Tag Archives: phoenix

The National Trail

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This was just the beginning…

I’m cuddling up on the couch with my blanket, laptop, and favorite cat right now.

My mind keeps wandering, however, to the National Trail.

The National Trail travels the South Mountain Park from end to end. It’s like walking from 40th Avenue to 40th Street. Except that you have to walk up and down a bunch of mountains to get there. It’s 14.7 miles total. I haven’t yet calculated the elevation gain but it felt like 2,000 feet (cumulative).

This is Lou.

This is Lou.

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This is Stephanie (she’s the best).

Lou, our friend Stephanie, and I met before sunrise at the park’s Central Ave entrance Sunday. After searching for scorpions with a black light, cramming bagels in our mouths, and taking a final bathroom break with the luxury of running water (in most cases), we set out from the west end of the park.

Within the first few miles, we started climbing. And climbing. And climbing some more. It wasn’t until mile 9 when the endless pattern of steep ascents, descents, and then ascents to climb back up the elevation we had just trekked down finally let up.

This was unexpected. I had told my hiking companions that I anticipated just one major climb that would last 2 miles. Oops.

Close to the Kiwanis Trail.

Close to the Kiwanis Trail.

We took it like a bunch of pros. Especially Stephanie. She has joined us on a few hikes throughout this book project and though she’s in great shape, she hasn’t had the 70+ hikes Lou and I have enjoyed to refine her endurance. In spite of this, she pushed on without complaint and stayed at our heels the entire time. I feel funny saying this (because I’m not her parent), but I was so damn proud of her.

In fact, I was proud of all three of us. No one freaked out. No one got angry. No one even got grumpy.

Instead, we joked and chatted (between heavy breathing) for the entire 7.5 hours.

There aren’t very many people who can pull off 7.5 hours of constant exercise with such finesse. I feel lucky to know at least two.

Seriously...what is IN THAT HOLE?

Seriously…what is IN THAT HOLE?

“I almost want to say that hike on Sunday was spiritual,” Stephanie texted to me today.

I completely agree.

Writer’s Note: Upon further inspection, this trail was actually 14.7 miles. Not 15.5 as originally written.

Neglect

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Nose to the grindstone.

Nose to the grindstone.

The photo above illustrates the reason behind my recent and ongoing neglect of this blog.

If you don’t understand what the photo above means, read about it here (each stripe represents a completed hike review for my book).

I’m so tired.

Dad Knows Best

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And here it is...still limping along.

And here it is…still limping along.

I should not be blogging right now. I should be writing my book.

I’m in the total-freak-out stage of this writing project. Now that I’m settled into my corporate job (I’m very happy there), I’ve developed a new discipline to devote 9-10 hours per week to this book. I can only hope this is enough.

I’m stressed to the max.

But I’ve been writing this blog post in my head for months and it’s time to get it out.

It’s about my camera.

When I graduated college in 2006, this Canon Power Shot A540 was my Dad’s gift to me. I’m going to send the link to this blog to my dad later today so he’ll soon learn that this was so not what I wanted. At the time, I had given my then-fiance very specific instructions to tell my dad that I wanted an iPod.

Instead, I got the camera.

“I figured that, with your new job at the New Times, you could use a camera for your work when you’re out reporting stories and such,” Dad told me.

Then I started my job and quickly accepted the assignment to take pictures of party people once a week for a column called Club Candids. I despised the gig but the money was way too good to pass up. This camera was with me all the way. It somehow survived bars, clubs, and dance nights each week for three years solid.

Today, the lens is missing its cover. The screen on the back is scratched to hell. The flash only works if you flick the bulb five times with your finger before you take the photo. The wrist strap is so caked with dried booze and grime, the woven threads are now all leathery and gross.

I promised myself I’d buy a new camera so I could take excellent photos for my book. I planned to use my sad, sad Canon only for the first few hikes. But I got busy and lazy and I didn’t want to do the research needed to buy a new camera.

Today, I’m more than halfway done with my list of hikes and this beat up little thing has captured some gorgeous photos…some are even good enough for the cover (according to my publisher’s Graphics Coordinator).

Dad knows best!

