This week started out with such promise, then came the descent.

Oscar went rogue in a way that required a more-than-customary degree of medical intervention. 3 days into this hospital stay, I still have no definitive plan for the immediate future. It’s clear I’ll need surgery, but not precisely when, where, or to what extent the procedure will reach.


Double Dose of Dahlias

As ever, there are several considerations at play which impact my course of treatment; my recurring flares have not responded to the biologic intervention and are currently only quelled with steroids. This is problematic because apart from making me feel awful in a whole host of ways, steroids have a raft of nasty side effects [high blood pressure, bone loss, impaired endocrine function] rendering them untenable as a long term treatment. Moreover due to their tendency to cause excessive bleeding problems and delay healing substantially they are troublesome in terms of surgical intercession.

There’s a lot of uncertainty around how to proceed, and coupled with the fact that I Am Not A Patient Man, I also find it difficult to maintain my emotional equilibrium in the face of ongoing ambiguity. Plus, I might have to get a doo doo bag. For THREE MONTHS.

I feel very fortunate to have a supportive group of people taking as much care of me as I will let them. I’ve had well-wishers, and foot rubbers. Clothes-bringers and entertainment providers. Flowers and conversation have arrived at beneficial intervals, and I am moved again at the generosity of my selected family and friends.

I have also had a compassionate troop of caregivers here at Providence who have only reinforced my admiration for this health system where I am fortunate enough to work; to underscore that it is well-founded and grows by degrees. Their obvious interest in my physical well-being is complemented by an equally apparent desire to comfort me emotionally. Lastly there is a manifest willingness to patiently communicate with me about my concerns and questions that lacks any hint of exasperation or condescension that stays in O(ther) (H)ospitals (S)adly (U)pheld*

I’m trying to keep busy and positive, and to rest as much as I can. I am hoping that though this week took a dive, I’ll rebound like the little rubber bouncy ball I really am inside. A swirly purple glitter one.


*That was a stretch, but I am on morphine, so it’ll have to do.




a feeling of surprise, confusion or disappointment

Say what?

Say what?

I am perfectly accustomed to the notion that things will not always go as I plan. If nothing in life is certain but death and taxes, I will make the claim that disappointment is the death of expectation; the taxation of hope.

I find myself generally able to take this phenomenon in stride. I am familiar with it, as are most folk, and lamenting the fact has never once alleviated its effects. For how we make God laugh when we plan…

Yet at certain times I am especially confused by the way things unfold counter to my expectation. Instances where all indications point to a particular course that simply never manifests.

And I am full-well aware there is no ready answer nor effective tonic. To strive is to risk, to hope is to hazard. These are the toll of possibility, and though the price may seem high at times, still better it is to yield the cost than lay stake instead to complacence.

So, I’ll sip my tea and feel puzzled. When it is gone, I will put my aimless wondering away.

A couple of months ago now I tried to ride the KRT with limited success. The trail surface was much more suited to a mountain bike than the hybrid Trek I was riding.

At the time I remembered thinking it might be a better spot for running than riding, and yesterday I set out to test that theory.

When I got to the trailhead, I noticed immediately how WINDY it was. No surprise in the gorge, I was delighted to see a group of kiteboarders out on the river. I scrambled down through the beach brambles and took a few shots of the action.

Let's Go Fly A Kite

Let’s Go Fly A Kite

I knew I wanted to get a 10 mile round trip in. My recent acquisition of a fitbit has me even more conscious than usual of making sure I get in a long haul over the weekends. I strapped on my daypack and camera and headed out the dusty trail.


Not that it was really dusty. Mostly the trail is well maintained gravel, until it becomes rougher, rockier terrain. The weather was outstanding; mild, sunny, and just a tiny bit crisp. Perfect fall conditions.IMG_0848

And there were nice colors just starting to peek through here and there as well. The view back toward Hood was quite nice, once I got turned around that way.

The trail was only busy in areas where people were fishing and once a pair of cyclists; otherwise I had the place all to myself.

I moved slow on the way in, pausing frequently to take photos – most of which did not turn out that well due to the harsh light conditions – and listening to Catch-22 on audiobook. Once I’d gotten to my turnaround point, I was hungry enough my primary concern was getting back to the car quickly and feeding myself something tasty for all my efforts.IMG_0838

While it had taken about 2 hours to get the 5 miles in at a loping pace with frequent photo breaks, the return trip took just about an hour at a brisk cross-country jogging pace. I felt a little beat up pounding over the uneven surface, and nearly tripped a few times over particularly recalcitrant rocks, but kept my pace and my feet till the end.



