Myriam's Blog

And Then He Fell

2011-02-02T21:38:00.090-05:00

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On the fifth day of what was supposed to be a week-long backpacking trip in Idaho’s Sawtooth Wilderness in August 2010, my partner Rich Romano and I woke up to rain, sleet, and snow. We tried to sleep in, but to no avail; early birds don’t lounge in bed easily. We made breakfast in the comfort of the tent and looked at our options.

The weather was too foul for our planned day hike to the ridge of the surrounding cirque, so I suggested we try something we’d never done before. "Let’s just stay in the tent,” I said. “We can play games and read out loud to each other. It’ll be fun.”

We lasted an hour. About four seconds after the last drop landed on our small two-person tent, we stormed out. The cloud cover was very low, the air was chilly. We packed with military efficiency and headed to the trail head. At the beginning of the trip we had decided that if the weather turned bad, we’d return to City of Rocks, where we’d started our vacation, for some more climbing. So that‘s what we did.

We drove south for a couple of hours and stopped at a hotel in Twin Falls for a nice hot shower. The next morning, we did some food shopping and found a fabulous gourmet shop. Foodies at heart, we were thrilled with the abundance of fresh veggies, imported cheeses, warm bread, and good California wine. We bought enough for every meal and snack until our departure.

We continued another couple of hours to City of Rocks arriving via dirt roads at its north entrance. Then we scouted some of the routes we wanted to do that day and the next.

Why didn't we discuss why that leader was bringing his second up on the climb that we planned to do first thing the next morning? On this short cliff of sport climbs, why weren’t they top roping and belaying from the ground?

With more than thirty-five years of bold ground-up first ascents, Rich is probably one of the most prolific Eastern climbers ever. He is definitely the Alpha climber in our relationship with almost three times as many years of climbing experience as I have and usually decides of what we climb when we’re together. With two teens and three jobs, I always happily surrender to this vacation from decision-making.

We made it to the campground and set up our tent on a spectacular spot with 360 degree views and the privacy of the end of a cul-de-sac. Satisfied, we then headed out to climb for a few hours, and between the perfect weather and the crisp rock, the end-of-the-day outing was absolutely exhilarating.

Once back at camp, we prepared our vegetable stir-fry with red onions, red peppers, hot green pepper, mushrooms, and tofu. We added some hot salsa and threw the mix over aromatic rice. While eating, we watched a pair of golden eagles and their young ride the updrafts above the spires; the sunset painted a backdrop of oranges and reds for their swooping play. As Venus set, the stars came to life one by one. By the time our meal was done, the Milky Way was almost at its zenith, shedding its glow on the valley below. The remoteness of our spot and the lack of humidity in the air meant that every constellation was distinct and clear.

Settled in the tent, we heard a lone wolf howl from the west, and a few minutes later, a chorus of coyotes responded from the east, as if to claim their territory. In bliss and slowly drifting into dreamland, we heard a great horned owl hoot from the other side of the valley.

It was a mere 40 degrees when we woke up, but the sun was shining and the sky was a stunning cobalt blue. We were both pumped to go. We cherished this cool weather, especially after suffering a horrendous heat wave for ten weeks straight where we live in the Gunks. After a hearty breakfast of cheese omelet burritos, we packed our climbing gear and made fun of all the other campers still in their sleeping bags missing out on this glorious day.

This was to be the last full day of a vacation that had been absolutely breathtaking. We got to the Super Hits – Bloody Fingers cliff, and decided to warm up on an easy face climb, Twist and Crawl. There wasn’t another soul around.

Richie led the climb and set the rope through the bolted anchor with the idea of setting it up as a top rope for me. "Are you ready to lower?" I called up. "I am ready," Rich responded. A few seconds later, I was looking for the mid-way point on the rope, and didn’t see it. "Is this the rope that doesn't have one?" I wondered. Why didn’t I ask this out loud? Somewhat complacent that our 60-meter rope would reach the ground, since we had done a dozen or more climbs thus far during the trip without it being an issue, we hadn’t ever discussed this potential hazard. I never tied into the system when climbing with his ropes, as per his request. He didn’t like that the rope, if it had kinks, was trapped at the other end with another knot.

My eyes were glued to him while he was being lowered from above me, when suddenly I felt the rope slip through my right hand and heard it slither through my belay device – a sound I will never forget – and as I reached out to grab the end of the rope already out of reach above me, I knew too well what had just happened, I screamed.

And then he fell.

His face slammed into the rock first, and I saw his nose start to spew blood. His body went limp, his eyes closed: he had lost consciousness. He continued hurtling down, five feet, ten feet, hitting his head, shoulder, neck, head (again) and back. At each point of contact, I heard a thud. When he reached the last ten feet of the face he bounced down them, legs and arms jerking up and out, in every direction.

