The official start of spring has come and gone. A light dusting of snow yesterday morning and this morning seems like an appropriate New England welcome for springtime. Activity is really just starting on the farm. Though onions and leeks have been growing since the end of February, most of the other seedling in the greenhouse have just started to sprout, and many more have yet to be seeded. I have been busy tidying our seed-starting greenhouse, removing one year of rodents wreaking havoc, nibbling through row cover, nesting in nooks and crannies, and generally making everything a little (and sometimes a lot) messier. Today I finished cleaning out the last of what was untouched, re-securing the groundcloth and setting up the last greenhouse tables. Let the seeding begin!
We are back in Vermont! After 4 and a half months hiking the PCT, we made it to the Canadian border, we celebrated at the border monument, and then we got the heck out of there because it was cold and rainy for our last 4 days in Washington state! The end of our trip was somewhat circuitous because of the wildfires raging in northern Washington. We had to get off the trail at the Snoqualmie Pass ski area, hitch down the mountain to Leavenworth. Nobody was interested in picking us up from there, so we instead took two buses to get to Chelan. From Chelan, we took a ferry to Stehekin, walked a couple of miles to the amazing Stehekin bakery, and then took one more bus, to make it back to the trail. Whew. It was a lot of transportation. But it was worth it. There was an amazing satisfaction in reaching the Canadian border. It felt like a truly epic journey. And our last few days were a climax. The rain and cold temperatures inspired us to hike the longest miles we had hiked without break, culminating in our final day of hiking, during which we covered 34 miles and took only one 10-15 minute break at the border to celebrate with a tiny bottle of prosecco, brie, crackers, and chocolate chunk cookies, yum. Amazingly, we were able to coordinate with our dear trail friends, Stomper and Bushdog, to cross the border at the same time, which made the celebration that much sweeter!
Coming home is wonderful and overwhelming. I love being back in Vermont, back in our house, and back in our community. But there are so many things to do again-- and its hard to remember that I can only ever do one thing at a time. It has been almost a week now, and I'm starting to relax back into just being here, instead of feeling overwhelmed by all the things I want to do here. Hiking the PCT is hard work, but its so singular in purpose and life gets pared down to just a few essentials-- one pair of clothes, one pair of shoes-- walk, eat, sleep, walk eat sleep, walkeatsleep. It sounds simple, and it is simple. And while I was in it, there were about a million times that I missed the complexity of my "normal" life. I missed the choices that we all face daily-- what to eat? what to do? what to do for fun? for work? for relaxing? for exercise? So many choices that are truly not part of life on the trail. But there is a certain freedom in the simplicity of hiking a long trail like the PCT. Your purpose becomes walking. How much simpler can it get? And yet, our minds don't just take a vacation, (oh, you're all set for now, I'll just meet you back in VT), nope. My mind and my thought stream kept up like its life depended on it. Its a good reminder for me of how truly all the busy, rushing around that can become so normal, is mostly in my mind. That even in the simplest task of walking-- all day, everyday-- my mind kept its busy pace. The main difference being that I didn't have the usual distractions at hand-- so I could watch it-- my mind, that is. And I couldn't blame the busy-ness on my busy life. There were no crazy external events that were keeping me from being completely peaceful. For the most part, it was just me and the trees and the mountains (and Patrick, of course). So, here I am reentering a "normal" "busy" life. I'm excited to jump back into everything. And maybe, maybe, I have a little more sense of the relative importance of the external business as it relates to my internal business. If I am ever to find more moments of peace, those will come from an internal peace, rather than some manipulation of my external circumstance.
And with that, I am signing off from this blog. More to come next summer 2016! Thanks for reading!
I bet there are a million puns you could make with Bend, Oregon, but that was the first that came to mind. Yes, you guessed it-- we're in Bend, Oregon! And it is an amazing vacation from our hiking vacation on the trail, filled with our wonderful friends, Jim and Mindy, and all the creature comforts of home away from home (Thanks Jim and Mindy!!!). We are eating food that tastes like real food-- and actually is real food-- not something made in a factory and then shipped to a warehouse and then re-hydrated by our little camp stove on the trail. What a luxury!
