I first noticed it in the morning. I had a can of milk in one hand, a foot stuck in the door to keep the refrigerator open, something in my mouth and asked the toddler, who ran into the kitchen, a question. Larks might be brighter in the mornings when they chirp, but I haven’t seen one to compare and contrast. Anyway, he walked/ran into the kitchen at a brisk pace.
I asked him whether he would like cheese in his lunch-box that day. He stopped his brisk walk, looked at me seriously, took a deep breath like he was meditating by puffing out his cheeks (One might think I’d asked him his opinion on the world’s most serious problem), and then made a sound that sounded like a bubbling brook in a stream.
Mornings, are however, not the best time for me to notice bubbling brooks or streaming croaks for that matter. Unlike the lark, spark, gay, bright morning-person, I am a groggy potato head. The head still feels under the weather and the nose tip mysteriously shows a twitch to point itself towards the covers of the bed just vacated.
The same thing happened later in the evening when I asked him if he wanted a chocolate biscuit or a cheese cracker. I laughed and moved on. When it happened for the third time that evening, he bubbled over without being asked a question, I stopped to ponder. Was the bubbling-brook-laugh telling me something? It turns out it was.
Bubbling Brook or River
So I tried to figure out what caused it. It wasn’t that he was practicing the bubbling-brook-laugh, for he laughed multiple times without screwing his face up with intense concentration, taking a deep breath, and puffing out his cheeks. It must have been something else.
After a few minutes, I gave it up for the moment. Things at dinner-time had hotted up nicely when a glass of water was tipped over. I had a real waterfall sound to deal with, and the b. brook went out of my mind.
Later that night, as we lay in bed swapping bedtime stories, I asked him what they all planned to do for Valentine’s Day. He started to tell me, when his older-and-presumably-wiser sister popped in. “Hey! Scoff like I taught you to. Remember she is saying something cheesy!” she said and showed him to scoff Disney-style.
I watched him and right enough, he did it again. He bubbled his laugh like a brook. Only he did not know what cheesy meant, so every time I made a reference to cheese, he ‘scoff’-ed like a b.b. Ha!
Some mysteries are worth it. Happy Valentine’s Day even if you do scoff at the idea.
I see you rolling your eyes, nodding your head and saying, “Well, do Januaries roll into April?” Probably making a side note as to how the unhinging need not have happened so soon and so on. But as I stepped out on a walk, that is exactly how I felt. Cherry blossoms that usually start peeking out in March and filling out with beautiful scented flowers in April already seem to be scenting the beautiful air. After a brief spell of rain in December, the clouds have moved on, leaving behind green hills and cherry blossoms in January. The days have a magical quality about them that makes staying indoors seem like a shame.
Cherry Blossoms already?
You can, therefore, understand my wanting to utilize the gorgeous day over the week-end to step outside and go to the park with the family. I huffed and I puffed, but the family, behaved like reluctant groundhogs and burrowed themselves deeper into the earth and refused. Imagine my surprise the next day to see that in a fit of gallant enthusiasm, the husband and daughter had prepared a picnic lunch and had it packed and ready. I could have swooned if a passing sofa had not lent me its sturdy support.
After the picnic, we took a short walk by a pine and eucalyptus tree lined path. We stopped to peer down at the marvelous surroundings when a biker told us all about some prehistoric rocks that we could find if we kept going.
Can I see dinosaurs?
“I can see dinosaur?” asked the breathless toddler all-a-twitter, whose curriculum now includes dinosaurs. Ihated to break it to the fellow that he was a few million years late at chancing upon dinosaurs, but we settled down to see a groundhog instead.
Anything that requires stopping and peering down at something is always a huge hit with the son, who will willingly stop at every daisy or squirrel. So, the groundhog really was a bonus, though a bit of a step down from a dinosaur. To see a groundhog on Groundhog day was exciting.( Shh! It might have been a mole. I am not the best at distinguishing species.)
I also read this article that said that in earlier times, Groundhog Day was not simply a day to welcome Spring, but also to eat groundhogs.
T’was the end of the Christmas holiday, or if you prefer the politically correct version: T’was the end of the Holiday Season holiday , and the family was quietly going about the business of getting back to business. That is, we yelled across staircases for missing tiffin boxes, wondered aloud why things that were to be done during the luxurious break were still undone, books landed with a thump on the stairs, socks pushed under the sofa were retrieved and shoes frantically scoured the home for their partners. Folks wandering past the home may have been pardoned for thinking there was a nursery inside, but there! It was a typical end-of-vacation-day.