Visualize This

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This photo makes me think of Phoenix. Then I think of the silhouetted power lines I often see in the evening. That makes me remember a tattoo that a friend of mine has on his forearm. And then I contemplate how the imagery of tall palm trees and power lines against a skyline has been adopted by so many Phoenicians as a symbol of life in Phoenix. That leads me to wonder about our collective identity as a city…and then I remember that most of us could care less. Which makes me think about how Phoenix natives never talk to their neighbors. I COULD GO ON. All this happens because I look at a simple photo.

I’m taking a break from making maps.

It’s actually my favorite part of “writing” this book (I guess since I enjoy it, I’m not really justified to take a break but whatever). For every hike, I must turn in a map so the cartography department can accurately create another map that’s included with the trail review.

I like to do it because I get to make pictures. I use the image from my EveryTrail app or a scanned trail map and then I add arrows and notes using Snagit.

It’s not a far cry from what I do in my current day job in which I must find the most meaningful way to accurately communicate complicated information.

In short, that means turning most things into pictures.

I’m probably betraying my kind here, but I believe that humans are much more sophisticated in reading the pervasive visual language than the traditional written language.

Don’t argue with me. I learned this in my Art History classes.

They say the average modern-day American views [it's too late in the evening to look up the estimated number right now but think about every billboard, computer icon, television show, packaging design for products, etc. you see each day] a whole shit-ton of images in a day. Compare that to the actual words you read in a 24-hour period.

See what I’m getting at?

When my book comes out, I can expect most “readers” to flip through the pages, scan the photos, glance at the maps, and maybe, maybe read a caption or two.

I can’t blame them. I do the exact same thing.

Taking that into consideration, I suppose I shouldn’t feel so guilty about busying myself with map-making in order to avoid the writing.

Hot, Hot, Hot

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By SashaW on flickr Creative Commons.

It doesn’t have to be like this.

On Tuesday, I hiked 2.6 miles with my mother. We started at 5 p.m. and the entire hike was in full sun. The high for the day was 112 degrees.

We survived. And we did it without complaining.

In fact, I rarely complain about the heat anymore. I’m more likely to get hostile about the “freezing” air conditioner.

Truth is, living in the heat isn’t that difficult…as long as you adopt these guidelines:

Tip #5: Give up on Being Clean Cute

It’s pretty much impossible to achieve the powdery, fresh-from-the shower look  in this kind of heat. I find that the only time I’m really bothered by the AZ summer temperatures is when I am trying to look cute in that sterile, clean way. So, instead, I channel the sexy power of a lady athlete, musician on stage, or dancer. I usually wear my hair up, adopt a cotton wardrobe, and scale back on the makeup. This way, if I get sweaty or flushed, I’m going more for a dewy, badass, just-got-done-with-a-roll-in-the-hay kind of look.

Tip #4: Embrace the Sweat

In my younger years, I was horrified if my perspiration created any kind of sweat stain on my clothing. Today, I’m not so freaked out. I try to avoid it by living in tank tops but if I do get a sweaty patch, screw it. It happens. When it’s 115 degrees out, there’s no shame in it. And, chances are, the dry air will soon suck moisture out of your fabric.

Tip #3: Adopt Ignorance

As soon as June hits, ignore all thermometers. Don’t watch the weather report or check your smartphone for the forecast. If you don’t look at the numbers, every single day will feel exactly the same: hot (with a shrug). If you see the numbers, however, you’ll only adopt a very tangible, nagging way to measure your misery.

Tip #2: Don’t Mention It

Really? It’s hot outside you say? I’m surprised to hear that.

Tip #1: Get Out

Get out of the house. My #1 defense against the heat is to get out in it and do stuff. Go on a walk, do yard work, hike, whatever. Just go out into the heat and gain some experience dealing with it. Before you know it, your body will acclimate, your misery will subside, and you’ll save money on your electricity bill because you won’t be cranking down your AC like a madman.

There. I release you from your Phoenix summer misery. To celebrate, listen to this.

Public Speaking

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Brisbane City Council, flickr creative commons

Yeah! This is what I felt like on the inside!

Turns out, I’m not afraid of public speaking.

I figured out a great trick: I have to know what the heck I’m talking about.

