Paradise Found

 So, I'm a bit ashamed to share this with you, but here goes.

We live in the woods.  

That's not what I'm ashamed of.

We do live in the woods, and this is an incredible gift, a gift I'm certain that I don't deserve.  My shame stems from the fact that I don't take advantage of this gift the way that I should.  We live on the doorstep of wilderness, and though every single day we could be out snowshoeing, hiking, whitewater kayaking, flatwater kayaking, canoe paddling, road biking, mountain biking, trail running or rock climbing - almost all from our front door - I have discovered that far too often I find myself in a lifeless and unholy union with our living room couch... like herbed butter melting over a grilled steak, my arms and legs drip sluggishly off of the cushions.  Limbs that are also increasingly composed of butter, my diet would suggest.

If you are feeling any pang of empathy for me at this moment, keep reading.  The following glimpses of forest life should shock you into proper rage at the grand injustice of my slothful existence.  I guarantee that you'll be gearing up to hunt me, armed with envy and a pitchfork, in 90 seconds flat.  And I, in true form, won't be running, so it'll be easy for you to find me and fork me to death for my crimes.

So here it is.  This is life:

We wake up to this view from the front lawn (during summer, that other season).

We get to go down giant slip'n'slides with our friends,

and play in the mud.

We can canoe,

or go whitewater rafting

[at night].

We can paddle rivers,

or sometimes just look good standing next to them.

  

We can snowshoe,

and take snowy, flannel-y Christmas photos.

But I don't do these things very often.  Instead I seep into the furniture... like a spilled drink.

Miraculously, despite my persistent attempts at shameful lethargy, yesterday was a day that gives me hope - hope that maybe... somehow... I'll collect my drooping limbs a little more often with aspirations of grasping the wealth of adventure found in our vast backyard.  About this time yesterday afternoon, along with a group of friends, C and I took our snowmobiles part-way up a nearby mountain.  From there, we strapped on our snowshoes so that we could hike the remaining distance to the peak on foot.  This was a day to employ what I believe to be a crucial life practice, which is to recognize the incredible nature of what you are actively doing, in the moment that you are actively doing it.  It is when you whisper quietly to yourself or shout to the birds, "this is awesome", and you know it to be true, right down to your bones...

right then...

         as you live it...

as you do it.

So now you can see why it is such a shame to let the smallest opportunity for adventure pass me by.  Because at the end of the day, what story have I written?  What awe have I experienced?  What risk?  What reward?  What part of this incredible created world have I let soak deep into my being and stir my spirit?

Here, where I could throw a rock from our deck and unintentionally kill a brook trout, there is no excuse.  Only opportunity. And as I strive to take hold of mine, I will also hope that you are out there, searching, finding, and fully discovering yours.

Please Put Down the Weapon

Yesterday I told you that C and I have recently had a great bonding experience.  It’s true.  No, we aren’t pregnant, and no, we didn’t get lost in the woods.  We went snowmobiling. 

Back in March I ranted to you about my husband’s purchase of a Ski-Doo snowmobile.  I had managed to avoid seeing it until this Monday, when, after much pleading and a horrible attitude on my part, we drove off for a ride.   Imagine your favorite seven-year old’s reaction after finding out that he or she was going to have to wear that Christmas outfit again.  The protruding chin and bottom lip.  The smug expression.  The single-eyebrow raise.  I have been practicing this move since I was five.  You can ask my Dad, who’s seen it a million times.  Smiling is my favorite, but this expression seems to run a close second.  It’s a shame.

So we head out to camp, where C works and keeps his snowmobile.  I start strapping equipment on like a kid at ski school while he gasses up the sled.  How can a helmet be this big??  I feel like I should be flying an F-4 Phantom.  Luckily, it’s around 55 degrees out, so we don’t have to bundle up, but the lack of body girth makes us look like two giant Q-tips.  Due to the warm weather we’ve been having, the snow has turned into mashed potatoes, and the conditions for snowmobiling are less than desirable.  But we press on. 

And it was awesome.  

