Community and Culture, Dance and Yoga, Reflections on Life

From Dancing to Dodging Deer – Just a Typical Tuesday

west african dance bri — These photos were from a huge African drum and dance festival in Seattle a couple years ago. It’s in April each year, and well worth the trip!

As you might notice, Rob and I don’t really like routines. We avoid them, actually. But there’s one thing we don’t mind scheduling: our favorite athletic hobbies. For Bob-ito, that means volleyball, basketball, and martial arts. For me, that means dance classes of any kind, usually at the Downtown Dance Collective: Oula, Brazilian, ballet, hiphop, salsa.

Tonight I got the best of both worlds: an unscheduled dance class. Thanks to my mom, I found out at 4pm there was a 7pm West African class taught by visiting master drummers and dancers from Guinea. Sold.

I take a West African dance class about once a year, usually when someone from the African continent comes to Missoula to teach (thanks, Unity Dance and Drum!). Even though I dance almost daily, my body is always wrecked after a West African class. Somehow, nothing else physically compares to the exertion I put forth flailing, jumping, squatting, and spinning to loud, live drums.

And nothing else can make me feel so completely humble and humiliated one moment, and then exhilarated and affirmed the next. It’s awesome.

Sidenote: I highly recommend everyone try something that makes them feel this schizophrenically bipolar at some point. It brings us out of our comfort bubbles and makes us realize we can do interesting–even astounding–things.

west african drummers — Again, this was the big festival in Seattle in April. Everything is free. Thanks to my friend, Saleche (Celeste), for finding it and going with me in 2010.

In preparation for the body-wrecking class, I rode my bike downtown to try and loosen the muscles. It’s now pitch black by 8:30pm, so the ride home through dark, forested Greenough Park along bear-infested Rattlesnake Creek was its own adventure. Good thing I have lights on my bike.

Yelling “Hey, Bear. HEEEYYY, BEARS,” into the dark woods, I turned a corner and literally braked about 4 inches from a huge buck. Whew. Better than a bear, but it still got my heart rate up higher than the dance class did.

Just another Tuesday night in Missoula…spontaneous African dance and a near-miss on T-boning a deer on a bike. I wonder if tomorrow’s more-regularly- scheduled Oula dance class will have anything spontaneous in store!

Reflections on Life, Sailing

The Little Red Bible: Goodbye Wedding Tasks, Hello Bon Voyage To-Do’s!

A couple of weeks ago, Rob bought us a red, wide-ruled notebook (picture what you get for an 8-year-old as back-to-school gear). It’s replaced my 3-page “Wedding To-Do List” in a place of honor, right next to the Field Guide to North American Birds and the big pile of bills. While the wedding was fun as hell, I don’t miss the mundane organizing tasks a bit…especially since our new red bible is so titillating.

For those of you who don’t know, we’re leaving Missoula this spring to explore islands, oceans, and cultures west of North America. A couple years back, we decided to search for some brand-new horizons.

We’re quitting our jobs in March, packing our belongings into a 5×10′ space, renting the house, selling the car, and taking one backpack each into the sunset. Our goal is to crew on sailboats through the South Pacific, Indonesia, and Southeast Asia in 2013, eventually buying our own boat. In between ocean voyages, we plan to climb mountains, fly off cliffs, dance on beaches, meet new people, and see what may find us.

The dream is going to be a reality in just under 6 months. Which means we have to get our s$i@ together, starting with keeping all our random “oh, we should do this before we go” ideas in one place, instead of exclaiming them to each other at all hours.

Meanwhile, back on the homefront, there’s a LOT to do before we set sail. Rob isn’t big on electronic lists, mostly because we look at computers enough in the office. And I find comfort in physical lists, probably because I LOVE crossing things off in big, black, permanent marker.

