Campy.

Campy
I had a wonderful time on our little camping trip this weekend. It was great to pack up everything you need to survive into a relatively small container and immerse yourself in nature and your loved ones.

Quite possibly, one of the loveliest highlights of the whole experience was the way the early morning sun cast deep golden shadows across the rippling sand and jagged sandstone mountains. It's pretty surprising how drawn I feel to vast expanses of rocks and sand and more rocks and more sand. It's the little moments of light and shadow and effortless glory. The brevity of a warm soul through tired eyes and chattering teeth and a beanie'd head and fleeced body. Lingering glimpses of creation outlasting the fleeting taste of amazing coffee prepared lovingly whilst crouched over a trusty stove by our mother hen, Jackie.

My sweet coworkers kept joking about the little imperfections of the desert, and how God totally needed a retrofit kit ("a dash-9-0-1") for the terrain. As caught up as I get in engineering jokes [/nerd], I couldn't help but be fully overwhelmed that -- in every water-carved canyon, in every earthquake-rippled cliff, and in every wind-blown crevice -- God's creation is doing just fine on its own.

Well, it was, until we started digging little holes to bury our poop.

Right up there with the desert sunrise was having Erik spend time with the people I spend 8+ hours a day with. I adore those moments when all your little sub-worlds collide seamlessly. You know, like watching friends from different walks of your life mingle at parties or weddings.

Some shining pictoral moments:

On Saturday, Erik, John, and I hiked up to a little peak above some "underwhelming" wind caves. The views were majestic in all directions.


A group self-portrait:


Erik and I with his/hers camelbaks:


Ocotillo:


John with the coffee and that morning lighting:


Jackie taking care of us all:


Craig has amazing legs. Also, Jackie and I have decided to en-title him my "work-gay-best-friend." No, he's very much not gay. And sorry, ladies, he's very much not single, either.


Two persons, my ass:


Stop Plate Techtonics!


The elusive elephant tree, AKA: tree #14 of a poorly misguided use of taxpayer funds for fun numbered but not otherwise identified desert trees.


Finally, on the ride out of the wash, my sweet and dirty husband feeling the wrath of the Subaru's 8.5" clearance:

Yes mother, I packed a raincoat.

Yes mother, I packed a raincoat.

Tonight, we're driving out to Anza Borrego Desert to camp and backpack a scosh. I'm so looking forward to time out in the wilderness.

I'm going camping with the following people:

1. my sweet husband
2. my ex-work-boyfriend
3. the ex-work-boyfriend's girlfriend
4. my new work-boyfriend
5. my work girlfriend
6. Craig

Craig needs a title.

Erik will find out if he's accepted into the Ranger Academy VERY SOON. The academy runs from January through July, so if this all happens, Erik will be running away to Monterrey for six months, and then in July, we could very well be moving somewhere. We could very well end up at one of the many state parks in San Diego county, too, so I'm not really getting excited/anxious or anything just yet.

Someday we might live in a little log cabin amidst beautiful protected wilderness!

Or, we might live near Torrey Pines State Park. Oh, wait, we already do.

I really have no idea why I'm not blogging much lately. It's mostly being busy at work, but that can't be all of it. I can't really finger it. Sad times.

Most of it is that I'm trying not to write about politics. Which, right now, is completely limiting my genre selection to bulleted updates.

Work is good. Very good. I'm totally not being sarcastic, either.

One of Erik's high school friends is staying with us for a month or so. He's a riot. I love him to death, but one of the first things he said to us yesterday was "your neighbors in #335 are ASSHOLES."

Seriously, if you're going to stay with us for free because Erik found you a temporary job to earn enough to pay us back what money you owe us from earlier this year, be courteous to our lovely neighbors, please.

I think he made himself an Old Fashioned last night because he left his glass out with the ingredients. My only thought was, "oooh, those would be good for camping. I should see if I can fit the stuff for Old Fashioneds in my pack."

