Tag Archives: writing

I Didn’t Join the Peace Corps for Nothing

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All the turmoil in the world and in my body has me asking again and again: What can I do? What in the world can I do to make it stop, or fix it, or support others who are hurt?

It’s probably no surprise that I’ve been spending more time on Substack lately since stepping away from other social media platforms, and this post caught my attention, so I had to add to it:

The uncertainty. 

It always comes back to the uncertainty. Can we be ok with it? Will accepting the uncertainty make everything more bearable?

I used to think so. I used to be sure that I could adapt to whatever came my way. One of my favorite bits from the poem The Waking by Theodore Roethke goes:

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. 
What falls away is always. And is near. 
I wake to sleep and take my waking slow. 
I learn by going where I have to go.

I would repeat these lines to myself when in my village in West Africa, stunned by my decision to live in a country where my do-gooder desire to “change the world” met with reality. I repeated the lines after my first big heartbreak when the guy I had moved to London to be with broke up with me and I was left living in a massive city where I didn’t know anyone. I repeated the lines when I fell in love with thru-hiking and didn’t know how to make that transformative experience last.

But somehow, the shaking this past year has me reeling in a way that I haven’t experienced before. I’ve discovered that I can’t tough it out, muscle through it, or ignore it like I might have done in other situations. BUT I have experienced something this past week that helps: genuine human connection. 

My blog post last week was filled with uncertainty about my body, about what was going wrong, about trusting myself to understand the pain, and get to the root cause of it all. But when I uploaded the post and made doubts and fears public, what I did was let others see my vulnerability (scary!), and several of you responded in ways that helped me tremendously. I felt seen. I felt understood. I was taken seriously. 

And I think that is the answer.

For all the problems with the healthcare system (and the world), a simple fact remains that a small group of people who are willing to listen to you, hear you, and genuinely want to help, can have a profound effect. 

What happened? On Friday my physical therapist assured me that she would help me find the right kind of help. On Tuesday a former trail work volunteer of mine, who is also a retired physiatrist, took a look at my scan and assured me that help was possible. Throughout the week many of you responded with things that have helped you through similar situations of self-doubt and uncertainty. I feel seen, and know that care and connection is one of the most beautiful, human, and inspiring things you can do for another person. 

What is the point of this life if we don’t try to alleviate the suffering of those around us? Can helping to alleviate suffering be the answer to all of it? 

I think the real power is taking it one step further: what if we all actively worked to bring out the best in other people?

I’m a member of a creative freelancing group. We meet every other week on zoom and share struggles and tips for how to navigate the life of a creative freelancer. I’m still taking part even though I haven’t been working since my cancer diagnosis because the ladies are awesome. One of the items we’ve been designing for ourselves this year is a creativity bingo card (google it! you will find a ton of interesting results). I put one together with things on it like: buy myself flowers, go to coffee with someone new, and move at least 10 minutes every day. But the one that has blown everything out of the water so far has been: do acts of random kindness. 

I was getting a coffee from a local place this week, and noticed a lovely tattoo on the barista’s arm. I complimented her on it, and her response was a beautiful smile that literally beamed back at me. As I was waiting for the coffee, I turned to see a man at one of the tables wearing a shiny gold puffy coat. I told him I loved it, and that the sun filtering through the window on it brightened the place up. And he beamed! He started talking and couldn’t get the words out fast enough because I had shown interest in him. It was an amazing experience, and I walked away thinking this is it! We need to see people, acknowledge them, listen to them, recognize their humanity, and in doing so, we can start to bring out the best in people. 

On that vein, I have a show recommendation for all of you: Queer Eye. It will restore your faith in humanity. I promise. (Season 10 just dropped!) Every time I feel depressed, I put on an episode, usually cry a bit, and feel immensely better. The fab five really do bring the best out in people.

So I’m going continue with random acts of kindness, even when I fill my bingo card, and try to really see people, and try to bring the best out in those around me. 

I think that’s a way I can help change the world.

Ride the wave of being alive today

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In the last week, I had a PET Scan that surveyed my neck down for cancer, a Brain MRI to look for changes from my last scan, and lab work. And they were clear! Clear of cancer I mean. There are still tumors (masses of dead cells), there is still damage to my spine, and there is still abnormal labwork, but it’s abnormal in the ways it has been abnormal for the last year, so in essence, normal for me.

Am I relieved? Of course! So relieved! 

Am I back to my optimistic, positive, pollyanna self? Well…I seem to need to sit with this news for a while, and it’s not like you just bounce back from thinking the cancer is growing again…there is the whole “well, why has my pain been increasing” question. And I have to accept that there will always be pain, that managing it is my new reality, and that some of it could have been stress-related from the PTSD over the last year. 

So friends, all this means I have another 6-month lease on life!

So, I pulled the trigger on some more trips. In fact, there are still a few openings for a yoga and writing retreat in March with Anish if any of you are interested.

I had intended to write this post yesterday after all the test results had come in, but it turns out I needed a day.

