I had some friends over for lunch yesterday after church. Grilled chicken (bummer that it was dry), salad, rice, biscuits and a vegetable platter followed by ice cream and brownies for dessert.

We all sat at the table with a tablecloth. Seeing as how I eat most of my meals standing at the counter, reclining in the living room, or sitting in the car, and the food itself usually comes through a window or out of a polystyrene serving container (or both), this was re-new experience. I hope that guy at the Jack in the Box doesn’t mind, but it was lots more fun to sit at a table with people. [Update 9am: I woke up in the middle of the night and realized that I had put the knife on the wrong side of the plates. I guess I need to do this more.]

I have two distinct memories when it comes to Sunday dinner. (In my vocabulary, dinner on Sunday is the noon-hour meal; dinner on any other day is the evening meal.)

First, back in the day: it was pretty predictable who came to join the family for dinner after church. It was either Manford and Helen and/or Jim. Manford and Helen were like our grandparents, since our biological grandparents lived far, far away. Manford was a real ham (some stories about him here). Jim was a bachelor in his mid-to-late 30s and early 40s who helped run a family business in town, lived alone on his farm where he sometimes reared horses, and played cello masterfully. I can easily single out Jim as someone who had a massive impact on my life, and I wouldn’t at all be surprised to hear my siblings say the same thing. More on Jim another day.

These Sunday meals at home ended for me when I went off to college. At some point during my sophomore year, I started tagging along with Daniel who attended Sunday services with our Greek professor Kelly and his wife Janice. Normal for us became one of two things: 1. retire back to K&J’s house for whatever great thing Janice cooked up, followed by a yummy dessert and freshly brewed Twining’s loose leaf tea (with a cloud of milk) or 2. go out to a local Chinese restaurant and try to steal each other’s crabmeat rangoons. Being the college age, we’d sit around the table exchanging all manner of silliness with equal part seriousness, either belly-aching about some theological craziness on campus or trying to one-up each other in winning the “servant prize” for the day (taking care of dishes, setting the table, etc). I learned a lot around that table, including how you can make your host reel with giddiness when you say, “So what was your doctoral thesis on?” They are great folks. You should meet them.

For a long time I thought that I received the better end of the things. I show up, someone feeds me, we have a good time, I go on about my business. Pretty good deal, no? It turns out that Kelly and Janice loved our childish antics and thoughts as much as we (me, Daniel, Rachel, and later Peter) loved their life experiences and wisdom (and, um, their food). I know, too, that Jim must have looked forward to lunch with my family, since he wasn’t the type to stick around a place if he didn’t enjoy it. It took me some time to realize (and partly from talking directly with Kelly and Janice some years hence) that those Sunday afternoons may have been just as significant to Kelly, Janice, and Jim as they were to me.

Good News, everyone. They found the Virgin Mary.

She’s made of chocolate and lives in Fountain Valley, California.

Mmm… chocolaty co-redemptrix. Praise the Lord, and fire up the fondue pot.

Sorry, Russ. It's been a pretty busy few days. I simultaneously have everything and nothing to say. Already and not yet, as it were.

Some of the things happening this week that are occupying (killing?) brain cells:

1. The process of selling my house was finalized. Man, what deal they got, and what a relief I got. Win/win. Sale closed on Tuesday. I am so relaxed, my sentences have been rewritten in the passive voice. And some are fragments.
2. Cook-out with a new guys' small group. Good eggs all, and every one of us a comedian.
3. The sweetest lunch company I can remember.
4. Tossing a few back with the gang. In celebration of the selling my house, a few of us celebrated with frothy Irish libations. In my mind, there were three rules for such an engagement: no one goes thirsty; no one gets drunk; everyone has a good time. I took care of the first, everyone else took care of the second, and Robert led the charge on the third. Win/win/win.

So here I am reliving most of this in my head, trying to attach some deeper meaning to it, but realizing that maybe there isn't. All I can come up with is:

Good times.

Last Saturday I went on another day hike, this time to Skyline Divide (Forest Service, Hiker Bob, Green Trails #13).

My hiking buddy this day was Erland. We both had commitments later in the day, but because of my stellar picture skillz and incredibly pithy remarks regarding recent hikes, Erland was jonesin’ for a hike and he would not let me not do it. So be it. We left stinkin' early in the morning (6:15-ish) and arrived at the trailhead around 7:30 am. There was one other car in the parking lot, but it appeared to have been left there overnight.

Everything I read said that the trail was all up at the beginning, so we were mentally prepared. Up the trail we went. And up, and up. And then up a little more. When we got near the top, we continued up. And then more up. When you see the sign welcoming you to the Mt. Baker Wilderness you’re there (after just a bit more up). Around 8:45 (1 hr, 15 min later) we got our first glance of Mount Baker from the Skyline Divide ridge. It’s an unforgiving climb, but it has a huge payoff.