It all happened fast but everything appeared to be in slow motion. I made the conscious decision to memorize every point of impact as I watched him fall (Head! Neck! Shoulder! Knee!) so I could assess his potential injuries and report them to the first responders. But even as I ran to his side, my mind was busy denying what I’d seen. "This is not happening” I kept repeating. “I am hallucinating my worst nightmare. This is not happening!”

But it was happening. Blood streamed out of his nose, mouth, and ears. He was not breathing. I thought he was dead.

Pure terror coursed through my body, paralyzing me, poisoning every thought I had. Finally, he started breathing again, erratically at first, and then steadily. I knew I had to act quickly. I assessed the huge lacerations on his head and bent close to see if there was synovial liquid, a sign that would have meant a very serious brain injury. None that I could see.

He had landed on his back, but in the shade on the cold 50-degree rock. He was just wearing a t-shirt. I slowly repositioned his body to a better location a few feet below so he could catch some warmth from the sun on his legs and torso. Then, I put his feet a few inches up with the hope of preventing shock, all the while talking to him. "Richie wake up! Look at me, look at me!" His breathing stopped again. I yelled at him. He started wheezing and moaning. I yelled at him again, telling him to open his eyes. He did, but nobody was home.

There was no cell phone service, so I was going to have to drive to find help. "Don't you die on me now!” I ordered. “ I’m going to get some help and you better be alive when I come back! You can do it!"

I dashed to the car parked about 200 yards below, taking the shortest distance between the two points – a straight line – and avoiding the trail altogether, jumping over logs and bushes until I fell. I took a second to brush myself off and I then took a few more seconds to acknowledge that I needed to take care of myself if I wanted to be able to take care of him. It was a lesson that I would remind myself daily in the months to come.

Once in the car, shaking and crying, I took a few seconds to calm myself enough so I could at least drive the car without killing myself. Luckily, it was only a few minutes before I found a car parked with a couple standing next to it and they told me that there was a ranger less than a mile below. I screamed at Rich as I drove. "This is not how you are going to die! Not today! You are not going to die on me today Rich, do you hear me? Just hang in there dammit!” I yelled so loud I almost lost my voice. The pounding on the dashboard bruised my wrist.

I found the ranger and hollered, "We need help to get an injured climber out fast. There’s a head injury with blood everywhere. Fast!" And I headed back to the trail head, my whole body trembling in terror, an emotion I can honestly say I had never experienced until that day. Once I parked the car, I grabbed one of his jackets and bolted up to the cliff, my adrenaline, heart, leg muscles and lungs working in perfect harmony, getting me up to him in just a few seconds. I couldn't help but fear the worst. Over twenty minutes had gone by since I had left him alone.

I found him alive and moaning. Relieved, I put the jacket under his head. The bright red of his blood was vivid against the bright yellow of his jacket. I grabbed a roll of toilet paper from my pack and pressed it against his head, and started talking. "Help is on the way. Hang in there. Don't give up. Open your eyes. Stay with me.”

Ten minutes later, the rangers showed up. We had to wait another half an hour for the ambulance to arrive with a stretcher so Rich could be carried down the trail and driven to a field where a helicopter could pick him up. The rescuers were able and swift. In the ambulance, he was combative and had a seizure. They sedated him and put him on a respirator. Within two hours of the onset of the accident, Rich was being airlifted to the closest trauma center in Ogden, UT, three hours away by car.

“What... happens... now... to... the... other... victim?” I heard myself say, in between sobs, as the chopper left. The park staff helped me retrieve the climbing gear and pack the camping equipment, then gave me directions to the hospital.

During the three hour drive, I would call someone back East whenever there was phone coverage and in tears, explain what had just happened. Every now and then I would retrieve messages left on my voice mail from the social worker at the hospital explaining every transition. “Rich just arrived in the ER.” “They are sending him for a brain CAT scan and X-rays.” “They are going to do sutures on his scalp.” “He will be transferred to ICU.” By the time I got to the hospital, I knew everything they had done so far.

When I arrived at the ICU, I was welcomed by the social worker who took the time to ask about my support system back home and what I had done to try to reach them. He made sure I had my basic needs met (“Did you eat anything today? Where are you staying tonight?”) and when the consultation was over, almost two hours later, he asked one more time, “What can I do to help?” I looked down at my hands and replied “I need to remove his blood from under my fingernails.”