I woke up like normal, drank my coffee with mushroom powders, and picked up and finished The Word for the World is Forest by Ursula K. Le Guin. When looking for the next book to read, I surveyed the shelves filled with cancer-related books, and just had to stop. 

So if I’m not going to die yet of cancer yet, I’m going to go read about cancer and dying? No. Not today.

Cancer just hijacks your life. Especially with the chronic pain I’m experiencing now, well into remission. There is not a day that I’m not reminded that I could die soon, or not. Could be 1 year, maybe 5, maybe even 15! Good luck NOT thinking about that every day. 

I needed a day to marinate in it, and I gave myself a 100% unstructured, uncommitted day yesterday, where I only tried to ride the wave of existence, knowing I don’t have an active cancer, and If that doesn’t elicit joy, then what are we even doing here? 

I took a walk. This week I haven’t been doing yoga, in fact, I haven’t done yoga in about a month…the fears and all, but I have been going on walks: early morning walks before the sun is even up. I talk walks in the icy morning, stepping gingerly down the road with my yak tracks on, knowing my spine is like a pretzel stick, brittle and prone to breaking when it falls to the floor.

Yesterday I went walking just after sunrise and was rewarded with light and color. It was one of the first days in Bend with a dusting of snow on the ground, and even though the paths were treacherous with ice, it was so worth it to have those views and that reframe. The day before, darkness; today, I was walking out of the dark.

Can I surf the roller coaster of emotions instead of sink into them? 

Ride the wave of being alive today.

Ride the wave of being alive today.

Ride the wave of being alive today. Became my mantra as I gingerly walked the world awake. 

Ride the wave of being alive today.

What will 2026 look like now? I have decided I need some more structure to my days, and the many groups that I’ve joined will help in that: writing groups, book clubs, creative freelancing groups, and cancer survivor groups. A renewed commitment to adding more structure to my days may help erect some scaffolding and assist in giving me a way to pull myself out of the listlessness that was December. Periods of time where I explore deep ideas and read a lot. And I’ll continue taking walks, lots of walks. Reading, walking, thinking, writing; I’m kind of designing the perfect life. I can’t adventure as much, but I’m living a version of my life that’s pretty good right now. I know challenging and scary things are around the corner, ready to jump out at me and knock me down. (That goes for all of us. The world is just plain SCARY right now!) But today I’m standing and walking in the light. 

I’ll leave you today with the announcement of one of my first events of the year, of the post-illness year, a presentation I’m giving in April for the Empowering Women Through Adventure series: Adventuring is Different Now: How To Find a Path Forward when Your Body Changes.

For our final 2026 Speaker Series we welcome back a previous speaker, local triple crown thru-hiker Renee “She-ra” Patrick. In late 2024, Renee was diagnosed with advanced cancer that left her in a wheelchair and unable to carry a backpack due to extensive neck and spine damage. Now in remission and walking again, Renee is exploring how to continue hiking and adventuring in a body that has dramatically changed. She successfully completed a 170-mile hike of the Portuguese Camino by using a luggage transport service, and continues to investigate alternative forms of travel so she can continue to find solace and connection in the outdoors. 

Join us to re-connect with Renee and explore a topic that so many of us can relate to in our own way, what it looks like to adventure when our body changes.

PET Scan Eve-Eve

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See, look, I can be happy!

How am I doing? Let’s see. It’s the last day of 2025. It’s the eve-eve of my next PET scan, or the first PET scan since my cancer has been in remission. I’m not doing well. In a way, my remission has been haunting me, especially fiercely the past month or so.

I’ve been dismal and down in this season of laughter and joy, but I’ve been high too…these emotions rollercoaster through me, sometimes on an hourly basis, where I can be delighted and hopeful, followed by a deep sorrow that drips off me and weighs my body in heaviness. 

Ask me to my face, and yes, I’m doing fine, “Grateful to be here!” I reply cheerfully. To a few, I’ll say, “I’m struggling,” like when Kirk comes home to find me in tears and just enfolds me in a big hug. To myself, I say, “What is the point?” I’m finding this listlessness is manifesting in me forgetting to take my meds. I’ll have breakfast or lunch and then realize two hours later that my pillbox is still full. I hurriedly eat a handful of nuts or a spoonful of peanut butter to soften the landing of the gel caps on my stomach lining. 

I am haunted. Haunted by what these next few scans will reveal.

If the scans show there are no new growths, then I have to accept that the increasing pain and discomfort I’ve been feeling over the last month is either in my imagination or my body still coming to terms with being irreparably damaged. 

If the scans show there are new growths, maybe it’s a relief? Then these next months will be a series of appointments, and I don’t need to think too much. I will just need to go with it and renew my low-sugar, low-processed food habits. 

It’s like I’m just now figuring out how to live with this disease, and it’s not going smoothly. I know all the tricks and tools: go for a walk, get coffee with a friend, read a book, go to yoga, tell Kirk and my closest friends the truth, take a bath. And it all works, for a short while. It pulls me up and out of the funk, but now it seems my default state is in the muck when before it was in the air, floating on thermals above the fray. 

