Three's Company (Monday, November 28th)

I had the honor to spend last week with Brian Baker and Brian Bielen, two of my very closest friends from Montana, in what turned out to be one of the most memorable and enjoyable weeks of my life. On the surface, this was a week spent hiking the trails of Southern Utah, exploring the treasures of hidden spur-canyons, chatting late into the night around a warm fire, and eating delicious meals of fresh venison and homegrown potatoes. But underneath, this was a week that taught me a lot about the importance of friendship, the beauty of companionship, and the constant struggle for personal integrity.

(I know. I know. It seems like every day is a life lesson and every experience brings some epic epiphany. It is what it is. So we'll continue...)

I am so grateful to have had the chance to share this enchanting place with two people like Brian and Brian: two people who truly love the outdoors, who are always looking for an adventure, who participate on a daily basis with the world around them, and who appreciate the beauty and silence of the desert. I experienced this place much differently with them than I would have on my own. Neither better nor worse--just differently. Their keen eyes allowed me to focus on details I would have otherwise brushed over--the patterns of colors and lines in rock walls and the curvature and texture of the soft sand and unique pebbles. Their curious natures allowed for us to explore unmarked canyons and unveil the secret hiding places of ancient granaries and villages. Together, we were kids again--asking the unanswerable questions, noticing the smallest details, immersing ourselves into this big unknown world, and laughing until we couldn't breath.

Spending this time with them also gave me the chance to test some of the personal theories and positions that I had been developing over the past few weeks. If my new perspectives were truly genuine, then I would have to maintain them while remaining comfortable and confident around the people that I care about most. If they accept me, and most importantly if I accept me, then the quality is worth embodying and strengthening. So I was able to test some things out: staying slow and being present while power-hiking at top speeds through a canyon, looking inwardly at ones own perfections and imperfections before looking outwardly at the qualities of others, being humbled by a world so big that neither you nor your friends can grasp it, and coming to understand that true freedom comes from that humility.

So here's the "A-ha moment." Let's skip the long explanation and go straight to what I know. Happiness, as well as the answers to life's great questions, comes from inside an individual. I hold my key, just as you hold yours. I need me--truly present and fully aware--I need me. However, we often need others to spark us, to share with us what they have already discovered, and to pull those mysteries out from deep within us. We need others. My search for community, for understanding, and for commonality is not a weakness, but a strength. I need others. And that's humbling. I wonder, then, if maybe true freedom will come from that humility as well...

The Farm Tour: Three farms in two weeks (Saturday, November 19th)

Networking. Networking. Job security. Get yourself out there. Make connections. Business cards. Resumes. Applications. Charm them. Smile more. Chin up. Work harder. Make them want you. Networking. Networking.

 

Don't worry. It's not like that. Not entirely, at least. From the moment I started planning this trip, I knew I wanted to supplement my hiking and exploring with farmwork and manual labor. I wanted to begin to immerse myself into the ever-growing network of local, organic farms; I wanted to meet farmers, have conversations, learn individual techniques, and see how different people are responding to current conditions. Logistically, I wanted to stay fresh and healthy throughout my travels; I wanted my body to maintain its strength and stamina, and I wanted to continue to have a supply of local, organic food. And of course, I wanted to introduce myself to southwestern farmers so when my job in Tuscon is finished, I will have plenty of nearby, quality internship opportunities.

 

Okay, it's networking. But it is networking in the most enjoyable, fulfilling, beautiful way.

 

Even though I only spent a few days at each farm, I still learned so much--both technically and philisophically. At each place, I participated in the daily routines--milking the goats and processing the milk into cheese and yogurt, weeding and watering the gardens, feeding the chickens and cleaning the coup, cooking and sharing meals with the families. Moreover, because I visited these places in the off-season, I was able to participate in the end-of-season rituals--chopping wood for winter, packing the root cellar, collecting and storing the watering lines, building and reparing green houses. I guess it didn't really surprise me to see how different each of these three farms was. Each farmer was his own character--from idealistic hippy to retired construction worker--and each farm had a different relationship with the surrounding commmunity--from a communal space of sharing and growth to a protected safe-haven against angry conservative neighbors who think environmentalists are destroying the country and ruining the economy. And yet, each farm had a similar thread, a thread that I have seen at each farm I have ever known, and a thread that still shocks and amazes me each time. Farmers are brilliant, well-rounded, remarkably proficient individuals. Not only are they animal caretakers and master growers, but also they are contractors, mechanics, plumbers, electritions, marketers, businessmen, community leaders, philosophers, and economists. They do it all. They do it all because they have to. I'll get there, but I have a lot to learn.

