Mt. Cardigan

In striving towards my goal of getting (or staying) in shape and outdoors, I went out for a snowshoe on Saturday. My trusty snowshoes haven't seen the light of day on a snow covered trail since George W's first term.

While digging through my winter gear I found my Chena Goldstream hat. I also found my big military mittens with the fuzzy snot wiper part on the back. Since it was only 36 degrees F, I took a lighter pair of gloves and a hanky.
Here's the start of the trail. Mt. Cardigan is in New Hampshire. It's a 2 hour drive from my house, about the same as Mt. Monadnock, but I picked here because Ed recommended it. Now, Ed doesn't have such a long drive to get here since this is near his house. I really like the area and I entertained the thought of doing what Ed does and driving 2 hours to work everyday so he can live out here... and then I quickly decided that driving 2 hours once every couple of weeks is much better than driving 2 hours 5 times a week. Even if it meant I could live in the woods again.

At the trail head there's an Appalachian Mountain Club lodge. I stopped in to get a map and the guy there asked if I was skiing or hiking. "Hiking?" I thought, "in two feet of snow? Isn't there two feet of snow out there? Do they plow the trails or something?" I told him neither, I have snowshoes. Apparently, it's not called "snowshoeing" here, it's just hiking. With snowshoes on.

If you'll notice, the start of the trail has tracks on it already. Ski tracks. That section of trail was .2 miles long and I just breezed along, thinking that despite the long snowshoeing sabbatical, I was going to have an easy day. Then I got here, to the Manning trail. The one I was taking. Fresh, clean snow. Unbroken trail. The going got much slower from here on out. Especially since this is also where it started getting steep. Without the handy claws on the bottom of my shoes, I'd have slid backwards down the mountain.
There was supposed to be some kind of view, but it got foggy near the top.
This is where I turned around. It was 2:15pm and I wasn't sure how long it would take me to hike down or when the sun sets. Saturday was the shortest day of the year, after all. On Friday I woke up at 3:30pm, but I couldn't remember if it was still light out or if it had gotten dark already. I had a headlamp, but with the steep hike down I didn't particularly want to do it in the dark. As it turned out, the hike back was only 45 minutes. This was due to the steepness (and the now broken trail). Even with the claws I was able to slide down most of the way if I concentrated on keeping my toes up and leaping frantically if I started to get traction. It worked out well and I was back at the trail head by 3pm. It was light out until at least 4:30, which left me a little disgusted because I could've gone farther.

Except for the guy in the lodge, I didn't see a single person out there. After I left the ski trail the only tracks I saw were my own, a moose, and random rodent and mustelid sign. By mustelids I mean weasels, in this case. I was the most obnoxiously noisy creature in the forest. When I did stop my thunderous racket I heard chickadees, the soft tapping of woodpeckers, and the muffled whumping of snow falling from tree branches. It was a beautiful day to be out.

On the way home I was driving through Bristol, NH when I saw an Irish restaurant. It was so completely random and I was so completely famished that I had to stop in. I can't remember the name of the place, since it was in Gaelic. I had the all day Irish breakfast. Rashers (thick Irish bacon), baked beans, thick cut chips, Irish sausage, two eggs, one of those cooked tomatoes, black and white pudding. I'd never had the white pudding before. The server told me it was pig (I didn't really want to know anymore than that). Black pudding isn't my favorite, but the white is really good. I was kind of overloaded on meat products and I wasn't able to eat it all. The apple pie I'd been craving was out of the question. I'll have to get it next time.

Although, next week I think I'll explore the Blue Hills Reservation. There are hiking trails there and it's only 10 miles from my house. TEN MILES!!! Why didn't I know of this place before? Ed says the trails are a lot easier and parking is hard to find because of the hordes of people. The highest "hill" is 635 feet. But I could hike a lot longer and skip the four hours sitting in the car (5 if you count the hour nap I needed on the way home). I think I'll give it a try.

SRT

Despite ex drama, I've actually gotten some decent sleep lately. Today I slept through a fire alarm in my building. That's pretty hard to do, but it goes to show how well I've soundproofed my room. I have a fan going and sleep with earplugs. And the alarm is out in the hallway on the second floor so the sound had to travel to my floor and through my guestroom. Thankfully, the building wasn't on fire. Bill did think of me (what a nice man) and he was going to knock on my door when the alarm stopped.

The reason I was sleeping so hard was because I'd worked a double, from 10pm Tuesday night to Wednesday afternoon. Our Special Agent (SA) here at the park (you could call him our Investigator or Detective) is in charge of the Special Response team. He started it up in January after I'd left for FLETC so we can start serving our own warrants. The US Marshall's are a little busy for our stuff, I guess.