And there has been joy….really, there has been – islands of happiness, or just plain contentedness. 

  • Christmas with my mom and brother.
  • Dan and I walking along the Lake Martin swamp where we saw a huge gator sunning himself on a log.
  • Brooke and Adryon meeting us for dinner and my first sip of a Red Chair beer in a few years.
  • Carrie giving me a make-over.
  • Marina having us over for quiche and cheesecake.
  • Cross country skiing again.

Kirk bought me new cross-country skis with metal edges for Christmas. They are quite a luxury as I have only ever owned garage-sale skis from decades past. We took them out to our favorite snow park the day after I got home from Louisiana; the sun on my face, and the quiet swooshing of the skis in the tracks were a balm to my overthinking brain.

Before we left the parking lot, I couldn’t seem to remember how my ski boots worked. It had only been two years since I had skied last, but it was like I had never worn these boots before. Turns out I had grabbed Kirk’s boots, which I had in fact, never worn before. Ha! I can still laugh at myself. The skiing was good, until it wasn’t. It turns out that I can’t use my left pole, and I can’t go uphill. The pressure of the poles, especially when trying to climb anything, hurts my left shoulder too much. In fact, four days after the last ski, my neck and shoulders are so sore that I’m taking daily pain meds again. Is this cancer? Or is this skiing for the first time in two years?

Keep going. I just have to tell myself to keep going. 

Maybe the pressure valve that is questioning my damaged body will be released after these next scans, and then I can keep going. I have a number of things I want to do in the new year, but am waiting for these scans to make any plans… I want to be grateful, but I am not sure how to feel most days. Sometimes my morning walk will be enough to trick my brain into being hopeful, and I come home and make my smoothie of broccoli sprouts, spinach, ginger root, flax, chia, hemp seeds, nuts, and strawberries, but sometimes the hope masks itself in feeling normal and takes me to the bakery where I stand in line for something sweet. 

I investigate other hiking options: llamas! I could hike with llamas! Or do a car-supported hike, as many people do on long trails when they meet friends or family at road crossings, the car filled with camping gear, water, and food. Or I could do another Camino – I’ve already started outlining what the Camino Ingles would look like. Or tap the friends who said the would sherpa for me. Oh, and then there are the carts. I asked Reddit about hiking with carts, and after a lot of “you’re stupid for asking that question,” I got a few helpful replies, but ultimately I think carts work best on pavement, and that’s not the kind of hiking I’m hoping to do right now. 

Is this clinging to hiking an unwillingness to give up the last 24 years of my life when hiking was my all and everything? Probably. I was one of those lucky few who found what lit them up inside, who found what I wanted to do for the rest of my life, who found true freedom and purpose in a life lived on trail. I’m not quite willing to give that up, which may be, or probably is, at the root of my despair.

There are many disabled folks who continue to hike: Bill Irwin hiked blind. Wheelchair Bob is out on the PCT all the time, and a local friend, Geoff Babb, even invented the Advenchair, an all-terrain wheelchair, so he could still get around after his stroke. Hiking with a disability takes more time and more effort, but it’s possible. It’s possible. It’s possible. 

Oh, the effort though. I’m getting caught up in the effort of doing all the “right” things to help mitigate my body feeling like a 500-pound elephant sinking into the sea. A part of me knows I will get through this, and may even return to my resting disposition in the clouds. A part of me knows letting myself feel the feelings may be the only way through, and a part of me needs to keep finding the effort that leads to small joys.

This isn’t a cry for help, I’ve done that already. This is an effort to be real with you about those “How am I doing?” questions. 

I guess the next update will be in the aftermath of my PET scan, brain MRI, and labs. I’ll be a completely different person then.

Some happiness lately:

Choose Joy

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Finding joy on the PCT was part of why I kept hiking and made it my career.

Maybe I’ve been going about this year all wrong. Ok, I’m going to backtrack a bit…I don’t think I’ve done it all wrong, there have been a lot of beautiful moments, like when Amber opened up her house to us to have an exuberant birthday party with about fifty wonderful souls who rallied around me even when I spent the day puking. Like when Kirk and I went snorkeling in warm Gulf waters this May, or when I finished the Camino in Spain with two new friends. Is it this book project that’s tethering me to the pain of the year? What if I let that thread go for a while? What if I let the scab grow, which might be faster to do if I’m not picking at it all the time by trying to write too soon?

I’m going to choose joy for a while and see where that leads me.

And yes, that still involves writing, surprise! 

Yesterday, I was working through an exercise from Ursula K. Le Guin’s Steering the Craft book, the one about reading your work aloud and having fun with the sound and play of words, and something blossomed inside. I was writing around a scene on one of my hikes, a day filled with laughter and play, and I kept returning to that story again and again over the day. I wanted to be in it. I wanted to keep that scene fresh in my mind because the feeling was so different than writing about how my radiation has made my lower back perpetually painful and tight, or how a different approach to the tumors that surrounded my brain could have left me with memory loss or cognition problems. I want to think about something else for a while.