“The Trees are about to show us how lovely it is to let the dead things go.” Maya Elious


At the turning of the season, may the fading light be a reminder how precious it is. 

At the turning of the season let the cool of the night recollect the value of warmth.

At the turning of the season grant the ended span of life such that life may reemerge.

At the turning of the season yield to the changes that will create the world anew.

Do all this; and fall.

It’s been a rough couple weeks. Starting to get my equilibrium back and feel like things are on track. In the meantime, I finally invested in the DSLR I have been promising myself for years. I got a Canon EOS Rebel T3 and I am more or less delighted with McGavin.* As much – possibly more – functionality as I can possibly utilize given my skill level, and a body style which allows the addition of more or less any other components Canon makes with little more than the twist of the wrist.

So, that’s been filling my time of late. Toying with the idea of taking a photography class. It’d probably be worthwhile, since I know there are features and nuances I am not taking advantage of that I’d enjoy.

Meanwhile, some featured efforts…




Hood From Lolo Pass


Salt Creek Falls in Willamette Pass



*Shooter. Eh? EH?! 



These are the stories I will tell myself until they are true.

[hez-i-tey-shuh n]


  1. The act of hesitating; a delay due to uncertainty of mind or fear: His hesitation cost him the championship.
  2. A state of doubt or uncertainty.
  3. A halting or faltering in speech.
Which Way When

Which Way When

I don’t generally suffer from indecision. Even if my choices aren’t always wise, I make them with gusto. It is remarkable then, when I feel unable to proceed apace with a clear notion of what my chosen course should be. It is remarkable, now.

I am feeling well. I have for days now. It has literally been more than half a year since that was true. When the character of my flares first changed from being a difficult few days each month to a near-constant circumstance of life, so did my attitude about my illness. Where once there had been an unwarranted assurance that I had rounded a corner and was surely free of a recurrence of such intense symptoms, there instead lingered a conviction that I would never again feel hale.

Post diagnosis I experienced a resurgence of optimism that having identified positively what was actually wrong it would be only a matter of taking appropriate action to make everything right.  Nearly two months later, no substantial change in my condition had begun to erode my confidence in that supposition.

About the middle of last week, I started to feel notably less unwell. By Saturday my guts had reached a degree of quiescence not experienced in months. It has persisted and is still the case. At this pass, I have no clear opinion about what might have provided me with this respite.

Notable is the addition of a new piece to my regimen at the beginning of last week based on some inductive reasoning and research about the mechanisms of my disease. It’s a minor change, easy to maintain along with other things I have been doing for a long time that while not curative, are certainly useful and help me feel better overall. Considering this, any effects should persist as long as I continue the routine.

It is also true that some of the medications I am taking for my condition take some time to reach critical mass in the system and achieve efficacy. It’s entirely possible they are finally asserting their influence and the results will also be ongoing as a result.

Yet I am also forced to acknowledge that occasionally, I just spontaneously feel better for no apparent reason. This is of course the most depressing possibility as I have no control over, ability to predict, or capacity to produce this result.

That realization has left me with a bit of an emotional hangover and an appreciable residue over any part of my life where might linger uncertainty. Instances in which I might not have all the information suddenly loom and cause disquiet. Circumstances that might otherwise barely capture my notice take on huge and ominous import.

It is as though the all the physical distress of the long lead up to now grew to occupy space suddenly come vacant. To fill the yawning void, in rush uncertainty, worry, and their fickle sister doubt. I think it is now my task to usher them out and introduce patience, faith, and assurance that whatever may pass I am capable of facing it bravely; even if I require a measured pause, before.

I am feeling lonely. I realize that this might be amplified by a variety of factors. Today, for example, I was moved to tears listening to reggae. Seems sufficient evidence I might be particularly emotional, just now.

There are lots of perfectly valid reasons this could be so:

  1. Oscar has been less-than-totally quiescent. The grumbling and churning has woken me several times in the last few days.
  2. I have another, newly discovered and utterly revolting health problem rearing its head.
  3. In part because of items 1 & 2 I am not getting even my customary level of not enough sleep.
  4. I am in the final stages of tapering off the steroids I have been taking for over three months and the hormonal shift is taking a toll in the form of constant headaches, joint pain, fatigue, and general malaise.
  5. Louise (my remaining ovary) is doing her monthly song and dance.
  6. I have been spending a greater than usual amount of time alone.


