Begin again
Nobody told me/to sit down and shut up/and take this shit slowly
For the first time in my life, I am afraid on an airplane. Lack of sleep and the delayed arrival of my period have conspired to reduce my emotional range to that of rodent. I feel only pleasure, hunger, fear, or fatigue. Right now I am feeling fear. The plane lurches up into the sky, buffeted by crosswind turbulence that chatters under the wings, creating the illusion of an upward rollercoaster track. Click-click-click… I find myself involuntarily bracing for the moment when the track turns and we begin to plummet out of control. The ground below twists and jumps, the familiar outline of the Superstitions below becoming threatening rather than marvelous. I never purchase the overpriced alcohol offered on flights, but suddenly I want a drink. I look down out the window, and the flat desolate plain surrounding Tucson is far behind. Instead, I’m treated to a bird's-eye view of the mountain ranges I've just traversed on foot. The power of water on the landscape is obvious from this vantage. Gargantuan outflow channels cut the plain into fractal patterns, each dry slice across the land a chaotic echo of the mother flood. It's a giant relief map, areas with subterranean water revealed by settlements and roads, their odd right angles cut in defiance of the organically folded terrain. But this is not a map, I remind myself. This is the territory - very important not to get those confused. The Sonora Desert looks like Mars from above, but I really did walk there. With a telescope powerful enough, I could see my own footprints.
I don't manage to sleep on the plane, despite my near-total lack the night before. Instead, I drink my free coffee and cue up a feast of the literary non-fiction and memoir I missed while on trail, sinking gleefully into a gluttonous haze of metaphor and polemic. Sheila Heti, Jenny Odell, Patricia Lockwood, Daniel Ortberg-Lavery. It's good to be back in the arms of old friends. There are other essayists I haven't heard of, but now bookmark eagerly for further pursuit. I'm not used to being indoors, not used to sitting in chairs for hours on end. I'm antsy and jittery in my seat, tearing through the essays with maniac speed.
My reading material doesn't quite last the whole flight, though a favourable tailwind means we land in Minneapolis twenty-five minutes early. I watch half of a Wes Anderson film I've been meaning to see, before the plane touches down without incident on a snowy, windswept runway. My next flight is with the same airline, and I'll finish the movie on the jump into Winnipeg. Isle of Dogs is a good distraction, and the apocalyptic tone complements my return to civilisation perfectly.
If the Tucson airport was a good-enough motel next to the highway, Twin Cities International is an all-inclusive resort on a private island. It's been a long time since I've flown through this particular airport, and in the meantime it's been transformed into an upscale shopping mall, complete with an organic wine bar and a steakhouse serving locally-raised beef. There's even a tiny REI outpost, which to my surprise has a reasonably decent selection of ultralight gear. I'm starving, so I go to the wood-fired pizza place, which turns out to be a passably good meal.
My server is a grown-up punk of the bleach blonde and slip-ons variety, covered from neck to knuckles in blackwork tattoos. She looks so similar to my friend Morgan that I do a double take and inventory her artwork, just to make sure it isn't really her. She catches me staring and gives a sly, flirtatious grin, checking out my own tattoo sleeve in return. Lesbian Eye Contact! It buoys me tremendously, and we give one another the Dyke Nod - “I see you.” Even out here, in the most rigorously sterilized corporate environment, one of my people! A queer couple sits down next to me, two younger butches who have obviously just had an argument. The taller one gives me The Nod and catches my eye, blatantly checking me out while the shorter one glowers into her beer. Minneapolis airport is full of lesbians, who knew?
The Winnipeg-bound crowd is a standard prairie assortment. Middle-aged dads sporting snow boots and Jets gear, Middle Eastern families with moms and teenagers in hijabs. Women my age with tasteful blond highlights and tasteful gray cardigans, wearing tastefully curated jewelry on their tastefully polished fingers. Uggs are back in fashion, apparently. And there are a few weirdos like me, with that ecumenical alternative style typical of the city - a look that's one part mall-goth, one part metalhead, one part 90’s grunge. Winnipeg is so small that the subcultures all get mashed together, with the same motley collection of anarchists, hippies, and artists at every underground film festival or basement punk show. I miss it, in a way. When I moved to Montreal, I was shocked to discover that leftists there wear turtlenecks and chelsea boots, with nary a mohawk to be seen. I feel a pang of nostalgia for my 19 year old self as my seatmate stows her bag, pastel purple hair and a Misfits skeleton-hand tee. The woman across the aisle looks like she describes fancy salads as “fun”. I wonder what each of them think of me, sunburnt and wearing a cheap outfit from Wal-mart. I finish my movie on the flight, just as we're touching down. The pilot announces the local time, and comments that we're lucky for the mild temperature - it's only -5°c. Sweater weather.
