World's Toughest Canoe Race

This morning, Steven and his brother Michael returned to Austin after completing the Texas Water Safari. The water safari is a 260 mile canoe race that runs from source to sea, starting at the mouth of the San Marcos river, and ending in Seadrift, Texas. In order to finish, participants must complete the race in 4 days and 4 hours.

They must also brave extreme heat, no sleep, dams and log jams, gigantic swarms of blood sucking mosquitoes, rapids, canoeing through the night, and rivers full of alligator gars. More on those later.

They don't call it the world's toughest canoe race for nothin'.

I saw him off on Saturday in San Marcos, and had the chance to watch the first part of the race. 115 boats entered this year, and 81 finished. In order to be considered a finisher, you must complete the water safari in 100 hours.

Start of the race

It was a hoot to see the river full of canoes, friends and family lining the bank as folks got their paddles ready and adjusted their gear before the start. There were lots of people with fancy outfits- leggings to protect them from the sun, gloves, and long sleeve matching shirts. There were also some real characters there- rough looking guys with big beards and cowboy hats and shorts with the Texas flag printed on them.  

It's the kind of event that people get hooked on- when you look at the registration page it will list the number of times the person has raced, and the number of times they have finished. Some guys have done this for decades. This was Michael's second race and Steven's third. I saw that lots of family had signed up to race- brothers, couples, fathers with their sons or daughters. There were also a good handful of women, both in teams and going it solo. Bad ass! They team that won overall was a 6 man boat full of some of the brawniest men I have seen on a river!

There are different classes of canoes that can enter- aluminum boats, carbon fiber boats, a few kayaks, and you can enter as a solo racer or as a team.

At one of the viewing spots I chatted with a woman who told me her son was racing with the man who might become his father in law.

"Well," she said laughing, "If my son does well in the race then I think he has permission to marry her."

I guess you could say the Texas Water Safari is a good way to separate the weak from the strong- good luck man! 

The first recorded trip was completed in 1962 by two Texans named Frank Brown and Bill "Big Willie" George, who traveled from San Marcos to Corpus Christi in a v-bottom boat.  They finished in 30 days, and decided the next year to establish a race.

In the old days, you had to pack all your food and water for the duration of the 4 days.  If you ran out, you drank river water or tried to refill your jugs from a hose in someone's backyard without getting shot at.

Now there are Team Captains who follow each team in a car, and stop at certain checkpoints to resupply them with water, ice and some food. But don't go thinking this is some kind of luxury cruise.

Steven's parents, who were his Team Captains this year, said that past Victoria they had to stay in their car because the mosquitoes got so bad.  Steven corroborated this, saying, "I had to piss running backwards to keep them from biting me!"

His folks did a stellar job, and had no choice but to fully join in the mania, sleeping about 6 hours over the course of 4 days as they drove to meet their sons at sketchy bridges and muddy banks at all hours of the day and night.

On the first day, I tagged along and watched at a few spots along the river in San Marcos.  First was Rio Vista Dam, where two guys broadsided a rock in the rapids with their aluminum boat.  The boat took water and began to wrap around the rock, and that was the end of the race for them. Apparently it took a fire truck and a winch to get the damn thing out. Here are a few actions shots from San Marcos for your viewing pleasure.

Cottonseed rapid

Rio Vista

The first section of the race covers many beautiful miles of clear blue river, with overhanging trees, numerous onlookers cheering you on and turtles watching from the river rocks. The second night is when it starts to get freaky, brackish water and steep muddy banks, and parts of Texas where it's best to stay in your boat rather then befriend the locals. Oh yeah, and there are tons of Alligator Gars.

Alligator Gars are basically prehistoric fish with two rows of sharp teeth, similar to alligators. They are the largest freshwater fish in North America, with adults averaging 8-10 feet long and weighing at least 200 pounds. They don't tend to bite people, but they are scary as hell.  Here are some photos from the internet:

My pet Gar

So many teeth!