I applied for the team while I was gone, but of course, they didn't want me when I wasn't around. When I came back in September they had an opening on the team and I thought I'd get on, no problem. My boss thought so and he's on the team. I talked with the SA in October and it sounded like he didn't want me on the team after all. He said he was going to have to open it up for everyone to apply and if anyone with more seniority than I wanted to get on, I'd be out of luck. I figured he was just looking for an excuse to not put me on the team since if anyone else were interested they'd have applied back in January like I did.

I was a little ticked, which was why I started looking around at other jobs. Whiskeytown NRA has a subject to furlough job and I just got my application to Padre Island all ready.

Then the SRT team had a day of training at the range and the SA invited me, even though I'm not on the team. I figured he wanted to see if I could shoot and I better do a good job if I wanted on. Saturday I dragged myself out of bed and went to the range to practice my 25 yard and support hand pistol shooting.

The practice paid off (I had some sweet center mass shots at 25 yards!). We shot the 60 round FLETC course of fire (instead of the much easier 30 round course for qualification). There are 300 points possible. My best score ever was a 298 while I was at FLETC shooting everyday. Since we don't normally shoot this course, we somehow managed to shoot to many rounds (67 instead of 60). So the scores were kind of messed up, but I had the second highest score of the group. Only the SA shot better. He's thinking of using the FLETC course to qualify the SRT team members, since it's a better course of fire.

Afterwards we qualified with the regular course and then played with our rifles. I got my laser sight dialed in (which is really cool. Much quicker target acquisition).

At the end of the day the SA made the announcement that I'm the newest member of the team! And he said, "You should all be scared, she's a really good shot."

I'm pretty excited. I'll be going to SWAT school!!! A week of training in New Jersey. I'll probably be the only woman there, but the SA says I can hold my own.

If I end up going to SWAT school in the spring, I'll stay here for another year. That's the deal. They buy my gear, send me to training, and ask that I give them a year. Then I'm free to move on. So I'm not going to apply to those other parks. Instead, I'll make the best of staying here. I'll get another year of bagpipe lessons and maybe join the band if I put in more time practicing. And staying here is good for my vacations. I was worried that if I got a job elsewhere it would screw up my trip to Nepal, the two weeks in Switzerland in August, and Laura's visit in April.

They do treat me pretty well here. I get all the vacation I want with minimal hassle, they gave me weekends off, and I'm on the team!!! There will be other cool jobs I can apply for in a year.

Wow

...is all I can say. My ex-boyfriend called my Mother.

I was trying to nap, I had a spare hour. Now I can forget about it (not your fault Mama, I'm glad you called and told me). I might as well write on here.

This is out of hand. For several reasons:

1. What could he possibly have to say to my mother?
2. Why would he call her? (I guess that's the same as #1)
3. He has never met either of my parents.
4. How could he think this would be acceptable behavior?
5. How on earth did he get her number?

We'll never know why he called or what he wanted to say because as soon as my mom realized who he was she let him have it. All he was able to get out was that he "wanted to talk." Mama yelled at him, told him to never call her (or me) again and hung up on him. A very good Mama. An angry bear Mama.

Mama reminded me that I'd complained about his constant phone calls the last time I saw her (back in June at my FLETC graduation). JUNE! How long is this going to continue?

Mama's worried that he'll come here. He knows where I live. I don't really think he would... then again, I never in a million years thought he would call my parents.

I must admit that last week I dreamed he broke into my house. He rang the bell and my roommate Bill answered the door. He pushed past Bill and I heard all the commotion and started to run down the stairs, smacking right into my ex as I rounded the corner. I startled myself so bad I woke up. Then I laid in bed thinking of all the ways I'd kick his ass if he did show up on my doorstep. That was the end of my sleep for the night.

I wonder if my ex-friend Michelle has been hassled for information (they're neighbors). I don't think, even hating me, she'd give him my parents phone number. I don't think she even has it. She might know their address... which would make it easier to look them up. I can't imagine her wishing to cause me harm, but she could have done it unknowingly. After all, when we broke up, she assumed I had been using him, and she took his side (a man she hardly knew) over mine. So if he went to her for information, she would probably give it to him, seeing only a heartbroken man that her former friend used and abused so dreadfully.

Then again, maybe he found their number all by himself.

My other concern is this blog. I may have to go underground. I tried to make it unsearchable, but if he's clever enough he can find me through Michelle's blog to Shannon's. I leave comments on Shannon's blog. The whole reason I started this blog was because he was on Myspace and I didn't want him to read my blogs there. I finally deleted him from my friends and made myspace private. I wonder if I can do that here? But I don't want to exclude comments from all the neat and interesting people that come by.

Dang it, I really like my blog! Anyone have advice on blog security?

