Potential Credentials

My great grandmother Josephine came to America from Italy via Ellis Island. She was a tween when she settled in the little Italy neighborhood of Niagara falls. Her Italian last name was Americanized, then she was promptly greeted by the Great Depression. Talk about a bummer. That era of American life instructed the way she rationed food and home goods, and steeled her attitude towards wastefulness and finances. Grandma Jo only passed out half paper towels and squirreled away small parcels of cash in strange places around the house. My current lifestyle would be confusing for her without any context. Hell, with context, she might be more concerned. I think about her when I wash out a nice zip loc bag in a motel sink after its third or fourth tour of duty. I feel like she's looking down on me from heaven, clasping her hands together and tilting her head, cooing, "oh, he's being such a good boy." Except, probably something in Italian since she stopped speaking English in...

There are a bunch of cute little sayings out here on trail. "You carry your fears" or "hike your own hike." These phrases can be offered as sympathetic advice or as pithy retorts. If someone directly contradicts your idea or plan with their superior opinion, "hike your own hike" means "go fuck yourself." (coffee at "sunrise" at McAfee knob) "You carry your fears" exposes where you think your hike might go wrong. Why is your pack too heavy? Food? Water? Clothes? That's probably what you're afraid of being short on, and it's worth examining if that fear is rooted in reality or your own fiction. I had a great idea for getting in and out of town without lugging all of my possessions through a Chinese buffet then grocery store, so obviously I was afraid of nothing. Here was the plan. Leave my pack and poles at a shelter with trusted companions, and hitch in and out of town, lickety split. Brilliant.  ...

I mentioned I use my watch to gauge progress towards my next checkpoint. If it's 4 miles to the ridge where I'll eat lunch, I'll get there in 2 hours. That's barring any extended breaks and maybe a little sooner if the terrain is agreeable. I'll glance at my wrist, see that an hour has passed, and that means I'm about halfway there. There's a smart little two letter abbreviation of the day of the week on my Casio's face, and that's the only reason I ever know what day of the week it is. Or I know it's Sunday because the post office and everything else in town is closed. Occasionally I know it's 1pm on a Tuesday. Sometimes I'll think, "man, what would I be doing in SF right now?" Probably at work, getting ready for a work meeting at work. However, sometimes I look at my watch and wish I was back in California. Like 4pm on a Friday. I imagine spinning in my office chair in that sun drenched We work office. I'm probably making ...