When Rich finally arrived in ICU after all of his tests and procedures, he was in a medically-induced coma: the pain would have been unbearable otherwise. Unresponsive, intubated, and on a ventilator to help him breathe, he was in essence a vegetable. I was told it would take hours before they ease back the sedation and so I went back to the car, where everything had been thrown pell mell, and started sorting things out. I knew I would want to be next to him the instant that he became responsive, and the only thing I could muster the energy to do in this out-of-control situation was pack our gear to be ready to fly back home when he would. It took two hours. Passersby stared at the sobbing woman and her mounds of gear strewn across the parking lot, not sure what to think.

Hours later, Rich woke up slowly, having no idea what had happened. I gave him the best account that I could. He just shook his head and replied, "Sucker-punched." As a hard-core trad climber, with no injuries in almost 40 years of climbing, it was ironic that he would suffer such a tragedy while being lowered on bolts.

He asked me to list his injuries and I did: 26 cm of scalp lacerations glued back together by over 40 staples, a torn MCL, a fractured nose, acromion process, and third rib. He had had a seizure in the ambulance. The spineous process of the sixth cervical vertebrae was sheared off. He was lucky to be walking.

THE AFTERMATH

Once back home, the reality sank in. This event had forever altered our lives and our relationship, and now defined our future. From now on, there would be “before the accident” and “after the accident.”

The sudden tragedy united me with others who had stories of horror and trauma, stories that resonated within me. We now shared a common bond: from my hair cutter who found his three-year old daughter face-down in a pool (she lived), to the mother whose son was victim of a drunk-driving accident (he did not).

In the weeks following the accident, I would relive the fall while running, driving, trying to fall asleep, taking a shower. I would see Rich descending through space, hitting his head, again and again. I had met horror and horror was not leaving me. I recoiled at the sight of blood on my plate while eating steak. I jumped at the slightest unusual sound. I was unable to witness any type of violence, either implicit or explicit, while watching movies or the news. During this time, to my dismay, we used up what was left of Richie's meager lifetime allowance for romantic comedy movie-watching.

About five weeks after the accident, I was told by three different people that I might be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder, given the nightmares and sudden flashbacks that plagued me. I pulled out the DMS-IV from the bookshelf, collected during the days when I was studying abnormal psychology, and looked up the symptoms of PTSD. Sure enough, despite my best stress-management efforts, I had all the prerequisite indications and then some.

I found a therapist specializing in Neuro-Linguistic Programming, a modality I knew to be an effective and successful treatment method for PTSD. Two sessions later, the flashbacks and nightmares had stopped, and the emotional turmoil of distress had toned down to a relatively manageable intensity.

The lingering guilt and shame, however, were eating me up. Unlike grief or anger, there is no true outlet for shame or guilt. It didn’t help that I had a dozen daily reminders of Rich’s condition, and seeing my beloved suffer became my own personal form of hell. I felt as if my breath was being cut off by a deep knot pressing into my lungs.

Because of his brain and neck injury, Rich couldn’t drive or work for ten weeks, and he almost lost his job. The financial stress caused by a sub-par health insurance plan from GHI (a bottom feeder, as they are known in the health insurance industry), which did not cover any post-ER physical therapy or other doctors' visits, made the ordeal even more frustrating and difficult.

Over time, the physical ailments that originated from the accident were healing slowly but steadily. The side effects of the severe concussion, however, were taking much longer to improve. In most aspects, a traumatic brain injury (TBI) is very different from other physical issues. A broken limb, for instance, limits the use of a specific part of the body. When the body heals, the limb regains its previous function.

But brain injuries do not heal like other physical traumas. No two brain injuries are alike, and the consequences of two similar injuries can be very different. Symptoms may appear right away or they may not be present for days or weeks after an injury. They can take months or even years to heal. And because our brains define who we are, the consequences of a brain injury can affect all aspects of a life, particularly one’s personality.

Rich experienced some long- and short-term memory loss and developed sleep disturbances, fatigue, loss of balance, and difficulty concentrating. One day, he broke down completely because things he could normally do with his eyes closed, he could no longer remember how to do. Another day, on the way to the orthopedist, he couldn’t make sense of where we were going, even though we were driving a route he'd driven a thousand times before on the way to work. Every time he struggled with his recovery, it would bring back my guilt, shame, and grief. It was intolerable.

The insomnia and memory issues were the biggest challenges for Rich. Four months after the accident, he started bio-feedback, which apparently has a high success rate for TBI injuries. He had a couple of good nights sleep after just a few sessions, making him feel hopeful and almost normal again for a few days. But then the insomnia came back and after many sessions, it was decided that this modality wasn’t working. He also tried regular sleep aid medication, cranial-sacral therapy, homeopathy, and acupuncture. Seven months after the accident, he was only able to sleep a few hours a night.

