The Lottery

I'm in the Hardrock lottery. It's a 100 mile run in the high Colorado mountains--"wild and tough," etc. It'd be so beautiful, and a real life challenge. The lottery is in the next week or so. I probably won't get picked, because it's a numbers game, and first time applicants are at the low end of the totem. Still, you gotta play to win! Anyway, I've had a lot of fun thinking about it all January, how I would prepare for it---such as how to build my own oxygen deprivation tent, maybe some tactical liposuction strategies, and then I've also been reminded of this story.
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The Lottery

by Shirley Jackson

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o'clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took less than two hours, so it could begin at ten o'clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.
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The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play. and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix-- the villagers pronounced this name "Dellacroy"--eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.
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Soon the men began to gather. surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother's grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.
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The lottery was conducted--as were the square dances, the teen club, the Halloween program--by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him. because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called. "Little late today, folks." The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, "Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?", there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.
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The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything's being done. The black box grew shabbier each year: by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained.
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Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into he black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers' coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put way, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves's barn and another year underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.
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There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up--of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.
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Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clean forgot what day it was," she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. "Thought my old man was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Hutchinson went on, "and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running." She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there."
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Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through: two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your, Missus, Hutchinson," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully, "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie." Mrs. Hutchinson said. grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you. Joe?," and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.
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"Well, now." Mr. Summers said soberly, "guess we better get started, get this over with, so's we can go back to work. Anybody ain't here?"
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"Dunbar." several people said. "Dunbar. Dunbar."
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Mr. Summers consulted his list. "Clyde Dunbar." he said. "That's right. He's broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawing for him?"
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"Me. I guess," a woman said. and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. "Wife draws for her husband." Mr. Summers said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?" Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.
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"Horace's not but sixteen yet." Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. "Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year."
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"Right." Sr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?"
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A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. "Here," he said. "I'm drawing for my mother and me." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow, lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it."
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"Well," Mr. Summers said, "guess that's everyone. Old Man Warner make it?"
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"Here," a voice said. and Mr. Summers nodded.
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A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?"
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The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi, Steve." Mr. Summers said. and Mr. Adams said, "Hi, Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand.
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"Allen." Mr. Summers said. "Anderson.... Bentham."
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"Seems like there's no time at all between lotteries any more." Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row. "Seems like we got through with the last one only last week."
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"Time sure goes fast." Mrs. Graves said.
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"Clark.... Delacroix"
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"There goes my old man." Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.
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"Dunbar," Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said, "Go on. Janey," and another said, "There she goes."
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"We're next," Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hand, turning them over and over nervously Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.
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"Harburt.... Hutchinson."
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"Get up there, Bill," Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her laughed.
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"Jones."
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"They do say," Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, "that over in the north village they're talking of giving up the lottery."
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Old Man Warner snorted. "Pack of crazy fools," he said. "Listening to the young folks, nothing's good enough for them. Next thing you know, they'll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live hat way for a while. Used to be a saying about 'Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.' First thing you know, we'd all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There's always been a lottery," he added petulantly. "Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody."
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"Some places have already quit lotteries." Mrs. Adams said.
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"Nothing but trouble in that," Old Man Warner said stoutly. "Pack of young fools."
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"Martin." And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. "Overdyke.... Percy."
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"I wish they'd hurry," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. "I wish they'd hurry."
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"They're almost through," her son said.
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"You get ready to run tell Dad," Mrs. Dunbar said.
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Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, "Warner."
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"Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery," Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. "Seventy-seventh time."
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"Watson" The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, "Don't be nervous, Jack," and Mr. Summers said, "Take your time, son."
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"Zanini."
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After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers, holding his slip of paper in the air, said, "All right, fellows." For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saying, "Who is it?," "Who's got it?," "Is it the Dunbars?," "Is it the Watsons?"
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Then the voices began to say, "It's Hutchinson. It's Bill," "Bill Hutchinson's got it."
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"Go tell your father," Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.
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People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand.
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Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers, "You didn't give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn't fair!"
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"Be a good sport, Tessie," Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, "All of us took the same chance."
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"Shut up, Tessie," Bill Hutchinson said.
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"Well, everyone," Mr. Summers said, "that was done pretty fast, and now we've got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time." He consulted his next list. "Bill," he said, "you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?"
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"There's Don and Eva," Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. "Make them take their chance!"
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"Daughters draw with their husbands' families, Tessie," Mr. Summers said gently. "You know that as well as anyone else."
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"It wasn't fair," Tessie said.
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"I guess not, Joe." Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. "My daughter draws with her husband's family; that's only fair. And I've got no other family except the kids."
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"Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it's you," Mr. Summers said in explanation, "and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that's you, too. Right?"
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"Right," Bill Hutchinson said.
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"How many kids, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked formally.
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"Three," Bill Hutchinson said.
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"There's Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me."
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"All right, then," Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you got their tickets back?"
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Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. "Put them in the box, then," Mr. Summers directed. "Take Bill's and put it in."
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"I think we ought to start over," Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. "I tell you it wasn't fair. You didn't give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that."
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Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.
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"Listen, everybody," Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.
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"Ready, Bill?" Mr. Summers asked. and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children nodded.
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"Remember," Mr. Summers said. "take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave." Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. "Take a paper out of the box, Davy," Mr. Summers said.
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Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. "Take just one paper." Mr. Summers said. "Harry, you hold it for him." Mr. Graves took the child's hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.
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"Nancy next," Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box "Bill, Jr.," Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, near knocked the box over as he got a paper out.
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"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.
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"Bill," Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.
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The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, "I hope it's not Nancy," and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.
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"It's not the way it used to be." Old Man Warner said clearly. "People ain't the way they used to be."
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"All right," Mr. Summers said. "Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave's."
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Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill. Jr.. opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.
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"Tessie," Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.
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"It's Tessie," Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. "Show us her paper, Bill."
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Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.
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"All right, folks." Mr. Summers said. "Let's finish quickly."
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Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar.
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"Come on," she said. "Hurry up."
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Mr. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath, "I can't run at all. You'll have to go ahead and I'll catch up with you."
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The children had stones already. And someone gave little Davy Hutchinson few pebbles.
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Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. "It isn't fair," she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head. Old Man Warner was saying, "Come on, come on, everyone." Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.
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"It isn't fair, it isn't right," Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

