years ago (found in Florida). I was able to watch this pair up close for quite awhile until the mosquitoes got the better of me. You'll get the sound in the video but the I couldn't zoom in. No doubt they had a passel of chicks nearby.</span><br />
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This was a great day for bird watching - I also saw pelicans, a prairie falcon, nighthawks, etc...</div>
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I love these rivers out on the plains. You feel like you have the whole world to yourself. And at night, the stars feel close enough to touch. </div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">This day couldn't be more different than my last visit to the Sweetwater area (see <a href="http://www.browningbasecamp.com/2015/06/blood-sweat-and-cowshit-sweetwater-river.html" target="_blank">Blood, Sweat and Cowshit</a>). It was sunny and the road had dried out enough so that I didn't have to worry about getting stuck. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Years ago this ranch used to be part of the Ellis Ranch. Lots of history here as it's on the Mormon and Oregon Trails and where St. Mary's Station was located. The Pony Express operated here from 1861-1862.</span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Anyone know what is this? It was literally out in the middle of nowhere. There were stones nearby that looked like the remnant of an old homestead. And a spring that fed a good-sized stream, a suprise in the middle of the prairie. There were a few pairs of nesting killdeer and it was rich with other birds. Something I wouldn't have found if I'd been in my truck - it pays to be on foot or on two wheels.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><img border="0" height="190" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibFR0gffayw06aWFHg1VnDfXG5sRw6VG9J2HUNlbEMU7H7DYboXWo2WrByd1lBZu9ljU0l_8yKEZDl31u1TzL5EWnOlrPc-dS0UfJNqkv5PWrXrvpwRY8eZouDF3yR8E1qIxq3mgX_kvo/s400/012.JPG" width="400" /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">Our horses Griz and Arizona. This photo is from last year when I had the bright idea of covering the ranch by horseback. But there's no "express" with our ponies. I had a tiny glimpse into what life was like for those tough pioneers so long ago. The scenery inched by and it started snowing halfway into the ride - tiny hard pellets that stung our faces and hands. But there's lots of time for contemplation on the back of a horse. </span></td></tr>
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<em><span style="font-size: large;">"The song of the river ends not at her banks, but in the hearts of those who have loved her." </span></em></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Buffalo Joe</span></div>
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-76351123891836279142015-06-19T12:21:00.004-07:002016-03-15T12:43:15.443-07:00Field Notes 18 June 2015: Blood, Sweat and Cowshit on the Sweetwater River <span style="font-size: large;"><i>Disclaimer: I am in no way bashing cattle ranching or cows in this post. Like anyone else in the West, I like a thick n juicy steak. Also, apologies for the cuss words. There is no other word for cow....pies. Trust me.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I parked my truck at the junction of the county road and the nasty two-track that leads to the easement. My plan was to ride my bike the five miles to the easement since there was no way that I could get there by truck, even in 4-wheel drive. We'd been doused with heavy rain for days and I didn't want to take any chances getting stuck.</span><br />
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<span style="text-align: center;"> My route followed the Pony Express and Oregon Trails.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The sky hadn't cleared much from last night so I loaded only the essentials in my camelback for light and fast travel. The road was beyond terrible - groups of cattle were congregated in the road and had turned the muddy sections into cowshit swamp-puddles.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">The thing about fresh green cowshit is that when it dries it sticks to everything like cement - it's nearly impossible to spray off a bike frame. And you can't get the smell out of your nose.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I went off-road through the sagebrush prairie to avoid the worst of it. But sometimes there was just no avoiding it because the prairie was just as wet as the road.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">It didn't take long for me to get to my destination on the Sweetwater River - it's all downhill. Much of the Sweetwater River in this area is part of a BLM Wilderness Study Area and it feels very remote and wild. I've never seen another human out here in all my 12 years of visiting the place.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I did see herds of antelope and deer plus three cow elk. The easement is at the mouth of the Sweetwater Canyon which provides severe winter relief range for elk.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I took the requisite photos for the easement visit and started the long slog uphill back to the truck. As I rode the sky grew darker and more menacing. I couldn't push myself to ride fast up the steep hills because of a chest cold. I was about to cough up a lung. I did the best I could - I have a healthy fear of lightening. Plus I needed to get the truck back on pavement while I still could. Even the county road would be impassable in heavy rain. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had to cross a few miles of high exposed plains, which made me nervous. It's mostly flat so I rode as fast as I could, not bothering to dodge the muck anymore - just avoiding anything that would hopelessly suck my tires down.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">As I crested the last hill I could see a herd of cows (plus one bull) standing in the road. Crap! (The word of the day.) There was a bull pawing at the ground and snorting at my approach. </span><span style="font-size: large;">I weighed my options. I could make a long detour through a boggy meadow, or I could take a chance that he would move off the road. He moved off so I crossed my fingers and rode past as fast as I could.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">By now I was <i>splattered</i> from head to toe. I could even feel globs of it in my hair - it somehow got through the vents in my bike helmet. I was also chilled, dripping in sweat, and had cut my leg on something. I should get hazard pay.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">There's a moment in field work when you spot your truck and know that you're going to make it - despite the fact that you pushed the envelope and/or did something stupid. And you thank the gods that you will see another day to do it all again.</span><br />
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Clouds + No Wind = mosquito and black fly bonanza</div>
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<br />Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-15561739472257065702015-06-17T07:41:00.001-07:002019-04-29T19:30:35.173-07:00Field Notes 15 June 2015: Eagle shadow - First Day in the Field <br />
