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Sunrise over the La Salle mountains in Arches National Park

When I was beginning my ride through Colorado National Monument a couple of days ago, I burst into an uncontrollable laughter that took me by surprise.  This had never happened to me before and I’m not exactly sure how to explain it.  I’m not really someone who gets outwardly excited very often – but that’s not because I don’t get excited. I just tend to maintain my composure, to stay pretty even-keeled.  You know how some people get super amped up and hoot and holler when they’re excited about something (Think: Price is Right audience)?  That’s just not me.  I couldn’t fake that if I wanted.  My version of excitement is a gentle smile and a remark such as, “wow, that’s wonderful!”

I’ve been like this my whole life: Understated. Virgo.  Once, a boyfriend surprised me with a nice trip and I smiled and said, “really? That’s so great, thank you!” and he was worried I wasn’t pleased with the destination.  I was really excited, but I didn’t show it in the way he was accustomed to observing excitement.  I’ve since learned to intentionally increase my outward reaction in times like that so there isn’t any miscommunication.  I am excited! This is me being excited and happy!

At any rate, the laughter I experienced the other day was different.  It didn’t even sound like me.  It was this sound – a happy one – that sort of bubbled up from my soul.  I was alone, riding down a quiet highway.  It wasn’t really laughter, it was somehow different from laughter.  I thought about it for a bit afterwards and think I figured out what it was: the embodiment of gratitude.  If gratitude had a sound, that crazy, childlike laughter that came out of me in that moment would be it.

I was reading something the other day about the power of gratitude.  Cliché, I know, like we haven’t all heard that a million times.  Practice an attitude of gratitude, give thanks before we eat, be grateful for all we have, etc.   But in the last year, I’ve found myself living in a state of gratitude.  It began as a practice, and trust me when I say I had to really practice it.  I was not someone who was naturally thankful, but rather a person who picked people and situations apart always searching for the ways things could go wrong.  I was negative and anxious – definitely a worrier.  And frankly, it sucked.  Being a ball of anxiety all the time, looking for the bad in people, waiting for someone, or something, to screw me over.  I think I began trying to practice gratitude around the time I rode the transam (I know I mention that a lot, but it was such a pivotal point in my life).  I think it was around that time that I first became really cognizant of just how negative my natural state was.  I began to work on practicing gratitude, finding things to be grateful for in my everyday life.

I’ll tell you, it was a real push at first.  It seemed as if every time I found something to give thanks for, I would also find something to criticize.  “I’m thankful I can fill my gas tank up” would become “yeah, but your car is getting old and the transmission is slipping, and it’s probably going to break down on you, and you don’t have the money to fix it when it does.  What good is a tank of gas going to do for you then?”

The gratitude thing took work.  I did meditations.  I kept a journal.  I would speak thanks aloud to myself.  When I started falling away from this practice, I’d notice things in my life wouldn’t go as well.  More shit would happen and my happiness would decrease.  Gratitude, it seemed, was some sort of key to making my life better.  So I kept with it.

For the most part, I now stay in a state of gratitude.  I whisper thanks all the time – it is easy for me to find things to appreciate and be thankful for.  This doesn’t mean there are no challenges in my life, but that I choose to find the good in things I used to throw my hands up in the air over.  I’ve also found through this process that I have a really low tolerance for people who bitch and gripe – that low energy is like nails on a chalkboard to me.  I want to feel good, I choose to feel good.

I was devastated when Chloe died – I mean, really devastated.  It knocked the wind out of me.  Watching her die, experiencing her leaving, was one of the hardest things I have experienced.  I let myself feel the pain, I let it move through me instead of fighting it.  And as I did that, I emerged thankful, rather than sad and heartbroken.  She couldn’t live forever, and neither can I.  I was thankful for the beautiful friendship I had with that dog and all the memories I have with her.  I shed tears as I write this, but they aren’t sad tears – they are joyful ones. Thankful ones.  And now, I’m thankful for Lola and all the memories I will make with her.  My state of gratitude helped me cope with death in a powerfully positive way.

Yesterday as I rode through Arches National Park, I was full of gratitude.  I mean, what have I done to deserve to experience all of this?  I feel continuously humbled and grateful, in a state of awe.  All around me, there is so much to be thankful for.

Arches Scenic Drive – from bike ride on 10/5/17

Guys.

I just can’t even.

Forgive me if I gush, I’m still coming down from what was one of the most epic road bike rides I’ve done – ever.  Yesterday I biked the Colorado National Monument (also known as “Tour of the Moon”). It was amazing.  The total loop was 41.7 miles with 4,765 feet of elevation gain.  It took me like 4 hours, but I stopped at almost every pull off to feast on the beauty.  It was awesome.

I camped in the Fruita section of the James Robb State Park, which was really nice.  Big roomy sites, electric and water hookups, with a backdrop of the Colorado River and the Red Rocks of the monument.  The first day I was there, it rained, so I took advantage of the crappy weather and worked.  But the second day… I rode.  I was able to roll out from the campground directly onto highway 340.  I decided to go east on 340 then west through the park, so I’d have a slight tailwind during the climb (**note, I didn’t end up having a tailwind).  The park requires you to have front and rear lights on your bike because there at three tunnels you have to ride through. I didn’t know this… I did have lights on my bike (so they let me in the park)… but the batteries were dead.  This made me nervous because they told me there were no lights in the tunnels, and I had no idea how long they were, or how dangerous doing them without lights would be.  But… I couldn’t turn back. I’d already ridden 15 miles to get to the east entrance of the park.

I began the climb up monument road, and it was, as climbs often are for a flatlander, humbling.  I got about 1400 vertical feet in and stopped to take a picture (–>).  I hadn’t noticed there was another cyclist coming up behind me.

“Hey, do you know where that woman died?” he asked.  Quite the hello.

“Huh?” I asked.