This red notebook is our ticket to get outta dodge. Below are the 7 list categories so far, with one example of what’s under each category:

Wish List (Go Pro Hero 2 Camera)
Items We Need (UV water purifier)
Life Maintenance (buy emergency international health insurance: here’s the front runner)
House Prep (build a wall to separate the garage in half, creating a locked storage area for all our stuff)
Odds and Ends (find a new home for the chickens)
Sailing Prep (decide if we’re going to get a USGS Captain’s License and study like hell)
Timeline (put the the car up for sale in February and the house up for rent in January)

Some lists are a lot longer than others (like the Wish List), and all of them will probably get longer this winter. Luckily, we keep crossing things off, too, inching that much closer to a new horizon line.

Community and Culture, Fishing, Hiking

Ode to the Smith River

After several backpacking trips this summer, car camping feels like staying at a 5-Star Sheraton Hotel. After work on Friday, we loaded up the Honda with our thick, cushy Thermarests, big, comfy down sleeping bags, the roomy tent, real pillows, musical instruments, chairs…and beer!…and headed east toward the Smith River.

The Smith is one of Montana’s premier floating and fishing rivers. Normally, when someone says they’re “going to the Smith” they mean they’re floating the windy canyon, launching their drift boats, rafts or canoes near White Sulphur Springs and spending 4-5 days floating 50 miles north toward Great Falls.

But that’s only during the spring and early summer. Montana has a competitive permit system to divvy out coveted float trips during those precious few weeks when snowfall subsides, the runoff from spring thaw calms down, and before the river shrivels from irrigation withdrawals and hot, dry weather. We’ve snagged a permit many years during that narrow perfect window. (Check out this sweet canoe setup from our 2011 Smith trip!)

No one really floats in September, since the flows drop drastically. This weekend, the river was flowing at a meager 100 cubic feet per second. Luckily, though, September is a great time to camp and fish.

Our friend, Mike, is the son of a smart, smart man who chipped in with friends to buy property along the Smith River years ago. Mike invites his friends to enjoy this remarkable riverside property during the last weekend in September each year to celebrate birthdays, whiskey, trout, and the onset of autumn. Lucky us.

And celebrate we did. We caught big trout, shot rifles to bone-up for hunting season, played guitar boisterously, ate like royalty, and sat around with good friends telling funny stories.

This particular outdoor adventure–like most we undertake–underscored the bottom line for how to return home with a satisfied glow. It’s the people. The community. The shared experience is what brings the rivers, forests, fish, and wildlife into sharp, 3-D focus in our memories.

On the September Smith trip, that means repeating the same inside jokes, eating Corey’s Stupendous Smith River Chili, singing along to Mike’s rockin’ set list on guitar after dinner, and giggling when we hear Ryan’s booming Fireball Whiskey-inspired laugh. It means creating new traditions due to campfire restrictions, like roasting marshmallows over a Coleman lantern and snuggling like inchworms in our sleeping bags around a single candle. Most of all, it means simply being with each other with no “real world” distractions near a clear stream, under a full moon, beneath a big, bright Montana sky.

Check out photos from this past weekend’s camping and last July’s float down the Smith River.

From Smith River Camping, posted by Brianna Randall on 10/01/2012 (29 items)

: Beautiful fall setting on the Smith River in central MT.

: Just us and the birds

: Puppies are the best cuddlers, especially Sophie.

: Streamer fishing

: Afternoon chat session

: Target practice with Rob’s 308

: Taking lessons from my husband…

: The pro.

: Watch this, guys…

: Kelly, the crack-shot.

: No one missed the target.

: Love the landscape

: Our rig floating the Smith in July 2011

: The put-in at Camp Baker.

: Rigging the rafts.

: Corey and Mike all set to go.

: Don’t wiggle anything…packed canoe last July!

: Indian Springs…only a mile or so downstream of where we camped this past weekend.

: Such beautiful canyons!

: Nothing like good friends and good food while camping.

Generated by Facebook Photo Fetcher

Community and Culture, Reflections on Life

The Meaning of Life from “EVST”

Tom Roy is the reason I moved to Missoula, Montana. When I visited in 2002, he was the Director of the University of Montana’s Environmental Studies program, which I was considering attending. It was a big stretch for a California girl to even consider moving to winter-laced Montana, and I figured I better go visit in mid-January to see if I could handle all the white stuff.

roy — Tom Roy was the Director of the UM EVST program for over three decades.