Birds and Other Matters

I ran and hiked around Chuckanut this morning, for about three hours. I took the drive to the trailhead at Larrabee Park slow, stopping a couple times on Chuckanut Drive to check out the swans, snow geese, and storks, seen above. I have no idea whether these birds are all the same, or technically different, but they are big, they are white, they are loud, and they have long necks. They are also all over the Skagit this time of year. Later, they head up to Alaska, I think. Eagles are supposed to be here too right now—this is the Bald Eagle Festival weekend—but they avoided me this morning. I might go find them tomorrow.
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So, for my “run”---(I’m taking some license in calling it that)---for my run, I left from Larrabee Park and went up by Fragrance Lake, then up Chinscraper, and then ran the full C-nut Ridge to Dan’s Traverse. Turned it around from there, did some backtracking to Cleator Road, and then ran down and around Fragrance again. I have not been doing hills since the cold spell, and I really felt it going up—I was absolutely awful early on, mostly hiking and huffing. It was cold, really cold, 25 degrees cold. That’s my excuse. It was cold and my blood needed to warm up. Plus I had a chonga bagel beforehand.
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Once on top, I did sort of better though, and it’s all because I plugged into music. I’ve gotten away from music in my running—big mistake. The first song was Abba’s SOS. Abba is the BEST palindrome group of all time, and this is the greatest palindrome double down ever. (Sorry Aha--it's just true.) The second song then was Pearl Jam’s Not For You, and I like the guitar on it. The third song was Kenny Chesney’s Don’t Blink, which is a pop country song about not blinking or your life will go by before you know it. Lots of wisdom in country songs. Admittedly, minds may differ on the quality of these songs, but the minds that differ are wrong—these are good songs. So, clear skies, long views, and good tunes. I needed that. My new training strategy is to listen to more music when I run.
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Parking lot at the top of Chinscraper/Cleator

Partially frozen Fragrance Lake

Clear skies, looking out towards Orcas and Lummi Islands

Mount Baker, Pacific Rim of Fire

Nookachamps

Before the Nookachamps Winter Runs

I ran the Nookachamps Half Marathon this morning. The start line is about three minutes from my home, and so this was the easiest way to put in the weekend miles and see some friends. I run this course all the time, or some variation of it, and this was my 3rd or 4th Nookachamps race. Lots and lots and lots of runners--probably 600+-- doing the 5k, 10k, or 1/2 options. Everyone hangs out in the gym before the race, which are the pics here. There was a thick fog this morning--an aggresive mist---hanging over the Skagit farm fields, which made barbed wire fences, the occasional horse in a field, and the quiet ponds and standing water all a bit more mysterious.
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I ran horribly--I have no speed right now, and the all-you-can-eat spaghetti deal at the Co-op is inadvisable before any race shorter than a marathon. Living, and learning! Actually, I'll probably go back. I'm not too bright on these things. Really, I'm not. Some Homer Simpson in me, I'm afraid. Anyway, my hip also hurts these days ("You should stop running!"), and my hamstring is a tad too tight, and it was about 32 degrees starting out this morning. Then, also, I chose not to wear music, which was a total mistake, and my SHOES are getting older, and my socks, they were poorly chosen. Also, my hair is ALWAYS growing and I hadn't shaved, which is a total rookie error, with the wind drag and all. Whatever. It's January. I foresee more aerobic exercise in my future, and yoga, which scares me way more than it should. In the big picture, I ran with a herd in the foggy Skagit this morning, and I'm living well.