“Yeah, some woman was riding this yesterday and fell off the side and died.  I was wondering if you knew where she fell.”

Oy.

And with that, I had my ride partner for the day.  His name was Michael, he was probably in is mid-twenties, a Coloradoan, avid cyclist, and climbed like a damn billy goat.  I didn’t ask him to hang back with me, but he did, and it made the ride that much more enjoyable.  Also – he had lights (that were charged), so going through the first tunnel on the way up the climb wasn’t so scary (he flew down the descent much faster than I did, so I had to go through the two tunnels on the other side of the park alone on the downhill, but… I lived!).

I’ll break for some pics…

We stopped at this overlook, and you can walk right out the edge.  In fact, there aren’t really guard rails anywhere on the road… just at some of the scenic overlooks.  There wasn’t here, and I walked out to the very edge.

I kept finding myself going “Wowww!!!!” and “Oh my god!” and “look at that!!!!”  The whole thing was just truly awe-inspiring.

And then, as if it couldn’t get any better, we came across some big horn sheep on the side of the road…

Are you FREAKING KIDDING ME?! Could this ride get any better?!!?! If you look carefully in the video, there are some rams in the bushes 🙂

And more… I think the scenery on the west side of the monument was the best.

The descent was pretty wicked, for about the last 8 or 9 miles, I just flew downhill.  Michael met me at the bottom, and we said our goodbyes, and he turned around and road back through the monument, like a rock star.

I got up early today and left for Moab.  Colorado, it was wonderful. I love you, and I’ll return once you get past your snow phase.  I hadn’t been to Moab in a decade… when I was here last, it was this hidden mecca.  A tiny speck on the map.  There were like two hotels.

Now there are over 30.

I knew it had grown, but I hadn’t quite expected this!  I drove through a few BLM campgrounds and nothing was available.  I was pretty irritated with the number of sites that were “taken” by a chair, or a pile of wood.  You can’t reserve these campsites, they’re first come first serve, and apparently that’s how people get around it.  I thought arriving at 10am on a Wednesday, I’d be able to find a spot, but no luck.

So alas, folks, I’m at an RV park.  The bad- it’s an RV park and we’re packed in like sardines.  That’s not really my scene.  But, it’s Moab.  I’ll do some epic road riding and hiking, and Sherie is coming out to join me so we’ll have a blast.  If I can get a good BLM spot after this week is over (I paid to stay at the park for week), I’ll stick around… but if not, I’ll head south.

Here are a couple pics I snapped during the drive here (stay tuned for some crazy red rocks pics from Moab!)

Before leaving Grand County, Dave and I were on a mission to capture some picture of elk- it would have been an exceptional treat to catch video of them bugling.

We decided to take one last drive up Trail Ridge Road for the season, and we weren’t disappointed.  I’m going to let the pictures (and video!!) speak for this post…

This was how Moose, Dave’s Great Pyrenees, rides in the truck.  I couldn’t get over how cute this was.

Not too far into the entrance of the park, we stopped for this shot.  I think this picture is particularly cool when you compare it to the snow at altitude… this is probably around 9,000 feet.

Aspen still changing, this was the tail end of leaf season.

ELK! That’s right, we saw a herd not too far into the park…Finally!

I was lucky enough to catch this one bugling.  Such a neat experience… He had already dropped one of his antlers.  If you want to fast forward to about :50, that’s where the best part is.

Starting the climb up the road, just  a haze in the mountains ahead…

A little snow, and a little more haze….

And then BAM! Hella snow!  It is so wild how quickly the weather and surroundings change as you drive up this road.  I wouldn’t have wanted to drive it – I was thankful to have Dave doing the hard part.  Moose, calm as can be…

Coming down the road, the sun was beginning to set…

Sigh…

You see why I love Colorado so much?

We caught the same herd heading out of the park, but were able to get closer this time…

Incredible skies.

Big daddy again.

This was how Moose and Lola rode a good portion of the drive 🙂

I never know where the path will lead, but I keep walking.

I’ve been trying to figure out if this is a travel blog or a public diary and I’ve decided to make it both.  Some days I want to share spectacular photos or stories about my travels… and others days, I want to venture down the rabbit hole of my mind – and perhaps someone would care to join me.

Today is a rabbit hole day, and the topic is love.  Something happened yesterday that got me thinking about this. I’ll explain below.  It will take me a bit to get there, to give you the background.

There are many ways I could begin this conversation, as a single, 35-year old woman who’s been in many relationships, none of which lasted.  From a conventional, societal lens, I could start to feel inadequate.  It’s easy to place a certain degree of self-worth in your relationship status, right?  I was engaged very briefly when I was in college (to a guy I later found out was a career criminal), and for those couple of brief months, I was someone’s fiance’.  I wasn’t just Jessica (as if just being myself weren’t enough), I was also a woman who someone wanted to marry.  I wore diamond engagement ring and I remember feeling like I had made it into some sort of club.  I was wanted.  Someone wanted to spend the rest of his life with me.  That felt…monumental.  I was 21 at the time.

Needless to say, that didn’t exactly pan out. And it was followed by more relationships that didn’t pan out.  In fact, I wrote an entire manuscript** about my failed relationships, perhaps in search of clarity as to why I seemed to have so much trouble in love.  It was cathartic and clarifying, and with the exception of a couple months I spent dating someone this past spring (let’s call him “Bryan”), I’ve been single since penning it, two and a half years ago.

There are a couple of things I’ve had to come to terms with.  First, I’m not normal.  I really don’t like convention.  I am a free spirit and I can easily feel trapped and suffocated.  I am fiercely independent, I march to my own drum, I need to be able to go, explore, and roam– on a whim.  I follow my heart and my instincts (and for the first time in my life, I can honestly say they are aligned), and these traits aren’t conducive to normal relationships.  My longest relationship ever lasted nearly 5 years, mostly long distance, and that worked well for me (save the total dysfunction, I’m strictly referring to logistics, here).  I don’t want someone in my space all the time. I don’t want to share my bed every night.  I don’t want a human shadow.  I don’t want to have to explain myself.