They have been known to jump out of the water, and knock into the bottom of canoes as they pass by. They are attracted to light, and apparently jumped at a woman's headlamp last year and fractured her rib. This year, as Steven and Michael were paddling in the dark, their friend called out (pretty calmly) from about 15 feet behind them- "Gar in boat!"

A young 2-3 foot long alligator gar had jumped out of the water, landed in his boat, and was crawling around underneath his seat! No one was bit, but the gar was kicking so hard that it took a few of them to overturn the boat and finally get him out.

So when people ask me if I would ever do the race, I just think about giant mosquitoes, dinosaur fish with teeth, and not sleeping for 4 days, and the answer is decidedly NO.

That said, I love supporting the people in my life and I was impressed by what a friendly community has been formed around the Texas River Safari, and canoeing in Central in Texas.

After 81 hours on the water, and a total of one and half hours of sleep for Steven, he and his brother paddled to the finish line in Seadrift, coming in 43rd overall and 7th in their class.

Today he says he wants to take a break, but I have a feeling that when sign up time comes around, his name may be on the list for next year.

If you're looking for an absolutely crazy, memorable endurance event with a bunch of other maniacs, this might be for you. Signe and Ben? Uncle Eric? All my friends in the Northwest who think rock climbing is hard core . . . Sounds right up your alley, and I promise I'll be there to watch.

The one thing I know for sure- the World's Toughest Canoe Race is not for the faint of heart.

Happy Paddling, y'all!

Mike on the left, Steven on the right. They are twins.

www.texaswatersafari.org

I Hate Sleepovers

I was a child of routine. As you may have read, I loved my stuffed animals and my pets. I loved the pictures on my walls, the sound of my Dad playing guitar at night, my blankets, my room, my bed.  

When I was really little I started a tradition we would call Naked Ranger time. It consisted of me throwing off my towel and running around the house buck naked after bath time, and enlisting my sisters to join. This would prompt my parents to exclaim, "here come the Naked Rangers!"

Three serious sisters

In short, I liked being at home, and still do to this day.

In elementary school I would get invited to sleepovers every once in awhile, and a similar pattern would ensue. I would show up and play with the other girls, but I would always get tired and fall asleep first. I hated games like Truth or Dare, and still do.  Didn't like the pressure, or being told to do dumb shit, or being asked things I would rather keep private. In the morning I would wake up first, and eat a granola bar and read a book in my sleeping bag, or better yet, go upstairs and socialize with the parents who were drinking coffee and making pancakes. 

Usually though, I wouldn't make it through the night. Yes, I was that kid. My resolve would cave once 11 pm hit, and my parents would get the phone call asking in a trembling, quiet voice, if they could please come pick me up. They always did, and I remember it was with great relief that I loaded my overnight bag, stuffed animal, and sleeping bag back into the station wagon, ready to be back at home.

There was a famous sleepover, Katie Sharkey's birthday- we watched Groundhogs Day and had such a great time, and I remember that her family was always warm and very kind. I still had to make the call though, and in a tremendous show of parental patience my parents let me sleep in my bed, and then brought me back in the morning so I could eat waffles and bacon with the other girls.

For this reason, sleepover camp was never really an option.  I remember going to a father daughter weekend  with Camp Fire on Vashon Island at Camp Sealth- it was pretty fun, but even with a parent there I was itching to get home.  I remember that my friend Sarah was there too, she ate a Marion-berry pie and threw up, and it's strange that I don't remember more about the trip.

Sarah was one of my closest friends, one of the kindest and loveliest kids you ever laid eyes on. She had long dark hair and a sweet smile, and came from a nice Jewish family. I liked sleeping at Sarah's house. Her family would have Shabbat dinner, and I was allowed to turn lights on and off since my family wasn't very practicing. I remember once we made cookies at my house, and the dog put his paws on the table and ate about a dozen when we weren't looking. Sarah also watched my hamster once when we went to the east coast, and the damn rodent got out of its cage. The Munro's frantically looked for it, and finally lured it back into its cage with a ramp and a peanut butter sandwich.