Last week, I got a last-minute invite to talk about blogging at a meeting with the Gilbert Small Business Alliance.

With less than 24 hours to prepare, I whipped up an outline. While Lou cleaned the dishes that night, I rehearsed my presentation.

And, because my husband is awesome, when I “opened the floor” for some Q&A, he asked multiple questions and spoke in a different character voice each time.

I expected I’d be super nervous before the presentation. Instead, I was just slightly sweaty as I blabbed in front of the small crowd of florists, mediators, floor cleaners, and other independent business owners.

Rather than run the risk of offending someone with my godless, eff-word-filled blog, I mostly concentrated on The Root Word, a blog that I edit for the fantastic hair experts at The Root Salon.

The audience asked some really great questions, shared their own blog ideas, and I received some great feedback from the organizers. All in all, I think it went well.

Of course, the big win for me was not feeling terrified.

And, as a bonus, I now have an outline so I can easily write a blog about blogging.

I Remember Hands Across America

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That’s me…probably 6 months after Hands Across America.

In 1986, my mother, brother and I participated in Hands Across America.

I was not yet five years old so I didn’t really understand what was happening. But, according to Wikipedia, this was a benefit event in which participants paid $10 donations to hold their place in a chain of 6.5 million hand-holding people that stretched across the continental U.S.

Each city had celebrities attending to promote the event. New York got Brooke Shields, Liza Minelli, Gregory Hines, Edward James Olmos, and Yoko Ono (along with a few others).

Phoenix got Ed Begley, Jr.

To my memory, I didn’t see Mr. Begley. However, I do remember having to pee really, really, really bad. The only bathroom nearby was some dude’s apartment that required one to climb over a brick wall. A man (presumably the tenant) was escorting folks to and from the chain of people to the apartment.

My mom said I could go with the man. But she couldn’t go with me. I felt scared and told her I didn’t want to go.

I remember I was afraid to climb the wall. I’ve never been so thankful for my fear of heights (probably not a good idea for little Lilia to go into a strange man’s apartment alone so I could pull down my Care Bears underwear and pee in his toilet).

Instead, we rushed to our Volvo station wagon (tan exterior, brown interior) that was parked down the road. She grabbed a towel from the back, held it out, and told me to pee in it.

I really didn’t want to piss in the towel. But, out of options, I peed.

Then I resumed my post in the chain of people. Some guy was running down the line (maybe that was Ed?) and yelling at everyone. I wasn’t holding my mother or brother’s hand for some reason. And then the two strangers grasping my hands stretched me until my shoulders were sore.

This was all supposed to fight hunger and homelessness.

I’ll try to remember this story next time I feel guilty for ignoring panhandlers…I pissed in a towel for them. Isn’t that enough?

Oh, Ohio

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By timhettler, Flickr, Creative Commons.

In Ohio, it takes forever for the sun to set. And you get to watch the whole thing.

On Independence Day, 2010, I was sitting on porch steps that overlooked a cornfield.

The fireflies had just stopped glowing and the cousins were handling the launch of some spectacular fireworks. As I ooh-ed and ahh-ed over the sparkles and booms with the under-five crowd, someone started blasting their 9/11 mix CD from his pickup truck speakers.

As Courtesy of the Red White and Blue by Toby Keith played, I turned to Lou and mumbled, “Are we…actually…here…right now?”

Yes, yes we were.

We were in Ohio.

(In all honesty, I think I remember a cousin skipping past the Toby Keith song because no one liked it. Plus, the lyrics include the word “ass” and there were small children running around, after all.)

This is one of my favorite things that happened to me in my life ever. I loved it.

Sure, the whole scene cracked me up. But, it was also a refreshing moment in which I felt distinctly American.

The rest of the trip had even more to offer.

During our visit, we toured his family’s land, collected cicada shells from tree trunks, fed barn cats at his grandparents’ dairy farm, and spent hours watching the woods from his uncle’s porch.

I had zero cellular phone reception the entire trip and I didn’t once check the internet.

When I was in Ohio, all I had to do was be there.

It was lovely. And it was so quiet.

After I came back to Phoenix, I longed for a return trip.

Today, I’m booking tickets for another visit. We arrive July 3rd.

I’m happy.