Skagit Valley College Bleachers

The Finish

Andrew Wyeth

Andrew Wyeth, artist, passed away this week, at the full age of 91. He was one of the first modern day artists I ever heard of, and I really like his work. He's an inspiration, as it has always been fascinating to me some of the great ones are very much alive, whether it be musicians, writers, painters. There is so much to celebrate in life. Wyeth's paintings are set on the east coast, where I grew up, and many of them, like Christina's World above, have persons set in large fields with distant buildings or objects, seeming to communicate a certain nothingness and the subject's humble yet beautiful place in the world. Christina had polio, and is picking flowers. I don't know if Wyeth was a happy person or not, but he is considered by many one of the greatest artists of the last century, and I find his work easy to identify with and inspirational, in its own way.

Bridle Trails 50k

Flooded Skagit field off I-5 at sunrise

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“Old Testament weather,” one of our local meteorologists predicted, a few weeks back. It sounded scary, but then it sort of sounded cool too. Not so cool anymore—the prediction was pretty square on. The arctic snows were really bad, crushing the carport of at least one friend, and making road travel dangerous. Then came the rains. While the snow melted. The rivers rose. Floods. Noah, get your oar.
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We have floods everywhere in the Skagit and Whatcom, and other parts of Washington State got it even worse. One home which I thought about buying a few years ago is probably flooded. Sitting by the Samish River, with Chuckanut sunsets, it looked wonderful. The neighborhood has been front page news the last two days, completely flooded. Put all this bad weather together with daily reports of recession, (or it a Great Depression? Economists argue!), record jobless claims, government budget deficits, businesses folding, and then even the WWU football program getting the pink slip….and it’s all just a bit too much. I can’t remember so much general anxiety in the air.
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All this said to introduce my Bridle Trails 50k post. I HAD TO GET OUT, and my college friend Aaron was game to run. So, I ignored the weather forecast, as I knew most die hard ultra people around town would. And they were there—before the race, you could tell people were excited to run, weather be damned, after being cooped up for so long.
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Still, once out on the course, no surprise---the five mile loop course was one giant puddle, with occasional cameos by Charlie Horsepoop. The rain NEVER EVER EVER stopped. The good news is I kept on, but my time was almost an hour slower than last year. I’d give at least half that hour to the rain and my lame attitude. I changed tops twice during the race. I cramped in my lower abodmen during laps 2 through 5, but never really focused on adjusting or figuring it out. Also, once it got dark, with the rain never stopping and the puddles just getting bigger and bigger, it got a little grim and depressing, which slowed me down too—dark, rain, puddles, no one around, etc. I knew I wasn’t going to knock out a good time, and so of course, I didn’t. On the whole, not too happy with my performance mentally. Still, I got out and I got done, so that's something. Right?
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The coolest thing about this race was that Holley, my cousin’s wife, ran lap 1 with me. Also, Aaron, a Huxley friend, ran with me for a bit, and it was the first time I saw him in three years. Sorry I didn’t catch you Aaron! Seattle Running Company puts on a terrific event—this is one of my very favorite races, in large part because of the job they do. I've ran well here the last couple times, for me. It’s a blast to run for an hour in the dark on a Saturday evening, in the winter quiet, and then suddenly pop out into an oasis of light and have a bagel or noodles or whatever, get some smiling support, and then take off again. Hopefully next year the Puddles God will stay home.

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I-5 Before Bow Hill, near Samish River

