It was during my first summer in Colorado, on one of my first camping trips, that I found myself standing on the edge of a fifty-foot cliff that hovered over the Colorado River prepared to jump. When we first arrived at the spot I feigned excitement when my male companions realized this was the ideal spot for cliff jumping, encouraged them to go for it, and settled into a nearby hot spring.
As I watched them leap off the edge, splash, and sink into the water once, twice, three times I began to get inspired. They emerged each time laughing and looking alive and refreshed. I wondered how it feels to be floating in air for that split second, to meet the cold quick-moving water with such speed and force. It seemed like one of those once-in-a-lifetime deals, jumping from a cliff in the sparkling Colorado sunshine, landing in the renowned Colorado River. I thought about it to the point where I knew if I didn’t do it I’d regret it. I suggested to the other female camping with us that weekend that we make like the boys and jump. She thought it was a fabulous idea and we decided we’d at least make our way to the top of the cliff and look down.
I became even more inspired when we got to the top. We were at a cliff-lined bend in the river, a Union Pacific train whistled past on a cliff on the other side of the river then disappeared into a tunnel, traveling a path paved long ago. I wondered how long it had taken the river to shape this cliff to make it a good jumping spot. I wondered if this had been the perfect jumping spot back when the Union Pacific railroad tracks were first constructed and if ancient versions of ourselves, donned in dusty bathing costumes, had found this place long before we had.
Looking down, down, down at the water I cleared my mind of cluttered thoughts and concentrated only on summoning the courage to jump. Just thinking about it now, recalling the height, the feel of the warm rocky ground my feet were clinging to, makes my stomach tumble. My companion and I counted to four (because three is just not enough time), took a deep breath, and leapt.
I remember floating in air for a brief moment, my stomach fluttering somewhere in my head. I remember hitting the water. I remember the pain. I jumped with what the guys were quick to point out was “the wrong form” and hit the water hard. The water was cold and swirling and the force with which I hit ripped my eyes open and twisted my bathing suit in an unflattering way. I kicked my way to the surface and grabbed onto the closest, sturdiest rock. I was shaking, laughing uncontrollably, and praying the pain would leave me quickly. The guys told me when I first surfaced the look on my face was that of pure panic. I assured them that the feeling in my gut at that moment was that of pure panic.
Under the stars that night I reflected on the day. I had spent the year after college, before moving to Vail, on the edge of a cliff, waiting and wishing for the courage to jump. I had felt unable to move in any direction, with no motivation to observe or create. It wasn’t a horrible place to be, on the edge of a cliff looking over the beauty and possibility in front of me, knowing it was only a quick leap away. The ground under my feet was sturdy and familiar, comforting. But, I have found, I can only stand on the edge of a cliff for so long before I start to fear falling or being pushed against my will, or worse, before I lose my courage. So because I didn’t want an opportunity to pass, because it was either jump or step away from the cliff, I counted to four and I leapt.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Sunday, July 5, 2009
RE: Lions and Tigers and Bears, DATE: June 25, 2005
My dad has taught me more about writing than any book, class, or professor. We email frequently and I’ve saved many of our messages. The following is an email I wrote him during my first summer in Vail and is one of my favorites.
Dad:
I recently had my first genuine Colorado camping experience. It was more along the lines of mosquitoes and mountain lions and coyotes than lions, tigers, and bears. And to be honest I didn’t see any mountain lions or coyotes, or many mosquitoes for that matter. I’m confident, though, that the mosquitoes were there because I have more bites than I’ve had since sixth grade camp. As for the coyotes, I heard them howling throughout the night and I must say I’m rather happy to not have met one. And I neither saw nor heard a mountain lion, however, while hiking around Rifle Falls I saw a sign instructing parents to keep their children close around dusk and dawn as this is mountain lion country and they are likely to attack around those times.
Printed on the sign was a list of instructions on what to do if a mountain lion does attack. Among other things you should first try to act larger than you are (in an attempt to scare away the larger-than-life predator I assume). If that doesn’t work (which why the heck shouldn’t it? It seems completely logical) you ought to try throwing rocks at it, or, go ahead and fight back if it should come to that because, as the sign reminds visitors, “people can fight off mountain lion attacks.” It made it seem as logical and as common as “Only you can prevent forest fires.” Of course you are not, under any circumstances to run away from a mountain lion. Now I suppose I understand the logic behind that one, we all know mountain lions love moving targets and they are fast, those devils, but I gotta tell you it would take a lot of self-control and clear-mindedness in the heat of the moment to remind myself I shouldn’t run.
I later saw a sign posted on a dumpster warning guests to keep their trash out of the way of bears and I wondered who might win in a fight between a bear and a mountain lion. I tossed the question out to my fellow campers and we all pondered it (one of the deepest deep thoughts of the weekend). We came to no solid conclusion, but my money’s on the mountain lion, unless, of course, the bear has read the “How to Survive a Mountain Lion Attack” sign. I can only imagine what would happen if a bear started chucking rocks at a mountain lion. I hope I never encounter either beast, or a coyote for that matter. It was enough of a thrill for me to just ponder what if.
That was last week’s trip. It definitely took some convincing to get me to go along. This might surprise you but I’m not exactly the camping sort. I don’t get all excited thinking about sleeping on the ground in a tent, taking late-night hikes, and bringing a roll of toilet paper along just in case. But the boys found another girl to join us, a lake we could swim in, and somehow I found myself committed. And while the campsite left something to be desired––it was dusty with little shade––there were outhouses with toilet paper and I found them to be tolerable if I breathed out of my mouth. The ground was rocky and I’m not a fan of tents but the lake was amazing, an oasis in a mountain desert. That combined with the Rocky Mountain backdrop and I easily forgot that I couldn’t take a shower for a couple days.
And I even went along for a midnight hike (ok so I complained the whole way up but at least I went). It was a sacred moment, lying on my back on top of a hill under a star-spangled sky. There were more stars than I’ve ever seen. Andy got out his harmonica and started playing (he’s not at all good, barely knows how to play, but there’s something about the eerie sound of a harmonica that’s almost sweet and it seems you don’t really have to know how to play it to make music with it). Those oddly sweet notes drifted up into the silence, melting with the Milky Way, blending into my thoughts.
Falling stars darted across the sky and I felt so small, so humbled on top of that little mountain, in the midst of much bigger mountains. I felt part of something larger than myself and I started to understand what this summer is about. It’s not about trying to prove I can be one of the guys. It’s not about working and making money. It’s not about making a ton of new friends or even about re-inventing myself. It’s about moments like that one.
The next day, while sitting next to the lake, I decided I like camping. I don’t like sleeping on the ground, eating hot dogs for every meal, or boiling water for drinking, but if camping involves breath-taking views and life-lessons then I enjoy it. I enjoy it enough, in fact, to do it again, which I did but that’s another story for another time. I will tell you, though, that on my second camping trip I didn’t brush my teeth at all and only brushed my hair once, I’m a regular mountain woman now. I even slept under a sky full of bats. Now that’s the stuff adventures are made of.
I’m off to bed now, off to Starbucks again in the morning, I’m just hoping my knowledge of how to deal with a mountain lion attack will come in handy when dealing with the rich and privileged.
Love, Tracey
Dad:
I recently had my first genuine Colorado camping experience. It was more along the lines of mosquitoes and mountain lions and coyotes than lions, tigers, and bears. And to be honest I didn’t see any mountain lions or coyotes, or many mosquitoes for that matter. I’m confident, though, that the mosquitoes were there because I have more bites than I’ve had since sixth grade camp. As for the coyotes, I heard them howling throughout the night and I must say I’m rather happy to not have met one. And I neither saw nor heard a mountain lion, however, while hiking around Rifle Falls I saw a sign instructing parents to keep their children close around dusk and dawn as this is mountain lion country and they are likely to attack around those times.
Printed on the sign was a list of instructions on what to do if a mountain lion does attack. Among other things you should first try to act larger than you are (in an attempt to scare away the larger-than-life predator I assume). If that doesn’t work (which why the heck shouldn’t it? It seems completely logical) you ought to try throwing rocks at it, or, go ahead and fight back if it should come to that because, as the sign reminds visitors, “people can fight off mountain lion attacks.” It made it seem as logical and as common as “Only you can prevent forest fires.” Of course you are not, under any circumstances to run away from a mountain lion. Now I suppose I understand the logic behind that one, we all know mountain lions love moving targets and they are fast, those devils, but I gotta tell you it would take a lot of self-control and clear-mindedness in the heat of the moment to remind myself I shouldn’t run.
I later saw a sign posted on a dumpster warning guests to keep their trash out of the way of bears and I wondered who might win in a fight between a bear and a mountain lion. I tossed the question out to my fellow campers and we all pondered it (one of the deepest deep thoughts of the weekend). We came to no solid conclusion, but my money’s on the mountain lion, unless, of course, the bear has read the “How to Survive a Mountain Lion Attack” sign. I can only imagine what would happen if a bear started chucking rocks at a mountain lion. I hope I never encounter either beast, or a coyote for that matter. It was enough of a thrill for me to just ponder what if.
That was last week’s trip. It definitely took some convincing to get me to go along. This might surprise you but I’m not exactly the camping sort. I don’t get all excited thinking about sleeping on the ground in a tent, taking late-night hikes, and bringing a roll of toilet paper along just in case. But the boys found another girl to join us, a lake we could swim in, and somehow I found myself committed. And while the campsite left something to be desired––it was dusty with little shade––there were outhouses with toilet paper and I found them to be tolerable if I breathed out of my mouth. The ground was rocky and I’m not a fan of tents but the lake was amazing, an oasis in a mountain desert. That combined with the Rocky Mountain backdrop and I easily forgot that I couldn’t take a shower for a couple days.
And I even went along for a midnight hike (ok so I complained the whole way up but at least I went). It was a sacred moment, lying on my back on top of a hill under a star-spangled sky. There were more stars than I’ve ever seen. Andy got out his harmonica and started playing (he’s not at all good, barely knows how to play, but there’s something about the eerie sound of a harmonica that’s almost sweet and it seems you don’t really have to know how to play it to make music with it). Those oddly sweet notes drifted up into the silence, melting with the Milky Way, blending into my thoughts.
Falling stars darted across the sky and I felt so small, so humbled on top of that little mountain, in the midst of much bigger mountains. I felt part of something larger than myself and I started to understand what this summer is about. It’s not about trying to prove I can be one of the guys. It’s not about working and making money. It’s not about making a ton of new friends or even about re-inventing myself. It’s about moments like that one.
The next day, while sitting next to the lake, I decided I like camping. I don’t like sleeping on the ground, eating hot dogs for every meal, or boiling water for drinking, but if camping involves breath-taking views and life-lessons then I enjoy it. I enjoy it enough, in fact, to do it again, which I did but that’s another story for another time. I will tell you, though, that on my second camping trip I didn’t brush my teeth at all and only brushed my hair once, I’m a regular mountain woman now. I even slept under a sky full of bats. Now that’s the stuff adventures are made of.
I’m off to bed now, off to Starbucks again in the morning, I’m just hoping my knowledge of how to deal with a mountain lion attack will come in handy when dealing with the rich and privileged.
Love, Tracey
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