I opened the daughter’s backpack, put my hand in and let out a strangled yelp. I may have heard snapping inside, but I also felt like I was holding a fur ball. Judging by the smell, it could have been a marmalade-smeared rat or an orange-scented skunk. I felt around a bit more and there was another such monster.There was nothing to be done. I bit down the nausea brought on by eating too many cookies, remembered the brave deeds of my father while tackling rats in our childhood home, squared my shoulders for the onslaught and plunged my hand in with a grim determination to retrieve whatever monster the bag held.
There was no cat or rat to let out of the bag. It was just a couple of sad looking oranges that had long ago passed its ‘Best by’ date. Judging by the fungi on it, it may be long past the ‘Fling without spattering’ date as well. I moaned a sound that started out as ‘Ugh’, pitched up to a holler of her complete name, and squeaked down at ‘please’.
The School Bag
“Let’s clean it up.” I said becoming the stern taskmaster.We trooped up the stairs with the foul smelling bag and its 100 pound contents. I kid you not, that bag weighs about 100 pounds – I don’t know what is in there, for every child I see pulls this mini-suitcase-like bag along bursting at its seams with books it seems, and yet when it is time to buckle down to a piece of homework or an assignment, I see a fair bit of telephoning and neighbor hopping to ‘see if my friend has the book to finish the assignment’ happening. Sigh.
It was a good few minutes later, and the techniques of deep breathing successfully applied gave me the glowing answer. I let her deal with the bag with the able assistance of her father. There was still some bag-related noise upstairs, but it had mellowed to a gurgle with occasional spurts of “But Appa! I need that. It is for Moon-city.” (their play patch is christened something-city)This dash-city is home to some willow trees and a large grass patch. Lodged in blah-city is a variety of treasures ranging from pine cones to balls made of pencil shavings. (I have a series of blogs on pencil shavings that will make entertaining reading when I sit down to writing about it).It looked like a large layer of the general debris in the schoolbag was for Sun-city.
I like these glimpses into her childhood that I get. I hope this is the kind of thing that she will throw her mind back to when she thinks of her childhood. As a child I was best amused when left to my own devices and swinging on a tree trunk still tickles the endorphins in me. I agree with Bertrand Russell when he says that “The pleasures of childhood should in the main be such as the child extracts from his environment by means of some effort and inventiveness.”
Anyway, back to the bag. Judging by the level of debris in her bag, she may be one of the most creative persons I know. For there is this study that says folks with the messiest desks are the most creative.
Sometimes a short step away from the daily humdrum is all it takes to rejuvenate one. That is what we did as we nestled into Mother Nature’s arms with hot tea, scrambled eggs and a view of a scenic lake with some of our friends. As we saw sign-posts for Lucerne and Nice, I told the children about how beautiful Lucerne in Switzerland was and there, I saw a sign-post saying, “Welcome to Lucerne – The Switzerland of America” I am not sure what the sign meant, but it was enough to get us laughing. The Switzerland of America is not a happening place.
On the way back, we decided to go in for a horse riding adventure. Well, as far as adventures go, I am not sure Throttle, Stud, Mary, Peanut and Hummer could provide much, for they were the sweetest, gentlest horses I ever met. Not that I hobnob with horses much, my equine knowledge ranks somewhere along with acupuncture pressure points – which is to say negligible. But the daughter is a great fan of all things equine and so, there we were, 4 children, a friend and I, taking a saunter on a ranch with horses. The husband was staying behind with the son.
It is true that I am not one of those effervescent animal lovers. I love reading about them, I like being around them if they are tame enough and keep their distance from me and I would hate to see any kind of cruelty directed toward them, but there you are. I don’t cuddle and nuzzle up with dogs, I don’t frisk about with cats. I patted my horse with the same reserve. I was told his name is Stud. He was a tall, chestnut colored horse with gentle eyes. I asked the trainer if he is mischievous, for I have not the faintest idea as to what I will do if the horse decides to ‘take off.’ I was assured thattall and hulky as he is, he is as gentle as a lamb and wouldn’t run if I wanted him to. (I had no idea then how prescient those words were.) I patted him with a sigh of relief, for though I am not friendly with very many lambs to know the extent of their gentility, I do like them. I can now say truthfully that I made eye-contact with a Stud and he reciprocated with a gentle nod of the noggin. I was moved, and when moved I resort to saying things like ‘Come on dear! That is lovely dear.’ The husband thought I was referring to him and looked up quizzically, but I shoo-ed him off. I had another Stud to attend to. An equally gentle, calm stud albeit silent. Silent but communicative hloke.