The hangover from that joy has been growing. I decided shortly after writing that exercise that I wouldn’t feel guilty about having christmas cookies for breakfast. I did eat a few nuts so that I got the protein that I need while taking my morning medications, but I ate cookies. I ate cookies dipped in whipped cream and I didn’t feel guilty about it at all! I decided to take the rest of the year off from guilt as well. If life is indeed short, what would it feel like to search for and create joy while saying goodbye to guilt? 

Anyone want to give it a try with me? 

Let’s make this a fun experiment…because that’s what I like to do! Let me know how it goes for you: the seeking joy and forgetting guilt for a while part. Perhaps in this next phase of trying to figure out who I am now, I will write about how my experiment is going, and also tell some stories from some of your experiments. When I worked at the publishing company for four years, that time was primarily filled with writing profiles on artists and businesses around town. It wasn’t quite journalism; it was finding what was interesting, compelling, and unique about these community members and sharing that through my writing. What if we do some of that with these stories? 

I’m posting this over at Substack as well where commenting is easier. All my posts are FREE. Just click ‘none’ on the subscription options.

Write from the Scar

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In happier times…just a few days ago in fact! At the ONDA Christmas party with Phyllis and Mary, two amazing women.

I’m so tired. Maybe it’s the ghost of the impending anniversaries from December 2024 and learning the truth about my injuries, but what’s my excuse this year? I’m discombobulated. I’m depressed. I’m in pain, and I’m grieving for something. I think it’s for who I used to be.

Yesterday I sunk into the depths of a dispair that I didn’t know existed, but today I woke up determined to have a better day. That looks like standing up without bracing for the rushing pain of low blood pressure in my head and shoulders, and instead slowly moving through it, anticipating the other side of the dizzyness, not getting derailed by the dizziness. That looks like leaving the house to write at a coffee shop where I can type these sentences with the accountability of being a human in public.

I don’t yet have the words to explain why I dip into these deep chasms of weeping, but when I try to understand, when I type out the sentiment behind the feeling, I can at least distance myself from it enough to see it a bit more objectively. That perspective takes on more weight as I circle around and around the idea of writing a book about my cancer experience. “Write from the scar, not the wound,” author Cheri Kephart said in her workshop, and that makes sense for a book. My book will be written from the scar, but this blog is written from the wound. From the bloody front lines of a life torn apart and knitting itself back together. At times I think I’m healing and toughing up, but yesterday reveals that I’m still raw and bleeding. The wound is tender and sore. 

Bits from this blog may end up in the book, but I imagine the book will look back on this experience from a larger scale (hello fractal, my old friend). It will be putting all the pieces back together as a work of art, with thought and craft and structure… but now I’m still discovering what the pieces are, and what shapes they take. Writing here is sometimes messy, unshaped, uneven, and scattered, but it’s helping me find the pieces far faster than if I were stewing in this malaise and pain without getting it out into the open and letting it breathe. Writing from the wound is completely appropriate to this phase where I’m trying to make sense of what it means to almost die, to get a second chance at life, to confront my limitations in this new body, all within the context of losing my Dad just a few months ago. 

Saw this on Substack and thought it appropriate, is depressed almost the same as stressed? In dessert speak, that is.

In a way, remission has been harder than treatment. At least during the treatment phase, I had a reason for being tired all the time, I had an excuse for staying in bed and not answering my emails. But after? Maybe it’s the scanxiety (the anxiety of the cancer coming back…all to be revealed in my next scans in early January, and every three months after…for the rest of my life) or it could be PTSD from my close brush with death a year ago. Or maybe there is no reason, and it’s just one big pile of shit that threatens to suffocate me each day.

Some days I don’t feel better, and wonder, is this the new normal? Now I’m starting to understand why people give up, why they don’t want to be alive with cancer anymore. But just thinking that thought scares me into thinking that thought will invite it back. If our minds are that powerful, can thinking about it coming back open the door? (proceeds to tear hair out)

Writing here has been such a lifeline; that’s a reason not to tear my hair out. Fun fact: my hair was thinning during the chemo process, but now it’s growing back, and in certain mirrors I catch a glimpse of myself with 2 inch hairs standing up from my part line; it does make me giggle (actually, you can see it in the photo above!). Through writing, I’ve been in conversation with myself and with you, and these connections have been everything. I’m sending out holiday cards this year, and it’s truly overwhelming. I look at the list of people who donated to my go fund me, who sent cards and care packages, who dropped off meals and stopped by for a visit, and there is not enough stationery or stamps to write enough cards. Hundreds of you came through for me this year, and even if you don’t get a card in the mail, please know how important you were and are to me. I’m so rich in friendship, true connection, and love that I know none of this has to be faced alone, even when I feel alone.

So let’s end this blog post on a high note. Thank you for listening. Even if it feels like I am screaming into the void, I know you are listening and care. That helps so much.

Death is Coming for Us All

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…but not today.