A story of the Christmas spirit

I think a hero is an ordinary individual who finds strength to persevere and endure in spite of overwhelming obstacles.
-Christopher Reeve

We all have heard the story of the Texas clock tower massacre where the former marine with the brain tumor went to the top of the tower with a rifle and started killing people. It happened back in 1966. I didn't know the rest of the story, but to me, the people who took action against Whitman really embody the Christmas spirit. They loved their fellow human beings so much that they took action. They went home and got their rifles and even a plane, to try to stop him.

I love stories of regular citizens being extraordinary. It helps dispel the wrath I feel when my friend got hit by a car during morning rush hour and no one stopped to help him (least of all the person who hit him). And other stories I hear of people running around with blinders on because their business is more important than anything else.

Enjoy. It's from an article by Rick Armellino.


When the average citizen snaps and murders, the results are bad. When a recently trained, physically fit and well armed former Marine decides to commit mass murder the situation can be catastrophic. On August 1st, 1966, the citizens of Austin, Texas experienced a horrific event, forever known as "The Texas Clock Tower Massacre".

An honorably discharged U.S. Marine named Charles Whitman was attending engineering school at the University of Texas in Austin and one night he snapped, savagely stabbing his wife and mother to death at each of their respective homes. The morning after, Whitman secured his gun locker onto a wheeled dolly, rolled it into the university’s main administration building and headed up the elevator. Weighing an estimated 250 pounds, the gun locker contained 5 rifles, 3 handguns, a sawed-off shotgun, ample ammunition, binoculars, food and water. [of course my first question was, "Didn't anyone notice the guy with the gun locker going up the elevator? But it was 1966 and we weren't used to mass murderers then.]


The Main Bell Tower at the University of Texas is shown in 1999, in Austin, Texas. (AP Photo/Harry Cabluck)This well trained homicidal and suicidal predator had chosen a tactically superior location to play out his last living events on earth. In addition to the University of Texas administration building being a virtual stone fortress, it was located on a hilltop that overlooked much of the City of Austin. Exiting the elevator on the 27th floor, Whitman lugged his gun locker up the stairs to the top floor and proceeded to shoot the four occupants, gaining full control of the observation deck.

The University of Texas clock tower, surrounded by the concrete observation deck, was both a snipers' dream and a police nightmare. The cement and stone block construction of this section of the building included recessed rain gutters, enabling him to remain low, unseen and well protected from return fire. Whitman had a nearly unlimited ability to maneuver and change shooting positions at will. He barricaded the doorways and then continued working his final plan - to kill every human in sight.

Charles Whitman was a well trained Marine receiving above average grades for marksmanship, excelling at hitting moving targets. For the next hour and a half Whitman methodically fired upon the citizens of Austin, killing 16 and wounded 31, hitting some as they attempted to pull seriously wounded victims to safety and others as they peeked out from behind cover to locate the sniper’s position. Whitman may have been a heartless deranged killer, but he was amazingly quick, agile and an exceptionally good shot.

Don't mess with Texas
The brave citizens of Austin also knew how to shoot. Red-blooded Texans were up for the fight, outraged that this maniac was killing their own. Some scrambled home, grabbed their most accurate weapon and hurried back to the school to exchange gunfire with the unknown sniper.
A local pilot rushed to the nearby airport and returned flying a small aircraft carrying a passenger armed with a scoped hunting rifle. Unfortunately, low level air turbulence prevented accurate aiming at Whitman. As the plane circled the tower it took 14 of Whitman’s well aimed rounds through various sections of the metal tube and fabric covered structure, narrowly missing both occupants. The airmen retreated to a safe distance after realizing they were on the losing side of this air-to-ground battle.

Two young Austin police officers, without prior coordination, steadily made their way into the administration building and up to the 27th floor. Patrolman Houston McCoy, armed with a 12 gauge shotgun, had graduated the police academy less than three years earlier and Patrolman Ramiro (Ray) Martinez, armed with his Smith & Wesson .38 caliber duty revolver, had less than five years on the job. [it boggles my mind that even now, some departments don't make long guns available to patrol officers. At least Austin PD had some sense back in 1966.]

Martinez, revolver in hand, recalled his thoughts as he rode the elevator up towards the unknown sniper, “of course you could see the little lights flicker (on the elevator’s panel) as the floors go by. I said an Act of Contrition, because as a Catholic I was taught that in case of imminent death, you know, you say an Act of Contrition." As the elevator door opened he spied Patrolman McCoy and a man with a rifle, whom he did not know but assumed, was a plain clothes officer. The three men conversed briefly and then slowly and deliberately climbed the stairs from the 27th floor leading up to the observation deck's reception area. Upon reaching the top of the stairwell, they found two people dead and two critically injured at the reception area.
Standing at the top of the stairs, Martinez remembers the armed plain clothes man whispered a question, “he said, ‘are we playing for keeps?’ And I looked at him, and I said, as I saw dead people there, and you know all the dead people outside, I said, ‘You damn right we are.’ He said, ‘Well, you better deputize me.’ That’s when I found out that he was a civilian. And I said, ‘consider yourself deputized'."