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</span><span style="font-size: large;">The shadow of a golden eagle passed directly over me and momentarily blotted out the bright morning sun, reminding me to look up. The eagle's shadow felt like a more auspicious start to my field season than last year. Last year on my first easement visit I stepped on - and was struck by - a rattlesnake. No harm done, it was a dry strike that hit my shoe when I jumped.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlhJ0zaUOV3Wn8MXnmRhF3snwj7MgHVHQrSP6DVPkm9nZX0dppX-w_RX3mo9BTG8yahM9v9lGjGzwj3_MFQHhxLe2moWcZU_rFdmGNMA98xIR4waUqELDfDbcJM2cQJTtYn86vLw6kWU/s1600/IMG_1012.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="238" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjlhJ0zaUOV3Wn8MXnmRhF3snwj7MgHVHQrSP6DVPkm9nZX0dppX-w_RX3mo9BTG8yahM9v9lGjGzwj3_MFQHhxLe2moWcZU_rFdmGNMA98xIR4waUqELDfDbcJM2cQJTtYn86vLw6kWU/s320/IMG_1012.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I can drive to most of my easements but this one requires hiking in. The easement borders the Nature Conservancy's <a href="http://www.nature.org/ourinitiatives/regions/northamerica/unitedstates/wyoming/placesweprotect/red-canyon-ranch.xml" target="_blank">Red Canyon Ranch</a> but the two track has long since grown over so I followed an antelope trail which leads to an oasis of cottonwood trees - one of my favorite places in Wyoming. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We've had an unusually wet spring and the wildflowers covering the sagebrush grasslands were stunning. I was especially intrigued by the many colors of Indian paintbrush - from deep reds and oranges to pink to yellow and every hue in between.</span><br />
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Sego lily - in all her tidy perfection.</div>
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<h1 style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large; font-weight: normal;"><i>“One is wise to cultivate the tree that bears fruit in our soul.”</i></span></h1>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Henry David Thoreau</span></div>
<br />Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-46881672995952993312015-06-16T14:04:00.001-07:002016-03-15T12:44:03.947-07:00Field Notes Intro: Dirt Road Challenge - My Work<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">The Challenge:<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">172 conservation easements<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">300,000 acres in 3 months<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">1,000 miles of dirt road <o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
<span style="font-family: "calibri";">And there I was, wedged under the truck in a pile of antelope poop with
a hacksaw… <o:p></o:p></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">I was on my way to visit one of the most remote conservation
easements held by<a href="http://www.nature.org/ourinitiatives/regions/northamerica/unitedstates/wyoming/index.htm" target="_blank"> The Nature Conservancy in Wyoming</a> when the muffler partially sheared off the truck and was
dragging down the bumpy dirt road. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Since
there’s no such thing as cell phone coverage in most places I work and little
chance of another vehicle driving by, I couldn’t just sit there -- waiting to
be rescued. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">In Wyoming, there are more antelope than
people, at five humans per square mile.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">I pulled over and secured the muffler and exhaust pipe back on the
truck with old fence wire I found in the borrow ditch.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A few miles down the road I found an oil patch
worker that let me borrow their hacksaw.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>And after sawing off the muffler I was on my very noisy way up to the
top of the Rattlesnake Mountains to a visit the Marshall conservation easement.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">The Wyoming Chapter has acquired over 170 easements in its 25 year
history. I'm responsible for visiting 31 of them each summer. Conservation easements have protected a variety of lands in our state - from high
desert sagebrush country for the iconic sage grouse to grizzly bear and wolf
habitat in the Greater Yellowstone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>We
have conservation easements that protect miles of blue-ribbon trout streams and
land within historic mule deer and pronghorn migration routes.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";"><a href="http://www.nature.org/about-us/private-lands-conservation/conservation-easements/what-are-conservation-easements.xml" target="_blank">Conservation easements</a> are a voluntary agreement between a land owner
and an organization, such as the Conservancy, that protect land in perpetuity for future
generations while allowing the owner to retain private property rights. </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">Easements have made a significant contribution to conservation with approximately 3.2 million acres protected by Conservancy easements in the
U.S.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This is also a tool that is gaining momentum
worldwide.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The Wyoming Chapter is currently
working with <a href="http://www.nature.org/ourinitiatives/regions/southamerica/argentina/learning-about-private-conservation.xml" target="_blank">Argentina</a> to introduce conservation easements to their country. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p></o:p><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "calibri";">It is a significant investment to hold an easement in perpetuity. Staff monitors each easement on an annual basis to </span><span style="font-family: "calibri";">ensure that the easement is in compliance. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> Most of the properties are working ranches and we have built great relationships with many ranchers and ranch managers over the years. </span>We visit the properties by truck, on foot, mountain bike, horseback, and on our largest easements we sometimes using fixed-wing aircraft. For me, each field visit is different - unexpected things happen.</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">This particular easement, smack dab in the middle of the state, was
conserved to protect the area from subdivision. Years ago, it was <span style="color: #363636; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">part of a larger ranch called the
Matador Ranch.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><o:p><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span></o:p><br />
</span><br />
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<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";"><span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">The Rattlesnake Range is intriguing and unexpected
- it rises straight out of the sagebrush prairie into red-rock
faults, canyons, spring-fed creeks and wide open valleys. Garfield Peak, at
8,244 feet, is the highest point (which is not very high for our state!).
