Tag: women’s outdoors blog

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Something Has to Change

In 2014, the Elwah River in Olympic National Park was finally freed of it’s two damns. Allowing the river to return to it’s natural state. In the following years the Elwah began reestablishing it’s flood planes. And as a result destroyed a section of the road that visitors used to access the trail to the Olympic Hot Springs. With swift force the Elwah sliced through the road, destroying it. Suddenly, a 2.4 mile approach to the springs became an 11 mile approach.

Lacking any better sense Starman and I decided to snowshoe into the springs and have a relaxing weekend sitting in the murky, sulphur-smelling water. Actually, we tried to ski into these same springs last weekend and I was too tired, and we’re moving too slow to make it so we bailed four miles in. Then we spent the rest of the weekend in the sound-side town of Port Angeles sitting in a hotel hot tub, eating pizza, and watching garbage television. It was incredible. And I am so glad we took a weekend to mellow out. That being said, we both still wanted to check out the Olympic Hot Springs.

The approach to the springs is long and low. When gaining 3,200 feet over 11 miles you’re always sort of climbing, but it’s never steep aside from the one very short scramble that is the reroute trail directing hikers above the washout. Additionally, the views are nearly non-existent, you’re basically following a road through the woods for all but the original, last 2.4 miles of the hike.

These are the perfect hikes to spend zonked out in thought, watching the sun trickle through the trees all day. I’m working hard enough hiking in the snow to draw some of my attention on the monotonous task of not falling on my ass. But this means the rest of my mind can just wander off, following odd doors and strange left turns through the Escher painting of my brain. You should try it some time.

This hike kicked off our spring training as we work our way back from a fall and winter spent healing from thru hiking, relocating, finding work, and not moving very much. Big trips are not simply built out of grit. They are cultivated through training hikes and weekly gym sessions, as much as passion for the outdoors. Starman and I are absolutely head over heels in love with living in the Northwest, and with each other, too (Hi mom, Hi Carol, I know you’re reading this). And part of this adoration of our new home comes in the form of a galloping desire to explore this land. We have some big objectives this year both near home, and abroad that I’m really stoked on.

Right now Starman and I have trips to the Virgin Island and Puerto Rico, ski touring in the northern Sierras, and a hike around Mont Blanc in the works. In addition I have a week planned off-trail scrambling in British Columbia with a hiker I met on the PCT last summer. Plus we’re looking to climb a couple volcanoes, backpack a ton, and explore this great glorious gorgeous gem of a place.

In addition to hitting the gym, the plan is to go on progressively longer backpacking trips over the weekends. These weekends away are something that I love as well as something that takes a huge amount of time and planning. I know that going out every weekend is far from how the average American spends their 48 weekly leisure hours. But these trips help define the weeks of my life, they remind me that time is passing and to see the planet while I have the chance. To revel my self against her multitudinous skin. Which brings us back to this weekend.

Between the forest walk and the time spent sitting in the algae filled hot egg-fart water like the preposterous great ape that I am, I had a nice opportunity to think about some intentions for how I spend my time. I have recently started a new job as a Copywriter and Video Director at TomboyX (though my actual title is the somewhat meaningless Content Manager). Additionally I’m going to be making an exciting announcement over on my Instagram this evening about an upcoming photography project that I’m excited about, but can’t say more about right now. Which means that the blog is going to be changing, again. Ten points to Ravenclaw if you saw that coming. I know I just said this. But first let me explain why and then I’ll tell you how as well as what you can expect to see here in the future. Because Wild Country Found isn’t going away completely.

I have fallen into the busyness trap. I have a full time job, plus freelance writing, volunteering, working out, planning and going on training trips, creating content for this blog and Instagram, in addition to doing all the other shit like changing my car’s oil and feeding myself! I have bought the line told to us by capitalism which is that we are only as valuable as we are productive. And in doing so, created more work for myself than I can handle. And it’s stressing me out. I want to read books again. I want to have down time to go for a walk or make a cup of tea and look at the spring sunshine. I am no longer interested in trading hours of my life for internet popularity. I will write when and what I want. Boundaries. I’m learning to set boundaries.