But I’m still human, and I still want love.   Over the last couple of years, I’ve had to redefine what love means to me, and that redefining is the main reason my last, brief relationship with Bryan ended.  To me, love means letting someone grow, not holding them captive.  At the beginning of the summer, I was feeling really cooped up and stir crazy and I knew I needed to go travel for a bit.  I also wanted to get away from the monotonous four walls of my home office for a while, enjoy a fresh perspective, and work on my memoir (more on that in a future post).  For me, newness breeds creativity – just being in a new environment for a time can breathe new life into me.  I did some research and found a place up in the mountains in Colorado, and planned to go there for a month.

I told Bryan about it, and he didn’t like the idea.  He kept asking me what he was supposed to do while I was gone.  He couldn’t come with me (his work wouldn’t permit) — but even if he could, I wouldn’t have wanted him to.  I needed this get away for myself, and he thought that was selfish.  So I broke it off.

The thing that struck me about his objections to me going away for a month was this:  he thought it was selfish for me to leave him, and I thought it was selfish for him to ask me to not go.  It was just a month.

This reminded me of the death knell of another relationship about four years ago.  I was in love… I mean, really in love.  Let’s call him Jack. One day, Jack and I were talking about my transamerica bicycle ride.  When we first met, he read my entire online blog – that was one of the first things that drew him to me.  He was enamored with the journey, and over time, he fell in love with the woman who took it (…me). He also fell in love with the woman who was forever changed by that bicycle ride.  Had I not gone on that journey, I probably wouldn’t have became the person he was so enchanted by.

About two years into the relationship, near the end, the transam came up in casual conversation.  I mentioned that one day, I’d like to do it again.  The comment was innocent and honest – I truly did want to do another cross-country bicycle ride at some point.  It had been an incredible journey – why wouldn’t I want to do it again?  Well… it blew up.  Jack couldn’t bear the thought of going two months without me while I was off on some bicycle trip (similar to Bryan, Jack’s work wouldn’t permit him to take time off to go with me, and he wasn’t a cyclist anyways).  I remember sitting there, looking at him in disbelief.  I couldn’t understand why that was such a big deal – it was two months, that’s all.  Similar to Bryan, Jack kept asking what he was supposed to do while I was gone.  I assumed he would go about his daily routine – how would me being away for a trip change that?  Like Bryan, Jack thought my desire to bike cross country again was incredibly selfish.  I was in a relationship now… and somehow, that was supposed to quell my desire for growth and adventure.  And similar to my reaction with Bryan, I felt that Jack was the one being selfish.

Truthfully, had the roles been reversed in either of these instances, both of these men would have had my full support.  I get it. I understand the need to grow and stretch yourself, and I would never want to stop someone from experiencing something that could transform them in incredible, positive ways.  I would never do that.

So Jack and I broke up not too long after that.  It was the beginning of some serious questioning for me.  One night I asked him if he would ever re-marry (he was divorced and had been very hurt by his ex-wife).  We’d been dating for two years, and that seemed like a reasonable question.  I was not on a quest for marriage by any means, but I figured that maybe at some point in my life I would want to know what it felt like to be someone’s wife.  I knew what it felt like to be someone’s fiance, albeit, briefly.  Maybe I would want someone to call my husband, one day.  I didn’t want falling in love with someone who had been cheated on to preclude me from that experience.  I didn’t want to pay for another woman’s sins.

Well, Jack was adamant.  No, absolutely not. He would never remarry.  He’d been there, done that.  He wasn’t going to do it again. He didn’t see the point in marriage.  It was too risky.

Now, I had never done anything to hurt Jack.  I loved him too much… I would have shielded him from harm with every fiber of my being.  I treasured the love I had with him.  And this made me realize a couple of things.  Maybe Jack wasn’t over his ex-wife.  Maybe he didn’t love me, or maybe he didn’t love me with the veracity with which I loved him. Maybe he didn’t see a future with me…maybe he didn’t want one.  And that hurt.

The relationship ended.  We remained friends on Facebook, but that’s about it.  I saw him a little over two years ago when I got rid of all my belongings, packed up my car, and headed to California (the gypsy soul won’t quit).  We went out for drinks, and at the end of the night, I suppose the alcohol got the best of him and he kissed me.  It really fucked with my head…the truth was, I still loved him. Maybe not as much as I used to, but part of me was still holding a flame for him.  And now I was heading 3,000 miles away.  He texted me shortly after he left and apologized. I didn’t want his apology.

So, all of that brings me to the trigger yesterday.  I checked out his Facebook page to see if he had posted anything about a fallen officer (it was confirmed, and to the person who was affected by this, I love you and I am here for you in any way you need), and saw photos of him with his … fiance’.  He had proposed to his girlfriend.

So my initial reaction was, damn… it felt like a punch to the gut.  And I had to figure out why that stung so much.  The truth was that Jack and I were not meant to be together.  I knew that.  I would have never felt satisfied with the type of life he wanted.  I need open space, exploration, freedom.  I couldn’t have had that with him, and I think that eventually, I would have ended up leaving anyways.  So if I could openly admit that we weren’t destined to stroll off into the sunset together, why did that bother me?

Because it made me feel like I wasn’t good enough.  Jack didn’t love me the way he loved this woman.  She had something I didn’t have.

The truth is, every guy I’ve ever been in a relationship with is now engaged or married.  I mean, I could really destroy myself if I wanted to dwell on this.  I have to re-frame it in my mind, and this is where I have to remember that I’m just not normal.  Do I really want a relationship? Do I have to be in a relationship to have love?  I don’t have the answers.  I know I don’t want a conventional relationship, and the type of love I’m looking for is otherworldly. Maybe I’ll find it, maybe I won’t.  But I won’t let myself feel inadequate over my relationship status.  I will keep living a life that feels right to me.  I will keep trying to be extraordinary.  I must.  And maybe somewhere out there, there’s an unconventional man looking for the same.