The area is mostly limber pine, aspen and sagebrush. Pronghorn, mule
deer, elk and any number of raptors call it home. Because of its
remoteness it feels wild and intimidating but it's also beautiful. </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "calibri"; font-size: large;">This is the best part of my job: criss-crossing this beautiful state of
ours, visiting our easement properties and talking with conscientious landowners
and managers who are the real stewards of the land.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>My goal this season is to publish a series of short blog posts that follows my fast and furious season of easement monitoring.</span><br />
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-80339458673316209982015-06-15T14:36:00.000-07:002016-05-21T18:24:57.587-07:00You Are HereIf we are lucky, our lives are spiral, not linear. We return to special places and revisit special friends time after time. Sometimes it's intentional and sometimes it's a random twist of fate.<br />
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This past year I went back to San Angelo, Texas, where I spent my formative years. It was a special trip to visit my best friend's family. This spring, I hiked in a wilderness area in Arizona where I studied nesting bald eagles when I was in my early 20's. A few weeks ago we visited the east coast as a family and I revisited places where I lived and worked when I was 19 (in Connecticut and New York).</div>
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Without realizing it, I think that I've been led to these places to close certain chapters in my life -- in order to start a new one. In the course of these wanderings, I feel like I've expanded from the inside. My spirals are outward and upward, reaching toward something new and different. The spiraling feels wild and unmoored. It's in the revisiting that I am learning what my new direction will be. I think that you have to know where you've come from to know where you need to go next. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYNVooRhukZBS3wHNQ8w6q-EBQkTOJS7w3dSt9PJJFfAOBSYn7CUoyQUvnxNEkC0OE4B_s7nvigQFsKNB1Mf_sfou6oj4bhgEfNdoj0TLIzykm7qPWbPCLGPRg-2oREkcLgsXByJO-Uw4/s1600/IMG_4368.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYNVooRhukZBS3wHNQ8w6q-EBQkTOJS7w3dSt9PJJFfAOBSYn7CUoyQUvnxNEkC0OE4B_s7nvigQFsKNB1Mf_sfou6oj4bhgEfNdoj0TLIzykm7qPWbPCLGPRg-2oREkcLgsXByJO-Uw4/s400/IMG_4368.jpg" width="257" /></a></div>
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Central Park, NYC<br />
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<i>You are here:</i> Our GPS did not work on the east coast and so we spent a lot of time looking at maps, and especially maps on kiosks with a big dot and arrow that said "You are here." I took this to heart and made it my motto. I tend to get anxious when I'm in big cities, and especially on the crowded east coast. Whenever I got homesick, I would say to myself, "you are here" and could feel myself step back into the moment with my family and enjoy..."</div>
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-89750545964216200912015-05-19T18:32:00.001-07:002019-04-29T19:31:59.382-07:00On Friendship - In Memory of Sharon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Best Friends Forever And Ever - how we always signed our letters. <br />
Photo copies of letters from different times in Sharon's life, and the 45's we listened to over and over.<br />
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Today is my best friend, Sharon's, birthday. She died on December 7, 2006 at the age of 37. Sharon was my first and best friend all through grade school. Sometimes I still talk to her in my head and can hear her voice. It's hard to find the words but I've been meaning to write something in her honor for nine years now, and so here it is:<br />
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Sharon and I were inseparable. When I look back at my old diaries nearly every entry reads, "Today Sharon and I...." We slept over at each other's houses, went to the roller rink on Saturdays, the Swim and Racquet Club every day in the summer, and on Friday nights our two families went to Shakey's Pizza together.<br />
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We talked on the phone and wrote notes in class. I had straight A's on my report cards except for "Conduct" where I usually received a 'C' for too much talking and giggling with my best friend. <br />
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We sang to Donny and Marie albums and played dress up with her dance clothes and my mom's prom dresses. When we got older and our tastes were more refined (age 11) we listened to AC/DC and Foriegner. She had these really cool platform shoes like Peter Kris from K.I.S.S. We shoplifted some candy from the local convenience store (only once!) and played with matches in the alley. Mostly we were so goofy I don't know how anyone could stand us.<br />
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My dad was in the Air Force and at the end of my sixth grade year he received orders for a move to the Air Force Academy in Colorado Springs, Colorado. I was devastated. We'd lived in San Angelo, Texas since I was six years old. In fact, I met Sharon just shortly after we'd moved to town.<br />
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When we left Texas, Sharon promised she would write to me. And she did, nearly every week, for 25 years. <br />
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I saved most of those letters and every year I get them out and read some of them on her birthday. Yesterday I realized that I was missing a span of about 5 years and searched the attic for them. I never did find them but I found my 45's and roller skates, and decided to make some fun photos with them.<br />
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Over the years we each grew and evolved in different ways. For awhile I felt like our friendship had waned, for the simple fact that we led such different lives and were bound to grow apart. But we kept writing, and Sharon was always a better writer than I was - and I'm so thankful for that.<br />
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It took some major life events for me to truly appreciate the beauty and uniqueness of our friendship. Sharon got cancer and I lost my first child, Anneliese. It was at this juncture that we started to pick up the phone to call each other in addition to our letters. It was awkward at first but it didn't take long at all to reconnect.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sharon with her little brother David at a car show.</td></tr>
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It was so great to hear her voice and her laughter, not to mention her Texas drawl. We fell back into our old patterns of talking about, well, whatever! I learned new things about her - like how she literally will not say anything bad about anyone. And if she does, she says it in a funny and nice way. How she is always positive and upbeat, even while battling cancer. Thanksgiving 2006 she left a message on my answering machine, "I've really been feeling like C.R.A.P. lately." You'd be hard-pressed to find a nicer person on the planet. If I'd been through all the shit that she had, well, I'd be saying "shit."<br />
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Sharon had melanoma and also breast cancer, then her melanoma recurred. It was so unfair. She was a schoolteacher and her kids adored her. She was smart, silly and fun and adored them back. She had so much life left to live.<br />
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The last time I saw her was just a few months before she died. I went to San Angelo for a weekend and we did some normal stuff - stayed up late talking and laughing, went out drinking beer (and to a dance club!), shopping, out to eat, and for drives around town. I was so worried that I was tiring her out, but she said it was good to feel 'normal'. We also did some not-so-normal stuff, like stay up late so she could take her chemo before bed. We also had a talk about dying and this talk scared me. I couldn't accept reality but I wanted to be there for her, to listen. At that time I had hope and in fact, I was hopeful until the end.<br />
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Sharon was tough and courageous and never gave up. She went through so much. I think about that when I'm crabby for no good reason, how she always seemed to have a positive attitude. Only once in a while would her letters reveal her fear and worry. I'm honored that she shared that with me.<br />