Patrolman Martinez began kicking the glass-paneled door leading outside to the observation deck. It was jammed by the wooden dolly that Whitman used to transport his gun locker. The dolly finally gave way and tipped over. Martinez recalled this particularly anxious moment, “and then it went over, clanging. And I braced myself. I figured that he, the sniper, could hear this. And there was no response, but you know, all that shooting, I’m pretty sure he didn’t hear it.”
The hastily assembled contact team, including the armed citizen, stealthily made their way outside onto the observation deck. The sniper was not in view. The sporadic and frequent crack of rifle fire was deafening, but sound alone could not determine exactly where on the deck the sniper was positioned; it was too loud and too close. Martinez, McCoy and the armed citizen, in line and in that order, slowly rounded the first corner. They couldn't see the sniper because the clock tower protruded and blocked their line of sight. Continuing their approach, they soon spotted Whitman, who was intently firing his rifle pointed over the southwest corner. Whitman, comfortably on the attack, was unaware he was no longer the hunter and was now considered the prey.

Wasting no time, Martinez carefully aimed his revolver and described what happened next. "That's when I fired the first round, and I charged. I hit him - left side somewhere - and he came up with the rifle. He was trying to turn and to fire. I kept charging him and shooting, and McCoy was right behind me. I hollered at McCoy to shoot, and he did - hit him with the shotgun,” Martinez said.

McCoy had instinctively shifted to Martinez’s right side and fired two shotgun rounds at Whitman. McCoy recalls, “all of sudden he just slowly slid down into a laying position. He was no more dangerous. Still to this day I didn't need that second shot."

Prophetically, Whitman had left a written journal which, in part, specifically requested the coroner to autopsy his brain. When accomplished, a large tumor was discovered which was applying pressure to the region of the brain that controls violent and impulsive tendencies.
It has been reported that the so-called Texas Clock Tower Massacre was the mass murder event that rallied law enforcements' call for the creation of the modern day SWAT team.

Men. Arrrgh.

My ex-boyfriend won't leave me alone. For the record, we broke up in March. We have now been broken up longer than we ever dated.

After we broke up he would call every Sunday. I was usually in the FLETC computer lab in the afternoon so I wouldn't answer. He would call every half hour until I did.

In May I told him he couldn't call me for two months because he was obviously not getting over our relationship. And he was ruining my Sunday. I would wake up with a dark cloud over me, knowing I would have to talk to him. (Thinking that I would have to talk to him when I didn't want to is an example of me trying to be a nice person. Girls are taught to be nice, to let guys off easy, not to crush them.)

In June he sent me an email asking if he could buy me a laptop for my birthday. No!

On my birthday he sent me a text, "Happy Birthday, Baby." Excuse me? He has no right to call me that!

In July, I was living without cell service at my house in West Virginia. It must have been when the two month moratorium was over. I had at least half a dozen missed calls from him before I sent him a text telling him to stop trying to call me, I didn't have service.

Also in July he asked if he could come visit. WHAT?!?!! First, I was in field training. Even if we were dating I wouldn't want to be distracted. Most importantly, we weren't dating! Why would I want to see him except to punch him in the mouth as soon as he tried to get all touchy-feely?

In September, when I got done with training, the calls started again. I didn't answer. He sent an email begging for an update, a message that he would treasure forever. Telling me that if I gave him another chance he'd be better. I told him to leave me alone, I am seeing other people and I've moved on with my life.

Last month I made the mistake of answering the phone when he called. Just the sound of his voice made me angry. He wanted to rehash our entire, rotten relationship. He wanted to know about the guy I'm dating (I didn't tell him I'm "going on dates," not "dating."). I told him it's none of his business. He made some comment about how he wondered if he should have told me not to go to FLETC. I started to laugh at the thought of how pissed off I'd have been if some guy who I'd known for all of 6 months had tried to tell me to give up my livelihood, the thing that puts food on my table, the job I've tried very hard to get and to do well... Sure, at the time I loved him and I did think he might be the man for me, but I wasn't about to toss everything I have out the window for him. I'm not a gambling woman, I have to be sure about someone first. I'd known him for 6 months, but I'd spent less than one month total in the same country with the man! (And that was more than enough to find out he wasn't the man for me!)

When I started to laugh he started to cry and he told me how much he loves me. I hung up.

It used to be when he cried I'd feel bad. I'd forgive him. I'd think of how awful I would feel in his place. I'd apologize for yelling at him, for getting mad at him, for being mean, for wanting to kick him out of my house and never see him again.

