4.02.2009
Kind of ironic, no?
Burns Dogs
4.01.2009
Ted Tellefson in Burns, OR was recently arrested for 100 counts of animal neglect. Apparently, he was a breeder and things got out of control, and when the sheriff investigated, these dogs were cramped together in filthy cages. I think that "things got out of control" is a generous way of describing the situation, but the man has agreed to surrender the dogs. Usually, animals are kept in isolation pending investigation, but because Tellefson has admitted guilt, the dogs are now being socialized and given an opportunity to learn to trust humans again.
At least, this is my understanding of the situation. I recently started to volunteer at the Oregon Humane Society, where they are currently housing 90 of the Burns dogs. Very few volunteers are allowed to work with these animals because they have been so badly traumatized, and the people at the Humane Society want to establish an environment where they can feel safe an comfortable. I am feeling both angry at the way this man treated these dogs and grateful that Oregon has such a wonderful Humane Society.
The Oregon Humane society adopts out 98% of their dogs and 95% of their cats, which is pretty incredible. They are recognized nationally for excelance. It's a community effort; they have over 1,000 volunteers. During the orientation, I sat next to a woman who was recently laid off. She told me that she she has been struggling to get a new job, but because she has more time now, she's spending some of it volunteering. Apparently, one upside of the recession is that there are now more volunteers than ever helping out with non-profits. So, while these organizations are having trouble raising money, the investment of human capital is at an all time high. I think its wonderful that so many people, who are themselves suffering, have made the effort to give to those in need.
Video Application
3.26.2009
Backpacker magazine is holding open auditions for gear testers. One part is a written review and the other part is a 5 minute video. Here's mine. The quality is a little bit low, but it's my first try at making a movie, and I'm going to use a nice camera next time. Also, it's a bit cheesy, but it was really fun to do. My friends Jade, Steph, and Phil helped me out.
I think that the number of people who watch it will affect how likely they are to choose you. Also, if you have a youtube account, I'd really appreciate it if you rated the video or made a comment. If you don't have a youtube account, don't worry, we can still be friends.
Walk it off
3.09.2009
Some subjects shouldn't be made into A Complete Idiot's Guide. They may as well entitle it: Anxiety, It's All in Your Head.
Even better:
Failed Trip to Mount Jefferson: A story in three acts
2.23.2009
Prelude
The winter weather in Portland is pretty dreary and I had begun to get restless. I thought, Central Oregon gets 300 days of sun a year, odds are it'll be bright and warm there. I actually thought that. You might say, Adelaide, that logic doesn't really follow. It's still winter and you are going to the mountains, how could you delude yourself into thinking you could backpack there?
You might say that, and I would tell you to kindly keep your opinions to yourself.
Act One: Big Plans
Place Adelaide wanted to stay:
Well, not exactly. This photo is of Mount Washington, a volcano that last erupted over 1,000 years ago. I took this picture from the side of the road, after I climbed up a 4 foot snow bank created by the plows.
This is as close to nature as I would come on the trip.
It turns out that the trail I wanted to hike was impassable without snowshoes. I had anticipated some snow, but I thought I could park my car, hike to a covering, set up camp and enjoy the sunshine. No such luck. It wasn't just that there was snow on the trail, the entire parking place was snowed over and then the road had been plowed so that all you could see was the sign: Pacific Crest Trail.
Act Two: Reality hits
Place Adelaide ended up staying:
It's ok, I said to myself. So things aren't going to go as I planned, that's alright, I'll make new plans. So I drove through the city Bend and out into the Badlands.
About two hours into the middle of nowhere, I pulled my car over and got out. With no light pollution, the stars were amazing. I got my sleeping bag out of the trunk, opened the sun roof of the car, leaned back and watched the sky. I saw three shooting stars before I fell asleep.
Midnight: I awoke with the feeling of something falling on my face. It had started sleeting in the night. I turned on the car and shut the sun roof. I was wet and cold, and there were no stars. Suddenly, the idea of sleeping on the side of the road stopped being a romantic idea.
Act Three: Reality hits harder
Place Adelaide ended up staying the rest of the night:
In my mind's eye, I had at least expected that, if I couldn't hike, I could stay in a quaint country inn. However, there are no inns in the badlands, in fact, the only structure I saw was for A-1 Antelope taxidermy: Free Salt! And, as I was unsure how long things would go on like this, I drove back through the freezing rain hoping to not slip on any forming ice patches. I found this hotel late at night, and sleep-deprived and shivering, asked for a room.
Ah, well. It was a noble effort nonetheless. I'm crossing my fingers and hoping for sunshine so that I can get outside again.
1.28.2009
Ian was hit recently by a car on his walk home, and it's made me a bit paranoid about being seen on the road when I'm biking. On the upside, you'd be surprised how often I hear, "Look at that hot chick with the glasses and the giant reflective vest."