This trend continued throughout adulthood- I was known as the girl who fell asleep at dorm parties in college, and just from tiredness, not from the use of illicit substances. Just last week I tried spending the night at my boyfriend's, but at 4 in the morning I was wide awake.  We usually sleep at my house, but you would think after a year and half I would be fine to not sleep at my place. But I missed my dog, and my bed was more comfortable, and his house was loud. I said I was fine, I would try to sleep for a few more hours then go home. He looked at me compassionately and said, "We can go back to your house Lindsey, it's okay."

So we did, and when I told my Mom that I didn't make it through a sleepover she laughed so hard she started snorting.

There is a balance between comfort and adventure. I've spent weeks sleeping in the mountains with only the night sky as a roof, and months on my own in other countries, everything changing and unfamiliar. But I have the wisdom to know that I am a creature of habit, and will always find solace in the quiet rhythm of a well kept and familiar home. In the words of Kenneth Grahame, from Wind in the Willows-

"He did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew must return to the larger stage. But it was good to think he had this to come back to, this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome."

Shortcake and Sunflowers

I've been carrying around little scraps and bits of things to tell you, and don't know where to put them.  So, today you get odds and ends all wrapped up together, sort of like a blog pinata.

The sunflowers in my yard are 5 feet high and still growing, and I have fought back the weeds so my little collection of plants has room to grow. I bought them at the grocery store- 1 basil, 1 rosemary, 2 tomatoes, a sad pepper plant, and the fig tree I promised Emily I would keep alive.

I sent packages the other day, to friends in Taos, Boulder, Memphis, and Seattle.  Sending packages is one of my favorite things to do.

One of my other favorite things to do is make strawberry shortcake. This the second or third time I have mentioned shortcake in the past 2 months.  I'll move on to a new dessert now, I promise. But seriously, for about $6 you can get a small carton of whipping cream, a plastic container of strawberries, and some Pillsbury biscuits.  Eaten on the porch on a warm Texas night, watching the fireflies- I don't miss my slugs or raincoats back at home.

Early morning sitting on the couch with Guthrie, reading Annie Dillard's An American Childhood, drinking coffee out of the little white mug with painted mosquitoes on it that we found at a garage sale in Santa Fe.  The bottom of it reads "Sharon, 1976," and I wish I knew its story.

Reading an email from Shelley in Bellingham, missing potato burritos and Boulevard Park, and her most of all.

Went running the other day, tripped on the sidewalk, and skinned my knee. Flailed around on the sidewalk in front of Steven and he said, "Lindsey, you've got to pick up your feet when you run." Then I pointed and said, "It's bleeding!" He replied, "Yes, I don't think a band aid will help you much,  you'll be okay."  This reminded me that I have been dramatic about injuries for the last few decades.  When I was a toddler I apparently ran screaming around the side of the house searching for my Mom, scaring the shit out of her for what was, in fact, a hangnail.

Found a baby possum in my recycle bin on the back porch- he climbed in there to eat peanut butter and then got stuck.  Funny looking guy, pretended he was dead and I believed him.

Went to Target and felt sorry for myself because I didn't have enough extra cash to buy crap I didn't need, like a throw pillow and a candle, and a stuffed giraffe for my friend's daughter. This was probably for the best, or the list of packages from above may have included a Teenage Mutant Ninja turtle for my Dad's stuffed animal collection.

We went to see a minor league baseball game last night, the Round Rock Express versus the Reno Aces.  The Express swept the Aces 4-0, and two players got hit with baseballs, one in the face and one in the shin. Our favorite players was a guy named Tuffy Gosewich.  We ate dollar hot dogs and kicked off our sandals while the sun set over the field.

Off to go water the sunflowers and throw on a summer dress, and get ready for the 95 degree day.

Hope you enjoyed your blog pinata.  Sorry I didn't include any baby bottles of booze, I know those are always a hit with adults.  I promise to write again soon!

Pickle Joins the Hamster Guerrillas

I have a story to tell you.  It's about three girls, two parents, and a small village worth of rodents. My first pet was Rosie the guinea pig. She was white with brown spots and had little brown ears.  I loved her. I fed her carrots, and held her, and once I got really mad at my sister for trying to bathe her with the garden hose. The one day, Rosie died, and I learned about what it meant for a special pet to die.  I tried to feed her a carrot but she wasn't moving, and Doug (my Dad's best friend from the last post, who recently partied it up at the Newman homestead) said to me, "you know honey, I don't think she's ever gonna eat the carrot."

