Dirty Girl Hikes

As I write this, two massive sweetgums are swaying in the breeze outside my apartment window. It’s a chilly, rainy morning in Portland, Oregon. A chocolate lab is sleeping soundly on the living room futon couch, and Tater hasn’t stirred yet. I cannot wait to wake her with cuddles after I write this.

When I’m not backpacking, Saturdays are “us” days. It’s difficult to express the pleasure I derive, when I pull the cast irons down to cook breakfast on these mornings. I even remember to bring ketchup for her eggs now. A weird custom I’ve accepted, she accepting a myriad of mine over the past two months. We still don’t have a toaster, but with a pan for eggs, and one for toast (made the old-fashioned way) those little spring-filled boxes seem excessive.

We’re hiker trash, and inclined to keep it simple. Though our fanaticism to get the exact gear solution, or camp in precisely the most weather-sheltered spot, remains intact. Now we channel it towards more domestic avenues. Such as our perfect living room rug, acquired after many miles and hours of seeking. Or the dusty former library chair I’d overlook as junk, but for which Tater had a vision. After the paint, and the decadent black felt fabric, I began to catch glimpses too. In coming home from work to the finished product one evening, I knew she was right. It was what our living room was missing. Toasters though… I’m still on the fence.

Today Bugseed’s Bohemian Beaknik album, DJ Krush, and MF Doom are the beats of my morning solitude. I need to cultivate time alone these days, as it’s become a rarity. If only I could travel back to myself six months ago, to express what a glorious problem I’d soon have. To tell myself not to fret, companionship is on its way.

Yet, while company is a blessing, be it friends, family, or lovers; solitude is key to keeping these relationships intact. Like a beautiful paintings discovered with joy in the most unexpected places, so I would describe each of my friendships. Some are serene landscapes, some are fiery scenes with infinitesimal hues of sienna. Some are abstracts I don’t fully understand, yet adore for reasons that evade capture in words. So I think of my time alone as frames for these relationships. A space to myself that allows me to place them thoughtfully where they’ll be safe from my day-to-day bumpings and goings. Leaning them against a wall simply wont do!

By taking time to myself, I can figure out where best to place them, aiming for those spaces where they’ll shine the most fully, where their colors will illuminate with fullest impression. A house-keeping of the self that allows me to later be the most present with each of them.

It is in the spirit and value of this frame space, that I embarked on the Vermont Long Trail as a solo journey. Oddly, or perhaps rightly enough, the trek began by visiting a friend.

More soon.