My shame and guilt were so deep that there were few people I shared it with fully. Hence, I went about my jobs and my day-to-day responsibilities as if nothing had happened, expertly compartmentalizing. Eventually, the insidious agony from the guilt and its accomplice, shame, were nothing compared to the oppressing bottomless grief. In pain, it is easy to feel alone, despite the unbelievable support we received from our friends, family, and the climbing community, near and far.

As if dealing with guilt, shame, and grief were not enough, then came the anger. We are well aware that there are inherent risks in rock climbing. But we were angry that someone, somewhere had put a route up not thinking that someone, somewhere, might not be using a 70-meter rope. Did the last three meters really make a difference in the route? No. Then why not place the bolts so a customary 60-meter rope would reach the ground? How many people will have to be injured before safe bolt anchor practices become standard? And why didn’t the guidebook mention this potential hazard for this route, whereas it did for other climbs?

Of course, we should have tied a knot at the end of the rope. We should have clearly marked the middle of all the ropes to avoid confusion. We should have discussed this potential hazard aloud since we were new to the area. Rich should have worn a helmet. And I – I should have kept a keen eye at all times on the rope being fed while lowering him. Yet despite our fifty-plus years of combined rock climbing experience, we failed to do any of these things. But as our great friend, Richard Goldstone, aptly wrote in a climbing forum, “We can, of course, take pride in doing things that other people do not when it is the other people who pay a steep price. But anyone who thinks they are immune from a momentary lapse that has tragic results is living in a fantasy which I sincerely hope is never intruded on by reality.”

Ours is a reality we hope nobody else has to encounter. Ever.

City of Rocks is becoming notorious for this sort of accident - as stated here:
http://climbing.about.com/od/climbingknots/a/StopKnotBelay.htm

A YEAR LATER

September 1, 2011

The one year anniversary, which I began dreading weeks prior, is finally behind us. This was, by far, the worst year of our lives. Back in June, I realized that I will never recover from this event. I will always carry deep grief, guilt, shame, and anger, but that it was okay. I was trying really hard to work on these emotions in the hope that it would free me of their weight. It wasn't working. Ironically, once I surrendered to the fact that I'll never recover and will always carry this pain, I felt instantly better, relieved in some way. I embraced them, made them part of who I am and will be.

Rich is making good strides too. His sleeping pattern, albeit erratic, allows him to have quite a few good nights of sleep in a row now. He's feeling more confident about his physical abilities, and is back to climbing. The few cognitive impediments that still linger are less prevalent, as time passes. Just recently, I've heard him say, "I'm back."

The incredible emotional and financial support he received by friends, family, and the climbing community through this ordeal was absolutely instrumental in his recovery. We thank everyone who has helped, from close to afar. You have made a difference.

Link to a truly interesting New York Times article about the effects of TBI on relationships.

© 2011-2012 myrbou.blogspot.com

Off Trail Winter Bliss

2011-01-23T10:34:00.010-05:00

Nothing is more exhilarating to me than going off trail. The adventure of discovering areas that may not see many humans is always a fun undertaking. Hiking off trail can be hard in the summer: low bushes, rocks, logs and branches can make the terrain treacherous and at times impassable. Once the snow cover is thick enough though, all of these disappear and what is left is a beautiful white blanket of snow, making navigation virtually seamless with snowshoes.

The day’s quest was very simple: to find Hidden Pond. The plan was to follow a brook downstream and then go south once the other one intersected it and follow this one upstream to the pond.

After crossing the first brook, we ventured up onto a ridge that led into an old growth hemlock grove with views of the Catskills Mountains. The sun shone brightly in between the tall branches and cast long blue shadows on the fresh snow. We paused and immersed ourselves in the stillness of these giants, soaking the sun’s warmth despite the frigid air. We weaved in an out of a healthy deer herd path, which is always a wise choice given they usually pick the path of least resistance.

Snow is a magical substance. Its sweet smell and texture changes depending on how cold or warm it is. Animal tracks are extremely visible: we saw deer, coyote, hare, and red fox tracks.

The list of things essential to bring even on a short afternoon snowshoe hike off trail can seem daunting, but it is necessary: hot tea, high energy snacks, extra layers of clothes, headlamp, cell phone, The Spot, space blanket, map, compass, and experience.

Rather than waiting to intersect the other brook, we decided to cut across and ended up meeting an adjoining stream lower down. The setting was so beautiful that we opted to follow this one instead, snowshoeing in between it and a small snow-laden cliff band. The deciduous forest was glistening with ice, leftover from a current rain storm that froze in place on all the branches.