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Having a best friend that knows your heart is a true treasure. Having a friend that has been there your whole life - from falling in love -- to heartbreak -- to grief, loss and sickness -- is a treasure a hundred times over. Sharon was that friend.</div>
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I miss you Sharon and I'm still a dork. Sing along - READY - HERE WE GO - She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean --<br />
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VBFFAE, LYLAS,<br />
<i><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;">Kathy</span></i><br />
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Even though I tried, I don't think anyone could say it better than one of Sharon's students:<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sharon's mom's beautiful garden in San Angelo.</td></tr>
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<br />Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-2121550083608842552015-04-10T10:51:00.001-07:002019-05-14T11:58:50.086-07:00Shapeshifting in the Desert and Riding the Solitude TrailI had a dream before I left for the desert. I was sitting at my beautiful antique upright piano, hands poised, ready to play. I was suspended in time because I knew that I could only play one note; but I didn't know what that note should be. Lifting the front panel of the piano, I looked inside for guidance. There was nothing inside the piano except a single silver rose.<br />
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The week before my trip was a teeny bit awful. I felt pummeled by the universe on every front. The harder I tried, the worse things got. Finally I threw up my hands in surrender. And when it was time to leave I couldn't get the hell out of town fast enough.<br />
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I was craving solitude, sunshine, time on my bike, and an early spring. A road trip to visit a good friend in Arizona was the remedy for what felt like a long Wyoming winter.<br />
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Later at my friend's house in Arizona on the spring equinox, I drew the card of Shapeshifter. <br />
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Shapeshifter...<br />
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Coyote. Raven. Mountain Lion. Eagle. Badger.<br />
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Shift, pedal, climb, shift, descend, and...... coast. <br />
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I fairly coasted my way south, cocooned in the cab of my truck, lost in my thoughts and surrounded by the beauty of the landscape. I took whatever back roads called to me. I stopped and biked. I sat in the bed of my pickup and watched the sun set over Monument Valley. I had ice cream in Mexican Hat, Utah.<br />
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My bike, Riptide. This is Mary's Trail near Fruita. It was my first dirt trail of the season after a winter of riding fat bikes in the snow... glorious dirt and silly, goofy happiness. </div>
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Solitude Trail outside of Moab was a son-of-a-bitch. It is volcanic rock and sand pits chewed up by the dirt biker crowd. It was a blast. I left a little blood on the trail, which made me finally buy pro for my beat up knees and shins. </div>
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I was on some random backroad that skirts Natural Bridges National Park and suddenly the road turned to one-lane dirt with a hellish drop off with no side rails, just orange cones marking where the road falls into the abyss. This is the view from the top looking into Monument Valley.</div>
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It was off-season in the desert southwest so there were no traders on the reservation selling their wares. And the bike trails? I didn't see any other riders on the Utah and Colorado trails and only a few in Arizona.</div>
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Weird things that you do while solo. Smear pink mud on face Indian-war-style, tuck feathers behind ears; ride bike down hotel hallways. Listen to Waylon Jenning's Greatest Hits more times in a row than you care to admit.</div>
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Tried to find a certain trail in Sedona but was apparently bounced off The Vortex and could not find the trailhead even with a GPS and map, probably a good thing. I ended up on Adobe Jack and other miscellaneous trails. Adobe Jack was like the Disneyland of trails, a purpose-built track that was <i>yeehaw</i> fun. </div>
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I hit a drug dealer's truck the night before in the motel parking lot and was super sleep deprived on this day - as if riding in Sedona didn't feel other-worldly enough. </div>
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My friend Rita and I went hiking in the Cococino National Forest, near the Cedar Bench Wilderness where I worked on a bald eagle study when I was 23. I was psyched to be back, in part because it remained so beautiful and unchanged after all these years. Here I am standing in my dreaming spot - the place where I lived in my tent. I feel like the same person but not at all like the same person. It seems like a lifetime ago. And while my eyes couldn't pick out the faint trails that I used to follow every day, my heart and my feet remembered.</div>
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This was a great time in my life, when everything I owned fit in the back of my truck. So simple. It was here that I found my very own Walden.</div>
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Chasm Creek - which leads into the Verde River where the eagles nest high above in the cliffs. The creek flows underground and intermittently above ground. It's a magical place. I've seen javelina and beautiful lizards and tree frogs in the chasm. There are rare plants growing from the dripping springs in the cliffs. There is probably no one I'd rather share this place with than my friend Rita, a kindred spirit.</div>
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Another view of my camp. I spent many cold and wet nights in my tent here from January to March for two field seasons. I worked 10 days on and had 4 days off. On my days off I'd explore southern Arizona, way down on the Mexican border -- mostly to warm up and dry off. The two years I did the study were monsoon-like years with occasional flooding. Sometimes I'd visit my grandpa Kramer who lived on the Arizona/California border. On one visit he gave me a mason jar of fresh-squeezed orange juice from the trees in his yard, which I took on a solo backpack trip into Joshua Tree. </div>
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The mountain lion was ever-present in my life here. But I never saw one and so it was that the mountain lion sometimes felt like a spirit animal to me. Once a lion killed and cached a deer just yards from my tent. She came and fed on it every night. Another time I was so close on her trail that I came across her steaming scat in the early morning light. While hiking with Rita we saw big lion prints and tons of scat, old and new, on the road to my camp. It was like a mountain lion highway. I'm glad to see that it hasn't changed. </div>
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I had the privilege of living in this beautiful area and shared it with one other wildlife biologist. (There were two of us for safety reasons and also to split the long workdays.)</div>
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On my way home to Wyoming, I rode my bike in the Grand Staircase/Escalante National Monument. There was an old townsite here, which was later used as a movie set for westerns. All that is left now is the old cemetery.</div>
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Dashboard altar. My friend Rita put this flower and the flicker feathers in a vase in my bedroom at her house. The canvas was found at my old tent site. One year we had an old canvas tent that we used for cooking, etc. and then our separate tents for sleeping. It was funny, as I was wondering if I had left anything from 22 years ago, I stumbled across this piece of canvas from our old tent. </div>
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On the trail of Butch Cassidy in Butch Cassidy Draw, Bryce Canyon National Park (hiking not biking - there was too much snow at this altitude.)</div>
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At the end of my trip I felt a little sad when I unloaded my bike from my truck and hung up my hat. I missed my family while on the road but then back at home I started missing my Self, the person that I had 'rediscovered' on my trip. The person I used to be so many years ago and that I felt I had found again in the desert. I was struck by how much I felt like a shapeshifter.</div>