It’s very easy to take myself too seriously. Especially when starting something new like writing a book. After the Central Oregon Writers Guild conference last month, I was totally humbled and walked away from the weekend with my brain full of words and concepts, straining to remember what I could from college literature classes 30 years ago. It took four days and a walk in a tangerine sunrise before an inkling of confidence came back. After all, I’ve been writing constantly for those 30 years; I wasn’t starting from scratch, was I?

Then I thought about my story: the months and years of living the dirtbag hiker lifestyle, discovering my love of strangers in strange lands, and how illness changed my relationship to all of it, and hope returned. I’ve lived through so many hilarious and scary moments that I could easily write an entire book about almost dying – like the time I could have slipped down a frozen ice shoot of snow on the Continental Divide Trail when approaching Gray’s Peak in Colorado. If I can walk across that icy death trap with bald trail runners, then I can write a book, right?

What helps is knowing that I didn’t start this book process just to place a shiny cover on my bookshelf, but to live the life of a writer, and to be a student again. I love the learning, I love the challenge of trying to condense 48 years of living hard into something bite-sized. I mean, how often do we let ourselves start at something new, knowing the journey will be filled with uncertainty and stumbles? Hmmmm, kind of a thru-hike? But what is different this time is that I never questioned my ability to finish a thru-hike. Not even on that first 2,000-mile one in 2002. I knew I would do it. Why is writing a book any different? I’m in a daily wrestling match with myself…but what a luxury to have this conversation with living me, when in an alternative universe I didn’t make it? This is all a bonus. This is all the icing on top.

I was in one of those self-doubting funks when a friend sent me this interview with author Ursula LeGuin, and watching it immediately turned my attitude around. 

It lit my brain on fire in a couple of different ways and really got me excited about trying my hand at fiction. There are so many takeaways from this interview, but at one point, she mentioned that you don’t want to talk to a writer at the end of the day if they haven’t been writing. Even the best of us struggle. In a workshop I attended this week with author Cheri Kephart, she rattled off a few other quotes like this one from Hemingway: “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed,” and then I found this one from George Orwell: “Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness.” But then I stumbled upon this Emerson quote that helped: “The only way to write is to write.” True dat. This blog is helping to serve that purpose. It’s giving me something other than the obvious task at hand to have fun with. I keep a running list of things I’d like to explore, or that struck me, and have come to enjoy the cadence of writing a blog post a week, sometimes about writing, sometimes not. I think it’s the writing that is key here. Just doing it.

I’ll leave you with this song that always helps lighten the mood when I’m bogged down by gerunds or trying to wrap my head around how to use the past perfect tense.

Here is my favorite part of the song, 100% Endurance from Yard Act:

“It’s all so pointless, ah, but it’s not though is it?
It’s really real and when you feel it, you can really feel it
Grab somebody that you love
Grab anyone who needs to hear it
And shake ’em by the shoulders, scream in their face

Death is coming for us all, but not today
Today you’re living it, hey, you’re really feeling it
Give it everything you’ve got knowing that you can’t take it with you
And all you ever needed to exist has always been within you
Gimme some of that good stuff that human spirit
Cut it with a hundred percent endurance.”

Giving Back is Connection

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The Oregon Trails Coalition team

It’s 0-dark-30 in Pendleton. My room sits eye-level to busy Highway 84, and I try to drown out the sound of trucks breaking and cars racing through the city by turning the fan on high. 

I arrived in the late afternoon and shook off the four-hour drive. A pain had just started to take hold of my lower back, but some light stretching and walking helped to ease the stiffness that had set in.

It’s time for the yearly Oregon Outdoor Recreation Summit, and arriving here brings back all sorts of memories of my body last year. What do I mean? Last year, I was in such debilitating pain, still blaming my condition on slow-healing injuries, that I was jacked up on pain meds and moved so deliberately that many people noticed something was wrong. Only weeks later would I be diagnosed with cancer, which explained the constant neck and back spasms that had been plaguing me for months. 

The Summit is designed and hosted by the Oregon Trails Coalition, the group I have been leading as Chair of the Steering Committee for the last three years, and this is my final summit in this volunteer role.

That first night I stopped in distillery where about 50 other summit folks milled about. Entering this room was both exciting and daunting. Many people knew of my challenging year because I’ve been quite public about it, but others had no idea. It was as if I was breaking out of a cocoon…a cocoon that had been smashed and thought destroyed, but not. I had emerged on the other side of my brush with mortality to find myself on a similar path I had been on before. It was both exciting and confusing.

But I digress. I wanted to write this blog post to talk about volunteering and how remaining involved in the Coalition has been a vital part of my healing. My fellow board members cheered me on this year, they ran the monthly meetings until I was able to engage again, and gave me lovely gifts like home-made granola, books, and a bright yellow t-shirt that I wear constantly. 

To have a purpose greater than yourself and to be of service to your community is a powerful motivator and force for healing. I was deathly ill a year ago, and now I’m walking upright. I still have the glow from the Portugal sun on my cheeks, and am reimagining my future. This summit doesn’t represent my swan song; it’s a re-awakening. It’s a rebirth. BTW, this seems an opportune time to mention Renee means “reborn” in French.  How can it be the first time I’m drawing this connection? 