I promise the next post will be a legit travel blog post 😉  Thanks for humoring me, if you made it this far.

**a gritty tell-all, as if anyone cared to know the ins and outs of my failed attempts at love… hence, it’s still a manuscript, not a published book)

Everything you never wanted to know about my shitter.

When I first began researching what would be involved with traveling in an RV, one of my foremost concerns was dealing with the black (sewage) tank.  That’s right.  I was less worried about towing, leaks, or any of the other things that REAL rv-ers spend their energy thinking about.  I was concerned about that awful black tank where all the toilet “products” are flushed.  The thought of driving to dumps to flush out my own waste just sounded horrendous and I wanted to figure out a way to bypass that.

Another issue with a regular RV toilet and black tank system is that each flush uses around 1-3 gallons of fresh water.  If you end up flushing 2-3 times a day, that means you can very quickly diminish your fresh water supply.  For someone who really wanted the freedom of dry camping (that is, being able to stay in places with no water, electric, or sewage hookups), the toilet alone can really limit the amount of time you get to spend somewhere without having to drive to town to dump the black and grey tanks and replenish the fresh water tank.

During my research on RV toilet alternative, I began learning about composting toilets.  What is a composting toilet, you ask?  Well… it’s a self-contained toilet that uses no water.  It’s sort of like a port-a-potty, but it separates out #1 and #2, thus preventing the creation of sewage.  Sewage is where that god-awful stench comes from.  When separated, urine and solid waste don’t have that terrible odor.  Don’t get me wrong, it’s not Chanel No. 5, nor does it ramp up my appetite for dinner, but it’s not intensely offensive.

Pee in the front, solid waste goes through the back trap (which you open before you go… or else…)

In my composting toilet, urine is filtered into a front holding tank that I have to dump every 2-3 days (more on that, later), and solid waste goes to a large tank, where it is mixed with composting material, such as peat moss or coconut fiber.  The solid waste tank is vented to keep adequate oxygen movement in order to create compost from your, well, shit. As a result, the perfect amount of oxygen is supposed to circulate in the waste tank (when you do it right…more on that later, too) to keep the bacteria aerobic, and limit the amount of odor that is produced.  It’s also important to make sure you prep the toilet with enough composting material (trust me on this) – when you don’t use enough, there’s too much moisture, bacteria go anaerobic, and an odor develops.

The benefits of a composting toilet are pretty obvious: 1) no black tank to dump, and 2) no wasting your fresh water to flush.  But there…are…cons.  After a month of using a Nature’s Head (clever, eh?) composting toilet, I have experienced the cons.  I know this is the part you’ve been waiting for – so I give you…

Lessons from my first month of using a waterless shitter…

1. The pee tank will overflow. This makes sense, right? Just like overpouring a glass of water, your pee tank will overflow if you don’t empty when it’s full.  One evening, a couple of weeks ago, I glanced at the urine container and thought “I need to empty that.” Then I thought, “I’ll do it later,” and had a couple glasses of wine.  Well, you know, the wine worked double duty: It made me have to pee, and it made me forget I could not fit any more pee into my pee jug (I wonder, how many times can I use the word “pee” in one paragraph?).  Midstream, I remembered.  But it was too late.  When I opened the toilet to remove the urine canister, the excess poured out onto my floor.  As so for the first time in my life, I had to clean my own piss off the floor.

2. The right moisture level is key to keeping the solid waste tank from smelling. In my set-up, the vent tube from the toilet flows out to the roof on the rear of the trailer.  About two weeks ago, I began to notice a slight odor on occasion, when I walked to the rear of the trailer.  It didn’t smell like sewage, because there was none, but it smelled…suspect.  And suspect, when dealing with human waste, is never good.  I knew it had to be from the toilet but couldn’t figure out why.  In all these YouTube videos I had watched, people praised the compost toilets. “It really doesn’t smell!” they would exclaim (and then direct their viewers to the Amazon affiliate link in the video’s description box so you could purchase your own -by the way, they cost $1k).  Mine didn’t smell in the trailer, but there was something funky coming from the vent tube.  Yesterday, before I dumped the solid waste tank… I figured out the problem.  I hadn’t used enough composting material (coconut fiber), which resulted in too much moisture in the tank, so the bacteria went anaerobic and began creating that…smell.

Vent hose and the spider crank that you turn after you go – you’re supposed to crank it 3-4 times… I do it about 12, for good measure.

Needless to say, the realization that my waste tank probably looked more like crap and less like “potting soil,” as those liars in the YouTube videos claimed it would, reduced my excitement level when it came to emptying it.  However, the process of dumping it wasn’t bad at all.  I took the toilet apart, put a garbage bag over the top of it, carried it outside, turned it over, and dumped.  I double-bagged it, carried it to the dumpster (which is totally legal, by the way), and threw it away.  It was heavier than I expected (not sure why this surprised me -maybe because I’ve never had to transport a garbage bag of my own crap before??).

After realizing I had not used enough composting material the first time, I prepped the toilet with extra this time around.

What are my final thoughts on the toilet?  I think it was a solid decision (see what I did there?).  The biggest pain in the ass (help! I can’t stop!) is having to empty the urine container, but I’d rather do that every couple days and not have to deal with dumping a black tank that depletes my fresh water supply.  I think dealing with a composting toilet is gross, period.  Anyone who says otherwise is lying.  However, for one person, the solid tank only needs to be emptied about every two months or so – which is far less frequent than a black tank would need dumped.  At the end of the day, the compost toilet aligns with my goals for traveling, so I give it a thumb’s up (I do, however, think the price tag is a bit hefty).