The trail has been flying by in Oregon. With only 650 miles to go to the Canadian border, we've made our plans for getting back to Vermont in September and the end seems near... in a way. At the same time, we still have 650 miles to go! And that means about one more month of hiking, which is still a lot of miles and a lot of time on the trail! The trail terrain is quite a bit easier through Oregon, winding around the mountains, rather than heading up and over like in the Sierras. It is a welcome break, but its also easier to lose focus without the goal of a big climb, or a mountain pass to get over each day or two. Perhaps as a result, we've been scheming about hiking a 40 miles day. Many of our PCT hiking peers have hiked 40 mile and even 50 mile days, but most of them hike at a faster clip than us. So we've been strategically trying to find just the right section of the trail that doesn't have too many big climbs, or lava rock scrambles, so that we can hike 40 miles while we have these trail legs that we might never, ever have again. Hopefully, the day will be three days out of Bend, en route to the Timberline Lodge where we can feast on their legendary all you can eat breakfast the following morning. I'll let you know how it goes...
While each day on the trail is unique, crossing different terrain, seeing new landscapes and scenery, there is a certain routine and similarity that has set in by this point in the journey. For myself and Patrick this includes a nightly ritual of meditating and reading aloud each evening before falling asleep. Lately, we've been alternating between Pema Chodron, a Buddhist nun, and Jim Gaffigan, a stand-up comedian. Its a funny contrast, but also a refreshing mix of deeper life philosophy and lighter life philosophy. They both cover similar themes of birth and death and often get us talking through the hiking day about 'what it all means.' On a recent day of hiking, spurred by the last night's reading aloud I started talking about blame, and of the ways that I hold onto to blame in my own mind and heart (Chodron says that if you're blaming anyone, you're still hooked), and came to a visceral and sad realization of not wanting to blame anyone (myself included!). Visceral- because I felt it deeply in my body, and sad- because I felt the sadness of having been and still being caught in the pattern of blame. Blame is a way that we hold ourselves and others at arms length; rather than accepting what happens and whatever has happened and is going to happen, we say "No" to what is. The thing is, blaming can be so seductive. Feeling right can feel so good. On the trail, there aren't too many opportunities to blame, but they're there. This crummy food is too expensive-- why wouldn't a small store on the trail cater to hikers? The trail switchbacks too many times here, why would they make the trail like this? My pack is too heavy, I'm carrying too much of the weight, etc., etc., etc. But its illusive and fleeting. And in the end, I'd rather feel connected than right. Meditating each night and as I can during the day helps me to stay aware of those blaming thought patterns when they come up. The trick is not to blame myself all over again for having those thoughts-- but just to see them-- again and again-- and try to practice not blaming. Having those bodily feelings of knowing intensely that this pattern doesn't help me is helpful and relieving. It doesn't give me an instantaneous escape from the pattern but it does help motivate me to keep practicing unlearning those patterns that separate me and reinforcing an open mind that connects me.
It has been a few weeks since my last post and in the mean time-- we've finished the California section of the trail and arrived in Oregon! It was a long, long, long hike through California. It is indeed a huge state. We made it through the beautiful and challenging high sierras. Then at Sonora Pass, just as we were really on a roll, we were stopped short by a fire close to the trail (known as the Washington fire). Our dear friends, John and Liz, drove out from the bay area two days early to rescue us. Skirting us down the mountains and treating us to wonderful town luxuries (i.e. beds, showers, and cooked food!). We waffled about whether or not to brave the fire conditions, the smoke inhalation, the unknown personal safety conditions, and ultimately decided to skip a couple of hiking days on the trail to get around the fire, resupply in South Lake Tahoe, and then get back on the trail. It was a hard decision. But Patrick and I both asked ourselves, in any other circumstance, would we consider hiking into the wilderness next to an uncontained forest fire? The answer was a unanimous no. Plus, John and Liz made it so easy for us to get up to South Lake Tahoe by driving us all the way there from Sonora Pass (thank you!!!!!). It was shortly after South Lake Tahoe that Patrick created a new hiking regimen or schedule for our trip that would help us finish the trail before he needs to be back in Vermont. The plan is simple: hike a minimum of 25 miles a day-- and maintain a 25 mile per day average even with town stops (subtracting a handful of "zero" days for visiting friends in Bend, Portland, and Washington). Every time we hike over 25 miles, we get "bonus" miles that we can "cash in" when we want to hang out in a town or when we don't make our 25 mile quota. So far it is a grand success. We've been about to keep up with our 25 mile per day average for over 500 miles! And we've hiked our biggest miles so far, hiking 31, 32, 33, and 34 mile days! Happily, we've met another young couple that hikes at a similar pace, Bushdog and Stomper, and they're up for our mileage plan-- so we're planning a joint attack on the Canadian border sometime in the first week of September, barring unforeseen conditions.