My time in Winnipeg passes slowly and uneventfully. I only leave my parents’ house once, to go buy Varathane for the van's new pine-board walls. My dad did a ton of work on the renovation project while I was hiking, and I'm incredibly grateful. My mom makes a roast in the slow cooker, and I make quick work of the beers in the basement fridge. I love my parents, and I like spending time with them, but something about being back in my childhood bedroom turns me into a surly teenager. I can't sleep either, and my insomnia makes me snappish and cranky. I feel guilty for how eager I am to get away, to get going, to go home. I don't even know where home is. It's not Winnipeg anymore, it's no longer Montreal, it's not yet Whistler. I'm desperate for the van to be done, so I can sleep in my own bed and put my scavenged art collection back up on the walls. Maybe then I will feel settled. I'm terrible with uncertainty, terrible at being in-between places and routines. I hate it when my actions are contingent on circumstances I can't control. I don't like waiting, or relying on other people. I email my boss, complain to Constantine, and keep avoiding my credit card bill.
Finally, the last touches are done. I drive up to Erickson in the evening to spend some time with my grandma. She feeds me pierogies and chocolate cake, as much as I can possibly eat. I tell her about Constantine, and she tells me stories about my grandfather, who died when I was very young. My grandpa was a kind soul very much like Constantine, she says. He ran the general store, and would hold welfare checks in the safe behind the counter for women with alcoholic husbands, so they wouldn't drink away the grocery money. He was decent and thoughtful in everything he did, and had genuine compassion for everyone. My grandma has also printed out every single Shiny Objects email and organized them in a binder so she can read them whenever she likes, which makes me laugh. She prints out my Instagram photos too, and photos from all my cousins' social media feeds. The whole extended family is represented on the fridge. The ladies of the church choir are very interested in my adventures, I'm told.
The next morning, after a breakfast of omelettes and waffles, I hug Grandma goodbye and drive away in a light flurry. I opt to take Highway 16 rather than the Trans-Canada, which is being hammered by snow. It's longer, but the lower speed limit is better for the van, and it'll be a beautiful drive once I get out of the Prairies and head west from Edmonton. The snow stops around Elphinstone, and the highway is clear and empty. I put on all the odd time-signature music I couldn't listen to on trail, and begin to relax and enjoy the drive. As much as I love Animals as Leaders, you cannot hike to a song in 7/8. I took Highway 16 on my cross-country bike tour, and route brings back detailed memories. Here's where I got over 100 deer ticks on an overgrown snowmobile trail; here's the cemetery where I spent a rainy night; here's where I changed a flat tire on the shoulder; here's where a windstorm nearly snatched away my tent.
As I left the Francophone settlements and got closer to Saskatchewan, the names of the reserves shifted from anglicized Ojibwe to equally mangled Cree. Narrow seigneuries gave way to wide square acreages in the English style, the colonial history of Canada written on the land. Canadian flags were joined by Norwegian, Swedish and Ukranian ones, fluttering proudly from the doorsteps of settler's children. Metis flags became less common and then stopped all together midway through Saskatchewan, replaced by the symbols of Blackfoot and Sioux. I played roadkill bingo - deer, rabbit, coyote, a badly decayed bird of prey that could have been an owl, a wolverine, an unfortunate fox. Nobody had hit a moose, thank god. It's usually fatal for the driver as well as the moose. I drove all day long, only stopping in the little town of Wynyard for a sandwich and a Coke. I crossed into Alberta sometime after nightfall and missed the sign, but I could tell by the sudden aggression of the other drivers that I had entered Canada’s Texas. One jerk in a pickup repeatedly flashed his eye-watering rear spotlights at me, until I flicked my brights on and off to show him that no, I didn't actually have them on. I was going just over the speed limit, but people were still riding my bumper through veils of fog. Yep, I was definitely in Alberta. I stopped for the night just outside of Jasper, around 1am, and slept soundly at the highway rest stop.
I woke up around 8:30. I had about ten hours of driving to go, and then I'd be in Whistler! My body was beginning to complain about all the sitting, with an old hip injury flaring up and causing a kink in my back. I'd timed the drive pretty well, getting through the prairies and the oilfields at night when the scenery wouldn't matter. I now woke to a spectacular sunrise over the eastern wall of the Rockies. I drove up the 1A through Banff National Park, past the town of Jasper and into BC. I let out a whoop when I drove past the sign: Welcome to British Columbia, The Best Place On Earth. Home province, woohoo! Constantine was going to call me on his lunch break, and I couldn't wait to hear his voice. Just past Robson Park entrance, I slowed at a wildlife crossing. There was a massive bighorn sheep, serenely grazing on the shoulder next to the highway. I drove slowly past the ram, and he turned his head briefly, then went back to munching. Someone in my passenger seat could have stuck a hand out the window and patted his head, but he was completely unbothered by traffic.