Tom started talking the minute I walked into his office, making jokes and waving his arms around. He told me the history and purpose of the “the program”–or “EVST,” as students affectionately dub it–and took me upstairs to show me the landscape I’d be studying. It was a whiteout.

All I could see was blowing snow on the UM Oval, no further than four feet from my nose. Yet Tom kept talking and waving his arms, pointing out the Rattlesnake Mountains, Lolo Peak, Mount Sentinel, and the Bitterroot Valley. I nodded along like I could see them. And he kept telling stories. Stories about students I’d never met, who wrote books, organized rallies, started new businesses, changed the world. Stories about how EVST was my vehicle to change the world, too.

I walked outside that January day able to see through the clouds. I saw unexplored peaks and uncharted river valleys. I saw unbridled potential in myself and others. I saw the kind of world I wanted to help create. And I never looked back.

morning sun on snow in BC — The people in the Environmental Studies program in Missoula helped me see through the clouds and find clear direction in my life.

Fast forward a decade later, where I just spent the weekend as an alumni “mentor” at an EVST graduate student retreat on Flathead Lake. Tom was there, along with most of the other professors who helped me wind my way through graduate school goals: Neva, Phil, Len. And I can safely say that I received more mentoring than I gave, from the fresh-faced, inspired students and from the motivated staff.

Tom reminded me why I moved here. Why I do what I do every day for the Clark Fork Coalition, and for the rivers and lands in this wonderful state, even if it means I sometimes lose sight of the view through the clouds.

Here’s what Tom said on Sunday: “EVST has always had this edge to it…this energy…coupled with moral imagination. This graduate program is not about making you the smartest person in one field. You can go anywhere for that. This program is about making you the smartest at what most interests you, and then asking you to act on your moral responsibility to be an agent of change. Hope is not enough. We want to give you the tools to actualize your hope.”

Later on, as the whole group struggled through an exercise focused on answering questions about our values, strengths, and life goals, Tom interjected: “You know, it’s not the answers that are the most interesting. It’s the questions that are the whole point, and how you frame those questions. Answers are just the end of a question.”

What a relief. Thanks, EVST, for reminding me that my purpose in life is not simply to solve daily problems, but to continue searching for new questions–and new beginnings–instead of endings and answers.

bri sailing on Flathead Lake — Sailing back to the dock after the EVST Retreat on Flathead Lake this past weekend.

P.S. My friend and another EVST alum, Matt Frank, shared this poem with us at the end of the retreat, which sums up the meaning of life pretty nicely:

The Way It Is

There’s a thread you follow. It goes among
things that change. But it doesn’t change.
People wonder about what you are pursuing.
You have to explain about the thread.
But it is hard for others to see.
While you hold it you can’t get lost.
Tragedies happen; people get hurt
or die; and you suffer and get old.
Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding.
You don’t ever let go of the thread.

– William Stafford

Outdoor Adventures

The Breath and the Burn

I clip in on my red Kona, and fly down our steep driveway, pedaling toward the fading sunlight blanketing Mount Jumbo across the creek. The days are getting shorter. I can’t leave for a mountain bike ride at 7pm anymore, unless it’s a short loop or I don’t mind riding in the cold, dark air. But I do mind in the fall—it’s too easy to T-bone a black bear or big buck. The fall in Montana is ripe with wild animals that mill around in lower elevation areas, foraging for food to store up winter fat.

I opt for a short loop on Jumbo, and climb up the steep road to the trailhead at its saddle. Even though I’ve ridden this road hundreds of times, I’m still awed by the view of the valley floor surrounded on all sides by blue-green mountains. The trail snakes north up the 4,700-foot “hill” to the forested ridgeline where it meets the Rattlesnake Mountains.