So many of you have been kind and supportive over the life of this blog. And for that I am so, so grateful. Your comments have made me smile with pride while others have been beautifully candid about your experiences. Thank you for that. Truthfully, I have agonized over this choice simply because of the kind comments I have gotten here, I read and appreciated them all. But I need time for me. Time to reform my life into an experience instead of a to-do list. So here’s what you can expect.

I repeat: Wild Country Found is not going away. On all my longer hikes I will be writing daily blog posts for each day of the trip. These will publish shortly after I get back from the hike since all my trips this year are shorter than two weeks. In addition to that I’m working on a new photo series profiling women, trans and nonbinary, POC, and disabled folks who get outside and what draws them there. You can expect these to be released like seasons, each with six profiles and portraits, probably only a couple a year. I’m creating the first series now so if you or someone you know (who lives within four hours of Seattle) want to be a part of this series, or future series, please let me know.

What will be going away are the semi-weekly posts. So if you want to follow along I encourage you to subscribe. That way you’ll know when I post. Plus, I never give your information out to advertisers and I’ll never spam you. If you want more regular access to my writing I can be found on a few websites around town. Or you can pop over to my Instagram which I post to more often.

Again, thank you for being here. Look for some more trail writing and cool profiles in the future. Sport Bastard out!

Give em the ol’ razzle dazzle.
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Everything I Don’t Know

Sunday Afternoon

I am on my knees in the snow frantically digging. My shoulders are searing from the effort. The shoveler in front of me tosses a wash of snow into my face but I am too focused on chopping my own shovel into the snow to pay any attention to the wet trickles of snowmelt now racing down my neck. “Rotate!” Is the only word uttered as our team of five digs a V pattern towards the tip of the avalanche probe buried a meter into the snow. “Rotate!” Once the person at the front begins to slow. “Rotate!” Even if you haven’t been digging as long as the others. “Rotate!” This isn’t a practice in who can dig the longest, it’s practicing to save a life.

Even though I know this is a drill. That there is no person at the end of the probe, I don’t slow my digging. Because even in a drill scenario with our guide standing over my shoulder I am deeply aware of the fact that the skills I’m developing now could very well be the difference between life and death. And that if it is ever me at the end of that probe I hope my friends won’t slow their digging either.

24 Hours Earlier

I am sitting in a chilly classroom above the Canada West Mountain School’s Vancouver offices. Where I, along with 15 guys with beards, two guys without beards, and one woman, are taking our level 1 Avalanche Safety Training. We’ve spent the day analyzing pictures of avalanche crown lines, snow crystals, slide paths. Talking about safety, improbability, and learning from the mistakes of others.

From the safety of my desk I feel confident in what I have learned today. My Harmonie-ish nature is on full display, answering question after question while my taciturn classmates remain silent, arms folded while our instructors eyes rove over the group looking for engagement. I have a natural skill for classroom learning, good grades come easily for me. Add to this the excitement of procuring new skills which will allow me push further into the backcountry and I’m practically bouncing out of my seat with zeal for this new knowledge.

As the day winds down our instructors throw a final slide onto the projector. It’s one we’ve already seen. The title reads: The Harsh Facts. And below the title, in frank black text it says “Most people fully buried in avalanches die.” Statistically the odds are about 50%.

You’re buried and it’s a coin toss on your survival.

By the Numbers

In the event that you are fully buried in an avalanche there are few numbers to keep in mind. The first being that 50% of people who are buried will die. On average you have 15 to 30 minutes to find the buried person and clear their airway or else they will suffocate before they can be dug out. For others no amount of digging will help. Many people who are killed in avalanches die as a result of blunt force trauma instilled upon the body as it ragdolls down a slope. And no matter how fast you dig, you can’t keep your friend from striking that tree. Sometimes you fuck up and people die. Sometimes you have put yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time and all the practice and luck in the world won’t keep you alive.

That’s what day one taught me.

Day two taught me I know even less than I imagined.

Safety Card

Our class is standing a the bottom of a tree-strewn slope looking down at our Avulators–cards that serve as a checklist for determining avalanche safety. In the game of safe backcountry travel the goal is to get as low a score as possible. Fresh snow earns you a point. Slopes over 30 degrees earn you a point while slopes over 35 degrees earn you two. Sparse trees, one point. Persistent weak layers, one point. Terrain traps, one point. Then more points the more caution you need to exercise as you travel.