I drove out of the Rockies and down into Kamloops, then past it and up again into the Coast Mountains. My home mountains, I thought, testing out the concept. I'd never had mountains as a home before, but this will be my second season in Whistler, and it looks like I'm here to stay. I was going into town on a new route, approaching from the north via Lillooet rather than detouring south through Vancouver. Coming back differently than I came in; as a literary device, it was rather on the nose.
I'd left Whistler a depressed, self-destructive mess, fleeing a disneyland paradise that I'd begun to refer to as “resort hell". I had left an ugly two-year relationship, gotten seriously injured and recovered too late for the snow, suffered through a series of ill-conceived romantic disappointments, and extricated myself from the grasp of a terrible, controlling boss. Something bad happened every single day of February, from silly stuff like losing my favourite hat, all the way up to my badly bruised tailbone. I cracked a ski binding. I got repeated UTIs. A visit to Vancouver brought me a SkyTrain car that was on fire when it pulled into the station, making me late for a much-anticipated date (which went nowhere). My IBS decided it couldn't tolerate any red dye, so I had to give up sriracha. My credit card number got stolen, and the next day I misplaced my ID. The pharmacy ran out of my name brand meds, and the generic made me vomit. I got accidentally drenched with fish sauce on a long distance bus. I felt cursed, so I ran out and got a good luck tattoo on the first day of March. It did seem to break my unlucky streak, but it was too late. I hated my life, hated myself, hated everything and everyone surrounding me, and on top of it all, one of my best friends was dying of cancer half a continent away. I was making weird, bad choices. I was brutally unhappy.
The PNT and subsequent hiking season were the only salvation I could imagine, and my instincts were more correct than I could have foreseen. Despite the fact that I had no money and would have to take on significant debt to go hiking, I knew it was the only way I could save my own life. I don't say that to be hyperbolic; I really didn't know how I could keep living if I didn't get away. The PNT was where I met Constantine of course, a victory in itself, but the rest of the summer brought transformation and solace beyond anything I'd known before. My friend Hayden finally died, and I aborted my AT attempt to go say goodbye. Being at their deathbed and seeing the subsequent outpouring of support and love from the community changed my perspective on my own fears of connection and loss. Suddenly, I could be emotionally intimate with my friends in a new way. I didn't fear being known or seen for who I was - I feared running out of time to be understood by the people I love, and to love them fully in return. I was like a plant that had been trying to grow through a sidewalk crack. Transplanted into a garden, I could see that I wasn't an unlovable weed, as I had previously assumed - I was a hardy arctic perennial. I had used the harshness of my lonely winter to gather strength, and was now blooming ferociously in the brief northern spring. Cheesy metaphor maybe, but it seemed to be true. I was eager to see what my new mindset would bring in Whistler.
The drive in from Lillooet was staggeringly beautiful. Several landslides had reduced the highway to a single, precariously narrow lane, and the drive was slow and anxiety-inducing. But still, I was cautiously excited as I made my approach to town. Nervous about what the winter might bring, but also determined to do things differently. I deleted the dating apps from my phone, resolving not to get sucked into the culture of drinking and meaningless hook-ups that had made me so miserable the year before. I was going to find a community, dammit! I was going to channel my grief into art, and focus on learning new backcountry skills that would give me a sense of progression and accomplishment. I wasn't going to get distracted. I was going to use social isolation as an opportunity to develop as an artist and an athlete, and I was going to make some real friends this time. I was going to get a fucking therapist, and I would do some fucking therapy, motherfucker! I was going to feel so much better, and nobody could stop me! Especially not me.
This was going to be harder than I thought. I pulled into the parking lot and shuffled over to the climbing gym, stiff and sore from hours of sitting. I didn't want to go climbing right now. I just wanted a shower, but felt self-concious about heading straight to the change room and leaving ten minutes later with wet hair. I changed into climbing pants and a tank top, bought myself a six month pass, and half-heartedly clambered up a few V0 bouldering routes before hitting the showers so nobody would judge me. My nemesis route was still up; I can sometimes manage a V2 if there's not an overhang, but this particular V0 had defeated me over and over. I knew how the sequence should go, I had seen my climbing buddy accomplish it easily, and yet I still couldn't fold my knee just right on the last move. I was too tall to do it the way Linus had done, and kept hitting my kneecap on the same stupid volume. I’ll be back for you later, I thought, foregoing an attempt at my personal white whale. I'm not good at climbing, I won't even pretend that I'm not a total beginner. But failure at such an easy route still stung my pride, especially when I saw an eight year old flash it on the first try.