I see a huge hawk sitting on a small pine. I see my long shadow rolling through the dry golden grass. I look south to see if I can spot my husband’s white wing flying off Jumbo’s southern summit. I feel at home. I feel free.

What I love best about mountain biking is the climb. I like feeling the breath rushing in and out, and feeling the burn in my thighs. I like pushing past that breath and burn to see how high I can get.

I’m not as big a fan of the downhill. Especially the steep shots. I’ve never been a speed-demon, and this time of year the rutted-out dusty gravel feels precarious, making my belly drop as the rear tire skids out. But I do love the feeling of leaning, turning, carving my bike around single track on the downhill, and those moments when you forget your body isn’t actually half wheels.

Those are the moments that keep me coming back for more, even on trails I’ve ridden a hundred times.

Community and Culture, Hiking, Sailing

Loving Montana Over Labor Day Weekend

Even though the fires make for good sunsets, they’re hell on throats and positive attitudes. The Friday night before the long holiday weekend over Labor Day found Missoula wreathed in mood-dampening smoke. We decided to get out of dodge.

Rob, Cassidy, and I took off Saturday to the northern Mission Mountains for an overnight backpack to Mollman Lakes. We hiked in from the Tribal Wilderness side, which is straight up (and I do mean straight) from the valley floor. We drove the little red truck through the forest on a sort-of road, plowing over massive rocks and around cedar branches.

After 5 miles and 3,500 feet, we arrived at Mollman pass and gazed out at the craggy Mission cliffs, and two sinuous deep blue lakes spread out before us. Our friend, Derek, was already there, and snagged the best campsite. Three more friends rolled in an hour later. The dogs were in heaven. One-night backpacks are awesome: our packs were less than 20 pounds, and it felt like we flew up the trail. We saw a small black bear on a scree field, and plenty of bear poop on the trail. We only passed two other groups (a regular thoroughfare, compared to most wilderness hikes in Montana): one group were acquaintances, and the other was a pack of Amish boyscouts hiking out from the lakes.

A full moon rose over the rocky cliffs as we joked around a campfire in the cold air at our 7,000-foot elevation. After three hilarious tries, and two broken ropes, we managed to hang the ~50 pounds of food for 7 people and 2 dogs.

Our friends stayed in another night to fish and laze on rocks, while Rob and I hiked out and drove north another 40 miles to Flathead Lake and our sailboat.

The wind was whipping. We made it to the east end of Wild Horse Island in record time, docking at a friend’s cabin for a quick happy hour visit. From the dock, we pointed to Mollman Pass, rising sharply out of the lake to the south, and told them about our night in the woods.

Waving farewell at sunset, Rob and I had a quick sail to the protected Skeeko Bay. We nestled our anchor in a free spot near shore, counting a record 14 boats already anchored for the night. Party weekend. About an hour later, as we were making pasta in the cabin, another friend—our slip neighbor at Dayton Yacht Harbor—hailed us from his stand-up paddleboard. They’d anchored next to us, and he was shuttling their dog to shore for its evening pee. I slept well, lulled and comfortable with the gentle rock in Skeeko’s protected anchorage.

We woke up with a hike, a swim, and some knot-tying practice in the cockpit. Around noon, we headed back to the harbor to pick up another couple of friends (and a dog, of course), heading out for an afternoon of stand-up paddling, beers, swimming, and communal laughter.

All in all, another Montana Labor Day weekend spent exerting minimal labor and receiving much love from our community, our mountains, and our favorite lake.

Fishing, Hiking

Solo Backpack from Our Home to My Headwaters

Bear hangs in the wilderness are like anchors at sea — it’s what let’s me sleep comfortably in the middle of the woods.

I made this connection during a solo journey into the Rattlesnake Wilderness the first weekend in August. Rob was busy driving a forklift and playing with power tools, helping our friends build a cabin in Southwestern Montana. So, I seized the glorious summer weekend, threw some gear in a backpack, threw a trailer on my bike, and headed out the front door at 3pm after work.

