Tosha-the-Brave and the Flying Vampires

(Photo courtesy of Tosha Payne, aka Tosha-the-Brave)

There was once a time that Tosha-the-Brave decided to go on an adventure, high above the fruited plains. As a matter of course, Tosha thrived upon daring deeds, witty comments, and hiking through remote, wild tundra. She was also wise enough to seek a companion in her wanderlust. Or perhaps I should say, kind enough, as she allowed Jody-the-Tenacious to join her in adventuring. 

On this occasion, many were invited, but only two emerged through the haze of July days to pack a little white car with sleeping bags, a tent, water, and foodstuffs. Three hours, two mountain passes, and one stop later, the two young women found themselves slowly bumping up a gravel road that looked much like an alpine mogul course. The end of this road was the beginning of the trail to Willow Lake. Having meant to go straight to the campground, the girls were momentarily puzzled, but decided to take a look around the trailhead to prepare for the next days' trek.

Upon walking up the river, a small cloud of wingéd terrors sprang up, and Tosha-the-Brave warned her fair-skinned friend to retreat from the thirsty mosquitoes. Both girls headed off to scout out a camping spot in the area, away from the pesky bloodsuckers. But however fast they walked, ever and anon, a haze of needle-nosed critters swarmed their arms and legs, plunging through their skin. Welts, heat, and frustration sent the girls back to the car, determined to rid themselves of the awful bugs. 

After procuring bug spray and mosquito repellent buttons (and applying both), they continued their journey toward the campground. It was full—not a spot to be had. After eating dinner at a cluster of picnic tables, Tosha and Jody took a stroll through camp to see what they could see. Two different groups of campers willingly offered to share campsites, much to the relief of both girls. Profusely thanking both parties, they pulled in and set up the tent at one of the spots. Preparing to settle in for the evening, both girls snagged their toothbrushes from their packs, whereupon, Tosha-the-Brave cried out jubilantly, "I'm going to brush my teeth on a stage!" and jumped up on a large rock. Indeed, she did brush her teeth on a platform, dancing a jig and performing Pilates all the while. The girls then climbed into the tent, sharing camping stories and laughter over the neighbour who dressed up like a bear to scare his friends. 

Morning broke and so did camp. Soon, the two companions were bouncing over mogul-ruts and past a large trailer labelled 'USDA Forest Service Pack String.' It was soon evident that the pack string was going to be one of the most interesting and enjoyable parts of their venture. There at the trailhead stood nearly a dozen horses and mules, patiently being packed with coolers, large tent poles, and sundry other baggage. The pack was broken into two segments of mules with a horse-mounted rider leading each section. The hikers felt they had stepped back in time in this magical place, as they watched those equine beauties start up the trail.

But magic can be black as well as white, and the two friends soon found themselves in a pitched battle with bloodthirsty, flying vampires as they began the ascent to Willow Lake. The vampires had disguised themselves as those winged creatures commonly called mosquitoes. Their ruse was soon penetrated by the astute girls, however, as the mosquito clouds were thick and seemed to follow their every step. In spite of showering in bug repellent before leaving camp, small hypodermic needles pricked the girls again and again. The vampires would swarm close, land, choke on the repellent, and be forced to fly away—but some would count the cost of repellent low, those cavalier creatures bit. 

Stopping for breath or to rest one's muscles was impossible in the the black swarm of flying vampires. Tosha-the-Brave boldly tromped on, in spite of hard breathing causing her to inhale more than one mosquito. Jody-the-Tenacious, though determined to reach the end, began to question her sanity; began, in fact, to doubt the vile creatures could be vanquished, and secretly thought of turning 'round and hiding in the car. But always, always Tosha-the-Brave forged ahead through the vampire clouds, slowing her pace to help her friend have the strength to go forward. 

Morale was at its lowest when the intrepid hikers ascended a switchback that brought them out of the close, humid forest and into open air above a vibrant green meadow. Still their enemies would not give them peace, but the air was good, and directly ahead of them they had caught up to the pack string. Talking with the folks in the string distracted the girls from feeling discouraged. Hope began slowly to leak into their hearts and minds. Tosha applied a dose of bug spray to Jody's head and the crowding pack of vampire-mosquitoes veered away from her nose and eyes. Courage! Jody-the-Tenacious said in her heart. On they trekked, ever upward, over stones and streams, until they reached a windy height where an immense valley opened on their right, sheer cliffs towered ahead, and the vampires were scattered (true to form) by the strong sunlight. There the girls stood—panting—drinking in the verdure, the blue haze of a distant mountain range, and a much needed break from the vicious blood slurping mosquitoes.