Click for 2.3 MB fullsize panorama

Once we got to the top, it stayed relatively level, and we had nearly constant 360-degree views. You can walk in the middle of high meadows or step up to the edge of steep drop-offs.

The trail markings on the Green Trails map ends 3.5 miles from the trailhead, but parts of the trail continued on towards Baker. We aren’t exactly sure where the official end is. The path splits at one point: a high road and a middle road. We climbed up the rocks to the high road, of course, and followed that for another few minutes. We ate lunch with Baker [start Regis Philbin voice] "right there" [end goofy voice]. Very cool.

When you go, remember this: We left the trailhead early (7:30 am), and we spent nearly 45 minutes at the top without seeing another soul. One the way down, though, we passed 65 people and 8 dogs. At 11:30 am, the parking lot was full, and there were still people arriving (and one group came with llamas). If you go, go early. The earlier the better.

So this hiking business is starting to become a regular Saturday thing for me. It’s fun and I love it, but I’m not sure how long it’ll last. Football season starts soon. :)

 

I woke up early Sunday morning for no apparent reason other than going to bed early (on a Saturday!). Since there was plenty of time before the morning church service to get in a decent ride, I decided before I got out of bed to tackle Yew St and redeem myself.

But I upped the ante. Climbing the hill would undo my personal embarrassment, but doing a little more would return myself to good graces with, um... myself. I choose a route that intersected the very bottom of the hill (on Woburn, between Iowa St and Lakeway (previous attempts always began at Lakeway)) and biked from there to the top.

Limped is more like it.

Midway up I purposely slowed my pace so I could breathe a little easier and keep my legs from buckling. And to stop my heart from exploding, which seemed imminent. Any reasonably ambulatory person could have walked most of it faster than I pedaled. But I did do it, and that was the point.

My prideful side likes to remind me that not everyone could do it. My cynical side reminds me that not everyone is stupid enough in the first place. My back side just hurts.

(Maps that show roads' elevation gains in and around Bellingham can be found here.)

Yesterday, as in, um... yesterday. Friday. Some might be able to make a case for my being a weenie at other times, but I’m not talking about those times. I’m talking about a very specific moment Friday evening.

Friday is supposed to be a party day, or so I hear from partiers. Sure, I’ve had a frothy pint or two after work on some Fridays... I’ll even admit to using them to wash down a Reuben sandwich. But not this day (that is, Yesterday). To celebrate the survival of this particular work week, I hopped on ye ol’ bicycle for a ‘quick’ 15-ish mile road ride.

So you know, this is me NOT being a weenie. Can you do 15 miles? At once? No water break? In the snow? On one wheel? Of course, the answer for half of you (total readership up to 6!) is ‘durrrr.’ The point is, this wasn’t a lazy Sunday afternoon bicycle ride on the boardwalk. I biked up Dewey to Mt. Baker Hwy, continued on up Britton Road, and then back towards home.

If you know the area, you’re now saying, “dude... those are lame hills. Why, back when I did the Death Ride...” blah, blah, blah, “... 10,000 vertical feet ...” blah, blah, blah...

If it isn’t obvious, let me make it so: I’m still not “the best weight for my height.” No hill is still “too easy” even though I’ve been riding now for a few summers. It’s a successful climb if I make it to the top without gasping for air like a concrete-shoe-wearing mob informant.

Anyhow... back to me not being a weenie. Right, I remember:

And then I became a weenie.

As I approached the corner of Lakeway Drive and Yew Street, I thought about Yew St hill and the countless times (ok, 6) I’ve climbed it on my bicycle. To me, the hill is massive (500-ish ft from Lakeway), and I’m just not used to it. Each time before, it was painful. Each time took forever. Each time involved me wondering aloud about what I had gotten myself into (my grammar suffers when I climb, too). But each time after it was over I was glad that I did it; each time I had enough gas to get to the top and cruise down the other side; each time I knew that I’m tougher than the hill.

I thought about the serious, brutal, personal, uncomfortable, panting, light-headed, sweat-inducing 10-to-15 minutes of pain and decided that, since I’ve done this before, I could easily do it again. Some other day.

That’s when I became the weenie. At about 6:30 Friday night.

Two words: 1. We. 2. Knee.

When faced with a challenge, I’d like to think that I always confront it straight on and accomplish it. Vanquish all foes. Eliminate intruders. Eat the whole pizza. Other times I shy away like, if you pardon the Seinfeld reference (used here in a completely wholesome and G-rated context), a frightened turtle. These shy-away times usually leave me with a bad taste in my mouth. I regret ‘em, and I tend to hold a grudge against myself because of it. (You’d think I might be mature enough to get beyond this, but that’s fodder for another post.)