So volunteering. Volunteering has helped pull me out of my self-focused fog. Sure, I could have dwelled on my pain, quit the Coalition, and sulked about my inability to backpack, but I decided to use what energy I had to continue supporting, promoting, and advocating for the preservation, development, and stewardship of a statewide network of trails. Using my precious hours in this world for good has always been vitally important to me. When I was faced with a million career options after college, I pushed that all away to become a Peace Corps volunteer in West Africa. I wanted my time to mean something to someone. I found that direct aid was the best way to disentangle myself from the rampant consumerism and individualism that modern society primes us for. Volunteering connects us to the collective, much like I believe hiking connects us to the land. And connection is healing.

My mom will be spending Thanksgiving and Christmas at a diner serving dinner to those in need. And with the SNAP benefit disaster, I expect this small act of kindness will have a dramatic impact on her community, and her outlook in the wake of my dad’s death.

Are you volunteering? 

My brother has always loved animals, so I’m encouraging him to look into animal shelters in his area and explore if they need help walking dogs or petting cats. Volunteering could look like anything. You could show up for children, the elderly, the sick, or the natural areas around you. You could pull invasive weeds or plant milkweed for migrating Monarch butterflies. It’s endless! And when it feels like everything is falling apart, volunteering can connect you with the beauty of what is working, what is alive around you.

If you are in Oregon, we are in our recruitment period for the Oregon Trails Coalition Steering Committee and Advisory Board. The Advisory Council strives to be truly representative of the Oregon Trails community of professionals, advocates, volunteers, and trail users. It advises the Steering Committee on coalition advocacy positions and campaigns, and helps implement and promote events and programs. The Steering Committee provides oversight and guidance to the Coalition Director, is responsible for carrying out the Coalition’s mission, and generally acts in accordance with the Advisory Council’s recommendations.… and you get to work with fabulous people. Please join us!

I’ll leave you with this post from my friend Jess, and I’d love to hear from you. How do you volunteer? How would you like to volunteer? I bet we could connect you with a meaningful opportunity that helps you see the beauty and richness of an engaged life.

Since commenting has been so buggy on this website, I’ve decided to share these posts on Substack , where commenting will be much easier.

The Hard Truth

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All of this will end.

As I have experienced the destruction and reconstruction of my body this year, I’ve had to face the hard truth: I will die. My dad died this year. We are all going to die, some sooner than others. 

Writing through my illness has helped me focus on what is left: life. I am still alive, my mom is alive, many of my friends are alive, and even though the world looks different through that lens now, I am still alive, so how am I going to live with the knowledge of death? 

We all have to face this, no matter how much we ignore the simple fact that humans don’t live forever. Add in some other truths: like many other systems around us are on the brink of collapse as well, and the futility of it all easily opens the door to despair. I struggle with it, and I know many of my friends struggle with it too, so when I saw a link to this video, I clicked on it more out of curiosity than out of the expectation of an answer.

I came away electrified. Sarah Wilson had come to the same conclusion that I had with my cancer.

As Sarah said, “I feel more alive and connected than ever before. The urgency of what is going on has forced me into living fully and living fully now.”

Yes. This.

Conveniently, on my “living fully now” list, is the desire to create my own TED talk. I don’t love public speaking, but over the ten years I spent developing the Oregon Desert Trail, I gave at least 100 presentations about the trail and faced my fear of forgetting how to talk in front of crowds of people. I still get sweaty palms, but by speaking in front of strangers, I have been able to build connections and foster curiosity in others, something that compels me to keep going. A TED talk is on another level than speaking at a small library… it could get filmed and posted like Sarah’s was (if I’m lucky), but I’m not going to let that stop me. 

There is something here I want to say, and I’m still figuring out how to say it. The workshops, conferences, and books I’ve immersed myself in the last month are helping me pull memories and insights from the fog of my experiences and throw them into the soupy mess that will become my memoir. I think creating a TED talk will help me solidify my intent while putting pen to paper.

Luckily, the Bend TEDx conference is coming back next year. I will apply, and if chosen, will try out some of the content I’ve been working on for this book project. Deadlines can cause panic, but they can also force action, especially when I’m in the formless shape of an unstructured life. I definitely strive to bring structure to my days, but sometimes that all falls apart and I’m left a puddle on the couch, staring at the wall. 

So if you find yourself staring at the wall too, overwhelmed by the impending collapse of everything we know, it is helpful to ask yourself: 

If this was my last day, last week, last month, what would I want to do? 

And then do one of those things. And write them all down on a list, and do more of those things, and so on and so forth. Before long you may be living fully in the present or maybe you will discover you have already been doing that. What I’m trying to say is, please do those things now instead of waiting to act until the day when everything is perfect…that day may never come. It’s cancer; it’s a climate catastrophe in your city; it’s an authoritarian government that takes your rights away. It almost doesn’t matter what it is. 

Live now. It’s all we have.