I unfortunately have no pictures to share this post because I forgot to bring the camera to the library. I know, I know, my blogging skills leave a bit to be desired. But next time, I promise, they'll be photos. For now, we're in Ashland, Oregon. Happy to finally be in the second state of this epic journey. And excited to spend tomorrow lounging around and doing as little walking as possible.
After a relaxing zero day (i.e. no miles hiked on the trail) and two evenings here in lovely Mammoth Lakes, CA, we finally made it to their library and it is by FAR the best library on the trail thus far. It is huge and spacious and has 20 or more computers for public use-- AMAZING! Sorry for all the caps but it truly is remarkable after all of the tiny, closet-like, 1-computer, 2 chair libraries that we have been lucky enough to find along the trail. It goes right along with Mammoth Lakes -- generally the most full service town (free buses!) that we've passed through since Big Bear-- about 500 trail miles ago!
Since my last post, we have hiked another hundred trail miles or so, putting us at mile 906 along the trail (not including our side trips over Mt Whitney and Kearsarge Pass). We hiked through Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Parks, which were spectacular, and then entered the John Muir Wilderness area. We had a tough trek over John Muir Pass. After clear sunny skies in the morning, the sky darkened and thunder started to boom right as we were beginning to peak above tree line into the ever so exposed rocky mountain peaks. The trail approached the pass from the east and was flooded out from melting snow in so many spots that we lost it again and again, all the while trying to pick up our hiking pace to beat the storm. But it seemed like luck was in our favor when the dark clouds started to lighten and the thunder ceased for what seemed like quite a while. We reached the illusive top of the pass and found a small stone shelter with several hikers inside who were waiting out the storm. Thinking that the storm was passing, we decided to take a little break in the shelter before heading down. Thirty or so minutes later, we rallied to head down the mountain pass-- 6 miles to tree line-- and just a little ways down the trail the lightening and thunder started again and this time they were close. We stalled a few moments to reassess, and then decided to head back to the shelter until the storm moved off a bit. Little did we know, the storm would continue to sit on top of the mountain pass for hours-- only increasing in intensity, sending down hail, snow, and rain and lots more lightning and thunder. More hikers arrived in the small shelter and we all considered ourselves quite lucky to be dry and out of the storm until.... the shelter started to leak.... everywhere! It was not promising to be a cozy night on top of the pass in a cold, leaky, crowded, stone shelter, so around 7:30pm, many hours later, Patrick and I decided to make a break for it and ran down the pass, through the hail and thunder, lightening and melting snow fields, to lower elevations. Though the trail stayed mostly flooded while we hiked down, the thunder and lightening and precipitation slowly subsided and gave way to breathtaking sunset colors on the mountain peaks and valleys. The whole granite valley was glowing a deep burgundy and highlighted the edges of the peaks along our descent. We ended our hike by headlamp and set up camp just before the trail crossed a large body of water, which seemed like a better task tackled in daylight hours.
This afternoon we are headed back to the trail and will enter Yosemite National Park when we head over Donahue Pass tomorrow afternoon. Our next few sections are a bit shorter and we're both excited to carry a little less food weight through the rest of the intense high sierra trail. We also sent our ice axes back to VT yesterday, since word on the trail is we won't be needing their assistance anymore. But along with the melting of the snow comes warmer conditions and that means mosquitoes! We've already had the first influx of mosquito hatchings in our last few days on the trail. We are hoping for the best, but are hiking with our mosquito headnets and our killer instincts, of course.
So many, many miles later-- here's another blog post! I had this mistaken idea that public internet access was easy to come by these days. Nope. Library hours are slashed. Libraries themselves are forsaken to the outskirts of small towns. And internet cafes? Well, those have definitely gone the way of the payphone... which is to say, they are no more. But nonetheless, the moon was in the right phase and all forces conspired so that I am now sitting here in Independence, California in a lovely little one room library in a courthouse basement. And its right across from a reasonable motel! Amazing! Before my computer minutes run out I will share a bit about our hike in these last weeks. Most notably, we had to get off the trail twice for a handful of days each time because Patrick (i.e. Dharma Bum) contracted giardia from some unsavory water source. There are a lot of questionable water sources in the southern sections of the PCT, so unfortunately, he was not alone. But with the help of so many strangers and trail angels, he was able to get antibiotics in Lake Isabella and is now once again a healthy and generally happy camper. We returned to the trail and made it through the last march of southern California-- countless miles of hot exposed hiking through recent forest fire and finally entered the long awaited High Sierra.