I ride my mountain bike up 5 miles of pavement, and then 16 miles of bumpy trail along Rattlesnake Creek, towing my heavy pack. Around 7pm, I reached the Wilderness boundary, locked the bike to fir tree, and strapped on my backpack. I hiked up Wrangell Creek about 5 miles, and reached Little Lake, a gorgeous high mountain lake, just as night fell. Which meant I had to HURRY to set up camp, make dinner, and then get dinner hung out of the reach of hungry bears and curious critters.

For me, I have to hang a rope right away, so I know my food will be out of range of hungry bears. That way I can sleep more soundly, especially when I’m all alone in the middle of the woods. Plus, I suck at throwing, so I figure I should get the dreaded (but critical!) chore out of the way first.

I finally found a good snag halfway around Little Lake (high elevation areas = subalpine firs = tiny branches that don’t hold the weight of my hefty food bag). Whew. Food safe for the night. I settled in my sleeping bag to read, and fell asleep as a lightening storm gave way to gentle rain in my cozy tent.

The next morning, after retrieving the food from it’s bear-proof spot, I decided to hike to the next lake, Glacier Lake. The first day alone in the mountains I’m usually jumpy, clapping and singing to scare away lions, tigers, and bears (and moose).

But then I settle into the rhythm of silence. By day two and day three, I almost forget I’m not a part of the forest, and rarely make noise. Maybe this is just because I feel slightly invincible by not getting killed on the way in.

On the second night, my comfort level was tested by 5 mountain goats that interrupted

the silence of sunset as the scrambled over a sheer cliff about 100 yards from my tent. Awesome creatures.

On the hike out, I catalog what I forgot in my rush to leave my home for the headwaters of my backyard creek: a compass, a utensil (good thing twigs make good chopsticks), a bandana. And what I was most glad to have with me: a fly rod, my bear hang rope, and a good book.

The reason I love backpacking–and sailing, for that matter–is that you must live in exactly that moment. You’re only mission is to survive, to plan the next meal and find the next shelter. There’s a beauty in that, a simplicity and a purpose that leaves me satisfied…and ready to do it all over again.

Food and Drink, Traveling

Highlights from Beijing and Guiyang

I first came up with the idea for this blog while in China last June. I was there for a month as part of a U.S. State Department/University of Montana exchange program between U.S. and Chinese environmental professionals. I was the water “expert” … or something.

The reason I originally wanted to start a blog when I arrived in Beijing is because it’s impossible to capture China in a postcard, ora 10-minute conversation, or even in a 5-hour debrief with a loved one when you return. It needs to be captured in real-time, as the bizarre and fascinating experiences unfold. Since I’m a year late to capture the “real-time” China visit, I figured a brief summary reflection would have to suffice.

This was my first trip to Asia, and I was nervous. I’d never really been anywhere I couldn’t speak the language, or even decipher symbols spelling out “bathroom.” All my travels through Latin America and Europe did nothing to prepare me for how freaking DIFFERENT China was from my culture in most ways: food, language, customs, bathrooms, group mentality. Luckily, I’m good at laughing at myself, and was able to appreciate my social gaffes instead of getting frustrated at my naivety.

Yet I was surprised at how much I loved it. And how much hope it gave me, when I was expecting despair—especially going as part of an “environmental” contingent. The speed and determination with which the country implements new policies, programs, and ideas was reassuring. Even refreshing. And, yes, slightly terrifying, too.

In some ways, the country is leaps ahead of us, at least on the water conservation front. For instance, instead of debating “septic tank vs sewer” when building wasteware infrastructure in rural regions, the government just skipped straight to composting toilets, with cheap, efficient systems that deal with human waste,add nutrients to croplands, and use natural wetland processes to filter the water. A solution that delivers triple-bottom-line benefits.

It was remarkable to see the scale of consumption … and even more than that, the general sense of entitlement felt by 1+ billion Chinese to consume as much as they want. And why not? We Americans started it, after all. You can buy anything you might ever need just by crossing the street. The cities have underpasses that functions both as a mall full of vendor stalls, and as a way for pedestrians to survive crossing 8 lanes of hectic multi-modal traffic by keeping them beneath it. Ingenious.