Sunset from a couple weeks ago when we had dense smoke blow in from the fires. The sun looked neon pink at sunset. If I knew how to use my camera, maybe I could have captured it better!

When someone starts a sentence with,  “No offense, but…” you can rest assured that what they’re about to say is likely to be offensive.  I dislike this phrase – I think it’s immature and vacuous.  It immediately puts people on guard, ready to defend themselves against whatever offensive statement is about to be said.  And really, if “no offense, but” was just dropped from the sentence, the same point could probably be made in a way the receiver may be more open to.

But when you break it down, this idea of being offended in the first place is actually a little strange.  What does it mean to be offended, exactly?  And why would I waste any of my precious energy being offended by what another person said or thought?  I was reading some Wayne Dyer last night and he spoke about our ridiculous propensity to become offended in this culture.  Everyone is walking around looking for a reason to be offended, he exclaimed (paraphrased).  And that got me thinking.

We live in this strange, padded room society where we have to take extra care to not offend anyone.  I am, in no way, suggesting that we become insensitive with the things we say.  Words have a lot of power, and we should take care in how we use them.  There’s always a polite, caring, and straightforward way to get a point across…but that’s a post for another day.  What I’m referring to here is how we react when we are the recipient of communication from someone who has not put thought into their words before they speak (or who simply doesn’t care about how they make us feel, or worse, words from someone who is trying to push our buttons and get a reaction).

Further, this tendency to get offended over everything has resulted in a bevy of hot button topics that we simply avoid discussing because they’re too likely to turn into arguments (religion, politics, etc.).  Isn’t this pretty tragic?  How can two sides possibly find middle ground and understand each other if they simply cannot communicate without getting their panties in a wad?

We’re wound tight, and the results of this tension are evident all around us.  Just look at your Facebook feed, or the comments section of just about any viral post on social media.  Arguments and bickering, mud-slinging, you hurt my feelings and now I don’t like you even though I don’t know you… it’s insane.  You’d think we were a bunch of third graders.

So, if this notion of getting offended is as toxic as it seems, shouldn’t offense be something we just omit from our life experience?  I mean, we have control over how we react to others’ words, even the nastiest, most visceral ones.  And “being offended” is never something that feels good, right?  If our objective is to feel good, be happy, experience peace, shouldn’t we simply make a decision to not be offended by the things other people say?  Is it that simple? Wouldn’t that be pretty empowering?

Perhaps the next thing we should ask ourselves is what, exactly, causes us to feel offended.

I think the answer is, the ego.  Let’s drill it down.  Here’s a very hypothetical example: If I slave away all day cooking a five-course meal for a group of friends, and then one of my dinner guests says, “No offense, Jessica, but your mashed potatoes are kind of lumpy.”  What would my immediate, gut-level response be?  Offense, of course! I’d be hurt. My goal was to make a delicious meal that would please everyone, not food they wouldn’t approve of.  My next reaction would be irritation. Oh, well I don’t see you cooking for everyone?  When was the last time you made mashed potatoes from scratch? I bet you don’t even know how to peel a potato! In fact, you probably can’t even use a stove, you jackass! Let’s see you make some better mashed potatoes! Really! BE MY GUEST! POTATOES AND MASHER ARE IN THE KITCHEN. AND BY THE WAY, I HATE YOU AND YOU’RE NEVER INVITED TO MY HO– USE AGAIN!!!!!!!

 Maybe that’s a bit extreme, but you get my point.  I would be hurt first, then irritated or mad next.  But the question is: why?  Why would I really care if one of my guests liked my mashed potatoes?  Would a comment about my lumpy mashed potatoes really be worthy of a negative emotional reaction?  There’s clearly no benefit to allowing myself to respond with offense, and the parts of me that want to get offended are simply an unchecked ego.  Does someone else’s disapproval of my lumpy mashed potatoes really affect my life experience? Only if I let it.

 When I replay the scenario in my head, with my ego checked and knowing that getting offended over a comment about my mashed potatoes is about as juvenile as it gets, the outcome is one in which I am completely free of hurt feelings or frustration.  What if, instead, I responded with, “you know, I have never been able to get that perfect, creamy consistency with my potatoes. Do you have any tips?”  Voila!  I’ve taken a comment that had the potential to really piss me off and turned it into an opportunity to learn something.  Maybe my guest knows a thing or two about cooking that I don’t.  OR MAYBE he was just being an asshole and my response helped him see that.  Either way, it doesn’t matter, because I am at peace, dinner continues beautifully, and I am not one bit offended.

I’m not the type who is easily offended, but I can say that when someone gets under my skin, they REALLY get under my skin.  And the more I think about it, the less sense that makes.  By allowing myself to feel offended, am I not giving away my power?  What benefit does getting offended about anything really offer?

Food for thought.

In other news, I changed location today.  The campground I was at closes for the season on Sunday, and we’re supposed to get some gnarly weather this weekend.  I didn’t want to have to move and set up in a storm, so I went ahead and did it today.  It’s a cool little spot along the Colorado River, on the backside of some beautiful mountains full of yellow Aspen.  When I get up tomorrow, I’ll take some pictures to share.

I also purchased a generator and a spare propane tank.  I’ve been on solar for a month now, and except for the initial learning curve, it’s worked great (thanks, Brad)! I have just been very conscious of the power I use, and the time of day I charge things up (it’s best when I charge during the strongest sun).  However, I also have seen how a couple of days of partly cloudy weather can be a challenge.  Having a generator, I’ll be able to charge my batteries back up when the sun isn’t cooperating, without having to stress out about having adequate power.  Similarly, the spare propane tank is just a backup that might extend my dry camping – which is all I’ve done so far.