Onward, ever onward, climbed the hikers, though they encountered thick, black mud and the path became a stream of snowmelt. Tosha-the-Brave managed to keep her feet dry, and thus was very pleased. After much effort, the girls clambered over some large rocks and came to the edge of a high mountain lake, aquamarine and sparkling in the noontide sunshine. Close at hand, a mountain goat looked up and skittered away, jumping the outlet of the lake in his hurry to gain the safety of the cliffs. 

After a rejuvenating lunch, Tosha and Jody were tired, but determined to climb further up to reach the top of the cliffs, from which poured a thin curtain of rain-like water drops and a tremendous, foaming waterfall. The path was fairly easy to climb, wending constantly toward a bowl of mountains, a flower-sprinkled greensward, and the rocky cliff-tops dropping tons of icy water into the rippling lake far below. It was here that Jody-the-Tenacious managed to soak one shoe in a chilly river-crossing. Not long after, however, she met a curious little marmot who seemed happy enough to make her acquaintance, whereupon, she forgot her wet foot entirely in the pleasure of their chat. 

Meanwhile, Tosha-the-Brave scaled several large boulders in her [successful] efforts to catch the waterfall on film from various angles. Jody sat upon a large rock, propping her feet on another to watch the clouds race o'erhead in the rich azure sky. She felt the breeze tickle her ears and caught the shimmer of the fairy-footed wind dancing its way across Willow Lake. All too soon, dark clouds gathered over Kit Carson mountain and the two adventurers knew they should return to the low lands in order to drive home. Reluctant feet bore them away from the high alpine valley; their lungs breathing in sweet air and their eyes trying to drink in the vistas chiselled out and softened by the Great Maker of all things. 

Lower and lower they went, meeting fewer mosquito hoards on their downward journey. The final mile was clouded by flying vampires, still full of blood-lust and stinging bites... But the wonder of the lake and mountain-meadow-bowl was still so fragrant and deep that the girls were more prepared to battled the dark host. Besides, after rumbling down the rutted dirt road, they stopped for ice cream bars, a great delight to the happily worn-out hikers. But far sweeter than the ice cream was the triumph of making their way out of the land of the flying vampires, of seeing the beauty hidden in the mountains, and not giving up in the face of deterring enemies. Thus, Tosha-the-Brave and Jody-the-Tenacious drove off into the sunset, accomplished and happy to be headed home.

 —The End

Tosha-the-Brave and the Peanut Butter Socks

Once, there was a grown-up girl named Tosha-the-Brave. She was daring and adventurous, willing to take risks to find beauty and wildness. But there was one thing that Tosha did not like—did not like decidedly—and that was having wet feet.

Tosha often sallied forth on a quest by herself, or with a friend or two in tow. She would come home armed with pictures and tales of her treks. Her photos were exquisite, layered with vibrant colour in the contours of mountains or in shape-shifting clouds. 

One such journey began like any other, up with the honey-coloured sunlight to get to a hiking trail in time to miss afternoon tempests. But though the story began like any other, it ended up being the tale of Tosha-the-Brave and the peanut butter socks.

Upon arriving in the wilderness of a majestic park, Tosha and Jody were anxious to stretch their legs on a long summer's hike. Rounding a bend not far into their trek, floods of people were pouring down the path, calling the warning of there being far too much snow to pass. Undaunted, the girls went forth to see what white beast met their eyes and feet. They laughed to one another at the lowlanders, unused to higher elevations and snow in summer. 

On they went, until the path shifted and seemed lost at the crossing of a stream. Perseverance and prayer brought them to the small footpath the trail had become. After meeting two groups of people who said the trail was impassible or impossible to find, Tosha-the-Brave and Jody-the-Tenacious decided to see what lay ahead. On and on they went, over rocks and snow, past glassy-clear mountain pools.

Knowing the trail from a previous hike, Tosha showed Jody where to scale a slope of snow, climb a rock face, and end up with a stunning view of mountains, alpine lakes, and a narrow canyon. Both adventurers stared, wonderstruck at the beauty all around them. 

After timeless minutes, Jody, being hungry and very concerned about eating lunch, left Tosha to take photos, and fished out a peanut butter and honey sammich for snacking purposes. Tosha was soon lured into lunching on her own peanut butter and jelly sammich. As they chewed and looked, Tosha heard a great cracking noise and the two friends were in time to watch rushing snow pour like a cataract over the face of the mighty Notchtop. An avalanche! An avalanche like a monster of noise and snow for their very own eyes to see!

There was not enough light in the day for Jody and Tosha to stay and drink in all the bold beauty of the shimmering, rugged world around them. Reluctantly, they shouldered their packs (wherein Jody almost packed a chipmunk by mistake), tromped through melting snow up to their thighs, and re-joined the path below. 

Some wandering tracks and then snow clear of prints—with no trail to be seen—were all that lay ahead. But Tosha-the-Brave had seen this trail in deep summer; she was not afraid of losing her way or not being able to pass. She lead the duo fearlessly, forging a path across snow fields (in shorts no less!), always steering the pair straight for the path.

Snow, snow, and more snow! It stung their hands and legs, making them bleed as if small shards of glass had cut them. Still, Tosha-the-Brave pressed forward and Jody-the-Tenacious followed. The lust of adventure and the thrill of the quest was upon them, they would not turn back now! For a mile or more they broke through untrammelled snow, then came to a gushing river. There! Many tacks dented the snow. A group of hikers had come through that far at least, making the downward way easier to find and traverse.

By this time, Jody and Tosha had wrinkly-wet feet and socks from falling through the deep snow so often. At times, when the trail wasn't a steep mound of snow, it was a shallow stream itself, running ever down to meet the snow-melt river below. Surely, surely the path would be dry soon, the girls would say. But it wasn't. Then, upon dropping under a great canopy of pines and winding down to another lake, the trail became dirt—not snow, stream, or mud. 

Tosha rejoiced, immediately proposing a break to change her socks and dry her feet. She did so, but Jody (the foolhardy, now) chose to wear her wet socks, as not only her socks but also her shoes were soaked through and through. Now what does one do with muddy-wet socks from crossing the great Western snow-fields? They put those smelly, soaked socks in their PB&J lunch bag, of course! 

Tosha-the-brave knew this, immediately carrying out the plan. She was soon the possessor of peanut butter socks. While many thought it was these peanut butter socks that made her able to walk through walls of snow and take all kinds of daring treks, Tosha knew that really, they only smelled funny when she took them out of the bag to wash them. She was bold and brave without them.

—The End

Being Italian for a Day

Today I stepped back in time and took life at a slower pace. For nearly seven hours I was given the gift of being Italian. 

It all began about a year ago when our (then) new accountant kept telling those of us in the office about "tomato day". She and her husband would go to the fields and pick bushels of tomatoes. They would save them for a week to make sure they were really ripe. Then began the process of turning those tomatoes into a year's worth of pasta sauce. Many a time I have sampled minestrone, Italian vegetable soup, and so forth imbued in the goodness of this homemade sauce. Today I was given the opportunity to join in the labour of the fruits.

Three of us from the village arrived at Sue and Blake's house around nine in the morning. We petted the dog, washed our hands, met some family, and jumped in to the fray. Soon we were slicing onions in great big quarter chunks and learning how to peel garlic by shaking it inside two metal bowls (this actually works, you should try it). I also encountered a wooden spoon longer than my leg, which is impressive, because my legs are the longest part of me. When all was said, sliced, and done, we had four bushels of tomatoes, six onions, two bulbs of garlic, and two large containers of basil simmering over the camp stove in a collective eighty quarts. If you have never seen a twenty quart pot, you may not realise how massive it is compared to whatever normal persons use for cooking. However, the twenty quart pot was significantly dwarfed by the sixty quart pot and the spoon the size of Reepicheep's coracle paddle. Perhaps a photo will help illustrate my point:

See, doesn't the twenty quart pot look like your everyday sort of soup pot? Unless you normally feed an army, however, that pot was by no means everyday-ish. 