If I were to use 5 words to describe my visit to Beijing and Guiyang cities, they would be: overwhelming, tasty, loud, confusing, fascinating. A few highlights:

I ate 100-year-old quail eggs, chicken knees, and pig feet.
I sampled foot massages in dozens of venues (and realized—the hard way—that they don’t get naked for massage in China).
I got really good at peeing standing up.
I felt in my bones the history of the Chinese civilization, and how shiny-new and small America is in comparison.
I realized how unique the individualistic perspective of the West is on this earth, and witnessed the how and the why of cherishing the community, the whole, and the society over one person.

sunset at caras park in downtown missoula

Community and Culture, Food and Drink

My North Star = Missoula, Montana

Tonight, I went to my 10^th annual Farm Party. It’s only one block from my house, and said to be the best party of the summer here in Missoula, Montana. The sunflowers are reaching toward the creek, the acres of corn shelter giggling children, and the rows of shiny veggies gleam next to the wooden stage on the back of a red pickup. Over 500 people show up, eating dinner, drinking local beer, and dancing to local bands under the late-night Rocky Mountain sunset.

I’ve been to just about every Farm Party since they started in 2002, the year I moved here. The college kids look younger every year, and my friends seem to procreate exponentially (if the giggles from the corn rows are any indication). But some things remain constant at the Farm Party: the number of bikes always dwarfs the cars; the beets are always plentiful; and you always see plenty of old and new friends. As I walked up, with my beer-in-a-jar in one hand and my baseball hat in the other, I laughed at a dad riding a skateboard while pushing one kid in a stroller and yelling at his bike-bound toddler ahead of him.

It’s my last party for a while.

We’re leaving this spring, setting sail for adventures west of my mountains, and for unknown horizons. I don’t know if we’ll be gone for one year, or two…or ten. There’s joy in that unknown, and in the freedom of bursting from routine into an unplanned and unscheduled world. But there’s also joy—and comfort—in knowing we’ll be back.

As I walked home in the mild summer air, the north horizon still reflecting the last rays of sunset at 10pm, I looked up. Cassiopeia loomed above me, while tipsy bikers careened past my shoulder. I found the Big Dipper, and gazed at the North Star. She sits directly above the mountains I know intimately, the trails I’ve biked and the creek I’ve fished and swam in this past decade.

It was such a good decade.

It’s interesting to feel the pull of contradictory needs these last six months before we leave. I want to cuddle with our dog, or stretch out on our wide, cozy couch before crunching my life into one backpack and one small sailboat. But I also want to talk to everyone in this community, memorize the children’s faces and let them memorize mine–don’t forget me!–and revel in the sweet, short Montana summer. I want my hair to grow long and blanket me during the cold Montana winter, but I can’t want to crop it short, to keep me cool when I cross the Equator.

My friend Joellen pulled me into a hug the last time I left Missoula for a spell. I still remember what she whispered in my ear, because I tell it to my friends who leave, too: “We love you. We’ll miss you. And we’ll be right here when you get back.”

When I look up at that North Star while I’m in Thailand or Alaska or Hawaii, I’ll picture my friends dancing at a flower-studded farm under an August sunset. And though I will travel far and wide, in the end I know that the same star will guide me back home.

Sailing, Traveling

Baja or Bust: Sailing in the Sea of Cortez

Four sailors. Twelve days. Five desert islands. 125 miles in a 22-foot 1978 Catalina. In November 2011, Rob and I and two of our closest friends spent two weeks exploring the Loreto Marine Park in the Sea of Cortez. And we did it for less than $1,000 per person (including flights and tequila!).

The full story will appear in the August edition of Cruising World. We hope the story will inspire readers to just go: sail when, how, and where you can, even if it means cramped quarters on a 30-year-old boat you rent from a guy in Mexico named Rudolfo. For now, here’s a few pictures and a “trailer” of our trip: