2 comments on A Chicken and Its Shadow
Category: Travel
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Timmy, a co-worker (and excellent fisherman), organized a fly fishing trip at our all company meetup in Utah last week. I had never been fly fishing. I like rivers. I like fish. I signed up.
The Trout Tales guides picked us up at the hotel on Friday morning. We climbed into their rugged vehicles, ready for adventure. Timmy, who I just met that morning, and I were with our guide Walter. We stopped at a dusty parking lot, donned waders (basically a waterproof overalls/rain boots contraption), and were on our way to another parking lot, even further out. We parked, grabbed our rods, and walked into the brush along the river for about 10 – 15 minutes. We were headed towards a favorite spot of Walter’s. When we got there, we heard him groan. Between the time we parked, and the time we arrived, someone had claimed the spot we were eying. “Wait here,” and he ran ahead.
He came back. “It’s all good. He’s fine with us fishing next to him.”
And with that we waded into the water. I paused. I felt the sensation of the very cold, not quite icy, water rushing around my ankles, my knees, my thighs, as I waded deeper and deeper into the water. I felt my legs cooling down, even though they continued to stay dry. That surprising feeling of reality not matching expectations. I loved it. To our left were mountains covered with trees just starting to turn color, blotches of red scattered amongst the green and yellow. The sky was a baby blue, with perfect fluffy white clouds. I thought to myself, “Even if we don’t catch any fish, it’s already a perfect day.”
Hills Along the River, photo by Jeff Golenski Walter showed me how to cast, let me try, and gave me pointers – not so much wrist, keep my arm straight, aim for a particular spot in the water. He showed me how to watch the little white bobble that would indicate when a fish was nibbling. And how to hook it. Then reel it in.
He turned to talk to Timmy. I saw the bobble dip below the water. I jerked the line and started reeling it in. When I was sure it was a fish and not the current, I hollered, “I think I have a fish.” He came over and coached me on how to reel it in. Elbows up. Let the fish swim and run the line, then reel it in when it’s not struggling. Be patient. Work with the fish.
When the fish was close to us, he scooped it up in a net and gently removed the ittiest, bittiest, tiniest hook from its lip. It was beautiful. A beautiful brown, coppery color, with red dots along its side. I whispered, “Hi, Oscar. Thank you.” Then Walter released it back into the water.
This basically continued the whole day. A few fish got away. Several were large, a few were babies, many were medium sized. All were beautiful. Mostly brown trout, but one glistening whitefish, and one multi-colored, shimmering rainbow trout. Each glimmered in the sun, and stopped struggling as soon as our hands were on them. The goodbyes were my favorite part – putting them back in the river and watching them strongly swim away.
The day ended much too early. I could have stayed out in the river all day, just casting and staring at the mountains, listening to the rush of the water around me. Would I go again? Why, yes. I’m hooked.
First Catch, photo by Timmy Crawford
Brown Trout Up Close, photo by by Jeff Golenski
Timmy with a Huge Catch, photo by Walter Foster
So Much Fun, photo by Timmy Crawford -
I know the fog of sadness will come. The knowing doesn’t make it any easier when it arrives.
It’s happened every year for the past five years. Sometimes it sets in the afternoon I arrive home, like today. Sometimes it sets in after I wake up from the post trip nap (last year’s “nap” was 18 hours long, due to sheer exhaustion from too much fun).
This year our annual all company meetup was held in Park City, Utah, and more than 250 people attended. This is a highlight of the year, because it’s often the only time that I’ll see many of my co-workers. We’re a distributed company, and everyone’s primary workspace is their home office. Oh, did I mention we have folks in thirty-five countries around the world? We’re really spread out. It’s a whirlwind of a week – learning at internally led code academy classes; project teams launching new features or improving on existing ones; dinners with colleagues you haven’t met; catching up with your mentor/mentee; attending (or leading) workshops on design, diversity, and leadership; and, of course, a healthy dose of fun.
I love this week of the year because of the camaraderie and bonding that occurs. I love listening to the discussions among colleagues, and hearing ideas, concerns, and solutions in their own voices. I love discovering who can sing 90’s karaoke without the words on a screen. Or who has a special interest in biology. Or who has a special talent for creating their own personalized lyrics to popular songs. Or what past companies (many outside of technology) my colleagues have worked at. Or who was a former competitive food eater. The variety of my colleague’s experiences and backgrounds awe me.
My favorite memories are the meals, and the moments. Dinners were generally groups of 4 – 6 people. The perfect size for intimate conversation. For learning who someone’s favorite author is, and why. For getting book recommendations. For hearing about people’s travel. For sharing stories from childhood. For hearing about someone’s first trip to Burning Man. For learning what excites them about their job, and what frustrates them.
