The Porkies

Went hiking in the Porkies this weekend, but I have no photos. The group consisted of myself and Stacey, Ajani, Elizabeth, Kevin, and Sarah. It was an incredible time. Stacey and I had to leave a day early for her class, but it was great nonetheless. Rain started as our vehicles entered the porcupine mountain range, after a short night, hungover morning, several stops to UP gas stations, and typically fantastic conversations. We hiked in, breathed in the musty hemlocks and cedars that carpeted the emerald range. The cabin we had rented was warm from the previous visitors, rustic with no electricity or running water. Soon after our arrival, the guys bore axes and the girls, cutting-knives, as we worked on dinner and firewood. Jokes about gender roles ensued. Through the rain, we paddled out on Mirror Lake, and I caught my first ever Brook Trout. I let it go and regretted it. Was stricken by how beautiful the fish was, with its speckled red and green belly. But I also figured that it was better off swimming in this pristine lake than sizzling over our cabin's wood stove. We battled the low forty degree temps and drizzly rain to pull at old saws against fallen trees and hack at kindling with dull hatchets. Soon, euchre was established at the cabin table as Kevin and Sarah's delectable veggie stew simmered atop the wood stove; the aroma of carrots, radishes, rutabagas, parsnips, potatoes, squash, onions, curry, and one and a half chicken breasts pervaded the cabin as we played cards under headlamps and candles (originally, only one chicken breast was to go into the stew, but K and S had a leftover chicken breast from their dining out the previous night and, what the heck, throw it in the stew).

Though I brought my fishing pole, and broke the line, losing a bobber on the way in, I did not bring any bait. I thought for sure I would be able to find some crawlers in the soil throughout the rain-beaten forest, but the sandy and mulchy earth provided no worms. I caught the trout with a piece of curried chicken. After several more attempts, we realized the catch was a lucky one. We tried threading chicken, potatoes, carrots, corn, raisins, jelly beans, and finally beef jerky to our hooks, but could not catch anything else. I would've kept the trout, but was so anxious after catching it - i wondered where I'd put it on the boat, I cursed myself for neglecting to bring my stringer, I wasn't sure how to cook it, or whether we had any sort of butter or oil in the cabin, and I held it in my hands as it flopped within my tight grip, and thought that by the time I answer all those questions, it would have suffered a great deal out of the water. So, I threw it back in.

Later that night, out from the backpacks, came bottles of Evan Williams, Dewars Scotch, Jameson, Vodka, and Coconut rum. Some Keweenaw Red Jacket was there as well. We twisted at the bottletops as we took the chill off and more. Some phenomenal chocolate - dark chocolate with mint, and Dark chocolate with orange peel and almonds - was placed around the table for the taking. Afterward, as I lay in my bed the following morning, I thought about the people I was there with. It's so odd that only three years ago my cabin mates were in such places as New Hampshire, Indiana, New york, Alaska, and that at some point, in their own hectic place they decided to study Literature along the coasts of Lake Superior - by far the greatest of the Great Lakes - and we all met at a night at Vangos, or a graduate student union meeting, or a book-heavy pedagogy class. There seems to be so much history there, or rather, within this group. Kevin was my office mate, and Ajani my Stucko's mate, Elizabeth, the first person I spoke to as I began my first preparations for teaching English, and Sarah, the techie for the 504 class. Stacey, of course, my partner as all of it went down. As the light subsided, and the dishes done - another gender battle - we put a pot of water on the stove to serve as a washing basin, we played cards late into the night and planned to return again to this cabin the following year.

The next morning we woke in intervals. Stacey woke to stoke the fire and put a spot of coffee in the percolator and on the wood stove to fill the cabin with its rich aroma. I set my hiking stove to boil another pot as the group, now one functioning body, woke to pee, brush teeth, grumble, and take care of business out in six inch holes in the woods. We had predetermined to use a group-meal method, where each two-person group was responsible for a 6-person meal. Kevin and Sarah provided the wonderful veggie stew the night before and Stacey and I had breakfast duties. The previous day we had stopped at the farmer's market and bought fresh baked baguettes and polaine bread, and went to the food co-op for some organic apples, oranges and mangoes, as well as some toxin-free raw Colby, Swiss, and smoked Gouda cheeses. We peeled fruit skins and tore chunks of bread off as Ajani personified his ridiculously large survival knife to cut cheese. During the feast of carbs and aged dairy, we sat around the table journaling and reading Willaim Gaddis, Richard Powers, and Annie Dillard.