When it was bad, it was oh, so bad, and when it was good...
1.25.2009
This past week we've had a break from the cold and wet winter here, and I realized something profound: Portland is like that bad boyfriend you can't help loving.
Think of it. You start out in the summer. The landscape is amazing. The skies are blue, everything is green, and there are more wild berries than you can possibly eat. It's all better than you ever knew it could be.
But then the Fall comes, and things start fading. In the back of your mind, you have a sense of foreboding that you don't want to acknowledge. You say to yourself, things were so wonderful this summer, I can handle a little bad weather.
But you know in your heart that it isn't going to be a little bad weather. There will be months of unending rain, soaking into everything you own. You will buy waterproof pants and a waterproof jacket, a waterproof cap to put over your bike helmet and waterproof gaiters over your shoes. You will get used to ringing out your socks, and you will keep a steady supply of hangers in your bathroom so that your clothes can drip dry. And if the rain wasn't enough, you will be cold and shivering all this time. You will grow accustomed to your fingers being blue and pruney. The days will be always overcast, and you will start popping vitamin D pills and anti-depressants. You will say to yourself, in your moments of despair, I will never be dry and warm again.
And just when you're ready to quit this relationship, just when things have gotten so bad that you've threatened to pack your bags and leave, he will dangle one beautiful day in front of you. One crystal clear, warm, sun-filled day. You will take a blanket to the park and read a book there. Or go on a hike in the Gorge. Maybe you will even take the day off work or skip school so that you can make a trip to the coast. At the end of the day, wrapped in your covers and drifting off to sleep, you will sigh contentedly and think, now I remember why I love this city so much.
It will rain the next day without fail.
You will wake up that morning with a groan. And, as you are putting on your waterproof pants and zipping up your waterproof jacket, you will say to your city, in Brokeback Mountain style, "Why can't I quit you?"
Photo of the day: Michelle in Oak's Bottom
1.17.2009
I had stopped posting pictures here because I was frustrated with the loss of saturation in my photos. I haven't really learned how to fix it, but I have some good leads. In the meantime, here is a picture of Michelle making a plaster cast of an animal track in Oaks Bottom.
Limbo
12.22.2008
The Catholic church has done away with the doctrine of limbo. Unfortunately, it still exists for me. Limbo, that is. I’m not talking about the unbaptized here; I’m talking about my lack of clarity over what I should be doing with my life.
It seems that every step I take is in the wrong direction. That’s not totally true. I am ruling things out things that I don’t want to do, but working one by one is pretty inefficient. At this rate, I will have settled on something by the time I’m eighty.
I went to wilderness school this past semester and learned about primitive skills. I really thought I would be into all of that, but it turns out that I am firmly entrenched in the 21st century. One activity we did was making fire with a bowdrill. It goes like this: you gather four pieces of wood from the forest. One piece needs to be wide and flat, this will be your baseboard. Another piece needs to be long and have some flex in it, this will be your bow. Another piece of wood you will carve down to make a spindle. And the final piece of wood needs to fit into your hand so that you can bear down with it on the spindle. You have to be careful about which types of wood you choose, because, if you don’t, making a fire will be almost impossible. At least, it will feel this way. You then carve out a notch into your baseboard, tie a piece of cordage onto both ends of the bow, flex the bow so that you can wrap the spindle in the cordage, and place one end of the spindle in the baseboard and the other in the piece of wood in your hand. Bear down, turn the bow rapidly until you get a coal.
The problem is that in the time it took me to write the previous paragraph, I could have made a fire with matches. And believe me, after grinding on the bowdrill for over an hour, sweating, getting blisters, having the spindle snap out of place and hit me repeatedly, matches were all I was thinking about.
So it turns out that I will not be a primitive skills guru. Part of this is because I can’t see myself convincing sane adults to make a bowdrill. At least, not enough to make a living. It’s not that everything is about the money, but I want a career now. And I can’t seem to focus my energy right now on things that won’t provide some kind of financial return.
Except writing, that is.
But I find that even writing is hard to do consistently. Ian asked me the other day why, if I’m passionate about writing, is it hard for me to motivate myself on a consistent basis. I told him that great writers throughout time have struggled with this. Margaret Atwood said, “Blank pages inspire me with terror.” Unfortunately, the truth for me is less flattering--I’m actually just lazy. It’s much easier to watch a TV show than to sit at my desk and wrestle with words.
It’s not just that. Sometimes it feels so sad to me to pour out my heart into something other people won’t read. At least, no one but the four people who read my blog (you know who you are). The Japanese philosopher (whose name I cannot remember) writes that when we do something for fame or money, we love results and not actually the activity itself, thus robbing ourselves of the joy of the process. Perhaps I should post that on the wall in my office.