Well I'm tired about thinking of his feelings. Instead I'm going to focus on mine. I don't want to talk to him so when he calls, I'm not going to answer. Or, like this last Saturday (he threw me off, not calling on Sunday) when I pick up the phone at the same time I see his number, I'm going to hang up. And I'm going to stop feeling bad about it. Our relationship was the most messed up relationship I've ever been in. Thank Heavens it is OVER. I just wish he would realize it! I have the feeling that if he did live in the same country as I do he would be camped out on my lawn. And then I would have to kick his ass. And then I would loose my job and be very sad.

I don't know why he doesn't move on.

It's funny, but I used to think that women who had stalkers had somehow overlooked the large, obvious warning signs. The clues that the man had the capacity to be a stalker. Did I overlook something? Did I bring this on myself somehow? Have I not been clear enough? How have I not managed to squash all of his hope? I have told him it's over, we'll never get back together, I've moved on with my life, etc. Why does he still pester me? What can I do in the future to safeguard myself from men who seem normal, but then turn out to be unable to let go? I will never again wonder what the woman with the stalker did wrong. I didn't know men could be like this. I wish I'd have known what to look out for, but maybe there wasn't anything.

The final episode

Of my Manhattan adventure with the White Ranger (a very nice host, by the way). We'd gotten off the Harbor Cruise and walked to the hotel so I could pick up another layer. I was frozen and I'd left my backpack in Craig's room at a very fancy hotel. It was the Radisson on Lex (or Lexington Ave for the non-New Yorkers).

I wanted to see the Manhattan temple, which was a ways from the hotel. We decided to try for a cab... not as easy as it would seem. The city streets are teeming with cabs, but they all had people in them already. So we thought, no worries, we'll get on the subway. It seems to me that every time I try to figure out the subway in NYC, I get confused. Just looking at the map makes my head spin. We asked the people who work there how to get to Lincoln Center (which is near the temple). The route they explained to us consisted of at least one shuttle and two transfers on the subway. Waaaaay to complex, so we attempted the cab hailing again.

I was surprised when Craig grabbed bike cart guy instead of a cab. But I think the ride with him was the one of the neatest things we did. There we were in this itty bitty cart being pulled by this skinny, perspiring man. He wove in and out of traffic like a professional (or someone who wanted to kill us. I'm not sure which). It was definitely a keep-all-body-parts-inside-the-vehicle-ride. I still don't know how he got that big cart to turn so sharply and to fit alongside buses and between cabs that didn't look like they were going to stop. We made much better time in the cart, passing all the cars who were stuck in traffic. And it was really fun to zip along the crowded streets (and up on the sidewalk at one point) in a bobbing, weaving little cart.

He dropped us off near Lincoln Center and we looked around for the temple. I had no idea what this one looked like, I just knew that it's different from most other temples because it's built in such a small space. But the angel Moroni sticking out from the city lights and tall buildings gave it away. Unfortunately, my camera doesn't take such good pictures at night, but here it is:

It was a short walk from Lincoln center to Central Park. We walked through the park, which isn't well lit and doesn't have the police presence of the rest of the city. After a few minutes we came to a more populated section. We watched the ice skaters and wondered how they would all fit on the ice (there was a huge pack of people waiting to get in).
We also saw some Central Park wildlife. We came upon several people all with their cameras out as if they were on safari. So of course, I joined them and photographed the raccoon to.
Here is one of the many displays in the window of one of the big department stores. Craig posed the astute question, "So does this give us any idea what they sell inside?"
"Why, no, none at all."
"Does it make you want to go in and buy their stuff?"
"No, I can't say that it does." Although this display did make me think of my upcoming trip to Nepal. I'll be going into the jungle via elephant back. I don't think it will be quite so elaborate and my pachyderm will be alive, smelly, and bejewelled with hair and flies instead.

Rockefeller Plaza was our next stop. It was packed, but I wanted to see the big ole tree with all the lights. So there it is, a big Christmas tree.


And here we are, exhausted after a long day of traipsing around Manhattan. I'm so glad I got to go and hang out with Craig. It was a real treat and I had a great time. I don't get to see, let alone spend time with, my buddies from high school. It was really nice to have Craig all to myself for the day.

Part 3- The Harbor Cruise

What a sight, eh? Enough to bring a tear to the eye of even the toughest American.
The Harbor Cruise was really fun, although we did start to turn into popsicles with the wind cutting through us on the open deck. We had to go inside to thaw.


The Brooklyn Bridge.
Wow, another neat picture. You can see Lady Liberty under the Brooklyn Bridge, but she's really small.

Part 2- Some of the sights

This was on the bumper of several NYPD cruisers we saw. Craig thought it was incredible that they have to offer a reward for something that people shouldn't be doing in the first place. I won't say what I thought when I saw it.
I really like this shot of the kayakers against the Manhattan skyline. Craig and I went on a harbor cruise that started at 1530 so we were out in the daylight, as the sun was setting, and after it got dark. It was a gorgeous day.