So, we buried her in the backyard, under a tall pine tree, and my Dad performed the eulogy. Apparently, as I wept over the open shoe box that held her, my father came up with a rhyming eulogy on the spot, which nearly drove my Mom to laughter.

After Rosie my sisters got two guinea pigs- Shelley named hers Shelley, and Melissa named hers Fuzzy.  The little critters had been sick when we got them from the pet store, and the died within a week.  They went under the pine tree.

Shelley, Shelley, and Fuzzy

Now my memory is getting spotty- there was Marshmallow the teddy bear hamster, Scooter the dwarf hamster, the sweet mouse named Midnight, another guinea pig named Shelley, a mama guinea pig named Ginger, and a bunch of cannibalistic gerbils.

Soon to be a cannibal.

I wish I were joking about the gerbils.

I remember walking into the room I shared with my sister, looking in their house, and knowing something was horribly wrong. Apparently the pet store had sold us a boy and a girl, they had babies and then the Dad started eating them.  My Mom told me that after she cleaned everything up she took all the gerbils to the local animal shelter.  In her words, "the girl at PAWS was looking at me like I was fucking crazy! But I just couldn't handle it anymore, so I took the cannibals to the shelter."

Ginger and a remote control.

There was also my rabbit named Cosmo, who was jumpy (imagine that) and not as cuddly as a dog, and who I got tired of, so I gave him to one of my sisters as a birthday present.  On a side note, I have a habit of doing that- re-gifting things to other people, particularly my sisters. There were other gift giving occasions when the sisters would chide me, "Lindsey, I know you had two copies of that book- I saw it in your room!"

The story that takes the cake might be Pickle, the hamster that ran away.  One day he disappeared, and my Dad took us aside and solemnly told us that Pickle had run off into the backyard to join the hamster guerrillas. Being a literal child, I though he meant that Pickle had joined the hamster gorillas, who lived in the backyard in gorilla suits.  When I was in college my parents told me that what had really happened to Pickle was that the poor guy had fallen down an air duct and broken his neck.  Before we would get home from school they would run around trying to locate the source of the smell.

The pine tree is still in our backyard, and I wonder what will happen if my parents ever move.  Should we put a little picket fence around the tree, to let people know what lies there?  My Dad has joked about putting the house on eBay instead of going through the monumental task of cleaning it out.  The add could read something like this-

"House full of memories.  Comes with a full basement and rodent cemetery in backyard.  Offers accepted."

Pickle, wherever you are, I hope your days are full of sleeping in the shade and shooting guns in the jungle.

Rest in peace, my dearly departed little pets.

Theodore Roosevelt Said That

A couple weeks ago I shared this fabulous quote that my friend Elizabeth had posted online.  Though she is brilliant and beautiful and charming, the person who famously said, "Comparison is the thief of joy," was Theodore Roosevelt.  Just wanted to give credit where credit is due.

That got me thinking about some other great quotes I've heard lately from people in my life. Before I get into this, let me say that I spent the weekend in Virginia, celebrating my Grandpa's 85th birthday. He is my only grandparent left, and I love him! My parents were there, and my sweet sister, and our cousins, aunts and uncles, his rakish friend Peter, and our favorite family friend, Lisa Mirabelli. (Some folks are SO fantastic and powerful that the first and last name must always be used.) Lisa, if you read this, we adore you, and wish we could cook you shrimp and grits and cake for dessert every night!

A note about my Grandpa- he loves handmade pottery, and Bill O'Reilly, and wildflowers, and had his first poem published a couple years ago in his college's alumni journal.  He loves driving but dislikes flying, and is a retired geologist. For the last handful of decades years he has gone swimming 3 days a week, and he is in damn good shape. And he loved my Grandma Alice, whom we called Nanny, for 55 years. We all love and miss her still.