And, if I am completely honest, I cannot discount the fundamental, embarrassing, and irresistible truth that it’s been just long enough since I got laid that all of this is much more pressing thereby. So far, I’ve managed to avoid taking any hasty measures to remedy this*, but I know that feeling lonesome is amplified because of it and that my resolve to make careful choices with long-term potential in mind seems less important by the day. Usually, I try to distract myself with affection from other sources. While less potent, it certainly helps take the edge off.

Add to that the inherent summertime challenge. People are busy; there are so many options it can be difficult to get on the schedule. Since I am also contending with Oscar and Louise, it can be hard to plan time with people who might offer a different kind of company than my body can afford. It’s also the case that in an effort not to languish in my illness or recurrent bouts of self-pity and take advantage of what has been very favorable weather for a variety of adventures, I have tried to keep busy with things I enjoy. By and large, the hiking, running, camping and general larking about has been very good for me. However, the fact is I have been doing all of this by myself.

Cast in the best possible light, the idea is that I shouldn’t feel the need to wait around for someone else to come along and validate my plans. And while I can and do often have a perfectly lovely time on my own, I think I’ve fallen into the habit of assuming I must do everything alone. I can hardly recall the last time it occurred to me to ask someone else if they’d like to join me on an impromptu beach trip, hike, run or any other activity I employ to keep myself entertained.

In a less favorable light, I acknowledge my tendency to isolate myself when I am in pain; physical or emotional. I have tried to make a concerted effort to reach out and ask for help and support, and whenever I do, I receive it from multiple quarters and with gratifying speed and enthusiasm. The trap, of course, is that the more I need to reach out, the less inclined I am to do so. The more overwhelmed I feel the more I want to run away toward the horizon with the sappiest music I can find** and sing at the top of my voice while sobbing, or crawl into bed at 2:45 p.m. and not get back out until I next have to present myself at my job.

This doesn’t have a ready solution, in the sense that the protocol to remedy things is less than totally straightforward. I think too, that occasionally doing any of this is fine. It becomes troubling only after I notice myself tilting into a pattern where the only person I see outside the office for days on end is my equally hermit-like housemate as we pass each other in the kitchen executing a run for snacks to take back to our respective ends of the house.

So. What remedies? Other people, rest, hugs and kisses. Guess it’s time to get my prescription filled***.


* Really, shirtless selfies aren’t that bad, right?

**Customarily not reggae.

***That’s what she said.

In the last several months I’ve been trying to spend as much time as feasible out having adventures. Given the limitations on my resources – both practical and psychic – I’ve sought out what I think of as single serving vacations. Never longer than a weekend, and sometimes just an overnight, these little mini-break holidays go a long way toward helping me feel like I am not withering away in my convalescence and wasting my life in bed.

Both Pinterest and Instagram have been remarkably robust sources of inspiration for these trips, and several weeks ago, looking at the PNWonderland feed I saw a photo of Colchuck Lake and was completely smitten. Research implied the hike was roughly 4 miles and and a 4 hour drive away to encounter what appeared to be a breathtaking alpine lake ringed by dramatic rocky peaks. I knew I could toss the ol’ futon in the back of Quincy and make a pretty great job of the trek and set it as #1 on my list of must see spots.

After weeks of contemplation – and delays due mostly to illness – I finally had the wherewithal to undertake the journey. I re-read the trail guide and was gratified it seemed to strike all the criteria I prefer; stunning vistas (the review described arriving at the lake as a “religious experience”) a decent though not outrageous out and back distance, and enough elevation gain to scare off most casual hikers. I noted Google considered the trip a 5.5 hr drive, but given my experience was generally that I could reliably expect to shave an hour off any estimate, I felt sure I’d arrive much more quickly.

In an effort to do so and just outside of Hood River, I got pulled over and issued a citation for speeding. I deserved it. I wasn’t paying attention and made absolutely no effort to defend my actions. The officer was polite; the fine substantial. Boo.


Stonehenge at Maryhill

Taking his admonition to slow down to heart, I made small detours in the interest of scenery a few times and tried to enjoy the drive through Eastern Washington as much as something like that can be enjoyed. There are – interspersed among long stretches of folded brown rolling landscape – occasionally sights of great loveliness, and I made an effort to savor them in the fading daylight.

That being the case, it took every bit as long to get to Leavenworth as Google had implied. After 5+ hours in the car, I was delighted to roll into the eastern end of town to encounter the comforting fluorescent glow of the Safeway. Arming myself with a few additional supplies and some deli General Tsao’s, I prepared to complete the last leg of the trip in the fading twilight. Ascending the 4 miles of rutted gravel road in low light was an adventure all its own.