Liz and the White Ranger take Manhattan (part 1)

A grown man wearing nothing but underwear and a cowboy hat... just one of the many sightseeing opportunities in the Big Apple.
This will be a mini-series blog of our adventure in New York City. Mostly because the pictures take a really long time to load and I have other things to do (like sleeping).


Yesterday I took the 0640 train to New York. I got into Penn Station and eventually met the White Ranger (through sophisticated cell phone tracking and surveillance) at West 34th and 8th. The White Ranger's real name is Craig, which, though a perfectly good name, is not as exciting as the White Ranger. I suppose I should explain... Craig is a friend of mine from highschool. He used to have long hair and he always wore it in a ponytail. I'm not sure who made the connection between Craig and the White Ranger (who also had long dark hair). It wasn't me; I didn't watch that show, but my little brother did. Perhaps it was Jeff's idea.


When I told my mom I'd be meeting one of my highschool friends in New York, she asked which one.

"Craig," I told her.

"Oh, you mean the White Ranger?"

My mom remembers my friends best if they have nicknames. She still thinks of Jason Madrano as the Seafair Pirate (he was in the Renton Riverdays parade as a pirate) and of Craig as the White Ranger.



I looked for a picture of the White Ranger so you could see the resemblance (although Craig has since cut his hair). In my search I was unintentionally educated about Power Rangers. Tommy, the White Ranger, started out as the Green Ranger, but he used those powers for evil. He later redeemed himself and was given the powers of the White Ranger. I'm sure it was all quite dramatic. Here's a picture of the Green Ranger, who is also the White Ranger, who is named after Craig. Or something like that.

I guess it's hard to see the long hair and Craig is wearing a hat, but trust me, Craig is really the White Ranger. I told Craig that I'm jealous that he has a title as a nickname. I'm also jealous of his power ranger abilities and skills.

The hazards of shift work

Today I cried when my computer froze up.

I got 20 minutes of sleep all day.

I cried again when I learned that I'd missed some neat, non-mandatory training on explosives because my boss sent out the email over the weekend (which are my days off) and I didn't find out about it until I checked my email today when I got on at 2200.

Despite looking at my day planner yesterday, I forgot the CPR refresher training I was supposed to go to today. I called my boss when I realized I'd forgotten... and cried.

I cried some more when I thought of all my coworkers who could have called me when I didn't show (it's a 5 minute commute from my house, I'd have made it), but didn't.

I live in a very strange house and I share a wall with an office. It seems like everyday they are rearranging all the furniture in the office and the periodic thumping wakes me up. Again and again. Today, instead of putting in my earplugs and trying to sleep anyway, I vindictively turned my music on quite loudly and entertained the thought of playing my bagpipes in my room (and bagpipes are an outside instrument). Very juvenile. I like to think I'm more mature than that, but obviously, I'm not.

Here are a list of symptoms of shift work induced stress from the federal occupational health people:

• Fatigue/tiredness. My eyes hurt from the effort of keeping them open. My life revolves around when I can get some sleep. I have no motivation to go out on patrol feeling this way because I think it would be dumb.


• Loss of energy. I'm not sure how this is different from fatigue.


• Constipation. Well, now, I don't really want to talk about if I have this problem or not...


• Stomach problems/ulcers. I have been having stomach problems, which has taken care of the constipation.


• Dehydration. Only when I wake up. I have to sleep with water next to my bed because I don't think I can make it down the stairs without passing out; I'm always so light-headed when I get out of bed.


• Susceptible to colds/flu. My last boyfriend, who is 18 years older than I am, made the observation that he would probably live as long as I will because I'm always getting sick. I think that was a mean thing to say; I get sick a couple times a year. It's hard not to working with coworkers who get sick all the time to.


• Possible increase in cardiovascular disease. Well, let's hope I don't have this symptom.


• Increased irritability and moodiness. I almost got in a fight with a guy in the T. His big belly pushed into my butt because he was trying to get through without paying by pushing in behind me. I spun around and asked him what the hell he was doing. Even though I knew. I asked him why the rest of us have to pay, but he doesn't. Increased irritability? Perhaps.


• Overly emotional. I cried four times today. No, five. Again at dinner, for no reason. That's not normal.


• Too sensitive and defensive. When defensive tactics and taser trainings are scheduled for 10 am to 6pm and my boss tells me I can't go (when would you sleep? he asks), but they'll have it again and I can go next time, I feel like I'm being left out. I work the 2200 to 0600 shift, and I'm solo from 0200 to 0600. There are only two of us who work this shift, me and Greg. Greg gets three out of the week, I get the other four and mine are all during the week when the training is scheduled. I'm the only one out of the entire staff who is inconvenienced by training. I'm taking it personally, which is not good.


• Forgetful. CPR training is just one of many, many things I've forgotten lately. I can't even remember the rest of them.