I don’t mean to have self-pity. I do live a blessed life, and I have the luxury of exploring my options. I just hate being between things. I want to run at something with all my heart. I want to break out of limbo.
Christmas lottery
12.08.2008
The Oregon lottery is advertising the idea of giving scratch cards for Christmas. This sends the message: your chance of actually getting a gift this year is astronomically low.
Terrorism against women
12.03.2008
I know this image is very intense, but I think it's worth showing. The New York Times just published an article about acid attacks on women in parts of Asia and Afghanistan.
"Terrorism in this part of the world usually means bombs exploding or hotels burning, as the latest horrific scenes from Mumbai attest. Yet alongside the brutal public terrorism that fills the television screens, there is an equally cruel form of terrorism that gets almost no attention and thrives as a result: flinging acid on a woman’s face to leave her hideously deformed."
Read more.
Photo of the day: Vintage car
11.17.2008
Still haven't figured out why I lose so much saturation when I load my pictures up to the web.
Photos taken during survival trip
11.14.2008
I recently did a three day trip with some friends in the Mount Hood wilderness area. We built our own shelters, despite the rain and snow, and I managed not to freeze to death. Here are some photos I took.
Photo of the day: Bowdrill
11.11.2008
I just met someone who takes a photo every day and posts it on her blog. This seems like a great idea to me. I'm still learning the basics of photography, but I'm going to shoot for putting up a couple of pictures per week.
Here's my first one. It's of the bowdrill set I made.
*I've been convinced to add the rest from this series.
Fauve
10.17.2008
by Arthur Sze
Caw Caw, Caw Caw Caw.
To comprehend a crow
you must have a crow's mind.
To be the night rain,
silver, on black leaves,
you must live in the
shine and wet. Some people
drift in their lives:
green-gold plankton,
phosphorescent, in the sea.
Others slash: a knife
at a yellow window shade
tears open the light.
But to live digging deep
is to feel the blood
in you rage as rivers,
is to feel love and hatred
as fibers of rope,
is to catch the scent
of a wolf, and turn wild.
Anger Management TrackersNW style
10.09.2008
It’s been a little over a month since the TrackersNW immersion program began, and I have yet to cut off any major appendages–which I take to be a fortuitous sign. I have cut myself making my bow, trimming cordage, actually, whenever I am in the same room with my knife or hatchet, I seem to cut myself. But all in all, no emergency room visits as of yet.
Which is a good thing, as our group recently began practicing making tools out of stones. The idea here is that if you are stranded without a knife you can create one by flintknapping. According to our instructors Brian and Shaun, if you hold one rock in your hand and hit it on a 45 degree angle with another rock, the result will be sharp flakes that you can use to cut things. Apparently, this works.
I say apparently because after trying this and smashing my fingers several times, I had worked through all the curse words I know and had to move to another method. This consisted of holding one rock upright between two sticks and slamming down another rock on top of it. The smaller rock crumbles under pressure and begs for mercy. While I did not smash my fingers with this method, I also didn’t produce anything sharp. I did manage to break up a few rocks and gloated over their decimation.
So I switched to the final method, which is my favorite. Here you take big rocks and throw them down on the ground against other rocks. This is Anger Management TrackersNW style. The upside of this is that when you are smashing objects for flintknapping, no one thinks you are crazy or out of control–they think you’re resourceful.
At least, that’s how I choose to think about it. In fact, I’m so resourceful that I threw a rock down that bounced back and hit my shin, thereby providing me with enough anger to flintknap for a while.
By the end, I hadn’t managed to produce anything very sharp, but it’s probably for the best. Looking at the cuts on my hands, I figure that my playing with only blunt objects is probably a good idea.
Check out Earth Ninjas for more stories by the TrackersNW immersion team.
I been in jail in Chattanooga
10.06.2008
Ian just bought a new mattress and the store could only deliver it during work hours, so I volunteered to be at the apartment when it arrived. They only sent one guy, and I'm sick right now, but somehow we managed to lug it up together.
"So where you from?" he asks me. He has already lingered too long. Apparently, he's feeling chatty.
"Chattanooga," I say.
"I know Chattanooga. I been in jail in Chattanooga."
"Oh," I edge towards the door. "Isn't that interesting."
"Not that it was my fault. I mean, it was my fault, but you know."
I don't know, but I don't let on. He tells me that a cop was being aggressive (not quite the way he put it) and he decided to be aggressive back. I have already said thanks and shook his hand three times. So now I nod and slowly start to close the door.
"But I don't take that kind of treatment and hired a lawyer that costs one thousand dollars an hour."
"Good for you," I say. The door is almost closed but he moves towards me.
"I just love your accent." He's got an arm the door way, looking at me.
I want to say, So does my big, big muscular boyfriend. He's just crazy about my accent. Instead I stick my hand out one more time, say, "Thanks. You have a good day," smile and close the door.
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