On this small, unassuming roll we wrack up four points which pushes us into the area of Extra Caution. Again and again throughout the day we tally our points and never once are we in that green band of simple Caution. With each analysis my understanding of what is a safe travel zone shrinks. And with each undulating hill we climb my body begins to wither with fatigue. If yesterday I was the smart and vivacious Hermione Granger, then today I am the blundering Neville Longbottom. The outdoor portion of AST-1 has taken me right to the edge of my comfort zone. Right to the point where my toes can skim the bottom of the pool while out in front of me stretches the vastly terrifying and enticing deep end.

The Thing Is

Out here on the edge of comfort I can just start to see an entire world opening up in front of me. And right now that world, the opportunity to explore it, is too big for me. It’s like getting the keys to a Porsche when you’re 16, barely know how to drive, and don’t have anywhere to park it. I would be better served by a riding lawnmower. My skiing skills have atrophied after two years of pushing the sport aside as I saved and prepped for the PCT. Meanwhile my knowledge of snow travel is in its nascent stages.

Standing knee deep in snow, arms trembling from the effort of digging I am like a young child being taken into the wild for the first time. I am all searching eyes and tentative smiles. Eager to explore but confident only in the knowledge that I don’t know anything. However, I would argue that understanding what you don’t know is far more valuable than boasting about what you do know.  It’s too easy to find excitement in exploration and forget to appreciate the joy of learning. So for the time being I will be content to learn all the land has to teach me about its myriad secrets. About what I must understand before I can pass safely across it.

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Calm Between the Storms

Through the dark a warm, red glow begins to blossom, prying me from sleep. Slowly the glow blooms into a persistent light and I am dragged into wakefulness. Before I can fully wake, before I can choose to engage with the day, I roll over and turn my alarm clock off. I am not going to the gym today.

In fact, I didn’t go to the gym once this week. Not once. Each morning when my fancy daylight alarm clock began to brighten the room I would turn it off and go back to sleep for another hour.

For the first time in what feels like a long time I have completely fallen out of the habit of exercising before work. Foregoing my normal practice in favor of extra hours spent between the sheets. When the darkness of morning comes calling I ignore it. The difference is, that this week I elected to stop feeling bad about it.

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Years ago I was introduced to the concept of the Big Why. The Big Why is the concept of drilling way down deep through the desire behind any goal in an effort to figure out what is motivating our actions. Once we understand our Big Why it becomes easier to follow through with the necessary steps to to accomplish our goals. For more than two years my Big Why was attempting a thru hike of the Pacific Crest Trail.

When I didn’t want to do squats (my very least favorite strength training activity) I motivated myself with the knowledge that squats lead to strong legs and strong legs lead to a higher likelihood of completing my hike. The same was true with money. When I wanted a fancy coffee, or to splurge on a last minute trip I would weight that immediate desire against the much bigger desire to save money for the PCT. Suddenly every dollar I spent became potential PCT money and as a result it was easier to skip the fancy coffee and put that money into my savings account instead. My why was big enough to consistently influence my daily decisions. A touchstone of sorts which I could return to when the desire to be comfortable or entertained in the moment threatened to derail the dream of thru hiking.

However, when I completed my thru hike of the PCT on September 11, 2018 my big why vanished. Poof. It was gone. I had a few plans on the horizon, but nothing that required long term dedication in the way that preparing for the trail did. And that lack of motivating force impacted how lived my life. Even though it would be weeks before I could begin to recognize it.

In the weeks immediately following the trail I began running around the lake in my neighborhood. I signed up for a nearby gym. Told myself that I wasn’t going to lose all of the fitness I had gained over the previous months of backpacking. I thought I could roll this experience into another epic adventure, something big and sexy. I was riding a high of accomplishment and in doing so ignoring how my body was feeling.

Barbell weight training, something I genuinely enjoy, became a chore to be dealt with. Running began to feel about as enjoyable as filing taxes. On more than one occasion I would choose hiking destinations based on the quality of story they would produce, not how happy they would make me. I had become someone with two thru hikes under my belt. Someone who gets outside every weekend, hits the climbing gym at night, and does epic shit. But I was also tired and unmotivated. Misdiagnosing the cause of my malaise I plowed forward.