Also, I got to see my sister's magical, imperfect life, complete with pocket pals, farm kitties, cool housemates and crazy thrift stores. And there was her budding new community, Whisper Hill Farm where she's found her people, and the little Charlottesville Farmer's Market, where she slings coffee and kale.  I tried to set her up on a date with a cute guy who worked in the liquor store with toothless Judy, where I went to buy bourbon for whiskey pie.  If you are a cute young farmhand in the Shenandoah Valley, I have a sister for you!

But I digress.

Actually, I would like to digress again.  The humor in me writing a post all about anxiety while on a family trip hit me like a load of Xanax once I got back to Austin. This is how it works- you love these people, and you let all your shit hang out, and then you write in your blog about it.  To the Noble's and Newman's- there aren't a lot of us, but we are high quality characters, I'll give us that.

So, on to the quotes.

There is an old saying of our Grandpa's, "If you're nervous, go to bed!" Seriously good advice.

Also, when as a small child we would yell at our parents, "I HATE YOU!" they would calmly say, "Well, that's your prerogative." That's what happens when you're raised by a social worker and a sensitive Jew.

Steven gave me bluebonnet seeds for valentine's day last year, and they bloomed again this year! Only one plant came back, but it's bursting with flowers. He looked at it thoughtfully and said, "you know Lindsey, it's not the number of bluebonnets you have, it's the size that counts."

He has also been known to say, "Every time you put ketchup on a hamburger, Texas cries a little."

I promised my sister that my dying words will be to grab a grandchild and yell, "Your great aunt shit in my yard!" (It's a long story.)

My Dad had a raging party with his best friend that's he known for 40 years, whose name is Doug McChesney. Apparently the two person party culminated with him saying to Doug, "Next year- Burning Man, Mark and Doug naked in the desert."

Totally something Theodore Roosevelt might have said.

Just to bring it back around to what we were talking about earlier, the morning I flew out my Grandpa and I were talking about coffee. He brews it extra strong when the Seattle relatives come to town.  He laughed as he was doing it and said to me, "You know sugar, for me coffee was never some big thing. Just warm water that makes you shit.  And that's fine by me."

Amen. Here's to you, Grandpa, and a life well lived.

The Art of Practice

Today I'd like to talk to you about anxiety.  I am pretty sure I have been concerned since the day I was born.  Not to say that I wasn't a delightful, happy, red-haired little lady, but I was worried a lot of the time, too.

 "Ginger Bangs"

I think one of my main goals in life is to not be so worried.  For me, that is more important, and more valuable, then a big time career or a fancy house or a truckload of money.  It will bring me more peace, and more acceptance, than anything else.

At its core, anxiety is the anticipation of something bad happening.  (My dog trainer told me that!) I think it has a lot to do with expectation, with fear of the unknown, with loss, and with imperfection, but I don't know how to put all this into words quite yet.

Something else important about anxiety: you cannot think your way out of it.

Let that sink in- I've been trying to THINK my way out of it for 30 years, and it has never worked.

As my Mom says, anxiety manifests as energy, and it has to go somewhere.  So it sits inside and festers and grows, or you find a way to get it out.

In college I acted in a lot of plays, and sometimes that worked.  In the past I have tried to think about it really hard, and talk about it a lot, but the energy still sits in there and grows.  I like to cry, too, but I've promised Steven I am working on not crying about things I don't need to cry about (like haircuts, ans going to the vet.)

Here's a picture for you- dealing with anxiety is like wandering around the mountains in a giant orange life jacket, even though you're 1,000 miles away from the ocean. Instead of picking wildflowers you're looking for sharks.

This is immensely frustrating to me! How do I take off the life jacket? Where do I put it?

It has been humbling to realize that I may always have to live with the life jacket.  That said, I might take it off every day, or forget I'm wearing it and just smell the mountain air and gather armloads of wild sunflowers.

This is the truth, my friends.  I've realized recently that the real work is not to pretend that anxiety does not exist, but find a way to accept my nature, manage it, and find ways to get that energy out. It's been daunting to realize that I can't just go running once, or eat salad a couple days a week, and feel great.  I gotta run a few times a week, I gotta sleep well and eat well, consistently.  My therapist prescribed MEDS: Meditation, exercise, diet, and sleep.  (The other kind of meds can be a useful tool, too.)

