George Gardner

"You're so great". When you first hear someone say that to you in the middle of a normal conversation, you don't really know how to react. You give a little laugh, you look away, maybe change the subject. As a catchphrase, it seems silly at first. It's hard to take such words seriously. But, as time goes on, you start to believe it a little bit. You start to use those three little words in your own interactions with people, and you start to mean them a little bit. Maybe he's right, you think to yourself, maybe I am great. Maybe everyone really is great.

George, with his huge smile and his belief that we are all great changed everyone at Sterling College, a small school in northern Vermont. You couldn't talk to him for 2 minutes without making him just glow with pleasure and assure you that you are, indeed, great. We'd tell eachother that we were great, and we'd mean it, but the words would also bring George's presence into the conversation and with it would come his peace, his joy, his appreciation for life.

I spent many nights camping with George in a small 2-person tent. We seldom slept- we talked about religion, about love, about the mountains. He taught me to ice climb and he improved my rock climbing with his insightful instruction. But more importantly, he taught me to appreciate the people who I meet every day. When you're open to people showing you their greatness, it's not hard to find.

George died in the Teton mountains this week. It's easy to say that, "well, at least he died doing what he loved", and that is certainly true. But, the world is a sadder place without him. My thoughts of peace go to his dear wife and two children (with whom I shared memorable a Thansgkiving dinner, many years ago) at this difficult time.

Moving on

My last hike in Haines. The doc I work with and I went scouting for goat in the mountains. There was a little trail for the first part of the hike, up to a cabin, but the final 1500' was mainly bushwacking. It was quite steep- goat country- but so gorgeous and peaceful. Peaceful until I sat on an anthill, that is. Two days later, my legs are so sore I can hardly walk.

4th of July, Haines AK

Who doesn't love a parade?

6/30

Saturday was grey and dark, with 20+ knot winds and hard, spitting wind. I've lived in SE AK for too long, though, and decided that wasn't going to stop me from getting out. So, I went for a hike.

I went up Mt Ripinsky, which is about 3500 feet. It felt good to be out, and most of the hike was in the trees, so the wind wasn't as bad. Not a lot of photo opportunities, due to the nasty weather, but it was a nice way to spend a couple of hours.




Sunday, I woke up pleasantly sore to a bright blue sky and almost 60 degrees. The day just got more beautiful, and my legs just got more sore. I did eventually walk into town to get groceries, where I shot some hoops and played on the swings, but another hike was beyond my poor quadraceps.

Such is life.

Old school Environmenalism

I've been re-re (and in some cases re-re-re-) reading some of my favorite environmental authors. Authors who I first read 15, 20 years ago and who instilled in me my initial concepts of ecology, sustainability and conservation. Edward Abbey, Annie Dillard, Aldo Leopold, John Muir. People who nudged the movement a little more towards the mainstream, a direction it continues to move today.

As with so many "classic" writings (Jane Austin, Emerson, Shakespeare), it's easy to read them once in school, put them on a shelf and avoid them for the rest of your life. Then, years later you pull them down again, on a whim or when you've read everything else in your library. You discover to your shock that the sick and twisted Lady Macbeth actually gives you nightmares. That the love affair between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy is strikingly similar to how you behaved when you were in love at 20. These books are classics not because teachers force them on their literature class, but because they speak to people, they address emotions and circumstances that have not changed in 500 years and will not change for 5000 more.






Annie Dillard changed the face of the environmental movement. Edward Abbey, John Muir and Aldo Leopold founded or inspired the formation of environmental organizations that are still active and influential today (EarthFirst, The Sierra Club and The Wilderness Society, respectively). What is easy to forget, what I am thrilled to discover again, is that they were also gifted writers. Their clear-eyed vision of the natural world is inspiring. After reading A Pilgrim At Tinker's Creek in the evenings before bed, I walk around the next morning in a daze, looking at flowers by the side of the road or birds on telephone wires as if I had never seen them before. I read Abbey's travels through the Four Corners and my eyes water and my throat becomes dry with the red dust of the dessert.






It seems environmental writers today are so serious, so overwhelmed with the significance of The Crisis that they have forgotten what it was that they loved about Nature to begin with. They overwhelm the reader with statistics and numbers and policies and they leave out the wonder that can be found in a school of fingerlings or the sight of a clump of bear fur stuck on a broken branch.

I know there's a crisis. I know we have to make change happen or we will loose the fingerling, the bears and the trees. I just don't want to loose my own sense of wonder along the way.

Soda Vs Pop

Fascinating map from a science blog

With a mother from Ohio and a father from Washington state, I grew up saying "pop", but for some reason (hanging out with too many New Englander's, I suspect) I find myself saying "soda" often these days.

Father's Day

My dad is celebrating his 35th Father's Day. I called him this morning, early, while he was starting the day with his lovely wife, attending a neice's high school graduation party. Mornings were Dad's time of the day- the best time of the day, he always told us. Weekends when we were growing up, he would make breakfast and knock on our bedroom doors. While our school friends slept in until noon, we would wake up by 7am. The three of us kids and our bleary-eyed mom around the table while he made pancakes that looked like Mickey Mouse, poured hot coffee or flipped crepes. To this day, neither I or my siblings will sleep in on a Saturday or Sunday morning, and I shake my head and pity people who miss out on the best part of the day.

I could sit and write memories of growing up with Dad. I could reflect on the lessons he taught me and the care he took (still takes) in raising his children to be strong and gentle and wise and generous and hard-working. But that is a project that would take all day, or more- I would still be writing come next Father's Day. I see children all the time who are abused or neglected, or just not particularly valued by their fathers, and I am continually reminded of how lucky I am. I grew up in the bosom of a loving family, and, even when times were very difficult, that love could always be counted on. Unfortunately, that is not typical, and not a day doesn't go by that I am not thankful for it, and for my dad's hard work to build and maintain it.