Studley & I
We learnt the basics of steering a horse and getting it to turn left and right and so on and set off. Me, on my dear Stud, and the others on theirs. As long we were on the dirt track, there was no problem at all. Stud kept a steady pace and walked happily enough. The lady who was guiding our little procession (let’s call her Equena shall we?) then decided to take us on a bit of a wilderness saunter and off she went from the dusty path. Stud was all enthusiasm and snorted and neighed affectionately as he made after her. I was glad too – I like flowing rivers and green meadows spotted with wildflowers. I was just getting into the steady rhythm of bumping along and taking in the scenes, when the bumping-along stalled. I looked down to see what the matter was. Stud had made for a succulent grass patch and refused to budge. His nostrils were flared, his eyes drooling and he was tugging at the grass. “Come on dear. Now now. “ I said. But for all the attention Stud paid me, I could have been talking to the grass. I nudged him subtly. By now, our little troop of troopers had gone ahead on their horses, while mine was eating heartily.
Equena turned around after a few minutes and saw what I was grappling with. “Well – give him a strong one on the sides and make him move.” she said. I gave him a feeble one, and Stud showed me who is horse and grazed on.
“Umm..maybe he is hungry, should I let him eat first?” I asked her.
Now, I shall divulge a small nugget of equestrian wisdom: Never let on that you are not in control of your horse to others. Only your horse should know that.
Equena snorted disbelievingly. Stud snorted sincerely. I was sitting there thinking that I could really do with some snort-training, when Equena came up to me and said. “Honey! Look at me. “ I did.
“Not you! The horse.” she said and continued. “Let’s get on shall we?”
“Now honey!” I was working hard at keeping my gaze away. It is the polite thing when your Stud is getting a dressing down in public, what?
“I am now talking to you honey.” she said pointing at me. I looked at her obediently. “You are in charge of the horse. Don’t slacken for him. He has just been eating his fill in the barn. He doesn’t need any more grass. Show him who is in control!” she said.
Her words inspired me. Stud was in for it. I was going to show him who was in control. “Come come my dear! “ I said kicking it gently. Then, I kicked a little harder. Stud gazed up at this newfound discipline and shrugged – I know what you are thinking. I can see your skeptical eyes boring into me telling me that horses don’t shrug. But I tell you they do. Especially a horse who is deciding whether to act like a mule or a respectable horse. He thinks – shall we have some fun with this novice rider, or shall we go on and lure her into a false sense of control? I know this part of the thinking process so well. Being a mother makes you sense these sort of things in a jiffy. Luckily for me, the gentle soul that Stud is, decided to lure me into a f.sense of c.
The rest of the trail was spent in variations of the following:
Come on dear
That is quite enough you’ve had to eat
Please please! No need to eat now. Let us go.
Go on. Go on dear. I will let you eat plenty in a few minutes.
Don’t graze now. You just ate a tuft of grass.
When we finally tumbled back to the barn, I had had quite enough with the food talk. The husband was standing there and smiling in exactly the same way that Stud smiled when tugged away from the grass.
Tumbling in with the horses
“You guys hungry? There is a Mexican restaurant that doesn’t look like much – but the food is pretty good.” said the husband by way of greeting us.
“How did you know that?” I asked.
Stud shrugged. I mean: the husband shrugged. I truly am getting the stud and husband confused, aren’t I?
“So what do you say? Shall we go now, or after dismounting the horses?” he said with another Stud-like grin.
I like gentle souls. Especially, those who lure me into having an illusion of control. “As soon as we dismount the horses.” I said firmly, the light of decision-making gleaming upon my shoulders.
As the year 2014 comes to a close, it is as if everybody suddenly became a Chartered Accountant and tapped the year-end nooks of their brains to peer through their books and publish them with a profitable turn. WordPress sent me statistics, in which they are trying their best to make my poor blog look popular. I know my blog’s standing – it is not one of those sites that gets a 10,000 hits every time a post is out there, but it is wonderful to see the things WordPress’s algorithm says to make me feel good. Did you know that the total number of people who came to your blog could have filled Sidney’s Opera House upper balcony? Imagine that. Or did you know that if an octopus read your blog, and used a Squid’s ink to write, there would be fifty jellyfish on your blog right now? (Of course, I made those up, but you get the gist.)
When I look back, I am happy that we got 4 books out in the past year along with enjoying the pace of life and navigating its many turns, slides and ladders. It is like playing a game of Chutes and Ladders that the son is into playing these days.
This is also my 500th post and I managed to post 52 posts this past year – that is about a post a week!
Halloween, Mother’s Day, Christmas and St. Patrick’s Day In The Jungle
Then, of course, Google Plus and Facebook came up with their own versions of the year-in-review with the best pictures of the year. Facebook got in trouble for picking the pictures with the most number of likes and it ticked off some folks whose pictures of sad events had gotten the most likes.