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Desert Rat. Conservationist. Nomad. Mother of three. Colleague. Sister. Daughter. Wife. Friend.</div>
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I called Rita a few days after I got home and was lamenting about how hard it was to get back into the swing of things and also not get sucked into the daily drama of life - those tiny dust devils spinning around. </div>
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Rita basically said, "let the desert spirits guide you." And when the storms of life are brewing, try to be the owl holding tight onto a branch in the storm; the coyote warily watching and waiting; the eagle soaring above.</div>
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Many thanks to Rita and her husband Kenneth, and also to the coyote, the lion, the eagles and owls, and the song of the canyon wren that I so longed to hear. Thanks for the beauty, insight and peace.<br />
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And the silver rose in my dream? Well, the Rose, according to my friend Rita, is love. The only note.<br />
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<br />Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-62033756588057738042015-02-04T08:59:00.000-08:002016-03-15T13:00:47.752-07:00Painting the Pump House<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_ZyuOJe0JtWQqrylckXtJ1_mQh-v3yDd4u6xscB7qoNsEHBV5aaR4_R-dBG5WZO8W8NLrMJNhdZetW5es634HQWENrt68IOChW_ozivLtMLeb5t2-K7t67yQpGzCKDpLkXfMcQzyHW8/s1600/P1100214.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3_ZyuOJe0JtWQqrylckXtJ1_mQh-v3yDd4u6xscB7qoNsEHBV5aaR4_R-dBG5WZO8W8NLrMJNhdZetW5es634HQWENrt68IOChW_ozivLtMLeb5t2-K7t67yQpGzCKDpLkXfMcQzyHW8/s1600/P1100214.jpg" width="300" /></a><br />
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This is my best friend on a very tall ladder in flip flops, trying to paint the eves of the 100 year-old pump house on our farm. <br />
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And below her is my Uncle Lucky and my son Ben. It was Lucky's idea one day last summer, about 6 months after my mom died. He said to me: "You know, you outta paint the well house, it looks so cute when it's painted." <br />
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It was twelve years ago when we last painted the well house. My grandpa died, leaving the farm to my mom and my aunt. My mom moved to the farm and was also going through an awful divorce with my dad. Our farm, which she and my aunt battled so hard to save after Grandpa died, has been in our family for over 100 years.<br />
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Twelve years ago it was Mom's idea to paint the pump house, as a collective therapy session. Not only was Mom going through the divorce but Scott and I had just lost our daughter, Anneliese, the winter before. I was not functioning well. Truth be told, I was not functioning at all.<br />
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So it was good that anything could get me out into the sunshine, it was an escape from my own thoughts for awhile.<br />
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Last time it was Lucky, Mom and I painting the pump house. On this day it was my best friend Tracy, my 9 year old son, Lucky and I. <br />
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Painting the pump house is like passing the torch or changing of the guard. There is so much symbology in this simple act. It's another generation taking care of the farm that we all love so much.<br />
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I visit a number of ranches each summer for my work. When a ranch changes hands through a sale or the death of an owner, there are always changes. No matter who the new landowner is, change is inevitable. In almost every case, the changes to the land, the buildings, the ranching or farming operation are good. A new owner is invigorated and inspired by their love of whatever special place it might be.<br />
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In our case my brother and his wife were able to move to the farm and they have lovingly restored the farmhouse that my grandpa built. My brother is also making improvements to some of the outbuildings. It wasn't that Mom didn't want to make these improvements, but she needed to spend her hard-earned retirement playing golf, enjoying her grandkids, and working in her wood shop!!<br />
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When we were painting, Lucky dubbed me "Kramer" - which is what he always called my mom. He's called me "Grandbaby" all my life. He's been our neighbor on the farm since before I can remember. He is our honorary Uncle Lucky and actually, we love him all the more since he's not related to us!<br />
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I suppose that being 45 maybe it's time I'm not Grandbaby anymore. And calling me by my mom's nickname (her maiden name and the name of our farm) is about as high an honor as I can get.<br />
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Well, I'll be damned I thought, I'm Kramer now..... Will my kids and their kids and their kids and their kids paint this pump house until it falls down? Truly the paint is the only thing holding the thing together.<br />
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It was such a fun day painting the pump house together, and just what we all needed. We stopped in the middle of the day to have a picnic at mom's grave under the mulberry tree. Tracy brought out some gyros from the Greek bakery in Denver and we had ice-cold Fat Tire beer. Mom may have thought she was going to rest in peace, but now our favorite place to hang out is where we buried her ashes. Her 'headstone' is her childhood tricycle.<br />
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We were such dopes, we painted the walls of the pump house first - barn red. Then we ran out of time to paint the trim white. So on Thanksgiving Day when all our cousins, aunts, and uncles were out for our traditional old-fashioned farm Thanksgiving, I corralled the kids and gave them paint brushes.<br />
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There ended up being more white paint on the red paint than on the trim. We had to go over the walls again with the red -- but it was a Thanksgiving the kids will never forget. My mom would have loved it.<br />
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The kids finish up the job on Thanksgiving Day.</div>
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Mom had great memories and stories about the pump house. In the summer when they were picking corn, Grandpa kept watermelon in a bathtub with ice so that when they were done sacking corn they would all get delicious, cold watermelon.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Generations five and six.</span></td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Dave at the picnic spot under the mulberry tree, where Mom's ashes are buried.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Thanksgiving Day 2014.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We love and miss you Mom!</td></tr>
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<br />Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-43681112419581506152014-11-26T10:52:00.003-08:002019-04-29T19:33:28.002-07:00Fat Biking in the Wind and Staying Grounded<br />
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I really hate going to the gym to work out. I'd rather go to the dentist than to the gym. Also, I don't like the cold. I was born on a July day in Tucson, Arizona when it was 115 degrees outside. I'm a desert rat at heart. But still, I was jonesing to ride since we'd had two weeks of snow and sub zero temps. So last Saturday with a break in the weather I rented a fat bike and headed out of town.<br />
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My first half mile was a hike-a-bike up a steep ravine. There was an actual trail before a flash flood washed it away a few years ago and left a jumble of rock and scree. The ravine was icy and I was slipping all over in my old pac boots trying to carry the beast. Once out of the ravine I was exposed to the beginnings of a stiff breeze. But it's pretty up on the 'flats' where the trail winds through juniper and limber pine along a red rock rim. The only tracks I saw were those of deer, antelope and an occasional moose. <br />