Maybe, I thought. Just maybe what I just needed was another big project to throw myself at. If I could just cultivate the right level of stoke then all my desire to train and get outside would come rushing back. But in the way that mother nature holds us and allows her foolish human children to find their own paths across this planet, she is also capable of stepping in our way when we are in danger of doing ourselves harm.


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This winter in the northwest has been characterized by alternating warm rain and snow storms. Resulting in a highly unstable snowpack and high-risk avalanche conditions which have forced me to stay at lower elevations and closer to home. My personal life has been characterized by stretched finances as I looked for a job and rebuilt my savings account after taking nearly eight months away from the workforce.

In the way in which I pursued the PCT with an unbalanced fervor, the pendulum is has since swung the other way and I find myself craving rest. Yet, having this swing coincide with the new year has left me feeling distinctly at odds with a society that fetishizes productivity and busyness. During the early weeks of January while the internet screams about 10 habits of highly productive people, declaring that this will be the year of the new you. I feel like I am constantly walking through a blaring motivational Nike ad when all I really want is a nap.


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The proverbial Greek choir dubbed ‘they’ says that there is calm before the storm. I have always found that there is a calm after the storm as well. Living our lives in endless circles as we do, means that these are perhaps the same calm. A season of effort followed by one of rest. Around and around we go.

At the center of an experience it is hard to see the edges. When I am living in the calm I worry that I will be tied to this bed forever. That my stillness will stretch to the horizon and I will be lost. And while I am amid the flurry of excitement that is the storm I pretend that this too, is sustainable. But here on the edge it is possible to see that change will come in time and that I need not cause myself undue strife in attempting to accelerate it’s approach.

During the last few weeks, as I have waded through the morass of unmotivation I have slowly felt my desire for adventure returning. The months long break is slowly lifting and I can feel my drive to explore returning. The other day as I took a walk at lunch I felt that familiar tug to grab my running shoes. This week when thrilling boxes of new ski gear arrived at my door I once again began browsing weather reports and drive times to my local ski hill. While the tendrils of my burning desire to explore outside are beginning to rekindle I have not yet regained the urge to labor outdoors.

The new gear sitting unassembled on my living room floor speaks to the promise of new, softer adventures. I am not ready to push myself, lungs burning, down 20 miles of alpine trail. But skiing feels like pure play in the way that hiking does not. And that is what I am ready for, play.

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Getting Good at Being a Little Afraid

You’d think it would be easy to find small suction cups in a city as large as Seattle. I certainly did. In fact, as a Millenial in the age of access I basically assume that I can find any item in 36 hours with minimal time or money spent.

In a somewhat disappointing turn of events, I have discovered that this is sometimes just not true. Which is how I came to be standing in the checkout like at my third Home Depot stop of the day hoping that the adhesive-backed velcro I was buying wouldn’t require more than a few hours of scrapping to come off the inside of my car windows.

But let me start at the beginning.

I am someone who is 30% good at planning, 50% amazing at hoping for the best, and 20% willing to grit my teeth and laugh through a bad situation that came about as a result of my poor planning. Which is to say that when presented with a completely free four day weekend I made three bad plans; each one thwarted by dubious safety, distance, and the fact that winter in the Pacific Northwest is substantially less forgiving than the winters I’d grown accustomed to in Southern California. Eventually with snow and cold temps in the forecast I decided on a small road trip through the interior of British Columbia, sleeping in my car along the way. The velcro I was buying from Home Depot was to affix insulated cut outs to my cars windows. The cut outs, made from a similar material to windshield sun shades, were to prevent me from freezing to death by adding much needed insulation to my car.* But because I am a reluctant planner at best, I was buying said velcro for said cut outs on Friday night on the way to the Canadian border with my car already packed and only about half of my insulating cut outs made. It was fine. Or, it probably would be.

An insulating cut out for a rear window in my car. The suction cups were supposed to go in the corners and attach it to the window.

* Fun Fact: While sleeping in a car you lose most of the heat through your windows which is why insulated cutouts are a great idea if it’s going to be cold. They’re also good for added privacy.