We stirred and squashed tomatoes for a few hours. We ate lunch. We petted Verona some more. Finally, the tomatoes began to boil into a rich red, aromatic fervour. We washed our hands, set up the press, gathered pots and buckets, and formed an assembly-line. Blake said "go!" and we began. Amanda poured the boiling hot tomato mixture into the wide funnel, I pressed it down with the plunger, and Sue cleared the skins and debris as they filled the flat "catcher". Those skins and onions and basil leaves went back into the press's funnel—we wanted all that flavour! Then they were removed to the rubbish. Various splatterings and eruptions left us with orangey splotches on our arms, feet, jeans, and shirts. Blake kept bringing pots and pans to catch the juices and thick sauce. We filled four different containers with that crimson, delicious-smelling sauce. Then back into those huge pots it went for an hour to boil out any bacteria. 

We stirred continuously to prevent burning the sauce. We set up the table with jar after jar—over sixty of them. Blake boiled the lids to ensure a good seal. Sue took soundings with the thermometer—we had to hit 180º. We let the sauce "percolate" there for about half an hour. Out came the silver funnel for filling small mouth jars. Out came ladles and glass measuring cups with pour spouts. Next came the empty boxes to put the finished jars in for safe-keeping. Over came the neighbour girl to help wipe around the jar tops to make sure they sealed well. All was set... Then Blake said, "Go!" and we were in full swing. Clear jar after clear jar was filled with hot, pungent, tomato sauce. Red jar after red jar was passed to me to put in the empty boxes. In a matter of minutes sixty-two empty jars were full and sitting in their cardboard casings on the counter.

The dishes were washed and drip-drying; the delightful "pop!" of the seals was beginning; and four tired persons were grinning at the success of the day. We had made legitimate Sicilian tomato sauce with a recipe and process passed down from Blake's grandparents. We had been swashed in hot red juices and remained standing. We had picked up nearly all the parts and pieces... And it wasn't even four o'clock yet.

It felt good to stir hot sauce on a cool Autumn day. It was rewarding to slow down and make the year's supply of sauce, rather than buying that processed stuff from the grocery. I was reminded of all those times growing up when my mother, sisters, and I cut, cooked, mashed,  pressed, and strained apples for applesauce. I remember crisp days, sweet smells, and very tired arms from hand cranking that machine. But the satisfaction at the end of the day in making one's own food with one's own produce and labours was just the same. There is something to be said for making things rather than buying them.

There is a sweet satisfaction a a job well-done. There is camaraderie, fellowship, and working together in the process. You get to know stories you might never have heard were you not using an oar to paddle red sauce over open flames. You learn more about your friends and family, your skills and others', by working together. And you have to take life slowly when you're watching a sixty quart pot of tomatoes boiling. I'm glad I was allowed to be Italian for the day.

~ Johanna

The Road Goes Ever On and On...

The Road goes ever on and on
   Down from the door where it began.
Now far ahead the Road has gone,
   And I must follow, if I can,
Pursuing it with eager feet,
   Until it joins some larger way
Where many paths and errands meet.
   And whither then? I cannot say.

~ J. R. R. Tolkien

We stand on the cusp of a new year, a road winding like a silver ribbon before us. Though the road goes past our safe little Hobbit holes, it is the very same road that runs through Mirkwood forest and the Misty Mountains. It looks unassuming, even beguiling, from where we sit in our cosy armchairs –yet as we follow the path with eager feet, we know not what errands or strangers we may meet. That is how this past year opened before me. Then I wrote of fears and uncertainties, as my family and I passed through the dark waters of Mirkwood (also known as cancer). I did not know then all of the errands I would be privileged to share in –trips to Florida and New Mexico, to Utah and Alaska. I had little idea of the actual mountains I would climb, or of the Smaugs I would encounter in my personal life.