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I was too annoyed with being tossed around so I walked the bike, which turned out to be ridiculously hard because I was caught in a crosswind. I put the bike between me and the crosswind and then leaned my body weight on the bike to keep it grounded. But the wind kept changing directions and once it lifted the entire bike completely off the ground. I was simultaneously cussing and laughing. The tires were like balloons. I needed a tether from me to the bike, like when you were a little kid and your mom tied a string from your wrist to your helium balloon. Or a surfboard leash thingie to my ankle.<br />
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My face hurt from tiny stinging bullets of blowing snow and my hair whipping it. I was feeling sorry for myself that it <em>wasn't</em> a perfect bluebird day like yesterday - when I was stuck in the office.<br />
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The universe was laughing at me, except I don't know when to give up. Back at the truck I decided to I head toward the mountains for another ride, this one in Sink's Canyon. It was raining at the mouth of the canyon but slowed to a light drizzle at the trailhead. Truly, rain on snow is just plain yucky but the trail was actually pretty fine. There was wind but once I got into the trees it was almost balmy.<br />
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Then, ta-da! The sun came out and there was a beautiful filtered light through the pine trees. It was a nice reprieve before another squall moved in and the sun started to set below the canyon walls. Despite the not-so-perfect weather, being on a bike is always better than being in the gym, or anywhere else for that matter. There's something about biking in the winter that makes you feel like you got one over on the 'man.' Then there's the beauty and quiet of the trails... and another season or riding. Hallelujah!<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">On Chain Reaction and out of the wind.</td></tr>
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<br />Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-14382865072929670212014-11-12T17:24:00.001-08:002019-04-29T19:36:45.680-07:00Mountain Bike Joy - Grief and HealingSo yes, of course I bought the bike! (The <a href="http://www.bikes.com/en/bikes/altitude/2015#/models/altitude-750" target="_blank">Rocky Mountain Altitude</a> - that I fell in love with in August, see my <a href="http://www.browningbasecamp.com/2014/08/confessions-of-hardtail-rider.html" target="_blank">Confessions</a> post.) I have to say that it changed my riding completely. I am shredding trail I wouldn't have dreamed about a year ago. And I'm conquering my fear. Each time I push the envelope and achieve a new level it's exhilarating. But mostly it's pure unadulterated fun.<br />
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And that's why I ride. <b><i>I love to ride. </i></b> It makes me feel like a 10 year old kid. A lot of times I am smiling to myself all the way down the mountain. I'm living life in the moment, I'm in the zone, and it's all GOOD. If you don't ride then you should know that there's a little bit of OCD I think with mountain bikers.<br />
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Must. Ride.<br />
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Not that I haven 't taken a few spills. One pretty good hit to the head earned me a new helmet. My legs look like a disaster zone. <br />
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The pain on the outside is minimal. Truthfully, part of the reason that I bought the bike is because sometimes, especially this past year, I have a sadness that I can't shake I know that we all have our stories but mine is this. I have lost my share of loved ones in my life...<br />
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We lost our beautiful infant daughter Anneliese 13 years ago. Although her memory is woven into the fabric of our daily lives, we still grieve for her and miss who she would have become. Our lives have never been the same since.<br />
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Eight years ago my best friend from childhood, Sharon, died of cancer at the age of 37. She was a beautiful person, inside and out and one of the nicest people I've ever met. All my grandparents are long gone and also my most special aunts - my Aunt Vicki and my Aunt Shirley. They helped me through the worst of times after losing my daughter.<br />
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Last year my mom died of cancer at 69 so this year has been hard. And you'd think I'd know grief. <br />
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Right after mom died, I ran. I ran on our local mountain trails - obsessively and long. I think I was trying to outrun my grief. Frankly I was sick of grief and in complete denial. I should know better. The result was that I injured my back and I could barely walk for about a month and a half. And the pain settled in my hip and leg, too, in the exact place that my mom hurt from her cancer.<br />
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Thankfully spring came and I was back in shape to ride my bike. Biking is <b><i>way</i></b> more fun than running. Although if I'm completely honest then I might admit that I was trying to outride my grief too -- if I could only ride fast enough! I just didn't want to do the grief thing again. But the funny thing is that there is a kind of healing that happens when you are communing with nature. This kind of healing comes of it's own accord, without too much effort on the part of the griever. You just simply have to step outside. <br />
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But sometimes its hard to make yourself take that step.<br />
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I've always thought that 'nature healing' happens with long introspective walks in the woods. That's what I've done in the past. But indeed healing can happen on a bike. You pedal, climb, breathe.... pedal, climb and breathe. At the top you stop to thank God that you made it and take in the view. Then you race down the mountain with the wind in your hair and a great big smile on your face.<br />
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It seems like a contradiction but with grief work you can and should soak up life's joys - because they are a present to you, from Life itself. Joy gives you balance and helps you heal. I couldn't do this when we lost our daughter. There was no balance to the sorrow I felt, at least for a very long time. With my mom it's different and yes, there are levels to grief. Not to lessen the grief of others, but it's the truth.<br />
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Stay with me here, this is not all about grief and sorrow! <br />
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Maybe because of my losses,<i style="font-weight: bold;"> I feel blessed</i> in this life and so very lucky to lead the life I do. My story is just one of many. There are untold families that have endured deep sadness that I can't even begin to fathom. But I do believe that when you've had significant loss it means that the joys of life are, well, even more joyful.<br />
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So what does this have to with riding? On the trails where I ride there are blue grouse and mule deer and wildflowers. In the fall, the yellows and oranges of the aspen trees are stunning with blue skies and a dusting of snow. Every time I ride I am celebrating the here and now -- because I <b><i>can</i></b>. I am thankful for the day. This is the way I honor my loved ones that aren't here, by feeling grateful and by living in the moment.<br />
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When I ride I don't think about work, or kids or relationships, or the past or future, nada. I just meditate on dirt on sky.<br />
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Take all of what my life is and has been up to this point and mix it up, shaken not stirred, and there you have it. This is me and my new bike.<br />
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<i><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-size: 10.0pt;">I will have loved my life with passion, embraced it with fervor, cherished every single moment of it. I will have contemplated with wonder the sky and its running clouds, my brethren the humans, my sisters the flowers and stars. I will have feasted unceasingly on the treasure of life in all its forms. I will not have dwelled in mediocre ambitions, vain hatred, and useless complaints. </span></i><br />
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<i><span lang="EN" style="color: #141823; font-size: 10.0pt;">I will depart with the belief that there is no end to the flow of life in the universe, that there is no death but only an unceasing change of worlds. - Robert Mullen</span></i><br />