Finally, after one more unsuccessful fishing attempt, we rowed back into shore and Stacey and I began packing our wares. We had a tremendous hike back to the car in the damp woods and emerald foliage, stopping once to pee and take pictures with various cameras. Our talk rippled through the crooks of Northern Michigan's only mountain range and reassured us of what engulfing comfort married life has the potential to provide. There has been a dry spot recently, between Stacey and I's relationship, that has festered through complicated endeavors and conflicting schedules, that seems to heal through time spent in the Northern woods. A week ago we took a trip to see a couple of waterfalls in Big Bay, and it was so relieving to be, if only for a moment, outside of our role's demands. This, I am certain, was the same thing we felt in the Porkies.

In five days I will be boarding a train to follow through with a grant-funded research trip that will lead me to Albuquerque, Portland, New York City, and Los Angeles. The trip will take approximately five weeks, at which end Stacey will meet me in LA after a long, solo, photography-filled road trip. We're both excited to go for various reasons: to see the landscape from a train, to camp alone in the brutally hot South Dakota badlands, to spend over 120 hours on a train, and ultimately, to feel untethered from the complacent feeling of doing things ordinarily. Just to breathe different airs, and to stalk different urges, and to get off track. To step out of one's hole and live as though, to remember, first experiences. It has been a long time since I've sat in a construction site, with a haze-covered moon dampening Beck's Sea Change album with my soon-to-be-wife, or smoked my first cigarette at a municipal airport in Indiana with my close friends, or, for that matter, had sex for the first time ever with my wife after our wedding, or slept through the day to awake to the curious liveliness of nighttime, or to read Carl Sandberg's poem "Happiness" in a strange and yearning motel room. During the waking hours of this cross-country trip, it is difficult not to feel lazy and complacent. It is easy to take for granted my warm office, the internet, my backwards sense of direction and time. It is easy to take for granted companionship, my best friends and the excited tone of my wife's expectant voice. This trip, however, this short hike through the porkies, the heavy thought of what is right now, this feeling of walking and existing from today until tomorrow is precisely, or rather, seems to be the perfect chapter break for the page number to which we've arrived. We live in an awesome place, probably the greatest place on the earth, and we have the best companions we could ever desire. It shouldn't, I suppose, be surprising that these two things are the remedy for complacency.

One would hope...

I hope the only reason I haven't heard more stories like this, as opposed to stories about what sort of bonuses are "owed" to people, what tax bracket is fair, and who does and doesn't deserve financial assistance, is because this story is not considered "newsworthy."

Check out the link here. It's really something.

I hope it is not because people have lost their compassion for each other. Because if this is the case, the only thing left for the currently 13.2 million unemployed citizens, is to act out of necessity, which frightens me much more than any tax bracket.

From John Steinbeck's novel In Dubious Battle (1936):

(Mac, with Jim's assistance, performs a birth for London's daughter-in-law at a migrant camp. He has all the men in the camp provide some form of white cloth, mainly shirts and handkerchiefs, to use for the procedure. When the child is born, though Mac does use most of the cloth, he instructs London to burn them all).

"Jim said, 'You didn't need all that cloth. Why did you tell London to burn it?'

'Look, Jim. Don't you see? Every man who gave part of his clothes felt that the work was his own. They all feel responsible for that baby. It's theirs, because something from them went to it. To give back the cloth would cut them out. There's no better way to make men part of a movement that to have them give something to it. I bet they all feel fine right now'" (67).

MySpace Countdowns

there is a momma

You know, as a writer of fiction, I often tend to focus on stories that deal with father/son relationships. I am not sure why this is. Perhaps, it is because most of my fiction is based upon Michigan landscape, and I feel that I often experience that landscape through fishing, hunting, and backpacking: all activities I do with my father. I would like to submit, however, that it was my mother's motivation and encouragement and support that put me on the Appalachian Trail in 2002. And, it was through her guidance - and her worries - that I sought my way south through the Smokies to Mountain Mamas in North Carolina. Though she worried often, she tried hard not to let it show. And this makes me think about the beginnings of my outdoor passions. Though I know I hunt and hike and fish with my father, I began these endeavors through the 20 mile bike rides my mom insisted the family go on. And I received my hiking/camping instincts from the week-long trips my mom would plan at Higgins Lake. And my passion for the road, also inherited from my mother's proclivity to travel. Pending grant funding, I am about to embark on a train trip that will take me across the country 3 times, plant me in hostels and campsites in Portland, OR, Albuquerque, NM, New York City, NY, and Los Angeles/San Diego, CA, and place me on a train for over 150 hours. Total trip time: 30 days. As I wrote the grant proposal, I began to dream a bit about its possible acceptance. Though I felt I should be excited, I actually began feeling the recurring onset of an anxiety attack that has been all too frequent lately. Though, the more I pray and and think about the trip (that may or may not happen - pending funding) I realize that I have the know-how that is necessary for this trip to happen. This know-how came from my mom. Through the trips to Haight-Ashbury, to DC, and to Buckskin Joe's, I feel somewhat prepared for the uncertain. In short, I don't think my mom could ever actualize the impact she has had on me, and I know I don't express enough the fact that everything I am doing has only been made possible with the experience she has equipped me with. I love you mom.