To keep with the mountain metaphors- self care is like a really great tent.  You don't go to Walmart- you buy one at REI with a lifetime warranty.  That said, the tent needs to be taken care of for it to protect you from the elements.  The more you neglect it, the harder it will be to patch it up.  But REI makes great tents, and they'll let you start over if you burn too big a hole in yours.

This is the art of practice.  Of putting in the daily effort to manage the stress and energy of the big demons. It gets easier.  And it helps to have compassion for yourself, a mountain field to walk in, and solid tent.

The Thief of Joy

Last week I turned 31.  There were thunderstorms, and a trip to San Antonio with Steven, and fish and chips and hamburgers on the River Walk.  There were phone calls from my parents, and a letter from my Grandpa, and a delicious dinner cooked by my good friend, that ended with all of us stuffed to the gills with steak, pesto, and strawberry shortcake.

There was also the usual taking stock of how things have shaped up in the past year, and some reflection on what this next year might hold. I have done a lot of wrestling with the demons this year- a good old fashioned rattlesnake roundup of anxiety and sadness and fear of all the big unknowns.  This is not good or bad, just what it is.  I think this next year there will be far less rattlesnakes, for which I am grateful.

In thinking about my propensity towards worry and stress, I was reminded of a quote I saw on my friend Elizabeth's Facebook page. Also, for you Seattle folk, Elizabeth happens to be one of the smartest, funniest, most talented puppet makers and performers I have met.  What she posted was this:

Comparison is the thief of joy.

That got its own sentence so you could see it really clearly.  The humor in posting that on Facebook is not lost on me, and in fact it might be the perfect place to savor such wise words.  Now, this is familiar territory for me.  Comparison is to the anxious mind what peanut butter is to jelly- they just go so perfectly together.  Add a little perfectionism in there, and you've got a goddamn picnic.  

Let's look at some examples.  Sometimes I look at Facebook when my resolve and resiliency are not feeling too hot, and things like this happen- "Look at that picture of that wedding.  They are happy and beautiful and perfect. My life should be like that."  "Look at that new baby- those parents are happy and perfect and their baby never cries." Or, this is my favorite, "Look at my friends new puppy.  Their puppy is perfect and their lives are perfect, and my dog is shy and nervous and has trouble making friends."  

There is danger is mythologizing other people and experiences from the outside looking in.  The truth is that  by assigning a narrative to a photo we see on the internet, we put ourselves in the perfect position to do some very profound and unhelpful comparisons.  It basically runs us into a brick wall of SHOULDS.  

My dog should be perfect.  My body should look like hers.  My wedding should look like that.  The list goes on and on. 

I miss the old days, when you would meet the baby of a girl you went to high school with because you ran into her at the grocery store, not because you logged on to your "friendship" account online. When you would get news of an announcement from a friend through a letter instead of a online post.  

Now, I don't think everyone is as sensitive or susceptible to the thief of joy as I am, but I also think more people then you realize feel sad and depressed after going on Facebook, though they can't exactly say why.  

Some of the best medicine is to see the story in your head played out in reality.  I had convinced myself that my dog was a fuck up, and I was a fuck up, because I saw a picture of my friend's new puppy and decided he was perfect.  I met this puppy when I went home to Seattle, and found out that he is as cute as the pictures, but definitely not perfect.  He kept them up all night crying, he chewed pants while they were still on legs, he was willful.  My friend and I talked and I found out we had some of the same anxieties, that raising our own dogs was much different then we thought it would be, and a lot harder. 

This is key! Many of the good things in our life turn out much different then we thought they would be, but different does not mean bad. 

So, I don't have a life that fits my narrative of other people's pictures.  But I have thunderstorms in San Antonio, and Guthrie is snoring with his head on my pillow, and the trees are blooming in Texas.  I am going to do my best to enjoy my own magical, imperfect life.  And that is as good a goal as any for the next year.