Now, I was doing OK earlier. I've been on this shift since the end of September and I thought I'd gotten into the new rhythm. What has changed? Maybe it's the daylight. Perhaps I have that seasonal disorder that people in Alaska were always talking about that's caused by a lack of sunshine. Or maybe it's the holiday season, which is downright depressing anyway, so far from family.

So what do the brains of the FOH say?

• Sleep well. Obviously, this is my goal. Not very helpful advice.


• Eat and drink sensibly. I drink so much water I constantly have to pee and with all these layers to tuck in and gear to fight with, it's an ordeal. Eating, however, is a problem. I've fallen back into my old habit of one meal a day. Except on Mondays when I stop at Subway for breakfast on the way to bagpipe class. Every other day I just eat on my dinner break. It's usually quite healthy. Some days I'll eat breakfast. Some days I'll forage before bed. Nothing more than snacks, really, except at dinner. My dinner is usually at 0200, and they say I shouldn't eat big meals after midnight (like a gremlin).


• Exercise. I use our three paid hours of PT time every week and I try to get out and do something active on Saturdays. The rest of the time I don't feel I can squeeze it in, I'm so busy trying to get some shut eye.


• Make time for friends, family, and self. The only time I want to make for myself is time to sleep!

I've worked night shifts before. I used to work the 1600 to 0200 shift when we had 4 ten hour shifts instead of 5 eights. Getting off at 0200 is just kind of like staying up late and it's much easier to adjust to. When I worked those 12 hour shifts from 6pm to 6am, I remember I was useless during the work week (we worked 7 days on, then had a week off). All I did was sleep and work. The nice thing about that was we'd work a week of nights, have a week off, and then work a week of days. It was hard to switch back and forth, but there was plenty of time to recover with a full week off. I remember after a week of busy night shifts I came home and slept for 14 hours without even getting up to pee.

The major difference, as I see it, is that I've never had a sleeping problem before. I don't know how I've acquired one, but it's really, really beating me down.

The FOH folks say that to get better sleep I shouldn't nap. What if naps are all I get?

They also say:

• Reduce noise. That's up to Thumper in the office next door.


• Darkness. I've got sheets over the windows. It's kind of dark.


• Control temperature. Well, now that's an interesting dilemma. My heater isn't working in my room and I've got the space heater cranked up. If I tell maintenance they'll want to come fix it, but then where will I sleep? I can't sleep in the same room with strange guys farfing around with my heater.


• Control humidity. Maybe I should get a humidifier and I wouldn't wake up so dizzy.


• Comfortable bed. It's comfy enough.


• Sleep aids. If they mean drugs, they can forget it. The last thing I want to do is develop a dependency on something with crazy side effects.


• Empty bladder. They must have forgotten they told me to drink a lot of water.

Something has got to change. I can't keep going like this. I can't hope that it's just the depression of winter or the holidays because even if it's Christmas blues I still have almost the whole month to go! I'm an emotional basket case and a useless employee. I don't like being a mean, grumpy, irritable person. I don't like to think that this is just who I am now. What if I don't ever change back?

Insomnia induced hiking and the ordeal of the perfect boot

First, the ordeal of the perfect boot. I'm one of those people who gets strangely attached to a pair of hiking boots. The way I see it, the most amazing places I have been or seen have been after I've had to hike a hard trail to be there. And my feet have taken me there. But on those feet have been my hiking boots.





My latest pair I've had for years. I'm not even sure how long. They're the ones I'm wearing in the picture of me with the marijuana. That was 2004. I'm pretty sure they were with me at Mount Rainier National Park in 2003, and I think they were the boots that I tramped all over New Zealand with in 2002. I have no idea how many search and rescues they've been on, or how many hikes in the trailless wilderness of Alaska. They were the boots that took me through the Orkney islands on my two day adventure in the rain and fog of Hoy. They were with me as I hiked over 100 miles that summer in Acadia National Park. They've seen the sand of Death Valley and the snow of Denali. I wore them in Kluane when I finally decided that after driving by that National Park four times I would stop and go for a hike in it.





Imagine my dismay when these dear companions of mine finally met their end. When I went hiking and the boots that have so faithfully kept my feet dry let the water in. The sole has detached from the leather and the leather is cracked. They're done for. Thus with a heavy heart, the search for a new pair of boots commenced.





I was at FLETC and I mentioned my boot dilemma to one of my classmates. A park ranger, someone who knows about hiking. He suggested a pair of the hiking boots we can get on the uniform website. I was skeptical. They didn't look at all like my Garmonts. They were Nubuck, not full grain leather. But he said they keep his feet dry. He works at Redwoods National Park, a very wet park. I figured he would know, so I bought a pair. Sadly, they did not meet my expectations, which were high. I had worn the perfect boot, how could anything else compare? These new boots let the water right in. There was no walking through puddles with impunity in those rotten boots. No superior ankle support. No backbone, no toughness. These boots would never hold up under a 45 pound pack and a 50 mile tramp in New Zealand.