 

Apart from the technical skills and the nit-picky specifics, the philisophy of farming  is--in and of itself--its own subject to master. Farmers see the world differently. I don't yet fully understand it, and I don't expect to be able to fully explain it. As caretakers of the earth and providers for their communities, they have their own set of values and priorities. Time and space take on a quality of their own; farmers work in seasonal cycles yet their timeline expands accross generations; they focus on the mundane details of the field yet they are always aware of their inextricable connection to the rest of the world. Success and failure are defined on their own set of terms. The act of daily work helps to achieve a degree of physical, emotional, and intellectual enlightenment. And at the end of the day--no matter how politically involved a farmer may be, no matter how much he cares for his community, no matter how much he thinks he can change the world--all a farmer can do is live his life the best way he knows. He is the change he wishes to see.

 

For me, my time spent on these few farms has reassured me that I am exactly where I need to be. It fits so perfectly. Like a farmer, I find joy and fulfillment in any form of physical and mental labor. For me, that is the purest form of fun. As a farmer, your work is your play. In fact, your work time is your personal time. Your life becomes seemless. There is no difference between the working businessman and the at-home caretaker. You are everything. All the time. All at once. So you better love what you do--fully and completely--or you'll never make it. You must find wonder in all the details. You must pay attention. Constantly. Because there are no problems. There are only solutions. Create your perfection. It's not easy. I know this. But it's a fight worth joining and a life worth living. If not me, who? And if not now, when? (Sidenote: that's 2 MLK Jr. quotes in one blog).

 

And that's what I'm doing. Networking. Networking. Job security. Get yourself out there. Make connections. Business cards. Resumes. Applications. Charm them. Smile more. Chin up. Work harder. Make them want you. Networking. Networking

 

Or something like that.

Capitol Reef National Park (Monday, November 7)

I just spent the last few days in the Land of the Sleeping Rainbow…Capitol Reef National Park. One of Southern Utah’s many treasures, Capitol Reef is slightly off the beaten path and often overshadowed by the infamous Bryce, Zion, and Arches. But come on…with a tagline about “sleeping rainbows,” I had to be there. And oh my goodness, what a beautiful treasure it is.

This was my first exposure to the intense red rock for which Southern Utah is known. 800 ft. of sheer cliffs. Huge hidden arches. Canyons and mountains and gorges with snowcapped mountains in the background. The landscape was truly remarkable.

The benefits of visiting National Parks compared to National Forest and BLM land is that the history is preserved as well. Of course, their modest—but thorough—visitor center provided plenty of information on the geological prehistory and the waves of Native American occupation. But for me, the best part was learning about the frontiersman and homesteaders that occupied the space well until the 1950s. While the majority of the country was celebrating the post WWII boom, these families—occupying a small ‘town’ called Fruta—were living without running water and electricity, were working the land with horse drawn plows and man power to produce orchards and gardens, and were occupying their time with reading and quilting. We’re not talking hundreds of years ago. Mere decades, no more. And the evidence is still there—blacksmith shops displaying the range of skills a person must master, the one room school house that doubled as a church, and the rows and rows of heirloom fruit trees that the NPS still maintains and that guests can come and harvest during the season. Yes—participatory farming on the NPS level. Beautiful.

So if you’re ever in the area, I suggest you come. It really is in the middle of ‘nowhere.’ I drove over 100 miles from the east and passed through three towns, two of which had gas stations and none of which seemed to feature any people. The bordering town of Torrey all but closes up in the winter months. But even here, treasures are to be found. A small apple tree outside a school yard with plenty of fallen fruit to pick, an unopened traveler information building with an electric plug outside, and a small pizza bar open from 5 to 10 every day that will play the Sunday Night Football Games. Perfect.

So now, my days of endless hiking and exploring are going to be put on the back burner. It is time to begin my other intention for the trip: farming. Cainville to Boulder to Moab. Let’s see just how much I can learn and experience from a mere few days at each farm. And just in time, too, because there were 4 in. of snow on the ground when I woke up this morning. Oh, how confusing this desert it.

San Rafeal Swell (Saturday, November 5)

I spent the first week of my roadtrip exploring the San Rafeal Swell in central eastern Utah. When I first began planning my adventure, I thought I would first head all the way down to Zion, located in the most southwest corner. From there, I would work my way northeast, hitting Bryce, Escalante, Canyonlands, and Arches before heading down into New Mexico and Arizona. But a good friend of mine suggested against it, saying that if I wanted to experience an eye-opening introduction to the real Southern Utah, I had to hit the Swell first. So that’s what I did, and holy cow…was he ever right.