Weaving around snow-covered rocks in the talus field, we crossed over several logs of trees that had surrendered to their destiny. We eventually were met by a thick cover of Mountain Laurels, and decided to go around instead of bushwhacking through it, moving up a steep embankment to the ridge above. We then re-entered the astounding hemlock grove and headed back to civilization. Hidden Pond will have to wait until our next excursion…

© 2011-2012 Myriam

Sight Unseen

2011-01-02T19:26:00.011-05:00

First Outing

As soon as he stepped out of the county bus, I greeted him and he looked in my direction. He confidently walked the few steps towards me and we shook hands. We walked to my car and I showed him the door. He got in, collapsed his white cane, and closed the door.

Andres, who lost his sight when he was twelve as a result of two different incidents, requested to be guided for a day hike. On the way to our destination, I asked him why. He said nobody wants to take him hiking as they are worried he might slip, fall, and get hurt. He works out almost every day. Andres is a fit and slender man who recently turned fifty and decided to work on his dream list. He is a case manager for the homeless in New York City and commutes from his home over an hour away by bus. On weekends, he cares for his two teenage boys while his wife works as a nurse.

We got out of the car, leaving his cane behind. “Wouldn’t you rather follow the sound of bells, like Erik Weihenmayer, the famous blind mountaineer?” I asked, after he tied a handkerchief to my day pack. “That would be too annoying. Besides, this way, I can follow you up and down and around obstacles,” was his reply.

As he walked briskly behind me, we conversed about anything and everything while I did my best to give him body language instructions about the terrain, sometimes exaggerating the movement as I would go over big rocks so as to have him anticipate the challenge. “To our right, there is a gentle slope that leads to a creek, can you hear that?” “We are now crossing a more moist forest floor. Can you smell the difference?” Every now and then, I added some warnings when I could squeeze in a word, “Low branch to the left.” “Big rocks coming up front.” I had to concentrate much harder than ever to make sure I accommodated his needs, and yet, he just talked a mile a minute through it all. I couldn’t quite figure out how he did it.

At times, I had to interrupt him to describe a steep drop just adjacent to the trail, but he wouldn’t miss a beat, both in his stride and storytelling about work, life, family, and his outdoors aspirations after this hike. I described some of the native trees, like the month-long glorious flowering of the Mountain Laurel in June, and the blueberry and huckleberry bushes found on the ridge. I had him touch and smell the fragrant ferns as we passed by them. I talked a bit about the human history of the Shawangunk Ridge, such as the Native Americans tribes and then the colonies of French, Dutch, and English that populated the area. We soon passed by an old hamlet and I had him touch the foundation of what used to be the barn of a family of settlers who survived there for many decades over one hundred years ago.

Every now and then, Andres would take his digital recorder out and make comments or have me do the talking. He said that he’d listen to it at a later time and remember the day. We passed a small waterfall and listened to the water. When we entered a hemlock grove with its distinct smell, he noticed the difference immediately. After a minute he asked, “Where are the dogs?” “The dogs? I can’t hear any dogs,” I sheepishly replied. Five minutes passed before I could hear the dogs who caught up to us with their owner. I was amazed at how acute his sense of hearing was.

At our mid-way point, we made it to one of my favorite spots, with views of the Hudson Valley floor on one side, and the Catskills Mountains on the other. He asked me to take a photo of him and added, “Please make sure we don’t see the road.” Of course, he could hear the cars go by below us, which I hadn’t even noticed. The photo he took of me in return was spot-on, as I am centered and the horizon is perfectly aligned.

Towards the end of our seven-mile day, it started to rain, and the roots and rocks got a bit slippery. Yet, through fatigue and less-than-perfect conditions, his momentum was still perky. “Loose hips,” he would say every now and then, to remind himself to stay relaxed, despite being tired. Being relaxed allowed him to go with the flow, even if the trail was uneven, with small rocks and roots everywhere. This was a skill I learned from him and that I have used at times while doing long hikes.

Utterly satisfied, he sat in the car, with a broad smile across his face. “What’s next?”

Second Outing

A few months went by before I heard back from him. We set our eyes on Breakneck Ridge, a very steep rocky escarpment overlooking the Hudson River. This time, I had to short-rope Andres so that if he slipped, it would arrest his fall.

Andres was like a kid in a candy store. I couldn’t keep up with him! I had to go first, set myself up for a solid hip belay, and then he was supposed to follow. I constantly had to say, “Wait!” “Not now!” “I am not ready yet!” He impatiently tried to contain his energy for the few seconds it took me to set myself up safely.
Rock scrambling was very easy for him as he could “see” the rock with his hands first, then put his feet where he memorized the holds. We made it to the top in record time.