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-35524729508388401982014-08-07T12:10:00.001-07:002019-04-29T19:38:16.077-07:00Confessions of a Hardtail RiderI started mountain biking in college over 20 years ago on a Trek Antelope. I rode many miles of U.S. Forest Service trails during my down time as a fire fighter in the Snowy Range of Wyoming. A few years later and a few dollars more I upgraded to a used GT Pantera with the original RockShox. My riding was mainly on two-tracks and cattle trails in the high desert near Green River, Wyoming.<br />
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Two years ago I finally upgraded to a <a href="http://www.mtbr.com/cat/bikes/29er-hardtail/specialized/stumpjumper-comp-29er/prd_417974_1548crx.aspx" target="_blank">Specialized Stumpjumper Comp 29'er Hardtail</a>. I demo'd a lot of bikes and for the type of cross-country riding I do this bike made a lot of sense. Plus I'm a minimalist and I like the simplicity of a hardtail. It's light and fast and she climbs like a demon. She has also turned me into a fast woman on the flowy downhills. My favorite riding has always been in the desert and we have some sweet single track just outside of town at <a href="http://www.mtbproject.com/trail/368166/johnny-draw-to-red-ridge" target="_blank">Johnny Behind the Rocks</a>.<br />
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I'm probably an outlier on this but I usually ride alone. Riding is my cherished time for solitude and there's only a few other people that I like to ride with. Luckily, for marital harmony, one of them is my husband. Recently he started looking into buying a new bike. In the past he didn't ride much and so only recently has considered a new bike. So -- I'm super excited that he wants to get on the trails with me. He NEEDS a new bike - he still has <i><b>his</b></i> Trek Antelope from his college days. And, if he has a sweet new bike that means he'll want to ride more, promoting even more marital harmony, right?<br />
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A few weeks ago we were lucky enough to have Rocky Mountain Bikes in town with a bunch of demos. Being the supportive wife I tagged along (what better way to spend a summer day with your spouse?!)<br />
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We rode all afternoon. It was hot out. I was super tired from camping out the night before. The first bike I rode was the Rocky Mountain Element which was the first full suspension bike I've <em>ever </em>ridden. Holy cow! It's like the first time you (...fill in the blank) and you think, "So, THIS is what it's all about." <br />
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I rode the Element on a section of nasty trail that is pock-marked by horses and boulder-strewn. It's a trail that I ride several times a week. This year our local bike group, <a href="http://landercycling.org/" target="_blank">Lander Cycling Club</a>, has been hard at work building trails in the foothills near our town and I've found myself really enjoying the technical terrain. (And sort of getting back to my roots, pardon the pun!) Riding with FS was an eye-opener - the bike <i><b>didn't care</b></i> that I was tired and was picking a terrible line. It just took me up and down the mountain like a dream.<br />
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The last bike I rode that day was the <a href="http://www.bikes.com/en/bikes/altitude/2014" target="_blank">Rocky Mountain Altitude</a> which was not only dreamy but it fit perfect - like my favorite little black dress. It felt FANTASTIC, like I'd been riding it my whole life. I felt invincible on this bike. It was a complete and total joyride. I could go through all of the specs that made it so but the fact is that I was in love.<br />
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So, the dilemma. Do I abandon my hardtail purist stance and dive into the realm of full suspension? I keep hearing about how riding a hardtail makes you a better rider, blah blah blah. But the full suspension opens up a whole new level of riding fun. And I do love my stumpy niner, but I'm kind of already feeling nostalgic for her - kind of when you look back to your very first love and realize that it wasn't quite as perfect as you thought. (Gosh, but I feel unfaithful!)<br />
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But even with a new bike, I will never be the fastest girl on the trail. I always come in last in any event (who else stops to make snow angels during a fat bike race?). But we only go around once and life is too short not to enjoy this ride to its fullest, and sometimes, newest ride...<br />
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<br />Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-51244491452350793632014-07-11T15:31:00.003-07:002014-12-26T13:26:48.764-08:00Dispatch from the Field - Rattlesnake Mountains<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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And there I was, on top of a mountain range in the middle of a thunder storm -- lifting my bike over my head and praying that I wouldn't be hit by lightening...<br />
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In my many years of field work I've been in a number of sticky situations. Hazards include rattlesnakes, grizzly bears, broken trucks, bad roads and foul weather.<br />
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Given all that, I have the best job. My summer consists of visiting about 20 ranches for field work that I do for The Nature Conservancy. I love meeting with the ranchers and being out on the land. The most remote ranch I visit is in the Rattlesnake Range, a mountain range smack dab in the middle of Wyoming, i.e. the middle of nowhere.<br />
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To get to the ranch you have to take a number of nasty two-track roads up to the top of the range. The directions are so confusing that no one has ever bothered writing them down. Now that we have GPS it's a little bit easier to find - although the country is confusing and there's no good points of reference.<br />
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This particular area used to be part of a large ranch called the Matador but some of it has been subdivided and as a result there are a handful of cabins up in the hills. Some are nice and some are downright scary and consist of little more than plywood shacks. They bring to mind gun-toting anti-government-recluse-freeman types living in the hills. A place I don't want to get lost.<br />
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The Rattlesnake Range is intriguing and unexpected - it rises straight out of the sagebrush prairie into red-rock faults, canyons, spring-fed creeks and high open valleys. Pronghorn antelope, mule deer, mountain lions, elk, and any number of raptors call it home. Because of its remoteness it feels wild and intimidating but it's also beautiful. It has a strange feel about it, like you'd imagine the vibe within the Bermuda Triangle.<br />
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I always try to get out early in the day to avoid afternoon thunderstorms. Naturally on this trip I was running late and then took a wrong turn. Once I got to the ranch gate it was locked, double-locked in fact. The landowners were not home for my visit.<br />
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At the gate I ate a quick lunch on the hood of the truck before setting off on my mountain bike. I'd been packing my bike for situations like these, where it would take a long time to walk in and the roads are often too rough for a vehicle.<br />
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The country was so lush, it seemed like there were thousands of butterflies this year with the abundance of wildflowers. My goal was to get to a high spot on the ranch to take photos and it wasn't until I was up there that I could see a wall of blackness closing in.<br />
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I was in a race to beat the storm and I rode back to the truck as fast as I could, but it was dicey. The two-tracks are deeply rutted and I couldn't see the ruts because the grass was so thick and high. I took one spill over the handlebars and scratched my bike frame. That nearly made me cranky (the scratch not the spill). <br />
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The roads through the wet meadows were completely grown over so I put up cairns on the way in to mark the turns from one two-track to another. (I was glad I took the time to do this, it would be no fun getting lost on the way out.)<br />