Once C showed me the ropes, we went back for a friend’s sled so that we could each drive solo.  Do you know that to turn one of these bad boys, you have to hang your body off of one side of the sled?  I almost flung myself over the front windshield while jumping a snow bank, and fell off the back while trying to stay out of a ditch.  And while my hands felt like I’d just mowed a football field with a pair of clipping shears, I left our excursion in one piece, smelling like a two-stroke engine.

Now that I have the helmet, I might moonlight as Boba Fett on weekends. 

 Yet another reason for you to come visit.

www.jedigirl.com

It turns out that riding a snowmobile off-trail is way more fun, way more thrilling, and way more physically demanding than I thought.  I had already worked out on Monday morning, and this little adventure threw my shoulders and upper back into overdrive.  All in all, this week I have come to respect this rousing diversion, and I think my husband likes me a lot more for finally looking at his sled. 

So, go out and do something crazy this week for the one you love.  I wouldn’t recommend using the toddler pout unless you absolutely have to, but I’m not going to judge, either.  And since I have spent so many man-hours throwing this hobby under the bus, I have some work to get to.  I’ll be in the corner, removing my foot from my mouth so that I can eat my words.

You Can't Make Me

C bought a snowmobile on Sunday.  Instantly, part of me died.

Somehow, the concept of sled-ownership (and yes, friends from the south, they are not called “snowmobiles” in everyday conversation.  They are sleds.) strikes fear and icy dismay into the depths of my heart.  I feel as if, as a family, we have just crossed a Rubicon that there is no returning from.  It is horrible and terrifying and really, really sad.  Feel for me.  Please.

When I was a kid, I grew up in a rural area of the Northeast and went to a small school.  Naturally, because we were in a wintery part of the country, some of my friends were avid snowmobilers.  Each year we would go on a youth retreat that was a 90-minute drive north, and these friends would choose to spend the miles riding up on their sleds rather than on the bus, so long as there was white stuff on the ground.  I thought that this was terribly strange.  Who, in full presence of mind, would choose to ride on this machine that seemed to resemble a toboggan strapped over tank tracks when given the option of a valid mode of human transportation?  

What if they hit a deer?  

I have a friend who hit a deer while riding his bicycle, and I imagine that this could be much worse.

www.blog.ivman.com

Little did I know at the time that snowmobiles are like any other motorsport hobby or vehicle acquisition.  They can come from a neighbor’s junk pile, and cost next to nothing,

OR

You can buy the new Yamaha Apex XTX model, and easily spend fifteen thousand dollars.  These things can be pricey.

I'd hate to get all soap boxy on you, but if you’re really feeling bold, you could take that fifteen thousand dollars and buy seventeen camels from Heifer International, and send them to seventeen communities in need within the developing world.  You’d be giving them long-term transportation and income, as well as a source of dietary nourishment.

Or you could get the Apex.       Go ahead, you choose.

Anyhow, lots of what I’ve been learning during this move has to do with the nature of my perceptions, and how off-base they have generally been.  My husband has had so much fun with his sled since he’s purchased it (I haven’t even been around), and it has enabled him to enjoy some male-bonding time that he would not have otherwise had.  This has really become a precious thing since we moved north. 

So the next step is to buy him a helmet.  I think that because I’ve had such a wretchedly bad attitude about this whole purchase-process, I should go out and find the best helmet on the market, and buy it as a way of passing the peace pipe.  But, on the other hand, I could just go find this thing, and my inner monster will feel fed.

www.oobject.com

Speaking of inner monsters: if he doesn't have one already, he won't need one after trying this on.

So please, inundate me with your holy-mecca snowmobiling stories.  Tell me about the day your 6 year-old drove on the lake for the first time or about how this sport has made the world a better place for your community.  Sing me a song about the sled’s value to family relations in the frozen north. 

Then go buy me a camel.    

I will not let you win this argument.  Not now.  Not ever.  Not even if you’re nice. 

But maybe I’ll get to a place where I can appreciate the simple pleasure of a much cheaper, less diabolical winter vehicle than our fifteen thousand dollar white whale.

Today though, I'm standing at the ship's bow with a spear ready.  Don't push me.