And it has been amazing! One breathtaking day after another. We summited Mt. Whitney, the highest mountain in the lower 48, and hiked over Forrester Pass, the highest point on the whole Pacific Crest Trail! What a high! Coming over Forrester Pass into Kings Canyon National Park was nothing shy of magical. We hiked out Kearsarge Pass this morning and hitched down here into town. Now we're gearing up for 7 more glorious days in the high sierra to our next resupply in Mammoth Lakes.
I've been unable to access a computer for the length of time necessary to write a blog entry- but here I am- finally- over 300 miles into our hike to Canada! It sounds like a lot of miles when I don't think of it within the context of hiking over 2000 miles. Within that context, 300 miles sounds like small potatoes. Nevertheless, that is how it happens-- one small potato after another-- and eventually you have a thousand small potatoes!
We are currently at Cajon Pass, a highway exit in the far outskirts of L.A. There is still an amazing amount of traffic even though the mountain terrain surrounding this pass feels pretty remote and wild. We've passed through hot, dry, desert mountains near the Mexican border and beautiful alpine forests in the San Jacinto Mountains, and dramatic canyons just south of here along Mission Creek and Deep Creek. Countering all expectations, we've had only one hot day (though I've still managed to get heat rash on my legs on three different occasions). Two cool fronts have come through and brought in wind, rain, and huge ominous clouds. The latest front is just passing through and as we go into higher elevation mountains (8,000'-10,000'), we're hoping that slightly warmer weather prevails and any snow from the past few days melts away.
A wonderful CSA member just wrote a distressed email that she had missed the messages of my sabbatical from the farm this summer and thought it might be too late to sign up for another CSA! It is a bittersweet note to receive, since I'm overjoyed that being a member of the Hermit Thrush CSA is a priority and the experience will be missed during this year away, but of course I'm disappointed that I wasn't able to 100% effectively spread the message. I am hopeful, knowing that there are usually many CSAs still accepting members this time of year in our area, but still, that guilty feeling of having somehow failed someone is quick to flood my chest with a vague sinking feeling.
That is truly the feeling that I wanted to avoid when I wrote my "To Do" list before we left. And yet I knew there would be many things left unattended. The stakes still lying piled in the field. The drip tape and the row cover will semi-frozen to the ground. The long dead sunflower skeletons still standing tall. Ho hum. What is it about not being able to tidy everything, to put everything in its place, that leaves a subtle yet nagging anxiety in the mind? We know that in the end the forces of motion, of change, of decay, will naturally and inevitably take over, whether it is still while we inhabit our bodies or after we are gone. I think in the deepest sense it is a grasping for control in a world that we know ultimately is uncontrollable.
Dinner is calling-- so here is a brief synopsis of what's to come. Patrick and I head down to San Diego tomorrow. And we'll be on the trail on Friday if all goes according to plan! So many thanks to our amazing hosts John and Liz in Berkeley, and Uncle Kent and Aunt Alice in Santa Monica!
This is my first blog post. Ever.
Well, I may have started a blog at some point and never published it. Or published it but never told anyone about it. I seem to have a vague recollection of some kind of incident with a blog-- but I don't think it paints a very favorable picture of me, and I don't quite remember the specifics, which come to think of it, probably go hand in hand.
I'd like to start off by thanking you for reading this. I have no idea at this point what kind of content this blog will report, except that I'll be writing about whatever comes up during my long hike of the Pacific Crest Trail this summer. I tend to write journal entries that share a general sense of what's happening, the day to day life events, and then ramble a bit about whatever I might be thinking of in that particular moment. And since I have to imagine my primary readers will be family and close friends-- most likely my Mom and possibly my Dad if he finds his way back to this website (he is not really a computer person...)-- I am happy to say that I feel a palpable sense of connection to you readers. While I haven't left yet, I will, I'm sure, truly enjoy sharing this experience with you all in this quite intimate, though also very public way.