This morning was filled with so many hugs (and maybe a tear or two). I told myself that I was looking forward to returning home. To my own bed (although the sleep I got in the silence of the Park City night was the best I may have ever experienced). To regular exercise and home cooking. To the routine of my everyday life. And I was looking forward to that. And even though I knew I would miss my colleagues (it’s happened every time I return from a trip), the weight of the fog of sadness still surprises me when it descends.
I read their blogs. I like their Facebook posts. I retweet their Tweets. And I miss them.
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The night sky is a swath of velvet with pinpricks shining through. So many stars. So. Many. Stars. So many that the constellations don’t stand out as individual formations, but are a mass among masses of twinkles. I stare, and everywhere there are twinkles. I can’t not see twinkles. I stare up and my eyes drift down all the way to the horizon. Dense darkness and sparkly stars are all I see.
I know now why The Milky Way is called such. The cloudy path across the sky, which upon viewing with binoculars are millions and millions of sparkling stars, so close together they appear opaque. Milky. A giant brush stroke across the sky.
The rocking of the boat, whispers with my best friend, and a sky full of sparkles. This already is a great trip.
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Nothing.
That’s what I hear when I’m underwater. I love the all encompassing silence while snorkeling. I gracefully move through the water, my arms close to my sides, kicking only intermittently to propel myself forward. I breathe in slowly, I breathe out slowly. Life has slowed down. I’m so happy.
I watch schools of fish swim under me, coming closer, and closer. I’m tempted to reach out and touch them, but I don’t want to disturb them, their perfect formation. I love being the observer, just watching, drifting, and slowly moving closer to the observed.
The sunbeams highlight the matter in the water, the murkiness is cut by the piercing beam of light. It’s a world in which everything is not crystal clear, a world in which more and more things are revealed the longer you wait. Patience and stillness are rewarded.
A marble ray materializes. As it gently glides below me, I hover above it, watching and wondering, “How quickly can it move? Does it generally attack any body part? Or does it go for the face?”
A sea lion pops up. Others swim towards it, gradually encircling it. I worry. Is it scared that it is surrounded by people? Does it feel trapped? It responds by simply diving under and around them, as though in a game of tag. I want to see it, but I don’t want to get too close (could it bite my arm off?). I stay back. I watch it swim, flip, and dive. I lose sight of it.
I’m floating, happily, lazily, and feel a presence beside me. I turn my head and see the sea lion right beside me. I’m still. I turn on my back and slowly swim away, watching it; it follows. It swims around me, nipping at my fins. I back away some more, very slowly, concerned that it is bigger than me, wondering if sea lions like to nibble at humans, wondering how thick my wetsuit is and if it could bite through it. I turn over, laying in a dead man’s float, quiet and still, watching it out of the corner of my eye. It spins, dives, swims, tumbles through the water, claps its fins, and swims directly towards me at high speeds then turns at the last possible moment. Oh. It’s playing. It’s not going to hurt me. I imitate its moves, until it targets a new playmate and swims away.
We’re called back to the boat. Already? I don’t want to leave the water. I do, reluctantly, and am greeted by the ever friendly crew and hot cheesy empanadas. This is going to be a great trip.
Playing with the sea lion -
I was in Quito because of a bag of these. Arguably, the best cookies ever.
Years ago, 2000? 2001? my friend Emily and I traveled to Lyons, Colorado, for the Rocky Mountain Folks Festival. We planned to camp and on the way from the airport to our campground, we stopped at a Safeway to load up on provisions. Emily always chooses healthy snacks; I often opt for the not-as-healthy ones. She had filled our basket with apples and carrots and hummus and bananas and other utterly healthy food items. I detoured down the snacks aisle and noticed Mother’s Circus Animal Cookies (pink and white frosting! and sprinkles!) were on sale two for one. I picked up two bags, held them up, and with a wide grin said, “Pleeaaaasssse?” She rolled her eyes, which I took as an exasperated “yes” and I dropped them in our basket.
The first day of the festival we joined hundreds of others already in line, waiting to enter the festival grounds. We were ready to go in, spread our blankets, and enjoy a day of lazing in the sun enjoying great music and snacks. Before we could enter, though, our coolers had to be inspected (no alcohol or glass allowed!). The volunteer inspector seemed like a friendly enough guy, bantering with festival goers as he looked into coolers. He opened our cooler, spotted the Mother’s Circus Animal Cookies on top, picked them up and said, “I love these things!” I grinned, “I know! Aren’t they the best?” Introductions followed, and we headed inside the festival grounds.
Later that day when we opened the bag of cookies, we found him and offered to share. We discovered he lived in San Francisco (just like us). After enjoying a weekend of great music, we exchanged information and promised to get in touch once we got back to the Bay Area. And, the strange thing was, we did. The next several years saw more adventures – music concerts, trips to Tahoe, nights out on the town, abalone diving trips up the coast.