Tonight, Erik, John and I are driving out later than the rest and meeting them out there. Craig had this swoon-worthy idea of doing a GPS or topo-led night-hike-slash-hide-and-seek. They're going to trek out about a mile from our designated camp, and when we get there, we'll find a compass and a topographic map with their location marked. Then we have to find them. While Erik and I were both lauding this idea last night, and going over some details in our heads, I realized that this is totally a rescue mission waiting to happen.

I called the park HQ to ask questions about getting backcountry permits, and it turns out that we don't need to check in or anything. I couldn't believe this, so I kept asking her more questions. I finally just said, "okay, we'll just tell our mothers where we're going." She laughed and agreed that this was a very good idea. It's in everyone's best interests if I don't tell my mother about the midnight remote desert hide and seek, though. Pesky details.

I'll be back to my dear internet on Monday with pictures and lore, I promise.

Mountain Lions (etc.) In The Mist

Mountain Lions (etc.) In The Mist
Last night, my adventure-whore coworker John and I hiked up Mt. Woodson in Poway. Also last night, it rained a lot. And it was foggy. Starting about halfway up the mountain, we had probably only a foot or two of visibility. Combine this with John a) making the jungle-monster noises from Lost, b) telling me about satanic cult members who lurk in random near-urban forests in San Diego, c) choosing an "opportune" time to tell me how mountain lions stalk you, especially when you stop to put back on your outerwear on the way down, and you're a little edgy.

The trail at Mt. Woodson basically goes straight up, and is slightly paved once you get to the base of the mountain. It was actually the perfect trail for the night. My darling (and diligently working overtime last night) former-national-park-employee husband generally frowns upon hiking/running/biking on muddy trails, because the negative impact is insane. The trail will be chewed up forever, and future rainfall will just puddle up in the footprints. The damage you make to a muddy trail doesn't just go away when the mud dries up - it gets worse. I'm pretty sure you're technically not supposed to go out until the terrain is dry. Blah blah blah common sense blah blah.

So, first, we had to find the trail in the adverse driving conditions. We pulled over on the side of the highway (let's call this Life Risking Decision A), and trampled around for a while, trying to find the trailhead through the meadows. Our headlamps weren't doing much outside of distracting passing motorists, which we can call Life Risking Decision B. We also decided to leave John's axe in the car, just in case we ended up accidentally trespassing somewhere and got caught carrying an axe and therefore being sinister. Decision C. (Did you notice that my coworker keeps an axe in his car? I think there was a sledgehammer back there, too. There are no words.)

We ended up finding the trail and all was well. John has had a ridiculously interesting life, so it's easy to just be quiet and listen to the stories. However, close to the top, he handed me a big rock he'd picked up from the trail, to carry just in case we were stalked by a mountain lion, jungle monster, or satanic worshipper. I think this was the pivotal moment where I stopped thinking "I'm sure I'm safe with John" and started thinking "Oh. fuck." That said, adrenaline is totally my drug of choice. The moments where I threatened to curl up into a ball, paralyzed with fear, were few and far between. Fewer and further between than usual, that is.

Rainy, foggy, half-lost night hiking is SO the new night hiking.

Nocturn

Nocturn
This morning, as Erik got ready for work in the dark, I woke up and started trying to chat away with him. Here's pretty much how the conversation went:

julia: "I'm awake! You can turn on the lights and talk! Yay!"
erik: [silence.]
julia: "I'm wide awake! I can keep you company!"
erik: [pause. I think he was spitting toothpaste out.] "I love you."
julia: "I love you."

julia: "Is that all? Do you have anything else for me?"
erik: [silence, glaring]

I think there's a special kind of person somewhere between a morning person and a non-morning person. Namely, me. I love mornings only when I spend them cozily and lazily tucked in a warm bed while the world moves around me. This is all well and good, except when I'm enjoying that luxury and rubbing it in someone else's rushing-to-get-ready-for-work-while-it's-still-dark wounds.