“What’s next?” He asked, glowing. “Rock climbing!” I replied.

Third Outing

After I picked Andres up at the bus station, we went to the shop so we could gather the rock climbing gear he needed. Once we got to the base of the cliff, he sat down on a big rock, and began to gear up while I ran with the rope to set up the anchor above.

We reviewed the basic safety measures and the key words we would be using to communicate. Exhilarated, he climbed quickly to the top, where I reminded him that the destination is the journey. He could take his time if he wanted to. When he was ready to be lowered back to the ground, I asked,“Do you feel the empty space that lies beneath you?” “Oh yeah, I do!” He hollered back.

I would only help him out if he asked. Otherwise, he was climbing on his own. In fact, he climbed so well and with such ease that at times I would forget that he was blind and wonder, “Why doesn’t he put his foot on the big ledge next to him?” Only to be reminded that it was out of his “vision” range. I would then offer, “Do you want to put your left foot down and rest?”

What amazed me the most was how confident he was in his footwork. He would put his foot on the rock and if it stuck, he would put his weight on it and commit to moving his body up, even if what held him was a mere pebble (not that he knew). He was 100% confident as he climbed, regardless of the level of difficulty. Most inspiring was the fact that he never let his disability become an excuse as to why he couldn’t do a move. It was never an option, or at least, he never verbalized it. At times, he would even go as far as to say, “I can’t see the next hold!” His skill set went completely beyond his lack of vision. His greatest gift to me during all these outings was to expand my idea of what I need to see to climb. Now, when I can’t find a hand hold, I sometimes close my eyes and feel the rock as it reveals features I would have never thought to be good enough to help me climb.

At the end of the day, he had climbed all the routes on the small cliff we were stationed at. “What’s next now?"

Andres did a few more rock climbing outings with me, each time challenging himself a bit more. He also found a hiking buddy with whom he goes out with every other weekend. He’s hiked many of the Catskills peak, most of the peaks around his home in Orange County, and has successfully climbed Mount Lady Washington (13,245 feet) in Colorado as a fund raiser event for families with children battling cancer.

© 2011-2012 Myriam

The Chronicles of Sheena - Years One & Two

2010-02-28T19:27:00.090-05:00

YEAR ONE

The colors have just begun to change on the trees in the backyard. In between two bites of juicy medium-rare tenderloin, I tell Rich that I really miss eating venison. Two years have passed since our elderly neighbor stopped going hunting and we have not eaten this tasty meat as a result.

"Maybe I should start to hunt", I hear myself say. "But I do not know any hunter who could teach me the ropes." "Phil does", answers Rich. Phil? Phil hunts? I pick up the phone the next day and call him. "Sure, I have been hunting, although I have never caught anything yet", was his reply.

We plan a target shooting outing for the next day as I need to know if I can at least shoot a gun and hit a target. At the shooting range, he reviews all the gun and shooting safety measures. He shows me how to load and unload a gun. In detail, he explains gauge, velocity, bullets, range, and other items I soon thereafter forget. I want to see if I can shoot a gun.

I pick up Phil’s camo-colored double-barrel shotgun. It weighs about seven pounds and all of a sudden, I find this heavy to lift. I settle the butt of the gun on my right pectoral, focus on the target, hold my breath, aim and shoot. Even though I am wearing special ear plugs, the sound deafens me. My shoulder is thrown a few inches back. The small detonation in the barrel is very powerful. I am not sure about this idea, suddenly. A few years back, I had a bad shoulder injury and subsequent surgery and now I am wondering if target shooting will hurt it…

We pick up the binoculars, and the bullet hole is a few inches off the bull’s eye, with the target being about 40 yards away. Not bad! We spend the next hour going back and forth with the shotgun, then trying a rifle and a pistol. In my eyes, Phil has a huge collection of guns, about ten from his last count, and his passion, one that I do not yet fully understand, is palpable.

Satisfied by the morning’s target shooting outcome, I try to register for a hunting safety course. They are all filled up, given how close we are to the hunting season. Joe, a hunting fanatic and dedicated DEC volunteer, creates a new course since he has amassed quite a long waiting list thus far and I am set to go.

A week later on a Monday after work, I travel more than an hour from my office in Kingston to the outskirts of Middletown. As I enter the parking lot, twenty-five pick-up trucks greet me. I have entered red neck city. I pause and decide to strategically position my car towards the exit, facing out, as I am worried that my numerous left-wing bumper stickers might offend some of the natives and want a quick escape, just in case.