Today, Patrick and I sorted through the maps and guidebook pages that we purchased a few weeks ago (Halfmile maps and Yogi guidebook for those of you interested in the details), placing each section in its requisite plastic ziplock bag. We're planning a hybrid resupply strategy this time of mailing ourselves some resupply boxes, but buying food along the way whenever possible. When we hiked shorter sections of the PCT in 2007 and 2009 we sent (or rather, Patrick's parents dutifully sent) all of our food to post offices and small pit stops along the way. This strategy became a bit cumbersome when some small stores and post offices had limited hours, restricting the free form schedule that such a trip can so luxuriously afford. Plus, its just not necessary for many points along the trail. My one anxiety about this strategy is that our days "off" in towns will become overly busy and/or stressful. However, I realize much of that feeling of "business" is a mind manifestation. And if I check in regularly with the story my mind is creating, I may find that all the "busy" energy is just coming from that stream of thoughts that is all too easy to tap into.
I think this might be a good time to interject some philosophical/ spiritual bent to this blog post. I just returned a week ago from my first 8 day silent meditation retreat at the Insight Meditation Society in Barre, MA. The retreat ended on my 32nd birthday, and the retreat itself could not have been a better birthday present to myself. While I had illusions going into it that the retreat would be a kind of vacation from my life at the homestead-- a week free from planning and projects and working on the house. In its own way it was a break. An amazing, peaceful, break. But the break was really from myself. Or maybe I should say, my "self". I was freed from the self that constantly needs to be busy. That thinks of one thing to do after another. One thing that should be done, that could be done, that I should do, and you should do. The teachers of the retreat often quoted their teacher from the Thai forest tradition, Ajahn Chah. One quote really stuck with me-- its so simple that most friends seem to have little reaction when I tell them about it-- but I heard it at just the right time, in just the right way. Ajahn Chah would say "Don't rush. Never Rush." That's it. For me, those simple words have a profound lesson. He doesn't say, "Don't rush, except when you're late, or you have a deadline." There's no exceptions, no explanations-- just "Don't rush." That's it.
I think part of the reason that I relate so strongly to those simple words is that energy that I talk of fearing on a day "off" in town, resupplying, is just that. It is a rushing energy. It is a grasping, needy energy that can't be quenched except by getting it all done. Which reminds me of another quote that Patrick and I love by Lao Tzu, "Nature doesn't hurry, yet everything is accomplished." And that's the real secret isn't it? There's no need to hurry, to mindlessly busy ourselves. And what Ajahn Chah says implies that even when we tell ourselves, "well, I have to hurry right now, I've just got to get this done by etc., etc., etc." it is not the truth. The truth is, nature doesn't hurry-- and everything truly is accomplished.
0 Miles Hiked-- Still in VT
It is officially springtime! Looking for proof? Simply browse any official literature related to the attempts of humans to categorize and clump cyclical, reliable, and self-similar environmental phenomena. I think you'll find plenty of date-corresponding data. But make sure to avoid visually browsing the landscape, aurally browsing the birdscape, taste browsing the foodscape, smell browsing the nosescape, or temperature browsing the airscape sans 'winter' coat--these may lead to more confusion than clarity.
And speaking of weather-related confusion, I've been wondering about the years before the climate change debate came onto the scene. To what analogous idea did people attach their opinions, their fears, their identities? To what grand force did we look as a source of inspiration, cause of desperation, spark for altercation? Lately I have found the name dropping of climate change to be sneaking into the less-noticed nooks and crannies of daily life. What started as ideo-ecological debate in the grand public theater has surreptitiously found its way into our brain-pants pockets, becoming a go-to resource of understanding, which we find hard to imagine was so recently not easily grabbed. (For analogy, see: Phone; cellular: The Making of Plans With Your Friends, Pre-2000 v. Post-2000.)