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I was riding through bogs in wide-open meadows when the storm broke.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cairn as a marker. I also found a plastic coat hanger that I picked up and used as a marker at a junction. Why on earth would a coat hanger be out here? Completely strange.</td></tr>
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I debated whether or not to hunker down and wait for the storm to pass. But if I waited then the rain would make the roads impassable. I wouldn't be able to get off the mountain. <br />
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It was a catch-22 so I said a prayer and high-tailed it across the open country, hoping that lightening wouldn't strike me whenever I had to hoist my bike above my head and over a barbed-wire fence. <br />
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I arrived at the truck soaking wet. I was feeling panicky about the road conditions but I also felt like it had been dry enough in the last few days that they wouldn't turn to mush too quickly....<br />
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No such luck -- the roads were complete snot. I slid sideways down the mountain for a good hour. It was a rodeo and I did all I could to keep from getting stuck or sliding off the road into the borrow ditch.<br />
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Whenever I started to panic I did what I recently learned from my mountain bike coach. "When things start to go to hell, stop and take a deep breath and start again." Sometimes I couldn't stop and had to gun the thing but mostly this worked. It's been awhile since I'd been on roads this bad. Amazingly -- I had radio reception and sang out of tune classic country all the way down the mountain.<br />
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<i>"She's a good hearted woman in love with a two-timing man."</i> It was a goofy scenario all around.<br />
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To add insult to injury I had to open a number of gates in the pouring rain. Cattle congregate around the gates so wherever I got out I was deep in a quagmire of cow shit and mud. I deal a lot in cow and horse poop which doesn't usually bother me.... but this was really... yuck.<br />
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Finally I made it to Poison Spider Road, a very nice graveled road and about two hours after that I was home in Lander. It took me 45 minutes just to wash the mud and @#!* out of the wheel wells. <br />
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What's that saying about fishing? A bad day of fishing is better than a good day in the office. Same with field work, but then again, all's end that ends well...<br />
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The main county road, I could have kissed the dirt.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Road/no-road, all the grass made it soft for riding, an odd cushy feeling.<br />
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A weird side note, I was so happy that I made mangospacho the night before. I'm pretty sure I'm the only person to ever mountain bike in the Rattlesnakes and for sure the only to have a picnic with fresh mango soup.</div>
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New bike accessory, a mount for bear spray for when I am working in grizzly bear country.</div>
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Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-336584626835045788.post-72624693843849360272014-05-13T19:04:00.001-07:002016-05-23T07:09:24.063-07:00MomWhen I went to the farm to help take care of my mom last November, I didn't expect to lose her so fast. None of us did. I had only two days with her at the farm before she went into the hospital -- and then she never came home. Stupid cancer. I never dreamed she wouldn't be back at the farm for Thanksgiving - our big family shindig with truckloads of food, laughter and love.<br />
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Mom was diagnosed with late-stage uterine cancer and by the time she was admitted to the hospital it had destroyed her pelvis and part of her lower spine. Until right before she went into the hospital, she was still up walking around. She was so darn tough.<br />
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They say people's personalities become more prominent when they are sick. Mom's grace and courage and especially her sense of humor were magnified. She was always kind to the nurses and endlessly stubborn and funny with her palliative care doctor. They all loved her.<br />
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Watching her die of this horrible, painful cancer was one of the hardest things I've ever done in my life. Every day was a different medical crisis as her condition worsened. Thank goodness for my brother and my Aunt Sandi because we all took turns taking care of her 24/7. As bad as it was sometimes, I wouldn't have traded my time with her for anything.<br />
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You know all of those petty things that drive you nuts about your parents? Those things went by the wayside when I was with mom those three weeks. Everything was distilled down into the best parts of a mother/daughter relationship. Now that I have kids of my own I know to the core of my being how much my mom loves my brother and me. I'll never forget one time in the hospital when Dave and I were standing on either side of her bed holding her hands and she was completely, totally happy.<br />
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A funny thing happened before mom went into the hospital. She told me a story that I had never heard before and I've been wanting to share it. Why she choose this particular time to tell me, I'll never know. But I'm so glad that she did. It goes like this...<br />
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When Mom was in high school she was dating a cowboy and was at a rodeo watching him compete. While she was sitting in the stands waiting for the next bull rider to come out of the chutes, her name came over the loud speaker. The next thing she knew her boyfriend and his friend had picked her up, carried her to the chutes and set her on the bull. That was mom's eight seconds of fame! They had secretly registered her for the event and she never even saw it coming.<br />
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A while ago someone asked me (my Argentine friends), "are you a cowgirl?" Well, I guess that question might come up now and again if you live in Wyoming. My mom most definitely had some cowgirl in her and I'd like to think that I do too - and that it came from my mom. Truthfully I hope that there's a lot of my mom in me. I miss you Mom.<br />
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Mom on the far right in front of the pump house.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">Mom and Laura shucking corn, seems like a long time ago that Laura was this little</span>.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: small;">In front of the make-shift dance floor built for the Centennial celebration.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;">Post script:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;">About a month after Mom died, my two best friends in Lander took me to Jackson for a weekend getaway. We skied in Grand Teton National Park and that night went out to the Cowboy Bar. While were standing near the dance floor, drinking and listening to the band, a tall handsome cowboy from Big Piney grabbed my hand and swung me onto the dance floor. Like my mom, I love to dance. It doesn't matter if it's in the kitchen or on top of a mountain pass or on a dance floor. He was a great dancer and I suspect he was heaven-sent to spin the grief right out of me, at least for one evening. The only thing he asked me all night, was, "what's your story?" And so I told him that we were in Jackson having a girlfriend weekend to honor my mom. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif6ZkRrYKqBea9vx4BjhKrfUlv9nc6tcccXMv0bLFS7E64b-rSiQM1lVyUdF7jzEskzoTFKO_6K52pi7UmbOrFKqBGAokKjzLIL8pOB-EZRn45VewNoyEM81bjsVVuHA436lC3GpoVqoA/s1600/three+amigos.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="228" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEif6ZkRrYKqBea9vx4BjhKrfUlv9nc6tcccXMv0bLFS7E64b-rSiQM1lVyUdF7jzEskzoTFKO_6K52pi7UmbOrFKqBGAokKjzLIL8pOB-EZRn45VewNoyEM81bjsVVuHA436lC3GpoVqoA/s640/three+amigos.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Post ski beers in Grand Teton National Park.<br />
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<br />Kathy Browninghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12959235893122501450noreply@blogger.com