I drove to my favourite bedtime spot and texted a guy who I'd been referring to as “Main Squeeze" right before I left Whistler. We'd had a fun three-week romance in the month before I'd left, with the understanding that we'd see where things were at in the fall and revist it then. We hadn't really been in touch over the summer, but I was looking forward to seeing him. A familiar face, a familiar body. It would be nice to get laid without having to run the gauntlet of first dates. He responded right away with an offer to go get a drink, but in the next sentence let me know that he had gotten into monogamous relationship while I was gone. Conversation was as far as things could go.
Oh.
Somehow, I hadn't anticipated this possiblity, despite knowing he wasn't commited to polyamory like I am. Well, that was okay. We could be friends. I swallowed my disappointment and said of course, I'd be happy to get a companionable beer and leave it at that. It was even true. I liked him for reasons apart from sexual chemistry, and it would be good to have a skiing buddy who wouldn't get tangled up with romantic complications. I'd had that problem last winter, trying to find someone who would want to coach me on steeps without attempting to turn it into a date. I couldn't help feeling a bit rejected though. It wasn't the dating aspect. I just wanted to feel that I had been thought of and missed, to receive an eager welcome and celebration at my return. It was not to be.
My other prospect was out of town and wouldn't be back until next week. Fitting that it should be so, since my relationship with this person had been overwhelmingly defined by absence, miscommunication, and frustrated longing. I’d broken up with them in a fit of anger after being cancelled on, for infuriatingly understandable reasons, for the sixth date in a row. Incompatible schedules, the bane of polyamorists everywhere. We'd hesitantly begun to talk again over the summer, but it was an uncertain peace. Still, I sent an update on my schedule and availability, and as I had expected, recieved no response. Yeah, that seemed about right for the two of us. I wanted to be angry but I couldn't really justify it. Same old story.
Loneliness overpowered me. The friends I had made here - speculative connections I had begun to cultivate just before I left - had gone home when their visas were up. Back to Sweden or New Zealand, Britain or Brazil. Work wouldn't start in earnest until the mountain opened, and while there were tweaks to be made on the van, I didn't have anything specific to do. All alone in Whistler, again. I didn't feel like going to a bar and being charming. I wanted a sense of comfort, of familiarity. Of home. What I really wanted was Constantine.
“I just want to feel wanted!” I complained via text. He replied right away, even though it was midnight in Charleston. “Well, I always want you, and if I could, I would cuddle you to sleep in Big Blue tonight. There's always Tinder, right? Love you, #1 Van Babe Fem! Goodnight!” Constantine hates Tinder, and his text made me laugh. I was surprised to find him still awake; he's not a night owl. My late night habits combined with the time difference meant I would be spending a lot of evenings functionally single, with only myself for company. I needed friends, and I had no idea how to get them. There was no snow on the ground, and I wasn't drinking tonight. My body was still too depleted to climb for real, so my main avenues for socializing were unavailable. I bought a ticket for a formulaic crime thriller, and took myself out for Chinese food. Alone. Yes, I had come back to Whistler on a different road, but it seemed that this winter would be the same as the last. The same isolation. The same lack of purpose. The same temporary international friends. The same waiting for the same overcommitted person to text me back. Waiting for the phone to ring. Waiting for snow. Waiting for a new belayer with the patience to watch me fumble an easy 5.8 at the gym. Waiting for inspiration. Waiting for something to do. Waiting, waiting, waiting. And for what? I didn't know.
What I'm Listening To:
For someone with zero obligations, I've really bailed on getting this out in a timely manner, huh? I meant to post this yesterday but sat on it for a bit, not sure how much to edit, and then I got distracted. I suck at time management when I don't have structure. Case in point - I woke up at 8:30am and intended to go get breakfast. It's now almost 7 in the evening, and I still haven't eaten more than a handful of leftover popcorn. I also meant to put together a playlist of music that I was listening to on the drive over, which would take approximately half an hour, but haven't done it yet. The plastic window sealing I installed this afternoon just needs a hair dryer to be finished up, and yet I've been bumming around the house tidying this and that, not wanting to go out in the rain to go buy one and then return it when I'm done. Here's a song that will be on that playlist, which I've titled “Midnight Highway" but haven't added a single track to. As my friend Linus told me over beers before I left Whistler, “You're unpredictable compared to other people, but you're very predictable compared to yourself.” He's back in Sweden, the annoyingly perceptive jerk. (Just kidding, Linus. You're not a jerk. I'll mail you some more weird garbage soon.) I'll manage. I'm hopeful yet - it's just that patience has never been my strong suit, as my tarot cards so bluntly reminded me this morning.
Talk soon, and take care
-Magpie