So the search continued, but didn't start with any urgency until I started planning this trip to Nepal. I brought out the old boots, which I haven't been able to throw away (remember that strange attachment I mentioned?). I went to Garmont's website to find them. I couldn't. All I could find were these really high-tech fancy looking, colorful boots. All I want is the simple boot. Less stitching means less leaking. One large piece of leather is better than a bunch sewn together. I don't want fancy, I want what I had. And my old boots weren't made in China! I can't read the tag anymore, but I'm pretty positive they were made in some European country, where Garmont used to make their boots. I called Garmont and the very friendly English is my first language (at least they haven't farmed out their customer service people to India yet) customer service guy that I spoke to helped me figure out the model of Garmont boot that I have. It's the Garmont Bronco. He recommend a place to get the boots resoled (the heels are almost smooth), but I don't think that would help the cracks in the leather.





But armed with this new information, the name of my boots, Google and I were able to find a pair. Backcountry.com had two men's sizes, 8 and 8.5. I happily ordered the boots in size 8.5 and I was overjoyed when they finally came. My perfect boots, only brand new! They were a slightly newer model, they'd added some fancy Garmont label (where mine was just stamped in the leather), but otherwise they were identical. Until I tried them on.





Now, you may be thinking, WOW, Liz has some humongous feet. Men's 8 and a half? That means she wears a women's size 10! Yes, folks, I have some big feet. And evidently, in some shoes I am a men's size 9. The Broncos didn't fit. When I placed them against the worn soles of my old boots, they were an amazing inch shorter. And no, backcounty.com didn't have them in any other size. Neither did anyone else I could find on the internet. To get the full effect of my gargantuan feet, you really need to blow up this picture.




I mailed them back. I had already been to REI to look at boots. Made in Romania. Made in China. They all look really cool, but to me they look cheap. They're all fixing to fall apart with all that fancy stuff. I couldn't bring myself to buy any of them. Why spend over $200 on something that won't last? The boot companies have it all figured out. It's cheaper to produce their products in China and they'll sell more boots in the long run because the boots will wear out faster. But they'll sell them for the same price they always have. It's a win/win for them, but depressing for a boot snob like me.



I noticed that one of my coworkers has a nice pair of Vasques. He said they were the Sundowners and his were made in Italy, but a few years ago they started making them in China. I found out his Italian made version were made in 2005. I couldn't find them in my size either.



I ended up Googling "Made in Italy hiking boots" and I found the ones I decided to get. They're Scarpas and they fit (size 42). They have some of that fancy, extra stuff I don't care for around the ankle, but the leather all around the bottom half of the boot is the kind of thing I like. If you were wondering, they didn't come dirty out of the box. I did that myself.

So I think I have now found the boots that will take me through the Nepalese Himalaya and perhaps to the Hilltribe people of Northern Thailand (I haven't quite decided what to do for my layover in Bangkok). It only remains to break them in.

Saturday I got off work at 2am. My plan was to go to bed right when I got home so I could wake up early and go for a hike in the White Mountains with my new boots. Not as easy as it sounds. I wasn't able to fall asleep until 0500. I set my alarm for 1030, thinking that I could still go hiking if I got up that late. But once again, I had difficulty sleeping. I woke up at 0830 with no desire at all to go back to sleep. I figured I might as well get going. I made it to the trailhead by noon. I later slept for 11 hours, but it was worth it.

I picked the Welch Mountain hike. Lest any of you think that I believe anything that is 2605 feet high deserves the title of "mountain," never fear. I am merely adopting the local vocabulary so as not to offend the natives. I have lived in the Sierras and hiked in the shadow of Denali, I know what a mountain is.

It was chilly out. A fresh dusting of snow was on the trail and interesting ice formations were in the creek.

I didn't actually go to the top of Welch Mountain. This ledge with the view was at 1.3 miles. It was another half mile to the top. The view is of Mt. Tripyramid and Sandwich Mtn. It was very windy on the ledge and I'd scrambled around some really icy sections to get there. By now, my feet were hurting from the stiff boots, so I turned around.



Here's some of the trail once I got back in the trees. It was a nice hike and I didn't see anyone until I got back to the trailhead. I saw five sets of fresh tracks. One guy was wearing Yak Traks to keep his feet on the slippery ice. I wish I knew where mine were. They would've been handy.
My camera batteries didn't hold up to well in the cold, but I managed to get a few pictures. Even with the wind and the cold it was nice to stop every now and then. I remembered one of my favorite quotes, "A poor life this, if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare." And listen to the water in a creek, to the occasional bird, or to the sound of our own foggy puffs of breath.