All this is fine when it comes to relive the best memories of your year. But when it comes to reviewing a year in my mind, I find I like to look at the ups and downs together, for that is how life is. We don’t always publicly share our troubles, and we don’t want to look back and relive those times. We find that we relish developing and nurturing our many relationships, friendships, put our mind and efforts into doing a good job at what we undertake. But it all goes into making us who we are and strengthening us from within.
Here is wishing all of you a wonderful year in 2015. May it be filled with the essence of life, joy, good health, happiness and lots of laughter.
To think that we would leave Puerto Vallerta, Mexico, without the pleasure of para-sailing was gnawing at the old heart. I mulled the thing over and decided that the best thing to do was to ask the valet who was greatly impressed with us, to holler and let us know when the parasailing man comes around. Apparently, he was not one early to rise and early to bed. He took his time and came around noon. I like folks like that in general, for I am not exactly a lark. It isn’t too much to say that had I been born a bird, I would have lived life thinking shriveled worms were food and that too becomes hard to come by as summer progressed. I may have tweeted from the trees to all who could hear about the sad state of affairs, but gone on to peck at wild grains and enjoyed myself anyway. But the problem was that we were to leave for the airport home-bound at 1 p.m. and if the Parasail-er came at 12 noon and then, had to go through his waiver forms and insurance checklists where would that leave us?
The husband looked at me amused. “Forgotten we are not in the US have you?I don’t think this guy is going to bother with forms, documents and waivers. “ said the husband in query to my quizzical expression. The sun shone down and hope raised its beautiful head and sailed along side the distant parachutes in the sea once more. At noon, two men came dragging a parachute behind them. That was my cue. I ran on the beach towards them. It looked like another lady was going toward them too and I knew that if they took her on, both of us had an even slimmer chance of parasailing that day. The morning’s practice run had done me a wave of good and I pumped through the sands as fast as I could waving my hands in the air and trying to attract their attention. I have been seen to better advantage certainly, but that did not deter me. Shy birds don’t catch worms or get their fills of wild grains for that matter.
Now, let me give you a bargaining tip : Don’t let on that you are eager to have something when you negotiate price.
You are welcome.
When I reached the men, and asked them to state a price, they grinned. The sun caught the gold glinting in their tooth filling, and their eyes sparkled. They knew this customer was in the bag. None of the little tricks around not wanting it really, but doing a good turn to benefit the tortilla-winner of the family. No Sir. I still tried, so half-heartedly that they smiled even more, and said, “Come. Come Señorita. Just give big teepps okay? Big teepps.” (Tips)
I smiled, consented and dutifully pulled on my look of intense concentration to listen to the training they were to give me before the adventure. The husband turned his head by 3 millimeters and I knocked his knuckles and asked him to concentrate too. By the looks of it, there was a life jacket, but it was not one of those life jackets that instilled confidence in the wearer. The straps were broken for one thing, and for another they did not look buoyant enough. Not that I weighed the thing in air and studied the difference of displacement in water or any such thing, but I just knew. For another, if I fell into the ocean froma height of 150 feet, life-vest or no, buoyancy force calculated or no, the shock of it would have me convalescing for a goodish amount of time. Obviously, I wanted to understand what to do in case of change in wind directions, changes in pressure or if the sea below grew choppy. There was a tiny boat that had a slimm-ish looking rope attached to the parachute. Somehow, everything the men said to make me feel as ease were doing the exact opposite. (Señorita! Very safe – new rope. Just 5 months old. Just give big teepps and I bring you down safely okay!) The mind boggled to think that depending on the tips, the rope could let you plunge into the ocean or be sturdy enough to get you back to land. But the Apparently-Brave do not dwell on the ratio between the tensile strength of ropes and tips.They fly.
The sparkle in their teeth and eyes were a little distracting, but a butterfly could have grasped the directions, for that was all the time it took.
“When I whistle you pull right shoulder rope okay Señorita? If it is becoming dangers, then I whistle again and you pull left side rope. Simple. Okay start now.“
“What? No No. Wait. That’s it?”
“That’s it – very easy. Very safe. Just remember teeppz.”
“What if I hear a third whistle?”
“I whistle only two times. How you will hear three whistles?” he said with a kindly expression that one adopts while talking to the idiot child.
“Okay okay. Fine! What if I don’t hear your whistle? I am going to be 100 feet above the ground. “
“Don’t worry Señorita. We are there. We will get you down here.”