Since the commenting has been so buggy lately on this website and an upgrade would be very expensive, I’ve decided to share these posts on my new Substack where commenting will be much easier. So head over there if you want to leave me a message. Note: My substack is free, I am not accepting payments at this time, so feel free to choose “no pledge”.

Moving Forward

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Moving forward is the theme of the year, my next years, my foreseeable future. It always has been, but sometimes you need a big event, like almost dying – but not, to wake you up to the day-to-day reality of what it means to be healthy and alive. The moving forward theme is very convenient for a thru-hiker, especially me, as I’ve had a very deliberate and physical shift from hiker me to writer me since coming home from the Camino. 

I’ve turned the office where I built and ran my long-distance trail consulting business into my writing studio. I moved all my hiking and business books out, and my writing books in. I obtained a new cozy rocking chair to read in, and finally transitioned my trusty cancer cart that would move around the house with me into a bookshelf that now houses all of my medications, the books you all have sent me (there are still so many I have left to read!), and notecards.

Why do this? Because I’ve decided that I am writing a book next. That is my forward, and I’m very excited about it. Yes, I do want to create more Camino-style hiking opportunities in the States. Yes, I plan to continue to explore and adventure without a backpack until the day when I can start putting weight on these shoulders of mine, but I decided that I will be making decisions for the short-term me for now. I will transition back to the business of hiking phase once I’m certain that I’ll be around in 5 years to work on a 5-year plan. 

I have always wanted to write a book. When I was a kid, I wanted to be an author. Others want to be astronauts or doctors, and I wanted to be a writer. I talked about it and thought about it endlessly. I specifically remember designing the cover (in crayon of course) for one of my early books, named “A Story Within a Story,” but did I actually write it? I don’t recall, but I do remember thinking I could write anything if I really wanted to. 

I think I wanted to be an author so bad because I love books. Love them. Growing up, I read books like there was no tomorrow. Now that I know what no tomorrow really feels like, the metaphor holds up. Reading was and always has been a desperate thing. I would gulp down words as if they might disappear from the page. I wanted to read them all right now. Even today. The feeling I have of walking into a library or Barnes and Noble has always been one of longing and regret. There is no way I can read everything. 

I think my desire to consume words has always really been about the desire for adventure (adventure with a side of escapism). Hmmm, escapism….Zogore in Burkina Faso comes to mind. After college, I got what I asked for. The adventure of living in West Africa for my two-year Peace Corps service was completely overwhelming at times, and I read through my bewilderment and frequent existential crises. I dealt with the reality of being the first foreigner, not even the first Peace Corps volunteer, to live in that dusty and dry sub-Saharan village by escaping into my books. Hundreds of books. Note: I learned to adjust to the rhythm of it after the first year…there is something to the idea that deep time in a place softens you up to accept its imprint on your person. 

Since I started reading, I’ve been ingesting all of these stories and sagas, and those words have been sifting and percolating. And it turns out, I had been writing the whole time…just not books. From English class haikus in grade school to my dissertation in grad school: The Eco Interplay Ethic, I wrote a lot. But it took on another dimension when I started hiking.

When I started hiking, I knew I wanted to keep a daily journal, so my nightly scribbles on the Appalachian Trail in 2002 became part of my daily routine. I have no idea where that journal ended up, but I transformed my written journals into digital ones on my next few thru-hikes, including the West Highland Way, Pacific Crest Trail, Colorado Trail, Arizona Trail and more. Then over the last decade, as cell phones hit the trail, I’ve been typing with my thumbs on the 12 different long-distance hikes I’ve done since then…that’s about 12,000 miles of mornings. Early mornings became my witching hour. Early mornings are when my thoughts are most crisp, and even after sipping on the first dregs of my hot coffee in my sleeping bag, the night clings on just enough to bring some of its poetry back into the world.

Writing a book is a much bigger task than writing every day for 5 months on a trail (a la PCT or CDT). How do I start? I guess by writing every day for five months, and then five months more, and another five on top of that. Maybe I’ve started with this blog post.

Over the last month or so I started by reading about writing. (Can I give myself a self-directed MFA?) I want to study the craft. The structure. To learn how to weave different elements together in something as gigantic as a book. Like John McPhee says in On the Writing Process, start at an exciting part and circle back around (Note: revisit his structure in the story about the canoe and a bear). Add a little humor like Stephen King does in On Writing. Do the daily writing prompts like Suleika Jaouad does in The Book of Alchemy, and follow the 12-week program like Julia Cameron suggests in The Artist’s Way.

Of course there is no one way. I could just start writing.

But up next I’m going to take a workshop with Cheryl Strayed this weekend who wrote Wild (you know, the PCT book that wasn’t really about hiking the PCT). She rented a tiny house at the base of Hart Mountain National Antelope Refuge (along the Oregon Desert Trail!) to write her book. I figure it would be silly to NOT take her workshop. 

