Preparing for Ski to Sea - Boating at Lakewood

Several of my friends created a team to participate in one of Bellingham's biggest events of the year, the Ski to Sea race. Ski to Sea is a seven-part relay race from Mount Baker to Bellingham Bay. 

Begin: Mount Baker   

Cross country ski -> downhill ski/snowboard -> running -> road bike -> canoe -> mountain bike -> kayak    

End: Bellingham Bay

While all canoers participating generally practice so they are familiar with how they can work together as a team, my friends desperately needed it. One had never canoed before. With that as the impetus, several of us went out to Lakewood to go boating two weeks ago.

    

Lakewood is the name of a piece of property owned by Western Washington University on the shores of Lake Whatcom. There the university rents boats to students for incredibly good prices, $3 for kayaks or canoes, a bit more for sailboats and rowboats (and maybe windsurfing boards?). The racers got a canoe, I got a single kayak and our two other friends got a double kayak. 

Ski to Sea here we come!

Paddle, paddle, paddle

The beautiful Lake Whatcom

We were all tired by the end but none more than two canoeing. While the kayakers traveled a greater distance linearly we are pretty sure out intrepid canoers paddled a greater distance overall when taking into account the zigzags. 

My Toes Are Cold

This is another MatadorU assignment. I had to write about my day in the present tense but at least once reference the past throughout the story.

A quiet melody rings forth from my phone at 7:40. I momentarily perk up, stop the noise, shut my eyes for a moment, and when I open them again it is 8:20. Luckily I don’t have anything pressing to get to this morning and as I slide out of bed my day begins. Going to the dresser I look through my pile of socks and underwear looking for the fuzzy blue socks that are kept for particularly cold mornings. Finding them I slide my feet and prepare for the daily trial of cold kitchen linoleum and morning chores.

I put a mixture of water and soymilk on the stove to boil for oatmeal. Pack my bag for the day with school stuff I find scattered about and the outfit I’ll wear later. Finishing, I hear the milk-water begin to boil over and run back to throw the oats in. With the milk-water now assuaged I shuffle back to my room to put on my gym clothes; rugby shorts and a T-shirt.

I start truly waking up as I sit down to eat the cinnamon and brown sugar covered warmth I made for breakfast. My steaming oatmeal is a nice counterpoint to the rest of the house. The heat is busted. Again. Glancing at the thermostat hovering around 53F I remember the first time the heat broke a few months back. It was late November and at night the outside temperature would be below freezing. I slept during that time in long underwear, sweatpants, a sweatshirt, knitted hat, and thick wool socks under a comforter and several blankets. When I braved the cold of the house in the morning the thermostat would read in the mid 40’s. It took a few days for the land lord to come fix it but when he did my housemates and I had a celebratory day of keeping it up around 80 before our budgeting minds took hold again.

Prior to yesterday the heat had remained working since those days in November. I scrape the last bits of oatmeal out of my bowl and silently curse our 105 year old house. Most of the time this house is great but sometimes things like this heat issue make me remember the old lady she is.

I walk to school and then across the campus for my daily ritual of running around the track. There are normally a few other runners here but this morning sprinters from the University’s track team are here; somewhat intimidating. I run. The sun breaks out after two laps, further encouragement to run. I stop after three miles, a challenging distance for me.  The sun is so nice I continue exercising outside instead of scurrying to the neighboring Rec Center. My repertoire of exercises is pretty small so I run out soon enough and go clean up to get ready for class.

In environmental history we discuss the readings from last class. The basics of photojournalism and multimedia are discussed in The Planet, our school’s environmental magazine creation and publication class.

As I walk home around 6 I think about the story I’m working on for The Planet, interrupted by musings about what I want for dinner. Walking through the back door into the house one of my housemates jumps into view with a giant wooden spoon in her hand ushering me to the pot on the stove. Inside is boiling water with ravioli which she wants my opinion on if they are ready. I give her the affirmative, that I think they are and she hands me a plate. Dinner served!

After dinner I notice the space heaters throughout the house. Our neighbors are the sons of our landlords and as such work for them occasionally. They had dropped off the space heaters to help us cope with our lack of heat until their father could get into town to fix the main heating system. Maybe with the space heaters I won’t have need of the fuzzy blue socks saved for particularly cold mornings tomorrow. I doubt it though.

Letter to a Douglas Fir

In American Literature of Nature and Place, one of the classes I am taking this quarter, we were given an assignment during class to go outside to the arboretum for an hour and write a page long essay about a douglas fir. It isn't the fanciest piece of writing (I did write it in less than an hour) but perhaps you'll find it interesting.

      Here you sit atop a bluff, king of your little hill. From here the movement of those below look small, the time they are with you fleetin. Do you hear their conversation, do you know our words? What of the gossip of jays and chickadees, and the chatter of squirrels, do you hear them? I assume you do, with over 100 years to learn to decipher the clicks, caws, and whistles. What secrets do you keep great tree, locked beneath your thick bark? Have others before me asked you these questions?
      I know you can't answer me but I imagine a sigh as you ponder all the lives you have witnessed and the many more that are sure to pass around you. I imagine your voice as that of an old man brimming with stories; but you are still young yet. Perhaps I judge you wrongly and for all your stateliness you still brim with the energy of youth full of equally pondering questions for me as I sit at your feet deaf to your inquiries.
      Though I may not understand you what of your neighbors maple, alder, and cedar? Do you philosophize about the stars and discuss life as we do? In the winter when the life of alder and maple and alder is hidden from me do they still speak with you?
      I find the need to apologize for my incessant queries and beg your forgiveness if I have offended. I mean to leave you alone now to sit and think on these questions myself but once I sit back, more questions come to mind.
      Do trees have a religion? I feel the answer is no though there is still a deep spirituality in you. Your life is directly tied to the sun so do you worship it? My life as well is tied to the sun though sometimes I forget. Perhaps that is how we can communicate, through our mutual need of the sun. As I turn to face it I feel a kinship with you my tree friend and a not of pleasure as I came to the realization on my own. though we speak differently the light of our lives is unbreakingly entwined.