-me

Quick Update

I love the snow. It's coming down pretty good right now in Marquette. I''m hoping that, following my reading of "The Rape of Leander" and The Old Arcadia, and the grading of 25 student essays, I will have time for snowshoeing this weekend.

Other things:
Stacey and I celebrated our 4th anniversary on January 22nd by renting a cabin in the woods where we read books, listened to music, did homework, hiked, cooked, drank margaritas, and played cards.

Also, I just recently started two new batches of beer. My good friend, Kevin, came over and helped. We drank a couple of his home-brews and played cribbage while we waited for the batches to cook. One of them is a revision of a Strawberry Wheat that I made around this time last year. It is Stacey's favorite, so I've appropriately dubbed it Stacey's Ale. The other was meant to be an English Bitters, but it may turn out to be more along the lines of a Porter because I used a lot of dark grains. Either way, I had a few problems with both (the Strawberry Wheat was fermenting so strong its lid blew off and hit Stacey in the forehead!) . The other brew also fermented quickly. When I tried to unplug the airlock, a geyser of fermenting beer wort shot straight into my eye. But, now things are finally under control. They've slowed down considerably, and I will try to transfer them this coming up weekend.

Also, I've decided to try to learn how to play racquetball. I'm going with a friend from work for the first time this Tuesday. Are you supposed to wear a cup when you play racquetball? Seems like a good idea.

Other than that, I've been extremely busy. I just finished a non-fiction draft for a workshop next week. My heart is in fiction, but it is fun to play around a bit with the other genres. Well, I really should be working. If I'm going to have time for dinner, I need to get reading.

Till later.

President-Elect

I am excited about the recent events in our country for several reasons. Not only does the election of Barrack Obama feel like a good move for America, it also feels like a good move for my generation. In a decade that is characterized by our disconnect as a nation, it is exciting to see so many people come together to, at least, try to move America in a better direction. As a Christian, a twenty-eight year old, a student, a husband, a person that loves people and my country (in that order), a son, a teacher, someone that loves the outdoors, and someone who strives to endlessly search for and question truth, I look forward to seeing what we can do for our country. As my wife told me last night during our drive from Marquette to Grand Rapids, "If we truly want change in America, we also have to change." I feel like we've made a good first step, but we can't forget that much of the responsibilty is on the shoulders of us as Christians, families, humanitarians, and citizens.

The Biannual Post

So, I definitely have not posted in a while. Below are a few of the things I have been doing:

Backpacking the Porkies in the very North-Western part of the UP with my dad and friend, Ajani:

Kayaking (The second one is my dad--click on it for a better view):



























Tigers Game with my brother Steve, my dad, and my grandpa:











































So, the summer has been great. It is even better, though, to be back in school. The semester started last Monday, which means I am back to teaching, back to studying, and still writing. Also over the summer, I read Pynchon's 1973 masterpiece Gravity's Rainbow. It took me most of the summer, but was well worth it. I also was able to sneak in George Saunder's Pastoralia, David Foster Wallace's Brief Interviews With Hideous Men, and Lee Siegel's latest, Love and the Incredibly Old Man. I am not sure if I mentioned it in a past post, but I've been in contact with Siegel, having written my MA thesis on his incredible and exhaustive novel, Love and Other Games of Chance. So, I actually received the new novel in the mail from Hawaii, from where he sent it to me in advance of its release. He kindly enscribed it to me with encouragement and warm wishes. If you have not yet had the chance to read Lee Siegel, you should certainly do so soon.

This semester I am teaching Freshman Composition again. I am also taking a Fiction workshop and a directed study with Stephen Burn, and my friend, Elizabeth. The study is on Metafiction and the Novel. I anticipate a lot of good things to come from it. The course basically consists of reading ten metafictional novels, beginning with Laurance Sterne's 1759 masterpiece, The LIfe and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, which has had me laughing aloud the past few days as I've been reading it, Vladimir Nabokov's 1962 novel, Pale Fire, and eight other novels of our choice, which, for me, will be including Richard Powers, John Barth, Robert Coover, B.S. Johnson, William H. Gass, and probably some more David Foster Wallace.

In addition to these fine activities, I am golfing eighteen holes every Wednesday night, grilling often on the back porch of our lovely, new apartment, jogging thrice weekly, working at the food co-op, and riding my bike just about everywhere. (Yesterday, Stacey bought me a small luggage rack for my bike so I can ride it to campus and to the co-op without the burden of my bookbag.)

I hope you've all enjoyed my biannual post. I must turn in now. The morning will be coming very early tomorrow.