The San Rafeal Swell is an absolutely breathtaking, and marvelously undervisited, piece of landscape. Baziollions of years ago (more or less), an egg-shaped section of the earth’s crust was uplifted. This chunk of land, roughly 124km by 65 km, has slowly morphed over time as wind and water erode the dirt and rocks. The dense—albeit fragile—masses that remain display a variety of canyons, reefs, buttes, and mesas of all shapes, sizes, and colors. It is truly beautiful.

I wish I could put this in a more lyrical way, but it would lack zest. Southern Utah is simply bad ass. It is harsh and unforgiving. It is real and it does not mess around. If you’re not already humbled by nature by the time you visit the Swell, you will become humbled rather damn quickly. So come prepared with more than you think you need. Check the weather and plan ahead. Take a good map and pay attention to all details or you’ll get lost, swept up in a flash flood, or worse.

Gosh though what a wonderful experience. Every day I see something completely different. Every bend hides yet another surprise. Huge orange overbearing cliffs of Buckhorn Wash. Tight narrows of the wild horse canyon. Ancient pictographs of Black Dragon Canyon. Erie abandoned mines of Copper Globe Canyon. I really felt that I received the full desert experience and I look forward to whatever else may come. What a glorious adventure.

The Sensational Desert (Wednesday, November 2)

Anyone who has spent any significant time in the desert has left with the surest sense that they have just felt something. What, exactly, they felt is hard to say. Some of the most profound thinkers throughout the history of mankind have spent time in the desert and even they sometimes have trouble communicating their experience to themselves and to others. So here’s my first attempt. To make it simple, I’ll break this “feeling” down to the ways we learned as kids. Senses.

Sight. In the desert, the air makes everything crisp and vibrant. It is similar to Montana’s mountain air, only here there are different details to focus on. I have to train my eyes to notice the desert’s hidden details—the subtle overhands, the deep caverns, the patterns in rocks and sand. I try to look BIG. I try to see the whole picture at once; but it is impossible to take it. My brain cannot comprehend what exactly it is I am seeing, and I feel overwhelmed.  So I break it down in sections, staring at one piece of the vista at a time; this helps, but only a little. I think that with practice and time, I will be better at seeing all that there is to be seen in the desert.

Hearing. I remember this distinctly from my time in Northern Chile. It is a sensation one can only grasp, I believe, if she is truly there to experience it. Empathy doesn’t cut it. What I hear in the desert is silence. Pure silence. It is a heavy sound that echoes in your head and your ears physically strain themselves to notice anything at all. Occasionally, a guest of wind will hit an object or an airplane will fly overhead, and your conscious is relieved to know it still maintains the ability to hear. I hope that I can learn to take advantage of this exterior silence in order to hone in on the internal noises that my body and spirit are making.

Smell. I think if my best friend Matt were here, he would be able to describe this experience better than I. Smell, for me, is something that I do not notice until months or years after the original experience. I smell only in my memory. Certain whiffs will strike a cord, and I will be transported back to a time or place that resonates. In the desert, in this new place and this almost new experience, I smell only dry, crisp air. I look forward to the day when something will cross my nose and I will be moved back to Chile and Argentina. If it is bound to happen anywhere, it is bound to happen here.

Taste. As strange as this seems, I have found that my ability to taste has greatly diminished. I am spicing my food with great seasonings and I am cooking beautiful local produce; but the taste is not satiating me the way I had hoped. My only explanation is that I am so cold that my taste buds are numb. It is a distinct possibility. I’ll get back to you.

Touch. This has always been my favorite of senses. I have always felt the world best through my fingers. Whether I was strolling along the streets of

Commonwealth Avenue

or hiking through the forests of Montana, I would touch whatever was around me and I would be reminded that I am alive. It is no different here. I feel the contours of the rocks and I come to understand what water and wind have done to the landscape over time. I feel the trees and the shrubs and I realize how strong a species must be to fight to live here. I sit on the ground and feel history rush through me as I think of all the people who have been here long before me. I have come to understand that I am a tactile person, and I will continue to use this gift throughout my travels.

6^th sense. This may not be a typical sense that we learned from our childhood picture books, but I believe in its existence and its power. I believe that the desert allows an individual to reach a certain state of clairvoyance.  Answers are revealed to questions you didn’t even know were being asked. These revelations come from deep within us. We hold the truths in ourselves. They come from our subconscious instincts or from the lessons we have internalized from previous experiences. The desert simply provides the setting where such a state of mind can be achieved. It is a beautiful process and I look forward to opening myself to all this sense will allow me to feel.

Semi-intentional intentions (Sunday, October 30)

Last night I found a beautiful campsite off a dirt road in the Caribou National Forest Land. I practically slept right on the Idaho/Utah border. I pitched the tent, cooked up some delicious cabbage with ginger, and snuggled into my sleeping bag to sleep through the cold night. That morning, I awoke to the sound of nearby coyotes and to a light dusting of frost that had settled on my sleeping bag. Already the second day and my senses were overwhelmed.

Before I cross the state line into Utah, I want to clarify a few things. Why did I choose the Southwest? What do I hope to gain from this two month escapade? What do I plan to see and do each and every day?

This is a huge country, and I could have chosen a variety of places to spend these few months. Yes, okay…there is an element of convenience to consider here. Southern Utah, Western New Mexico and Northern Arizona all strategically lie on my way to Tucson—where I will begin my next job in January. Also, these places are warmer (although not by much) and easier to travel to during the winter months than the Northwest states, another mysterious section of our country. But most importantly…these places are deserts. And although Montana has my heart, the desert moves my spirit. I still cannot explain the way that the desert of Chile and Argentina made me feel. Their beauty shocked, humbled, and captivated me in a way few places have before. I want to feel that way again. In the desert, you realize how small you are—both in terms of space and time. The landscape is vast. It is a massive space that contains multitudes of different forms and environments. From every vantage point, you can only grasp the slightest slightest percentage. The desert is ancient. Its formation has taken place over millions of years, and continues to change and shift today. My lifetime on this planet is so miniscule in comparison to its.

So here I am, exploring a part of the American frontier that few people have had the opportunity to see. This harsh country will test my resourcefulness and strengthen my independence in a way nothing else can. Our culture doesn’t provide us with those “coming of age” rituals I learned about in all my anthropology classes. Graduating from college? Smoking pot for the first time? Getting a job? I did all these, and while some of these achievements made me feel accomplished, I didn’t feel as though I experienced any grand transition. So over the past few years I’ve created my own rituals to mark transitions. I’ve gone West to live in Wyoming, experience the American frontier, and interact with the natural world. I’ve traveled around the world to learn different cultures and experience different realities. I’ve gone far South in the attempt to seek authentic culture and educational experiences. And then, of course, I’ve gone West again to learn how to explore a place deeper. Now. I’m going Southwest in the hopes that this “coming of age” ritual will give me the results I need.

In the meantime, I have the freedom to create a lifestyle here; one that I hope to continue in the future. Here, I am living as sustainably as I possibly can. Yes, I am driving a jeep; but because I spend so much time in one area, I use just as much gas here as I did living in Montana—which is about one tank each week. What can a person do? I cannot control the lack of public transportation to these remote places and I have no desire to hitch hike. So to counteract that, I am living a life without electricity and without running water. I am eating all organic and local food. I am separating my trash into recyclable material, compostable food scraps (which I trade to farmers in exchange for eggs), and regular trash (which I intend to accumulate only one shopping bag per month).

By living this type of lifestyle, I will be able to take the chance to SLOW DOWN. Even at Mountain Sky, where our bubble-world functions on mountain time and our lives revolve entirely within those 9000 acres, I moved so fast. Too fast.  Part of this is the life of the top-notch hospitality world and part of this, I’m sure, may have been self-imposed. Regardless, I barely found time to enjoy every delicious bite of food, to run each day, to follow the events of the outside real world, or to sit on that beautiful porch and take it all in. Such is life, and I cannot possibly imagine how anyone else, any person with a full-time job or a family, can actually slow down enough to enjoy life. But here, in the desert, I will move on my own time. I will respond to nothing buy my own wills and the wills of surrounding environment. I will take the time for yoga and meditation each day. I will cook each meal and eat it with gratitude. I will read, sit, think, watch that crow fly and hear the wind blow. I will find grace, rhythm, and poise once more. Hopefully, if I can better master this over the next few months, I will be able to make it a natural part of my every day existence—no matter the place or the occasion.

Truth be told, there could be any number of reasons why I am doing this. The fact is, this was an instinctive decision and I have come to whole-heartedly trust my instincts. It didn’t occur to me to find a temporary job to cover my expenses during the months of November and December. I didn’t even think to try to find a cheap apartment in Bozeman and collect unemployment. I didn’t think to drive all the ay home, no matter how much I miss my family, only then to drive all the way South again. This was the plan from the beginning, so I went with it. If there is one thing that I’ve learned, hindsight often reveals the true reasons for everything. Even today, I come to understand more and more why I chose to go to BU, why I became and RA, why I went to Yellowstone, why I chose to begin farming. So with time, I expect that all my unconscious logic will become unraveled. In the meantime, I am living my short little time on earth to the absolute fullest. I am learning to connect with my home country, and in turn learning to connect with myself. I am living, rather than making a living. This is my life; and I am honored to have the opportunity to live it.