I managed to stretch one tank of fresh water out to a month – granted, I’m buying bottled water to drink, but that means I’ve only used about 40 gallons of water to do dishes, shower, clean, etc. for a month.  My showers take about 1 gallon (that’s right) – I just turn the water on to get wet and rinse off the soap.  Before I hit the road, I was curious about how long the water tank would last me, so I did a Google search to get an idea of how much fresh water the average person uses in a day.  It was astronomical – about 80-100 gallons per day, per person (can you believe that?!).  On the low end, that equals about 2400 gallons per month… so I’m feeling pretty good about getting by on about 70 gallons (approximately 40 for cleaning, and 30 for drinking).

Oh, I also cleaned out the #2 section of my compost toilet today.  I feel like that deserves a post of its own… Lessons learned after a month of using a waterless shitter… stay tuned!

Last night, I received a disturbing series of texts from a dear friend who was experiencing an emotional meltdown because she thought she may have found a new stretch mark on her stomach.  In the texts that followed, she told me that she wanted to die and that she did not feel worthy of life or love because she felt unattractive.  This message is for her, but I decided to turn it into a blog because maybe someone else out there needs to hear it, too.

I’m sure if we were to cram a bunch of people (especially women) into a room and do a show of hands for everyone who has ever lost their shit because they looked in the mirror and were displeased, there’d be some strange comfort in knowing this feeling is pretty common… in this society, anyways.  I cannot tell you how many times I literally wanted to die because I was so sickened by my reflection, particularly my weight or how much fat I perceived to have on my body.  Times when I felt unworthy of anything because I perceived my body to be less than perfect.  I’ll spare you the details of all the twisted tactics I have employed to lose weight or stay lean throughout my life, beginning around age 14.  If I could take back all the time I wasted obsessing over how many calories I’d eaten, how many I’d burned, how much I weighed, when my next cardio session would be – I could probably put a decade back onto my life.  I know that this stuff has all kinds of labels – body dysmorphia, body image issues, low self-esteem, anorexia, bulimia, binge eating disorder, etc., but the real crux of the problem, I’ve found had nothing to do with my body.  Or my mind, for that matter.  We tend to think of body dysmorphia, self-esteem issues, and eating problems as disorders of the mind, but for me, it was more about my failure to identify that I am more than my body.

When all of my personal stock was hung up on the appearance of my body, I failed to see it for what it really is – a tool.  I am more than my body, and so are you.  We all have a higher self and a purpose.  It is our jobs to keep our bodies strong and healthy so we’re able to navigate this life in the most enjoyable way possible! Climb mountains, run races, test our strength – to do things that we love, that move us, and that make us feel alive.  If your body isn’t as strong or as fit as you’d like it to be, recognize that you have the power to change that – you quite literally have the power to change anything in your life.  But if you’re beating yourself up because you can’t fit into your skinny jeans or your face looked puffy this morning, cut that shit out.  It’s a wasteful and selfish way to spend the precious moments you’re given here – and no amount of self-flagellation has ever proven to melt fat, clear acne, eliminate cellulite, or correct any other self-perceived imperfections.  In fact, the more you dwell on what you don’t like, the more power you give it over your happiness and peace.

You’re more than your body.  We all are.  You have beauty and talents, gifts and strengths that nobody else does.  And losing sight of that, or failing to recognize it in the first place, because you do not like some aspect of your outward appearance, is one of the biggest disservices you can do to yourself.

Treat your body right, nourish it, love it, exercise it – it’s your most prized possession.  You’ve only got one.  Celebrate your health and vitality, see your body for the gift it is.  Do not fall victim to the media messages you’re systematically bombarded with to make you feel ugly or worthless – those messages are designed to tear you down and destroy your self-esteem so you’ll buy the latest diet book, exercise contraption, fat melting stick, or any other false promises bullshit someone wants to sell you.  You’re better than that.

Pic from my hike up to Cascade Falls, outside of Grand Lake.

Well another birthday has come and gone, and I have now reached the ripe age of 35.  If the average life expectancy for a woman is late 70s to early 80s, this means I am pretty much middle age.  This is a bizarre notion for me, as it probably is for most people who find themselves knocking on the doorstep of any significant change in age.  Aging is something that other people do.  Movie stars. Politicians. People I knew from childhood.  But not me.

And then one day about a year and a half ago, my dermatologist recommended Botox to “freshen” up my face and help me look “more rested.” I had a moment.  A moment that lasted about a year.  According to my sleep tracker, I’d been sleeping a restful 7 to 8 hours each night.  I had skipped the bronzer that day, but I wouldn’t say I looked “unfresh” (or whatever the opposite of fresh is? Rotten? Decomposing?**).  But as stood naked under a paper gown, undergoing my annual skin check, I suddenly became painfully aware of myriad things I’d not been conscious of a few years earlier.  The “girls,” lovely as they were, didn’t rest as high as they once did.  I was developing crinkles around my eyes, those lines disparagingly referred to as “crow’s feet” (of all birds, by the way, why crows? Why not hummingbirds? Doves? Songbirds?).  I had to work a lot harder to stay in shape and despite an obsessive gym and diet regimen, I still had some faint dimples on the back of my thighs that I tried to spray tan away.

So it was happening. I was aging.

Several months ago, I plucked a thick white hair from one of my eyebrows.  It was like a piece of wire. Was this a benefit of aging?  As you grow older, your face produces raw goods that you can collect and weave into a brillo pad?  I always thought it was funny that as men age, their hair growth seems to redirect from their heads to their ears, noses, and eyebrows.  But who was laughing now?  It wasn’t me – the 50 units of Botox I had pumped into my face a month earlier wouldn’t allow it.

Even before aging became a thing, I had never really liked birthdays.  I remember crying on my 10^th birthday, devastated by the cruel reality that I would never again be a single digit.  As I got a little older, I settled into life as a double digit, but birthdays became more macabre – I thought of them as some sort of marker that I was one year closer to death (that perspective probably began in my mid-teens).  I don’t really like being the center of any sort of celebration or congratulations.  That stuff has always made me uncomfortable.  And besides, what had I done to deserve any sort of celebration? Escaped death another year?