It’s the problem of seeing something you know you can do, something maybe you should do, something you either haven’t done or are afraid to fail at, but you are just too scared, too timid, or too (dare I say) weenie to go through with it. There are too many other things in my life that require me to put my head down and follow through that I can’t be letting this weenie-ness control me during my leisure time, too. It’s a hard habit to unlearn, but I’m working at it. And with all the bad tastes, my toothpaste bill has been astronomical.
 
Next time, I won’t let myself off so easy. That hill is mine. I ownzor that hill. Yew Street, you are now MY STREET.

So if you see me out there, climbing that stupid hill, just know that I’m not being a weenie anymore. I’m not letting fear or pain or whatever so-called demon it is that’s keeping me from ascending that (stupid) hill and triumphing like the hill-climbing, triumphing, non-weenie bicycling stud that I am.

And toss me some water, for goodness sake. It’s a long way up.

Not only do we not choose our vocation, but, strictly speaking, we do not find our vocation, as if it is something unknown, awaiting us in the future. Rather, our vocation is already here, where we are and what we are doing right now.
    Certainly we may have different callings as we go through life, and we may be preparing for some future goal. But that must not be allowed to obscure the fact that the relationships, duties, and daily work that God has given to each of us right now is a divine and holy calling from the Lord.
    ...
    The doctrine of vocation, though it has to do with human work, is essentially about God’s work and how God works in and through our lives. Finding our vocation is not just “finding my lifework,” nor even “finding what God wants me to do.” Though these may be part of the vocational cross we have to struggle with, finding our vocation is largely a matter of finding where God is, the God who hides himself in our neighbors, in ourselves, and in His world. Once we notice the Hidden God and realize how He is at work—in the workplace, families, the community, and the church—and when we realize the part we play in His design, we have found our vocation.

from God at Work: Your Christitan Vocation in All of Life (pages 57-58, 59-60). Gene Edward Veith, Jr.

click for full size, 2.6 MB panorama

Last weekend I spent a day hiking on Mount Baker: Railroad Grade, Trail #603.2 (Forest Service, no Hiker Bob link (site was down)). The trail starts at 3300 ft (according to Green Trails #45), and Kiel and I estimated that we hiked in 4 miles and lunched at 6000 ft-ish.

Railroad Grade is cool for a few reasons:
-- It just is. You’re above the tree line, and the views are sweet. Go on a sunny day for best results.
-- There are two other trails that share the trailhead: Scott Paul; Park Butte. One is just 1.5 miles more, the other is 6 miles more. You can do Scott Paul as a loop.
-- Nostalgia. 11 years ago, we summer interns got a hot tip from Sam and took a Saturday off (we worked... a lot...) up on the Railroad Grade trail. The party included Russell, Brian, Eric, and me. Being a home-body from Michigan, this was new. Mountains in the horizon were not part of everyday life, nor was the ability to make yourself part of that horizon.

I’ve lived 9 summers in Washington since my first trip up Railroad Grade, and not one has gone by without my thinking about “that trail I took back then.” Finding this trail was something of a quest of mine. Thanks again to Sam and his mad memory skillz for helping me re-find it last week.
 
There was always one scene from the trail that really stuck out, and I was able to re-experience it:

The trail follows the top of a ridge for nearly a mile and leads to Easton Glacier. On one side of the trail, there’s a steep drop-off to the rocks and dirt of the Metcalf Moraine; on the other side, there is a fairly steep slope of green ground cover, sporadic trees, scurrying marmots, and spots of snow that hadn’t got the memo that it was 80+ degrees F. And all this competing with Mount Baker itself which is right there in front of you.

Another thing I remember was the cool chain and wood bridge over Rocky Creek a little over a mile from the trailhead. When I heard the trickle of the creek, I pulled my camera out to capture the bridge coolness only to find that, after rounding the corner, there was no bridge. It had been washed out in the spring floods. All that's left is one of the bridge's supports (see in the picture on the right).

For your FYI: because this trail is so cool, lots of day-trippers visit. There were at least 70+ people on the trail that day. This isn’t the trail for people looking for solitude--this is the trail for people looking for fantastic views-itude.

Holy smokes, folks. You gotta check it out. The trail lives up to the hype.

When the wife and kids go on vacation, the bachelorized men may drink, smoke, avoid laundry, watch TV, have barbecues, and eat take-out. They may also often feel bored, aimless, and lonely.

I swear I’m not making this up. It says so right here. Yeah, I know... I can’t believe it, either.

[Update 11:47pm 14 Aug 2006: Broken link fixed.]