Welcome back (October 28, 2011)

I haven’t written in a long time.

I’ve been sitting here for nearly 25 minutes, and that’s the only line that I’ve typed. I haven’t written in a long time. The continuously blinking text indicator keeps reminding me just how out of practice that I am. I’ve forgotten how to put my thoughts into coherent statements. I’ve forgotten how to slow down enough to process my experiences. I’ve almost forgotten how to think. I can’t believe I’m going to say this but…I miss blogging. So here we are, then. Welcome back. Labor, language, and character. Round 2.

I’ve spent the past five months at home in Montana. I use the term “home” loosely; after all, I wasn’t born here nor does my immediate family live here. But it is home. This was my second season here at Mountain Sky Guest Ranch, a dude ranch deep in the hills of Paradise Valley, about 20 miles north of Yellowstone. I am so grateful to have had the opportunity to live and work in this beautiful place. To explain everything I’ve learned and experienced would take a lifetime. I’ve gotten to spend the majority of my days guiding hikes, and I’ve seen how open and free strangers can become when you lead them through this breathtaking landscape. I’ve spent my weekends volunteering at a local organic farm, where I have worked alongside inspirational individuals as we participate in the farm's daily transition. I’ve learned a variety of skills, from the art of flower arrangements to the technique of sanding and staining a hard wood floor. I’ve spoken with incredible people, from Wendell Berry to the founder of Food Corps, from British royalty to NFL stars. I’ve danced; I’ve sang; I’ve ate (A LOT); I’ve laughed (SO MUCH); and I’ve worked my ass off each and every day. Most importantly, I became part of a family. I have found a group of friends who allow me the freedom to be myself. We're a quirky bunch. We laugh over the silliest of situations and we talk about the bigger picture; we play a mean game of pool and we share every meal together. With them, I am fully present and completely genuine. I am honored to have known them, and I know that they will be there when I am ready to come home.

But home will wait. In a few minutes, on this beautiful fall morning, I will begin yet another exciting adventure. Autumn is a time of transitions for a lot of us; changing jobs, changing weather, changing locations. For me, I am beginning my journey in the world of food. I am going to be a farmer. This much I know. But before I get there, I have a lot to learn. Now, I begin my apprenticeship. I will move from farm to farm—spending anywhere from a day to seven months—talking to farmers, working the land, learning techniques, experiencing the ebbs and flows, and participating in the daily routines. My first job is outside of Tucson, Arizona on Sleeping Frog Farms. It’s owned by four young friends who left their big corporate farm to begin a small-scale, community-oriented, organic farm. I’ll tell you more about them later. For now, the most important piece of information is that I have exactly two months to get from here (Emigrant, Montana) to there (Tucson, Arizona). What, pray tell, is a girl to do?

ROAD TRIP! Southern Utah. Northern Arizona. Western New Mexico. Nothing but red rocks, deserts, and big skies. I have a tent, a cooler, a lot of water, 15 pounds of beans and rice, a portable compost bin and recycling can, a variety of bumper stickers (Wandering Organic Worker, Never Forget 9-11-73, No Farms. No Food, YNP, aqui y ahora) and a jeep with a new homemade Green Bay Packers themed rack. I cannot say for certain where I’ll be going each day (although I have a rough idea). I cannot say for certain where I will be sleeping tonight. But the desert calls, and I’m going. I’m going to slow down and find the time to  process everything that has happened this summer. In fact, I'm going to slow down and finally find the time to process everything that happened during my time in South America. I’m going to reconnect with nature by experiencing something entirely new and foreign. I’m going to master a level of independence I have not yet needed. I’m going to find a way to combine the happiness I experienced this summer with the fulfillment I receive while simply living simply. I’m going to keep being me. Fully present and completely genuine.

So I hope you will join me. The theme is the same; only the scenery has changed. I’ll still be performing labor—whether it be as I hike through the mountains or work on a farm. I’ll still be perfecting a language—only this time it will be my ability to communicate my thoughts and theories with people who may not share the same views. I’ll still be building character—because in all honesty I’ve realized you really can never have too much. 

Until next time...happy trails.

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all"
-Hellen Keller

"If you want to sing out, sing out. If you want to be free, be free. Cause there's a million things to be. You know that there are."
-Cat Stevens