So as you can see, birthdays have always been kind of weird for me.  As I found another one approaching this year, I chose to look at it differently.  I decided that I was going to celebrate it – not in any sort of traditional sense, but in a way that felt good to me.  I hadn’t earned any sort of congratulation in my mind, but I had developed a stronger appreciation for life, for living – and that was something that felt worthy of celebration.  I busted ass for a few days to clear my schedule so I’d be able to take a couple of days off work. I woke up on the morning of my birthday, had coffee with one of my camp neighbors, came back and cooked a proper breakfast for myself.  Then I got on my bike and rode to Milner’s pass in Rocky Mountain National Park.  Climbing a mountain – that was a perfect way to spend my 35^th birthday.  I had planned to drive into Denver that afternoon to adopt a dog I had picked out, but weather didn’t permit.  So instead, I lounged around, listened to nice music, drank some wine, had a campfire, and sent thanks into the universe for everything around me.  And it was good.

Then on Saturday, I woke up, drove into Denver, and picked up the puppy I had planned to get on my birthday.  For my birthday, then, I took her on a shopping spree at PetSmart.

I’ve spent the last few years wondering a lot about happiness – what it is, what creates it, if it varies from person to person, or if it’s universal… and most importantly, how to find it.  Real, true happiness. The kind that just sort of bubbles up from within.  Isn’t that the purpose of life? To feel and share happiness?

My happiness took a hit after Chloe died.  And there was part of me that felt like I was cheating on her when I decided to get a new dog.  As I said in my last blog, I had thought about how much of a time buffer I should create before I opened my heart to a new four-legged friend.  But I also realized that I couldn’t feel sad enough about losing Chloe to bring her back.  No amount of heartache or time was going to undo her death.  So, I could stay in that place of sadness without a dog – as someone who had always had a dog – or I could give a pretty awesome life to a new pup.  So I chose the latter.

Lola

I named her Lola.  She’s about 4 months old, a rescue from New Mexico, part German Shepherd, part Boxer (and maybe a little Border Collie).  And I think she will be an awesome road dog.  She slept during the whole drive back into the mountains from Denver.

Yesterday, Lola and I drove up to the top of Trail Ridge Road in RMNP, just a couple miles past the Alpine Visitor’s Center.  I snapped a few pics. The Aspen are changing fast – it’s quite spectacular.  I’ve never been anywhere to experience the full shift in seasons, so this is a treat for me.  The temperatures are definitely dipping (we may even get flurries this weekend, according to the forecast).  Sherie will probably get to see the tail-end of fall when she visits in early October – after that, I’m heading west to Utah.

To close, here are some pictures from the last week.

**According to dictionary.com, a variety of antonyms for “fresh” exist, including old, exhausted, lifeless, used, and worn.

Aspen near the lake’s edge.

Hwy 34 from Grand Lake…more aspen.

Aspen along the lower elevations of RMNP.

Sun breaking through the morning clouds, Arapaho National Forest

Lake Granby, early morning on Sept. 14

Tundra at the top of Trail Ridge.

Lola, unimpressed by Trail Ridge Road

Fall is almost here…

It’s been a few days since my last post… and that last one was a doozie.  I’m going to catch you up on some random happenings from the past few days, and some things I was thinking about during my wine induced introspection last night.  Really, my intent was to drink a glass and write, but I failed.  And that’s too bad because it would have surely been a post to remember.  One glass turned to three, and next thing you know I was down at a neighbor’s campfire, pondering life and sharing my own brand of philosophy.

Tonight, I’m sticking to green juice.  But worry not, I have more wine.

First things first – Chloe.  I miss her terribly.  She was a neurotic, needy little dog, and I loved the hell out of her.  I wasn’t going to share what I’m about to write about, because I’m sure there will be plenty of folks who think I’ve fallen and bumped my head – and I probably have — but this is my blog, and as the title reads, I make the rules.

I can hear her snoring at night.  I didn’t hear it the first night after she died; however, I left camp and stayed in a hotel that night.  I couldn’t handle the thought of sleeping in the bed where she died… it was too much.  But the next day I regrouped and came back to camp.  It was probably around 11:30 when I was laying in bed reading, and I heard the unmistakable sound of her little snores.  I looked everywhere for an explanation, thinking there was surely some little motor running something, somewhere, that just happened to be at the exact rhythm and tone of the puppy snores I’d listened to for over 12 years.

I couldn’t find anything.  And I’ve heard the sound every night since.  It always starts around 11:30, and it emanates from different places around me when I’m in bed.  This seems appropriate, as Chloe never slept in the exact same spot in bed.  What am I trying to say here?  Do I think my dog’s ghost is haunting me? No, I don’t think she’s haunting me.  Yes, I do think animals have eternal souls just like I believe humans do.  And I think the fabric between the spiritual realms and the physical plane we reside in (when we’re in our live, human form), can be very, very thin.  I noticed last night that the snores seemed fainter.  When I focus and try to tune into them, they become clear again.

I don’t quite know what to make of it – it’s simultaneously unnerving and comforting. I’ve had many strange interactions with spirits and such in recent years, and I do think that perhaps, Chloe just wants to hang out with me a little longer.  And hey, that’s cool 😉

I will certainly get another dog at some point, probably sooner rather than later.  I found myself wondering what the appropriate amount of time is that I should let pass before I get a new dog so people don’t think I’m either just trying to replace Chloe, or that I must not have loved her that much if I’m able to move on to another dog so quickly.  I spent about a day pondering this and then realized that it’s my life, I’ll get another dog when I please, and if someone wants to be Judgy McJudgerson over it, they can pound sand.   So standby for puppy pics because they’re coming, folks.