I hadn’t bothered to secure a campsite, as I was intending to a) Sleep in the back of the car and b) Rise at the crack of dawn to start my hike. This worked perfectly well as I simply tucked Quincy into a parking spot in the corner of the lot at the trailhead popped in my headphones to block the noise of the other folks who had done just exactly the same thing and went to sleep.

Long about 5:15 a.m. my eyes popped open and I started to sort through my gear to prepare for ascent. Having done some further reading on other websites, I had amended my expectation that this trail would be quiet. It was variously described as “busy” and “extremely popular.” Knowing that to be true, and paired with my inability to sleep past the first faint light in the sky, I thought taking advantage of an early start was my best bet. I stuffed my swimsuit, a snack, a bottle of water, and a jacket into my daypack and set out within the hour.


Stuart Lake Trail: Gateway to The Enchantments

I took off at a good clip and made decent time to the river crossing at 1.5 miles. The trail was well-maintained and had a pleasant, variable character. Mostly packed dirt with rocks and roots to avoid, the most notable feature in the early morning was the remarkable din of the creek running alongside. It was a chattering and lovely sound that filled in air in the otherwise silent morning.

Once across the first bridge, the personality of the trail changed notably. Almost immediately, I began to see and feel the climb ahead of me. I realized pretty quickly my knees were going to be in for a rough time on the way down. This hike is rather dramatically lopsided; it is very much all up one direction and all down the other. What had been a rolling walk turned into a stair-step tramp of some challenge.


Even at that early hour, it wasn’t more than 45 minutes or so before a group came in around me. Though I am determined and unrelenting – much like when I run – distance is achieved at a much slower than average pace. With hiking in particular I have to be especially careful; given my lack of depth perception and questionable balance, I tend to trip, slip, and fall with shocking regularity. Moving slowly and choosing my route with great care helps mitigate this outcome, but never eliminates it entirely. I fell no less than 6-7 times over the course of this hike. I have learned how to do so in such a way that I wasn’t hurt at all, but it injures my dignity to have other people witness my clumsy and lumbering progress. As such, encountering a crowd of skilled and fast-moving hikers is kind of a bummer for me.

Another footbridge across the creek left me momentarily stumped. Heretofore, the trail had been clear and easy to follow. At the terminus of the railing, there was nothing but a huge tumbled rockfall and no discernible route away from the landing. It took me a full and thorough investigation of the shore to realize the trial snaked around behind a large rock and away to the right. Once again, my lack of depth perception left me at a disadvantage; I could not readily see the distance between the rocks when confronting them from directly in front. This continued to be a challenge for the rest of the hike, as it increasingly bent its way back and forth along a cliffside littered with boulders and stones.


Find The Trail; Colchuck Lake Edition!

It was also at this point that the stripe of the ramble changed again. Most of the elevation gain was realized in the next 1.5 miles. At times, it felt like a climb rather than a hike. More than once, I was gripping rocks and hoisting myself over and up to regain the trail. I was increasingly dubious that anyone would reasonably consider this “moderate.”

Finally after 2.5 hours of hard haul I reached Colchuck and its deep teal waters.


Colchuck Lake

While the lake was undeniably lovely, and the setting dramatic, it was actually rather difficult to get down anywhere near the shore to take in the spectacle in any encompassing way. Calling this view a religious experience seemed a bit hyperbolic; similar only in being won by dint of a grueling and demoralizing progress. The photos I was hoping to get were all constrained by the angle I could manage given my vantage. More, after weeks of all but unrelenting heat it was not only cool, but raining. The weight of my useless swimsuit hung heavy in my daypack, indeed.



The descent was its own brand of brutal. My knees were protesting the unrelenting downward progress after the first half mile and had four more to tolerate besides. By that time of the morning, the traffic on the trail was nothing less than hectic. Progress, already slowed by aforementioned caution, was further hampered by the need to frequently step aside for uphill traffic.

All things considered, though it was beautiful, I didn’t consider the effort-to-reward ratio on this particular trip to have worked out that well. Given a companion, a longer timeline, and a clearer expectation of what was coming, I think it would warrant a return trip. The area boasts several other lakes in a looped trail system called The Enchantments. It seems like it’d be a worthy use of a weekend to see more of the landscape thereabouts. On the whole, I’ve had pretty good success with the Instagram-Pinterest Adventurelark Trip Planning Method. Call this one a qualified win.

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