I saw there was no point arguing, so I nodded and the next moment the boat took off into the ocean and the parachute lifted. Higher and higher it went taking my spirits with it. I looked around whole-heartedly enjoying the views from up there. The heart beat a little faster at first, but then settled into a steady, euphoric state that I could get used to. Maybe this is what people say when they say that they dip into their inner selves and experience pure joy. I gulped the salty air, drank in the fantastic views and lifted my hands in a smooth glider-like motion and at once a great feeling of gratitude filled my heart. To have experienced something like this is pure joy.I have since had the pleasure of talking to a wonderful person who attempted parasailing at the age of 74, and she whole-heartedly agreed too. This feeling is there to dip into whenever you choose.
That is some other person parasailing – a picture I had taken the previous day while lolling around with a book
I can’t say that I looked forward to the pull-right-strap-on-first-whistle (or was it the left strap?) part of the landing, but when I saw that I was nearing land again, I tucked in my nose and stuck out my ears as hard as I could to hear the whistle. Right enough I heard it and then, I heard the second one too. So, I used all my strength and tugged on the left and right or the other way around.
Wonder of wonders. The husband had apparently set their mind at ease on the tips they could expect while I was flying, for had I not seen such a smooth landing, I would not have believed it possible. I landed on the exact spot from which I had taken off and that too like a butterfly descends to sit on a flower. I gave them a delighted and effusive ‘Thanks’ and asked them to give the husband the same experience. The older of the men, touched his hands to his heart ( What is Mexico without a touch of melodrama?), and said, “I will do for him also Señorita.”
The men beamed with the teeeeppppzzz and we floated back to the hotel to pick up our belongings.
In a moment of weakness the husband and I signed up for a half marathon together. The fact that it was on my birthday was the clincher. Every time I participate in a running event, I love to see the placards that the folks use to encourage the runners. This time did not disappoint either. In fact, given that the course hugged the coastline for the most part, we had a fun run on the whole. There was music throughout the course. African drums, a senior citizen band, piano, bagpipes – you name it. Every mile there was something to look forward to. The Big Sur half marathon was truly a gift for the ears, eyes, heart and mind.
The incident I am about to relate happened after the Mt. Whitney hike but before the half marathon. It is important to get the chronological order right for what I am about to relate stalled the half-marathon practice for a good three weeks. It was about the time that Indian families around the globe were navigating chaos in their kitchens while celebrating Diwali. But there was a chaos of another kind in our household. The little fellow had fallen ill and was kept home from school. As the fever subsided, he started complaining of stomach pains. He was ill and his pain induced sympathy in the onlooker (there was probably about 86% pain and 14% drama, but all the same).
One day after a stern morning at the Doctors and a particularly lethargic pharmacy visit, I walked into the house dazed and stopped in my tracks. I must also mention that I had not really slept well in days. At first, I thought it was a hallucination I was having. There, in front of me were two grown men (father and grandfather) and a lady (grandma) baring their stomachs and massaging castor oil into it. Not only that, they were smacking their lips like it was tasty business and rolling their heads like they were in a spa and getting a first rate massage from a fantastic masseuse. “Err..” I managed to say after a moment of stunned silence, when the tummy-rubbing adults turned to me, nodded and went about their belly business again. A moment later, I think the husband realized that the scene before me was not normal, and told me that they had decided to try the placebo effect with the toddler in pain. They told him that if he rubbed a little bit of castor oil on his stomach, he would feel much better, and the fellow was resisting – great big tears rolling down his cheeks, looking miserable. So, they decided to go in for a demonstration of sorts.
The daughter sometimes shows wisdom beyond her years and had refused flat. She was peeking at the scene from a safe distance, lest she be pulled in. We looked at each other and burst out laughing. Our laughing was so infectious that the son forgot his misery for a shining few minutes and reluctantly smiled too. It was beautiful to see.
Let me yank you back to the half-marathon now. It was around the eighth mile that I began having misgivings about the race. Till then, it was music, running, and coastal views. But around 8th or maybe the 9th mile, the mind started playing its little tricks on me. What was I thinking?Music? I could have listened to some of that at home. Running: wouldn’t a 3 mile run have done the trick? Coastal views? I could have driven here with a picnic basket and so on. The husband, who was running with me, was his usual effervescent self and I urged him to go ahead because I was developing a knee grind. I ran on a little slower than usual when I saw a person with a board that said,
What seemed like a good idea 4 months ago, doesn’t seem so brilliant now, does it?
That placard did for me what castor oil did to the tummy ache. I burst out laughing, and suddenly, there was a certain energy in my stride, a determination in my gaze. The husband slowed down to join me and we ran on together determined to make the best of it.
Happy Thanksgiving Folks and Laugh. Laugh as heartily as you can.