As I drove through the Canadian border, then through and away from the bright lights of Vancouver I was admittedly a little scared. The whole trip felt reactionary and maybe a little dumb. I was driving north into a mild storm because the weather everywhere else was worse. I had a scribbled list of potential campgrounds that would hopefully still be accessible in late December. And in the same list some views I’d hope to see along the way if they weren’t obscured by clouds. Even if this trip was a dud, at least it was better than spending four days alone in my small apartment.

I got to my first campground (read: dirt parking lot in the trees) around 10pm and as I was setting up my car for sleeping a light snow began to fall. In the space leftover by my conscious brain fear swarmed around like irksome gnats–near invisible yet persistently annoying. What if it snowed more than the forecast called for and I couldn’t get my car out in the morning? What if it was too cold to sleep? What if the insulation I was sticking in my windows was magically too insulated and I suffocated while I slept? Was that even possible? Or what if some crazy ax murderer came and, ya know, murdered me? Was I too close to the road? Too far? On what side of adventurous and idiotic am I currently residing?

I had only winter camped once before this trip. Three weeks previously Starman and I hiked up Rainier and camped below the Muir snow fields. It was challenging and cold, but I had another person to turn to if things went wrong. But out here there was no such security. For all my experience outdoors, for all the miles hike and solo trips embarked on, being outdoors by yourself can still bring forth a fear-spiral of ‘what-ifs.’

As I sealed myself into the bubble of warmth inside my car my only option was to hope for the best. I have rarely been able to logic my way out of being afraid. The only way I’ve found to get over being scared is through experience. By exposure to small fear again and again we slowly grow into confidence by way of practice.

And you know what? I didn’t freeze (spoiler).

The next morning I woke to four inches of snow on the ground and fluffy white flakes drifting from the sky. I drove north.


“On what side of adventurous and idiotic am I currently residing? “

Down two lane roads with no tire tracks and no signs of people for hours. I took small, quiet walks to lookouts and silent lakes. Sliding in the footprints of strangers left behind before the latest snow. It feels eerie to be alone in natural spaces that are designed to hem people in, to protect them. I stood against signs pinned to ugly chain link fences and listened to the somber roar of a winter waterfall as the snow slowly worked to fill in my footprints.

I saw small avalanche slides between trees laden down with white caps of snow. I drove under massive slide paths where the trees were shorn down to their roots by a long since melted tidal wave of snow. The land in this part of the world is stunning and I am exultant in its presence. Chock full of mountains rearing up from deep valleys, where towns grow small and stunted, the land too steep for any sprawling human habitation. And in the early afternoon the darkness begins to snake it’s tendrils across the sky and there is that familiar voice of fear again.

While this land is beautiful in the extreme there is an undercurrent which belies the wonder. To err in a place of darkness and snow is to accept the chance of high consequences. Hence the insulated cutouts. The two sleeping bags and pads, spare socks and warm booties. The extra layers, jackets, emergency blanket, shove, stove, and boots. My car is full of so much gear I likely won’t use because that is how I handle the fear of newness–with contingency plans and warm pants. But also because my knowledge of traveling in places like this tells me to be careful.

I have come to recognize myself as someone with a proclivity for to pushing beyond my comfort zone. In college I went from an occasional jogger, to having my ACL repaired for the second time, to standing on the starting line of a half Ironman triathlon in 18 months. After college I went from running the rare half marathon, to running ultra marathons, to lightweight backpacking, to completing a 2,650 mile thru hike of the PCT. All in three years. I feel like a coy fish who is constantly outgrowing their pond. Slowly changing until all at once I feel like a different person. The extra gear in my car is a means for that growth. The extra gear is what will allow me to take the first tentative baby steps into new adventures while relying heavily on previously gained knowledge in order to mitigate risk. The only way I’ve ever learned to safely progress my skills in the mountains are by keeping one eye on the lessons of the past and by embracing little fears.

Which is why I didn’t take my inability to find suction cups as a good reason not to go on this trip. It’s why I didn’t turn around at the Canadian border as the sun set and the temperature began to drop. It’s why when I woke on Saturday morning I pointed my car north and drove. Because the only way I’ve ever found to move forward is to embrace the little fears and allow them to teach me what they will.