Then I’m going to the Central Oregon Writer’s Guide Conference in Bend. And after that? Maybe take a masterclass, maybe look into some residencies, maybe start on a quest to find a room with a view where I can go to for a week or two at a time, take in the landscape, go on walks, and write this thing. (If you have any ideas of cheap places I could rent, spots I could park the camper, or people who need house sitters, let me know!)

What is one of the most important elements of becoming the writer I’ve always wanted to become? Time. I have the time. I need to keep reminding myself of this because I’ve been feeling pressure to start thinking about work (Note: this is my own pressure, it’s not coming from any of you). Writing is work, right? If I’m not going to die immediately, I should be working, right? I’m fighting with myself there. Why does existence have to be productive? The gift my friends and family and the disability social safety net have given me this year is the permission and cushion of time to heal. To get better. Working doesn’t necessarily have to be part of that equation, but it also gives me a reason to be…especially when the reason is writing to process this new life I find myself living. 

Work also brings up the question of: “how do I make decisions now?” As I mentioned earlier in the blog, until I can be more confident of being around at the end of a 5-year plan, I’m not going to work on a 5-year plan. I’m going to work right now. I’m going to work on the immediate future. It’s tough, though, when I got the scan showing me I didn’t have any active cancer this summer, I suddenly could see a longer life… so does that mean I start saving for retirement again? Can I even entertain the possibility of retiring? All the while, I still need to make it to 5 years…and the odds aren’t quite in my favor, but then again, I’ve always excelled at exceeding the odds and have had good luck trusting the world. 

I don’t know the answer friends. I guess I’ll keep going forward and find out.

Since the commenting has been so buggy lately on this website and an upgrade would be very expensive, I’ve decided to share these posts on my new Substack where commenting will be much easier. So head over there if you want to leave me a message. Note: My substack is free, I am not accepting payments at this time, so feel free to choose “no pledge”.

Cancer Update June 26

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Every day is a gift. 

With so much uncertainty these days – both with my illness, my dad’s illness, and in the world – it seems the most logical thing to do is to focus on each day. What in the day makes it a success? What is there to be grateful for? It’s as if the most cheesy sentiments are my mantras these days…and they keep me going.

I’m halfway across the country right now, down in Lafayette, Louisiana, visiting my parents for a few weeks.

This is the first time in years that my three brothers and I have been with my parents in the same place at the same time; it has been a wonderful visit.

Before I left Bend, I had a barrage of doctors’ appointments, and once again, things are promising! The neck surgeon gave me the best news of all, my neck (a constant source of concern and soreness) is healing well, although I’ll probably have the neck soreness for the rest of my life . But the collapsed C7 vertebrae hasn’t progressed, so I have the go-ahead to start increasing movement. 

I just have to use pain as my guide. 

Easy to say, let pain be your guide… I won’t know it’s too much until the pain comes on, but there is hope in that guidance as well. He said the only things I need to avoid are axial loading activities, like standing on my head, and I can safely say I will be doing no such thing! I’m even starting to consider putting on an empty day pack and slowly adding weight over time. If I can walk with a day pack, the world seems much more doable…and my plans of a Camino journey even more likely.

The best outcome from these doctors’ appointments was the clearance to walk a section of the Camino this fall. More to come on that as I start to put that trip together, but I will be heading to Portugal for a few weeks in September! I’m thrilled at the prospect of stretching my legs along the coastal path, all with a bed to sleep in each night, coffees and cafes along the way, and meeting people from all over the world. Yes, I’ll be going solo, and I’m excited about the prospect of trusting the world in this next journey. I’ll be blogging daily again on that trip, it will be just like old times!

I’ve been sharing my story with a wider audience too. The National Brain Tumor Society asked to feature my writing on their blog, so they put together a wonderful little feature from my blog this year. 

How a Hiker’s Life Changed Overnight: A Metastatic Lung Cancer Story

Then I did a podcast interview with Hikertrash Radio about my journey as well:

I’ve done countless podcast interviews in the past, and you can listen to a previous one I did with Hikertrash Radio here:

For even more podcasts check this out.

What else is new? I did my first water aerobics class yesterday, and wow, am I sore! I had to modify my moves in the pool…too much jumping is still quite jarring to my spine…so I slowed my roll as needed with the lovely older ladies that were in class with me. My cousin Amy helped me get a pass to her pool because I quickly found that going for a walk in July in Louisiana was WAY TOO hot and humid for a comfortable jaunt. I either have to get up before the sun or head to the pool for any exercise while I’m down here. 

I have a busy, busy schedule when I get back to Oregon. A ton of doctors’ appointments await me, including a full body PET scan…cross your fingers for me that all my tumors are still getting smaller! Then it’s Kirk’s birthday, a visit from my Aunt Barbara, a Burkina Faso Peace Corps Reunion, a trip to see some friends in Eastern Oregon, PCT Days in Cascade Locks, and maybe even a trip to the Oregon coast. It may be too much, but I like to be optimistic and ambitious, so we’ll see! All the while, I need to ramp up my miles so I have hope of hiking 5-10 miles a day on the Camino in September. 

I’m taking each day as it comes, but also giving myself things to look forward to. And I have so much to look forward to!