I am a few minutes late. I hastily enter the hall, where about 30 men between the ages of 14-30, most of them adorning caps, are listening to Joe. I immediately make a quick move to the right and stand next to the door, trying to make myself invisible, a fly on the wall. Joe, however, notices me and hollers, "Myriam! You made it!" And 30 guys turn around to see a grey-haired, purple-wearing woman. "Come to the front! There is a seat just for you! "

Sticking out in this plaid and camouflage adorned male-dominated room, wearing my colorful office work attire, jewelry and all, I walk to the front and sit on a metal chair, and try to make myself as small as possible. Not too long after, I notice another, albeit much younger, woman in the classroom. I feel slightly relieved.

The two nights of hunting safety course pass rather quickly, to my surprise. I buy my license at Gander Mountain, now my new favorite outdoors store. That night at the kitchen table, I read cover to cover the New York State official guide to laws & regulations for hunting and trapping, while Rich peruses the Gourmet magazine.

Rich has no interest in hunting, to my surprise. As I become increasingly hunting obsessed, reading about it, spending time with Phil target shooting, shopping for camo clothing that is always too big fo rme, walking the land where we are going to be on opening day, looking for deer tracks and cues, and impatiently waiting for hunting season to officially open, Rich just lets me be. After thirteen years, he knows what to do by now.

Target shooting is surprisingly a very relaxing activity for me, very zen-like. I have to clear my mind, breathe, aim, be poised, and then shoot. But, can I truly shoot a living animal? I am a Buddhist at heart. I was a Bambie-lover, upon my arrival from the city to the Valley, until I hit my first deer that destroyed my car. And I became increasingly less so thereafter when these same cute animals decided to eat my garden. Can I truly shoot a deer? I go back and forth… As a new member of the huntress set, I formulate my personal guidelines and decide that the animal to be hunted has to:

1) Be edible

2) Be plentiful, overpopulation is a plus

3) Be responsible for ecological damage (bonus criterion)

Fortunately, the deer fit all of these criteria in the Hudson Valley and Catskills regions. I also set other personal guidelines in terms of shooting per se and decide that the animal has to be located within the comfort of my shooting range, at around 30 yards, with the utmost limit of 50. It has to be a secure shot: I aim to kill, not to injure.

Somewhat morally satisfied, I am ready to confront the few hunting-averse friends I anticipate to offending by my decision to hunt. Do you eat meat? Yes. Well, someone somewhere is killing this animal. Wouldn’t you prefer eating an animal that is entirely free-range roaming, grass-fed, hormone and antibiotic-free, low in cholesterol - all for free? I recite my three criteria. Case closed: I should have been an attorney.

OPENING DAY

I am so excited that I wake up about 20 minutes before my 4 AM alarm, and lay there, asking myself, if I really want to get up. Yes! I sprung up, put the water on for tea that I am bringing in a thermos. My dog Méo wakes up, puzzled. Soon he realizes that it is not breakfast yet as it is totally dark out and goes back to sleep.

I dress up, put on many layers of clothing to help me stay warm, grab my pack and headlamp and head out in the chill but beautiful really early morning air. Richie’s old beat-up pick-up truck, which I hated until this day, is perfect for this task now. I drive to the Catskills and see that Phil’s white truck is already there. We will be positioned in different locations on this private land, which belongs to my eighty-year old neighbor who no longer hunts and who graciously offered its use, thus ensuring that nobody else will be there but us.

Trying to make as little noise as possible, I nevertheless sound like a herd of twenty elephants while I crush the dry leaves and branches at every step. I eventually find my way in the dark, and climb the ladder to the tree stand. Although I am a rock climbing enthusiast, I am afraid of heights, and a ladder tops it in terms of fear and discomfort. The tree stand, a two by two platform set 15’ up, awaits me. Once there, I tie myself in, bring the shotgun up, load it, and wait. It is 5:30 AM. A few minutes go by... Chuckling, I stare at my getup: orange vest, orange hat and neck warmer, camo gun... I am a true caricature. I can't believe I am now one of them. I used to despise them. Make fun of them. They would ruin my outdoors experience for weeks in my favorite hiking season of the year. Them. I am one of them! What the heck am I doing here?

Just before seven, I hear shots coming from every direction. Hunting season is officially open! I am very glad to be on private land and up in a tree stand right now. I take my camera out. I take some pictures of the forest. Left. Right. Front. I review the photos. They all look the same.

To fight boredom, I eat every 15 minutes, and although it is only 8:30, I already ate through my whole day's food supply. The cheese sticks. The two hard-boiled eggs. Granola bars. Teriyaki roasted almonds. Beef jerky. I held back drinking the tea which would casue a full bladder: something I had not anticipated. It would create yet another set of obligations: unloading the gun, untying myself, climbing back down the ladder, walking a distance away trying not to make noise, finding a good spot to relieve myself and then returning to the tree stand, thus reversing all the steps once more. Since it is way too much work, I decide I am going to be thirsty instead.