Now I see a bend in the road ahead of me. There are plane tickets and plans. There are the golden gifts of friendships to cherish, and the knowledge that some of my dearest companions's roads will take them far away from me. There are physical goals and challenges I desire to meet. Yet I am sure there will be deeper challenges to face inside of me, and in my relationships with my family, friends, and God. As always, we only see the bit of the path we are on. Sometimes I can see far ahead where the road winds up the mountains, or disappears into a dim forest. Other times I see the shadowy form of the road I have already traversed... But whither then? Like Bilbo and Frodo, I cannot say. And though that risk means I may not be ready for hardships, it also means I cannot foresee all the blessings to come, either.

At the opening of this year I was praying for my Dad's health, afraid that he would be taken from me... But in those same first few days of the year, I also received the sweet blessing of a new friend, who has been a solace to me throughout the year. God knows the larger way our paths will go. Often when the terrors seem the worst, He gives us a companion or two to traverse the road with us, or He walks by us Himself, like the Ranger-King, Aragorn. We may not always recognise Him, but He will not forsake us.

On the brink of a new year, I recall to mind that we have just celebrated the Incarnation, the Word made flesh. This gives me hope that God, Who has made His dwelling among us, has good things in store for me this year. I am thankful for so much from this last year - my Dad's health; a sweet, sound niece; dear friends; long hikes in the stillness of the mountains; the wind in the pines; stars in a crisp sky; long walks and talks around Manitou; coffee and tea with various friends; grey jays and chattering squirrels; poetry and prose that have pierced my heart; and even the sorrow that has led me to press more closely into step with Jesus. It is good. There is hope. And now the rolling road winds into a new year, and I must follow –with eager feet– if I can.

~ Johanna

Yawp!

Yesterday I hiked my second fourteener this year... And ever.

Made it!! And I sounded my 'barbaric yawp'. ;)

 

Thanks to Lyndi and Lauren for being my hiking buddies, I wouldn't have made it without you ladies. ;)

~ Johanna

Full Life, or Full of Life?

"Are we living more fully, or are we just busy? A full schedule is not indicative of a full life. Sometimes a full schedule is the mark of a very empty life... Because we do not know how to live in the silence and stillness of life."

These are the words I penned this morning in my journal. They left me pensive. How many days do I simply fill up with tasks to take my mind off hard or uncertain things? Do I simply have a full life, or am I filled with life?

 

Over the weekend I went on a very enjoyable snowshoeing trip with my roommates. Though our days were full, they were also re-creative. Though we were on a sort of schedule, we were not so busy that I could not slip away to read Psalms and pray on the sunny deck. We were not so set on this or that as to miss the Spirit's leading... 

We spent Sunday morning writing down aspects of God's love and sharing how we saw various traces of His love in one another. I was handed a blood-red heart that read "life-giver" -- I nearly cried. So often I feel inadequate. I have received many gifts (even the trip itself was a birthday gift), rivers of love, vast amounts of forgiveness, and a multitude of patience from my friends and family. I feel like I have nothing to give in return. Often I feel like a needy child crying out of hunger, only my hunger is for love and acceptance. I am frail, weak, incapable of love without the Love of God. I cannot save myself. 

Like others, when I am loved on I feel the need to somehow repay that kindness. But Love does not seek to be repaid. True Love desires the good of others, asks for nothing in return, and believes the best about others. God loves us with an everlasting Love, knowing we can never love Him as He deserves. His Love teaches us how to love others, and how to love Him. Yet we love so imperfectly... Thus, I was overwhelmed to receive the little heart with the words "life-giver" inscribed upon it. I feel like all I have ever done is take, but God spoke through my friends that day. He showed me that He is at work in me, helping me to practise giving.

 

With all of my recent travels to Florida and to Rocky Mountain National Park, lunch dates, dinners with friends, travel, work, etc., I feel like my life is very full. But I find that I am actually filled with life when I take time to be still before the LORD, allowing Him to order my thoughts and my steps. Certainly He uses conversations with others, fun weekends, and even work, to deepen my life. But if I never take time to be still before Him, to let Him direct the way I reflect on things said and done, then I only ever live on the surface of those events.

I want depth... I want to be full of life. I want God to work through me to give life to others. I want to walk in humility and dependence. Because all I have and all I am is from God. I am poor and needy, yet He has looked upon me. I am weak and broken, yet He is my Strength and Healer. God truly is the Strength of my heart, and my Inheritance forever. 

Blesséd, blesséd, blesséd be He!

~ Johanna