I have written about the enthusiasm with which I used my Fitbit. In case you missed it, here it is: The Headache Machine. I had it on my person at all times during the day, and even slept with the thing. Days I touched 25,000 steps, the relentless Fitbit would nudge me into trying out another 5000 steps to get to 30,000 and get myself a badge. All extremely annoying for a competitive hog like me. There have been days when the husband scooped me up from the street after I’d put in a hike, a run and a neighborhood stroll just to get to that magical N000 steps before the clock struck midnight and the counter for the next day began. The days I did not make my target number of steps, a certain despondency gnawed at the back of my brain and I muttered about the place trying to walk it off in the kitchen and bedroom. I lured my friends into it, I sneaked a peak at it once at mid-day, then at more frequent intervals as the day wore on. I, after all, had to ensure I met my step count. What I am trying to say is that the Fitbit possessed me like a spirit that was friendly at first and then, as time wore on, turned into a ruthless devil. A fortune-teller peeking into my crystal ball would have seen a tiny piece on my physical body giving me the vapors. “Exorcise it!” she could say in Sybil tones, and I would have clutched at it with my spirit.
Given this, of course, I wanted to see how the Fitbit would do on the Mt Whitney hike. It seemed well worth it, going through all that trouble if the Fitbit, at the end, would send me a wonderful note saying, “You over-achiever, you! Good job. At 83000 steps and 800 floors! Here you are, with a Diamond and Platinum badge that you can display proudly on your Fitbit login page, and brag to your friends about. I will still nag you about your 10000 steps for tomorrow’s goal, but for today, you are above reproach! Or maybe you can try to walk another 2000 steps while you out-run that bear eyeing your pizza and make it a round 85000 steps?”
Since I was not going, I handed the thing gingerly over to the husband, love dripping from my eyes and asked him to take it with him to see the impressive numbers it would come up with. I added with a laugh that it could remind him of me should he miss me while taking in the pure mountain air, and gasping at the views from up there. The day the h and friends drove to Lone Pine, CA, the heart wrenched a bit. Something felt amiss.It only dawned on me later, that I did not have the fitbit on me. So the day of the hike, I woke the h and wished him luck and all that, and added (nonchalantly I thought) , “Remember to take the Fitbit! Make it proud of you and make you proud of it! Ha Ha!” Which just goes to prove that a device, no matter how well touted, can substitute your brain for wool and make you bleat.
All that day of the hike, my mind was in the mountains imagining the hike, and every now and then, wondering how the Fitbit was doing. But there was also a dawning realization on me. I had relaxed around myself in the day or two that I spent away from it. I was no longer frenzied, no longer walking like a purposeless maniac. I was okay with being in one spot without giving those around me a perpetual sense of motion sickness. What a nuisance I must have made of myself with the Fitbit?! Which only goes to prove that true love trumps everything else. The first thing that occurred to me was that I had been a pesky, fluttering pest the whole time. I had dragged family and friends off on walks so we could talk, when I could have sat with them sipping tea and had just as good a conversation. How wonderful people around me are that they accepted me even when I was behaving thus? I have much to be grateful for and the absence of the Fitbit was making me realize it starkly.
Fluttering Pest with the Fitbit
The day wore on for the hikers. I waited to hear from them and on their safe return to the hotel, let them sleep it off. It is a mark of my restraint that I only broached the topic the next day afternoon.
The husband sounded apologetic. He said that he had taken the Fitbit out at Mt Whitney and was checking the steps because he knew that would excite me, and then, on the way back, when they were negotiating some tricky switchbacks, things were crazy and it got lost. He doesn’t seem to be remember what constitutes crazy, but I saw some pictures of the switchbacks they were scaling and let it rest.
Switchbacks at Mt. Whitney
It sounded like a good spot to lay the thing to dust. Its entire lifetime pushing people to scale newer targets and higher heights, what better place for it to finally come to rest than at the highest peak in the contiguous USA?
“I’ll get you another one.” said the husband.
“NO!” I howled and the husband leapt away from the phone groaning like a buffalo torched at the ears.
“What are you doing that for? My ears are still weak from the high alt. Yesterday, it felt like there was a bee hive operating in there, today, only the Queen Bee seems to be holding fort, but still weak in the eardrums.” said the husband.