We're still recovering from the other night's crazyBadly Drawn Boy concert, that lasted until well after midnight and involved an increasingly-drunk Damon Gough alternating between calling certain audience members bitches and making up songs on the spot about how much he loved us. Oh, and a Yazz Flute! And in addition to that, I slipped back into insomnia mode while Erik was gone, lying sleepless in bed until well into the wee-hours every night. I seem to have no problems sleeping in the morning, just at night time when I'm supposed to. But now that Erik's back, and getting to work early in the mornings, the insomnia isn't improving. In fact, there's no net change in how much sleep I'm getting, but there's a definite increase in irritability and sheer disdain for people who can fall asleep when their heads hit the pillow but wake just enough to grumble that my itty bitty book light is "too bright" and the pages of my book are "too loud." If I stay in the other room, there's equal grumbling when I tiptoe into bed. So now I just sort of lie motionless and sleepless next to the hibernating husband.

I suppose this means I'm somewhere between a night-person and a non-night person, too.

Sleep, I hate/love you.

Likes.

Likes.
I had to make a little bio for a church committee the other day, and I just couldn't bring myself to make some sort of committee-resume. Instead, I opted for the following. I like it. (As hard as I try not to.)

I like:

hiking

vestry meetings

the internet

the church baby population

my husband

I try really hard NOT to like but am usually unsuccessful:

ebay

WB teen dramas

overpriced dark chocolate

Kirsten Dunst movies

Soaking

Soaking
If you don't want my rancid, week-old coffee or tea splashing and/or clumping (depending on the mold severity) onto your cup as I pour it down the drain in the office sink, don't leave your cup in the sink "to soak." And judging by the fish head smell percolating through the cubicle farm a few days ago, chances are coffee mold is the least of your concerns.

The Thrasher.

The Thrasher.



This is my sweet husband and sweet Gracie, our friends' kid. We watched the poor sickly baby while her parents had a much-deserved night out on Sunday. As difficult as it is to take care of a child sometimes, there was never a moment when my spirits fell. That child is genuinely happy, humorous, and loving. It's unbelievable and contagious. Also, she's drawn to guitars, and that gets an A+ in my book.

Also pictured: My First Guitar. When I had just graduated high school, my boyfriend Nick and his punkrockstar little brother took me to My First Guitar Center to fork over ~$150 for the cheap, shoddy, ridiculously high-actioned guitar. That same boyfriend projected neon orange vomit onto that same guitar from the top of his dorm room bunk-bed a few months before we broke up. After walking me through My First Joni Mitchell Song, My First Open Mic Night, My First Broken String, My First The Guitar Is A Tool To Meet People In Airports Experience, My First Yay, I Get To Write Sad Break Up Songs Now, and My First Witnessed Collegiate Bunk-Bed Barf, the sweetly awful guitar is now proudly possessed by Grace's parents for lots more My Firsts with her.

I've since cleaned up the orange barf and acquired a shiny new My First Taylor from my sweet husband. (It took a lot of appropriateness-will-power to not write "from My First Husband" there. Oh, oops).

It was hard to part with it for a while, but I realized that, shortly after rechristening it The Thrasher, I wasn't ever going to play it again. Yes, it sounds that bad and hurts that much. I have visitation rights and better callouses, Grace gets guitar-accompanied lullabies in the comfort of her own home, The Thrasher gets some regular action, and Erik and I gained some closet space.

Everybody wins.

Sleepless in Fifth.

Sleepless in Fifth.
This morning, while trying to get up to speed(ing) on the freeway, I stepped on the clutch pedal and started to move the gear stick, only to realize that I don't have a sixth gear. In fact, my car has never had a sixth gear. Nor have I ever driven a manual that has a sixth gear.

This means one of two things:

8:45am is indeed too early for me (especially when I lie sleepless all night, haunted by freaky things like white ghostly plastic bags seen circling off in the distance by my friend while night-hiking.) I'm a danger on the road. I need a doctor's note informing my doctor that it's a medical liability for me to be at work before 10:30ish.

My car is just a wound-up piece of crap.