Looking east--this sea is normally farm land

Truck on oft-closed Highway 9, above the floods

Stimpson Nature Reserve

My original plan for Saturday was to knock out the Lake Samish half marathon, a sort of annual tradition. The race was cancelled, though, due to unsafe conditions, which I'm sure was the right call. This race has taken some licks the last few years--I think this is the third cancellation in the last 6, though I could be wrong. GBRC puts on great races--local runners in NW Washington are spoiled, though most pitch in to make it happen. The Tiger Mountain 50k was also cancelled, due to snow, so that too was out.
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Plan B turned out to be pretty cool though. Dean T. and I went out to Sudden Valley and ran the Stimson Nature Reserve. This is a wonderful little trail that I'd never been on. No bikes are allowed back there, and other measures are taken to make it a real nature reserve. We had the whole place to ourselves. It's possible to do a figure eight loop, with some respectable rolling hills and climbs, and you run around one lake and some creeks. One lap is four miles---I did three trips, making for a pleasant 12 miles in the snow. The whole trail run was on snowpack, so it wasn't particularly an easy dozen, but not too bad either. Pic above, pics below.
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So...2009 is here. I'm still tossing around what runs I might do, what adventures sound good. That process has been fun, and I'm not forcing anything. I pretty much took December off of really long running, just to rest up a bit, although the snow slowed things down too. The turn of the year is always an opportunity to take stock, do inventory, set goals, eat cheese. Some of my 2009 goals will have little to do with running, but one reason running is so important to me is it helps me keep everything else moving forward. Who knows about 2009, but planning is constructive (unless you tend to make bad plans, in which case DO NOT PLAN, that would be destructive).
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Part of the benefit of keeping this blog has been it helps me set benchmarks, memorialize things, etc., even though it's sort of like the tree that falls in the wilderness that no one hears, since I don't think I get much traffic. I'm fine with that--I'm happy to share, and I've found there's personal reward in the process of publishing. I probably could figure out tag clouds and search soups if I wanted to. This blog was part of a bigger goal for last year, which was to upgrade my technology side. I was originally a bit concerned about blogging, because the blog is about me and that might be perceived as narcissistic. That's not it, and if you know me, you know. Maybe I should've done the blog about a family member and not told them, and posted really bad pictures and told ex-girlfriend stories. I think that's punking. No, blogging's turned out to be a good tool to help me plan, and it sometimes helps me get a grip on what I think I'm about. It's been kind of fun, kind of interesting, posting pictures and trying to write well enough to confidently share with others.
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Anyway, as far as 2009 runs go, I expect in the first quarter of the year I'll knock out the usual suspects--Orcas, Chuckanut, Honeywagon. Moving towards summer, right now I'm leaning towards throwing in for Hardrock, but I don't expect I'll get in due to the lottery. If it did get in, that would be a big deal and would affect my plans for the first half of the year. More likely though, I may do Big Horn, if I can get away for it. Also, Cascade Crest in August is looking likely, b/c its one of the best runs in the world, and it's local. Then maybe the Bear in Utah or Grindstone in VA, if I'm not too sputtered, but I also have my eye on the Hellgate 100k in VA. Some of these will depend on costs, training, and really burnout control--I do not want my calendar to run me--I want to run it. I also hope to do two or three "epic" North Cascades runs, such as Devil's Dome, Stehiken, and/or Hannegan to Ross. I even got one of those steripen zappers to help me stay clear of beaver fever this year. Above all, I want to stay healthy, uninjured, knock out a few lifetime-memory type trail runs, and let running continue to support all other aspects of my life.
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One final nod to 2008. This was really one of the best outdoors years I can remember for me. I'll never stand on a podium as far as racing goes, but I saw some amazing places this past year, set and met goals, and IT WAS GOOD. Smiles here. So....to "memorialize" things, inspire me to AIM HIGH for 2009, and feed my inner list mONsTer---here's my top 10 list-- (drumroll, with cowbell):
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1. Wasatch, Utah--100 miles of heaven and hell, so they say, and that's about right.
2. Mount Masochist 50--in the Blue Ridge Mountains of VA, in fall, with my Dad crewing.
3. North Bend to Vantage--2:30 A.M., twenty hours in or so, pouring rain and lightning in the distance, alone among the tumbleweeds of the Columbia Plateau, lost.
4. Sourdough Mountain in spring--atop the snowcapped mountain, alone, 360 views to Canada with clear skies, at Gary Snyder's fire lookout--high still air, drinking from a tin cup--a North American classic, in my backyard. What took me so long?
5. Eugene Marathon--Track Town USA, Pre's rock, road trip with friends
6. Cutthroat/Cascade Classic whirlwind weekend-classic Methow 11 mile trail run; Burn Baby Burn Disco Inferno party all night at Mile 73, man; and the twenty mile Mount Thorpe Lookout trail sweep.
7. Night running in Arches National Park by the Balanced Rock, with clear starry skies. Milky way, dark dark skies. Alaska and Nepal are the only places I've seen comparable night sky. I still don't know constellations.
8. White River 50 miler, and especially the "moment of clarity" in the field of lupine at Mile 36.
9. Watching the seasons, sunrises, sunsets, stars, moon, huckleberries, and wildlife on Blanchard Mountain.
10. Big Beaver Valley 24 miler behind Ross Lake in the spring, to the Nature reserve and the old red cedar grove--one of my favorite spots in the world.
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So there's a list to beat in 2009--moving forward! Best to all and any who come this way in the new year! Stimson Reserve pics below.
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