I muttered a ‘sorry’ and he said, “What? Speak up! I can’t hear you. “
“A bee in your bonnet eh?” I said cleverly. “The point is, please, I beg you. Don’t buy me another Fitbit. My life seems to have become much better without it. “
I still do my spot of exercise, but now, I am doing it listening to the birds, watching the leaves fall and taking in the beauty of the flitting clouds. I am truly enjoying exercise and experiencing the bounty of nature. Not working towards appeasing a cruel, and hard-to-please, cold mistress. What really cut me deep was the seemingly motivating messages that came in as I lowered the tired frame onto the welcoming mattress at 11 p.m., “You can do it! Just 700 steps short of your goal. “
No. I am happy where I am. I have since told friends who asked me to join their Fitbit journey, that mine was probably swallowed by the bear who was deprived of the pizza. (Mt. Whitney Part 2 : The Pizza And The Bear )
The Bear and the Fitbit
Anyone care to join me for a walk now?
P.S: Our friend has written about the journey here, and he is also the one who gave me the pictures for the Mt. Whitney posts:
It was the night before the hike up the Mountains to Mt Whitney. The husband and two friends had arrived at their hotel after an uneventful journey taken photographs of their backpacks.
All set to hike
“We will be back in 16 hours – max, 17 if we slow down due to fatigue!” said the husband. They were to leave at 3 a.m. so as to be able to make it back to the trail head before sunset. “Expect to hear from us well before 8 p.m.”were the exact words if I remember correctly. I wished them all luck and went to bed. Usually, I only need to think of that beautiful, restorative nurturer of the soul (sleep) and off I go feeling sleepy. Within minutes, I can barely stifle my own yawns. (I just yawned as I typed this out, if you have trouble believing me) Yet, this time I tossed and turned. I was unable to sleep. Could it be the excitement of the upcoming hike for the trio, or worry or a mixture of both, I could not tell, but there I was messaging him at 2 a.m. and waking them all up.When I finally flopped to sleep a little after 4 a.m. I had received a note from them saying they were about to lose connectivity and from now on, they were one with nature.
Mt. Whitney: May the adventures begin!
It was easy to imagine them sighing over the stark beauty, breathing in the fresh mountain air, singing as they walked up the trail and watching the sun rise over the mountains.
Sun rising over Mt. Whitney
The husband, however, hotly denied this state of euphoria. “Did you know I threw up within an hour of starting to hike?” he said with an unpleasant look on his face. I tutted and said that a gulp of the fresh air might have been the key. To which, he eyed me like a lizard eyes a fly and said there wasn’t much air to gulp. The high altitude was affecting each of them differently and every time they attempted to walk slightly faster, they clutched their heads and sat down. To hear them talk of the Diomox (high altitude sickness pill), is like hearing a child talk about candy during Halloween. A warmth infused with definite longing, and gratitude at the bounty. The mountains were good enough to make each of them succumb to this high-alt-sickness at different points in time though and they could help each other out. The silver lining.
Now, I have worked long enough in the software industry to know what to expect when people tell me that they expect something to be done in a day. I mentally make a note that it could, possibly, be 3 days, or more. Yet, I did not apply this logic to the hiking estimate that the three software engineers came up with. When they said 16 hours, maybe 17, I was liberal enough to give them 18 hours. The clock was now ticking on to 10 p.m. and there hadn’t been a peep from them. It was already 19 hours and the first twinges of anxiety started to manifest themselves. I swiftly diagnosed it as hunger and ate a piece of cake, 2 biscuits and drank a cup of milk. It was, as I was polishing off the milk, that the husband called.He said, they were 2 miles from the trail head and that they had grossly under-estimated how long it could take on the way down. He tried to sound upbeat, but there was no masking the fact that he was enervated. None of the waspishness in his comments, no smile lingering behind the words. Just a sober line saying he expects he is 2 miles from the trail head. Most uncharacteristic and caused me to furrow the brow.
One of his younger hiking pals had run down earlier and was, therefore, able to give us spotty information. But it had truly been hours since he had seen them too. I settled myself down to just wait for a few minutes, make sure they got themselves into the right car and headed back to the hotel. Another friend of ours was a tower of strength as he relayed information from the trail head to us. He even managed to find a GPS tracker on the phone the trio was using. Apparently, he had the same misgivings that I had when I heard their voices at 10:30 p.m. He said he would be much more peaceful if they just got back. Slowly, we watched the GPS tracker move away from the trail head going far away from the designated trail in what seemed to be a large circle. Could they have be delirious and therefore, not able to see where they going? We had no idea and worse, could do nothing. We were miles away watching a signal bobbing up and away from a path they were supposed to take.
The one who had run down all the way was back at the trail head with a welcoming pizza for sustenance. It was now 20 hours since they started and the parathas had long since disappeared.