Then he moved to Sacramento, and we saw each other less. On a vacation to the Galapagos several years ago he met a lovely woman, moved to Quito, and is now married with two beautiful children. When we told him we were coming to the Galapagos, he immediately invited us to stay with him while we were in Quito. We said yes right away then wondered if five plus years of not really keeping in touch would have changed our relationship.
As he answered his door at 1 am the night of our arrival, we realized nothing had changed. We lapsed back into conversation as if we were back at Lyons so many years ago. All because of a bag of Mother’s.
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We’re off.
I’m sitting in the Houston airport , waiting for our flight to Quito, from where we’ll continue on to the Galapagos. This will be the last time that I have cell or wifi service for eleven days. After the initial “OMG” and hundreds of “what if” scenarios running through my head, spiraling into more and more unrealistic versions of reality (?), I realized this is exactly what I need. A forced vacation from always being connected.
I think it’s okay to check work email before going to bed at night (I’ll just answer that one email… And then two hours later I’m shutting off my computer…) and then find myself wondering why I wake up from anxiety ridden dreams about something I may or may not have forgotten to do.
I think it’s okay to set aside just an hour on a weekend morning to catch up on loose ends at work, and find myself wondering why I’m so hungry. Oh. It’s 4 in the afternoon.
Basically, I don’t have the self control to not check email or read up in work events (something for another post) if the technology is available to me.
This eleven day break will be good. I’ve downloaded 14 books to read (okay, maybe that’s a little ambitious) and look forward to being in nature, napping, and just hanging out with one of my dearest friends. Offline.
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I landed in Paris this morning and the first order of business was to walk to the local cafe and order a decaf cappuccino. This arrived, and I smiled – such beauty, such art, and with a tiny heart on top. Je t’aime!
The Most Perfect Cappuccino Next stop, the bakery. Sara would order a pastry, and I would immediately say to the clerk, “Deux, s’il vous plait!” which made her smile. Right before paying, Sara ordered a baguette. The clerk waited for a moment, then said with a smile, “Deux?” We laughed and shook our head no. One baguette is plenty!
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While in Ireland earlier this year, we decided to rent a car on Sunday and drive up the coast. Ingrid mentioned going to The Giant’s Causeway, which I had never heard of, but it turned out to be delightful. We drove about three hours north of Dublin to the tip top of Northern Ireland. I’m somewhat embarrassed to admit that I was a little wary of traveling through Northern Ireland. Why, you might ask? I was a teenager/college student during the late 1980’s and early 1990’s. I remember the news being filled with The Troubles and stories of bombs, and blasts, and violence, and death. It’s funny how an idea, or a perception, can get stuck in your mind, even if it’s not reality anymore. The drive turned out to be lovely. The most trouble we encountered was, as a driver accustomed to driving on the right side of the road, making a right hand turn, not realizing we were crossing oncoming traffic. Oncoming traffic that happened to be very close.
We opted for the guided tour of the causeway. A few of us walked out of the visitor’s center into blustery winds and a drizzle that persistently became a respectable rain. Despite that (or maybe because of that, it seemed fitting to be exploring Ireland in the rain) we had such a fun afternoon. The tour guide was incredibly humorous, sharing the story of Fionn Mac Cumhaill and the creation of the causeway. We walked down to the water’s edge, and explored the magnificent rock formations. And walked in the presence of giants.
Looking up
Ingrid at the Causeway
Like puzzle pieces
Looking over the sea
Basalt -
Books, books, and more books at Trinity College In February of this year, I had the chance to visit Ireland for the first time. It’s been a country that I’ve wanted to visit for a long time (since I was a teenager), and somehow never got to. I was there primarily for work, but had a lovely time walking around Dublin, listening to the fantastic accents (eavesdropping is one of my favorite activities anyway, and when it’s eavesdropping with accents? heaven!), and having a drink at the pub.
On our last afternoon there, we walked over to Trinity College to see the Book of Kells. The Book of Kells exhibit is very well-organized, explaining the history, the art, and the various scripts. The end of the exhibit leads you into a dimly lit room where actual pages of the Book of Kells are on display, pages that are *over* 1,000 years old! It’s a stunning masterpiece. The calligraphy is divine, the colors intense, and the illustrations timeless.
After I peered over the pages, walking around the exhibit several times, stopping to observe the pages from all angles, I climbed the stairs to the Long Room. I stood in awe. I was standing in a space more reverent than a church. All around me were books, books, and more books, from floor to ceiling, the entire length of the room. It was the perfect room. The afternoon sun streamed through the windows, illuminating the hundreds of thousands of books that surrounded me. I walked up and down the center aisle, looking at titles, fantasizing I had a job as a librarian there and was allowed beyond the velvet ropes, searching for a rare book. I breathed in the wood, the darkness, the solemness, and was supremely happy I finally made it to Ireland.
LoriLoo 