Now, I don't know about you, but I think I know about you, and I strongly suspect you are like me, in that we communicate with other people primarily because we need and enjoy connection. Which I find quite confusing, considering how often I find myself and others communicating mainly in ideas and judgements, either agreeing when our ideas are the same, or trying to persuade when our judgements differ. Generally, I have come to the conclusion that persuasion is a dead-end strategy. How often have you convinced someone to completely change their mind about something (like climate change) when it is obviously attached to great feelings and needs? In my experience, it can't be done. That's because while thoughts may be negotiable, needs are not, and different people attach their needs to different circumstances. Person "A" may meet their need for peace and safety through their knowledge and direct experience of the seasons. You will not convince this person that the threat of losing that connection in a climate change scenario is not scary. Likewise, Person "B" may meet their need for independence by using any number of gas-powered implements to provide for themselves. You will not convince this person that the threat of losing their ability to provide for themselves as they know how is not scary. This is not to say that people can't come to some middle ground--the point is that if we start from a place of persuading, without first connecting with what's really going on, we will find that we get nowhere fast.
Admittedly, so far in this blog entry, I have been simply sharing ideas. So, as an experiment, I'm going to write two paragraphs, each one describing my transition of life during this past winter. In the first, I'll write about my thoughts/ judgements of the transition. In the second, I'll share my feelings and needs in the transition. See how you connect with one compared to the other:
Thoughts/ Judgements About My Transition:
What a year! The house is finally closed-in, and we insulated just in time before the cold. If you haven't had the experience of building your own house, you should. It's really challenging, but also very rewarding. If I had the fortitude, I would plow on through the interior finish work now, but I don't think I'm capable. You know, after three years of focusing on this project, it really bugs me when I hear other people say they 'built their house' too, when in fact they had it built for them. I want to make a distinction here--paying others to do the work is not the same as doing it yourself. Credit where credit is due! And I can't believe how few people tackle this type of pursuit from the ground up. If you are willing to live without lots of optional creature comforts, you can slowly make your way to a home that is comfortable, and incredibly personal. As it stands, I'm going to try some other projects now, maybe working on a construction crew, or try another line of work. We'll see what happens.
Feelings/ Needs in My Transition:
What a year! The house is finally closed-in, and we insulated just in time before the cold. By the end there, I was really losing interest in the work, but I wouldn't let myself stop--I just wanted to feel peaceful knowing that the house was weather-protected. That was quite a struggle though--I was doing the exact same work as in the beginning, but instead of feeling engaged and enthusiastic, I was feeling tired and frustrated, confused at the shift of experience. After more reflection, I realized that I was working more and more by myself at the end, feeling quite lonely, no longer connecting with Meggie or anyone else in the building tasks themselves. Knowing how many couples have split up during the process of building a house (as in the saying, "Build a house, lose a spouse"), I knew the unhappiness of the situation was not emotionally sustainable for me or for us. That clarity was somewhat relieving, and allowed me to shelve the idea of moving right onto building a barn. (Same strategy, same result.) The one other thing I couldn't get past was this insight--I was losing my sense of purpose, or contributing to a greater good, contributing to the lives of others. I've been feeling a lot of sadness and disappointment when getting in touch with the purpose that has been recently lacking in my life. However, from facing these emotions and unmet needs through Nonviolent Communication and Buddhist meditation, I am now starting to piece together a new strategy which doesn't negate any of my past work, but instead leads me toward new avenues of connection and contribution, and opens up beautiful possibilities to integrate the entirety over time. I feel motivated and excited (and nervous and anxious!) now as I apply to jobs and schools in therapy and emotional work, start an NVC group in Brattleboro, and generally open myself up to all possibilities. I am dynamic like all of you--we have the ability to choose a new direction at any given moment when we realize our current path is no longer meeting all of our needs. Hermit Thrush Homestead is dynamic as well, and I suspect will provide me with even more opportunities to combine my creative fulfillment of the house, with my connecting fulfillment of a home. We'll see what happens.
There you have it. As per usual, sharing feeling and needs takes more time and real estate than thoughts and judgements, but I think the quality of the conveyance more than makes up for any perceived long-windedness. Besides, who cares how long it takes if it's fulfilling all the while? Isn't that what life is all about?
Now I sit here and work on being present and at peace with the cold still gripping this hillside. I dream of a tiny little bit of warming here in Vermont--just enough to convince all the birds it's time to return, all the green things it is time to reach out--time for me to have a spring in my step, rather than a slip, or a slosh. And if when this spring finally does arrive I hear someone sharing how the speed of seasonal transition, or intensity of heat, or lateness of green is caused by climate change, I will do my best to hear what feelings and needs this person is trying to share with me, so we can connect, now, and move forward, together.
Recording moments from our journey on the Pacific Crest Trail. (All pre-2015 entries are Patrick's words on work and life at the homestead).