For one moment now, I would like you to switch claws and start thinking like a bear. There you are, sitting by yourself, just waiting for Winter to come, so that you can start hibernating and be done with this gnawing feeling of near-constant hunger. Food gathering in these drought-hit times is challenging. You have had enough of bees and fast disappearing trout in the dry streams and rivers.There you are minding your own business and pondering on Life and whether good food has its place in the Meaning of Life, when the most deliciously esculent smell wafts up your nostrils. Is that cheese? With a whiff of garlic, and oh…some mushrooms too? That tomato sizzling under the cheese, over the fresh pizza crust – heavenly, simple heavenly! How some smells can convey how hot the food is, one never knows, and this bear was not waiting to find out.And so, it was with the friendly neighborhood bear.He smelled the pizza miles away and made for the car in with his tongue hanging out. He probably was higher up the mountains than the h and f were when he picked up the smells, but he beat them to the car face down.
Bear wants pizza
In between GPS signals and maybe, lost, hikers, there was a thrilling bear adventure tucked into the whole thing. The pizza had to be taken back to the hotel, the windows of the car opened and aired out before taking the car back to the trail head for the h and f. One will never know whether a bear would have reacted better to Indian foods or Pizza. It is an experiment for whoever tries Mt. Whitney next.
Finally, after 22 hours of hiking, we heard from the h. and f.They had made it back. (Don’t ask anything more for now. Don’t dream of doing this pesky hike! )
Soon, all the right people were in the right cars, the bears were deprived of a most enticing pizza and the hotel room welcomed them.
Mt. Whitney was truly in the bag. The joy would come later – long after the intestines gorged out everything it had taken in over the past 96 hours in restrooms along the way. A short while after the Facebook post was out and had gathered an impressive number of likes. About the time, folks thumped them over the shoulder and hankered to hear their tale.
P.S: Our friend has written about the journey here, and he is also the one who gave me the pictures for the Mt. Whitney posts:
The pace of life in the nourishncherish household has been peaking. The husband, in a dash of mid-life madness decided that what he wanted most was to add to his resume, the fact that he scaled the tallest peak in the contiguous United States, Mt. Whitney. Hikers apparently prepare for a few months (with at least a few hikes in high altitudes), but the husband and his friends don’t set much store by what people usually do. So, in their typical fashion, they went ahead and attempted the peak after 5 weeks of ‘rigorous training’ on a hillock by our house. It is a bit like jumping in the middle of the ocean and navigating through the rip tides on the firm knowledge that you can swim in the deep-end of the pool in your local pool, even when the lifeguard was not on duty. (I exaggerate as usual) But like our friend said wisely, you only get to be young and stupid for so many decades of your life and so, there they were.
Mt. Whitney from the Visitor Center
I have observed this multiple times with the husband. When I ask him to take a packed lunch for example, he scoffs. He not only scoffs, but also shrugs his shoulders in a manner suggesting that it is only old maids, elderly aunts and mothers who think of food and packing and all that. Not cool guys like himself. He is a man who will hunt for food, rouse his primal instincts for food gathering or stop at a sandwich place. But to give the man his due, I have never seen this cool attitude towards the food linger once the Biriyani packets are opened at picnics. There are some egotists who wouldturn away from the Biriyani thinking back and reflecting on the hurtful statements hurled at the Biriyani earlier in the morning. Not so with the husband. All trifling misunderstandings with Biriyanis are shelved and he is the true example of the bigger man. He shows that all biriyani-related ill-humour earlier that day is water under the bridge and tucks in with joy and enthusiasm. The biriyani is happily settled in the stomach and the smile of contentment is happily displayed on the man. All is well.
Characteristically, when I asked him what he planned to do for food during the hike, he scoffed. I suggested Idlis (steamed rice cakes) because I thought idlis were a good food to take on hikes (they are starchy enough, steamed and relatively dry). But more importantly, I thought ‘Idlis on Mt Whitney’ would make a good blog title. The husband snorted loudly at this. I then prudently suggested Bread and Jam. It is easy to handle, light,and there is sugar in the jam which can be critical when they planned to hike for 16 hours non-stop. He poo-ed and pa-ed and that was brushed aside too. I told him to forage berries for himself on the barren mountainside and set about packing Biriyani packets for their drive a little haughtily. It was then, that his friends (3 of them planned to hike together) intervened and said it might not be a bad idea to take some parathas (Indian breads). I still think my bread and jam idea was better, but ‘Parathas on Mt. Whitney’sounded like a pretty good blog title too, and I let it go.
So, off they went with the biriyani, parathas, an unhealthy dose of over-confidence, a seemly dose of comradeship and a good dose of adventure to conquer the King of Peaks, Mt. Whitney.
Our friend has written about the journey here, and he is also the one who gave me the pictures for the Mt. Whitney posts:
Nourish-n-Cherish 