Next topic…

I’ve enjoyed feeling free from the need to style my hair or put on makeup since I hit the road.  I mean, nobody knows me here, they don’t know how good I’m capable of looking.  So why not keep the expectations low, eh?  I’ve been cruising with this attitude, but then yesterday (before the wine, I should add), I suddenly wanted to put on makeup and do my hair.  Why? No idea..hormones, maybe?  I stood in my bathroom, staring at the reflection of this hippie nature girl and just wasn’t feeling it.  I didn’t have plans to go out anywhere or do anything.  But I wanted to do my hair and make-up, so I did.  And then I put on a dress and heels and got in my dirty truck and drove to the liquor store to get a couple bottles of wine.  Why did I do this? No idea, but it felt right.  I had this moment when I decided that I was no longer going to question these ridiculous things.  If I want to be camping in the woods, put on a full face of makeup and sit by a campfire, by myself, I’m going to do it.  I don’t owe anyone an explanation.  If I want to paint my fingernails red and then go hike to the top of a mountain, and pee in the woods on the way up, I’m going to do it.  If I want to cook a meal and invite strangers over to dine with me, I’m going to do that too.  If I want to sleep in until 9 and drink coffee all day, it’s happening.  If I want to have dark chocolate and animal crackers for dinner, guess what? Bon appetit.

I’ve always found society to be this strange creature, but I also tried to (for the most part) play by the rules.  So many of the things I would do each day — the things I’d say, decisions I’d make, places I’d go, people I’d interact with — were guided by some sort of social rule book that I guess I never really questioned.  Mostly, I would refrain from doing things because I was worried about what people would think of them.  And now, that just seems like a lot of wasted energy.  I’m a good person and I want to live a good, honest life of integrity.  And I do.  But if in the process, I want to exercise my quirks, well… life is short.  I’m going to endeavor to make more decisions based on what feels right, what satisfies my soul, not what other people will approve of.

I do not know how to express my sadness right now.  But maybe writing will help me through this.  I am utterly heartbroken.

At around 4:30 this morning, I awoke to a loud BANG and the sensation of something rocking the travel trailer.  It had this instant feeling as if something was commanding me to wake up.  I shot up, full of adrenaline, and turned on the light above me.  Chloe was laying next to me in bed, her body tense and rigid, but breathing.  Like she was having a seizure.

I knew this was the inevitable moment I hoped would never come.

I rubbed my hands along her body, trying to help her come to – she was not conscious.  I desperately coaxed her, “It’s okay girl, it’s okay. You’re gonna be okay,” as the feelings of panic and desperation grew.  I didn’t know what to do, I felt completely helpless.  My instinct was to find my phone and call someone – not that anyone would have been able to do anything.  Who would I even call? It was just panic I guess.  As I tore the bed apart looking for my phone, Chloe’s body relaxed, and I thought maybe she was going to be okay.  But then within a few seconds, she grew rigid again, her eyes shot open, wide and dilated, her mouth opened like she was gasping or something. I don’t know what that was.  Then she kicked her hind legs backwards, made a death rattle sound, and stopped breathing.

And just like that, my best friend for the past twelve and a half years was gone.

I looked at her lifeless body and began to sob. Or wail. I don’t remember.  What was I supposed to do now? It was 4:38.  She died at 4:38 on September 5, 2017.

I sat on the floor in disbelief, it didn’t feel real.  I knew that one day she would die, but not today, or tomorrow. She couldn’t leave me.  We were supposed to be travel buddies.  She was supposed to take on the open road with me.  She couldn’t leave now, we were just getting started.

But it was her time.

I found my ipad and called my mom, because that’s what I do when I don’t know what to do.  I’m almost 35 and I call my mom.  I still hadn’t found my phone.  My mom and I talked. I pulled a sheet over Chloe.  At 6am, the alarm on my phone started going off, and I realized it was under Chloe’s body.  I couldn’t bear to touch her.  I didn’t want my last memory of Chloe to be like that, I didn’t want to feel her lifeless body.  Maybe I am weak, maybe that makes me weak.  I wish I had been strong enough to hold her, to comfort her, instead of frantically looking for a goddamn phone.

She was gone, this was just her body.  I didn’t know how to process that.  I was scared of her.

I left the trailer with the alarm clock still going off on my phone, got in my truck, and drove around the campground hoping someone would be awake. Someone who could help me deal with this.  I waited around an hour and a friend I made last week, Dave, came walking up to my truck window.  He also had a dog – I knew he would understand.

Dave came to my trailer, wrapped Chloe’s body up,  and put her in the back of his truck.  Together, we drove over to the local vet.  It was 8am at this point.  The vet gave his condolences and I paid to have her cremated.  I will pick up her ashes on Thursday.  I don’t know what I’ll do with them yet, I still can’t believe I’m even writing about this. The vet took off her collar and gave it to me. Maybe I’m crazy but it still felt warm.  He wrapped a blanket around her body, and I walked over to where she laid.  I’ve never done this before.  I don’t know how you’re supposed to say goodbye.  I laid my hands on the blanket and could feel her underneath.  All I could think to say was “I love you girl,” and “thank you.”

Chloe had a congenital heart murmur that had gotten significantly worse in recent years.  We’d tried medication, but it didn’t help.  The only possible solution would have been a pacemaker, but she was too old to put her through that, and she probably would not have survived the surgery anyways.  I knew all this.  When we got to Colorado last week, I debated over whether to take her on the 4-mile walk around Monarch lake, which we had done together so many times when I visited the area in 2009.  I decided to take her because I knew she might not have many more opportunities to do so.  She had a blast, dragging me for most of it.  I’m glad she got to have that last experience.

Last night before bed she was very, very affectionate.  She insisted on sleeping under the covers with her body right next to mine, which is unusual for her.  She was very calm and wistful all day – like she knew.

And now I am here, alone.

I moved her stuff into the back of my truck.  I am not sure what else to do right now.  I miss her.