By 9:00, I send a text a message to Phil. Help! I am BORED! I do not know if I can stand this another minute! Let alone until noon! Argh! He replies, When was the last time you were bored? Stick with the program; it doesn’t get any better than this.

I stare at the woods. Again. By now, I know every branch, leaf, rock, and every furry squirrel that makes this forest unique. I am one with the forest. It is beautiful. Earlier, when the sun rose, the light changed by the minute and the multitude of birds started signing, each on their own turn.

I send the same text message to Rich and he replies that there is a buck waiting for me at home… my daughter asks why I didn’t bring a book… I suddenly wonder if this is meant for me. Can I honestly sit in a tree for a month? No. I have to walk. I will go elsewhere this afternoon. Suddenly, I hear leaves rustling and see three does, approaching, oblivious of my presence. They are a mere 10 yards away. Unfortunately, neither Phil nor I have an antler-less permit for this area. I watch them go by. I text Phil the big news and he writes back that a buck most likely will soon follow.

Sure enough, Phil sees a huge seven pointer, but the beast is showing his butt and is a bit far away and Phil lets him go, never to be seen again.

By 11:30, I call it quits and pack up, untie, get down, and while driving back home, decide where to go for the rest of the day. After lunch, I head to the Mohonk Preserve, in an area I suspect there might not be anyone.

Once there, I position myself stationary and listen. A couple of hours go by and I come to the conclusion that I am alone, and that this area will become my hunting spot for the duration of the season. I know there are deer here as every time I hike up this hill, I see them. I decide to go explore the side of the mountain. I find a very well-worn deer path and follow it. It leads to a place where they eat and drink, and another spot where they sleep. Satisfied, I return home, just in time for a delicious dinner prepared by my hobby-chef Italian partner.

The next morning, I wake up again before my alarm, and again ask myself if I truly want to get up in the wee early hours of the day. Yes! I am so excited that I jump out of bed, thus starting a ritual that will be exhilarating to me for the rest of the month, whenever Sheena has free time to go hunting.

I arrive at my chosen forest area, hike, watch the moon on the horizon, and find a nice rock where I hide and stay still for a couple of hours, until the sun comes up. For a hyperactive person like me, this is great therapy. I am subdued by each second that passes, absorbing the coolness of the air, the sweet smell of the rotting leaves, and listening to every sound. Below, miles away in the valley, two packs of coyotes start howling and talk to each other back and forth, miles apart.

Staying still is really difficult for me, but I try. Eventually, I move, very slowly, but I know I am making noise I'd rather not make... After several hours, I want to go walk a bit and follow the herd path, one very slow step at a time. Eventually, I stop and sit on a long dead tree, and watch two squirrels play hide and seek. I space out and do not know how long I've been there when suddenly, I am in a 3-D National Geographic documentary film, as a red fox, oblivious of my presence, walks by, a mere ten yards away. He hops on a big log, gingerly trots his way across it, and hops off, and then enters his den. He has done this move hundreds of time, one can tell.

Back to reality and work the next day, Bernie greets me at the office with a Good morning Sheena, Queen of the Jungle! Did you get anything? This nickname is to stick with me for the duration of the season and beyond. Secretly, I enjoy it immensely.

As a mother of two, my totem animal is a grizzly bear. Better never get between a grizzly bear and her cubs. She will tear your head off. And that is how I feel. For hunting, my inspiration goddess is Sheena, the huntress. She is intuitive, patient, strong, endures cold and rain without strain, can smell her pray from far away, and is a precise markswoman.

THANKSGIVING

Although I have been living for more than twenty years in the United States, this is the first time that I celebrate this all-American holiday with my family in my home. My sister is flying in from San Francisco with her son and husband, my son will be traveling north from DC, and my mother is coming south from Montreal to join us.

I am very excited to have this many vacation days in a row. Although the house is full of guests, I am up at 4 AM and go on my own adventure for a few hours. Thanksgiving day, I see one of the most inspiring sunrises, with the hues of reds and oranges and blues and purples, watched over by a small crescent moon.

Just back in time as everyone is done with breakfast and showers, I was not even missed! This is great. That afternoon, I go back out with my sister and her son; I want to show them where the deer hang out. We walk very slowly, the three of us, and try, albeit clumsily, to walk in unison, to minimize how much noise we make in the leaves. After about half an hour, I give up... we sound like a herd of bison trampling across the Plains. I pick up a hastier pace. Minutes later, my nephew Felix is trying to gesture that there are does in front of us. He is so excited! Too far from my comfort shooting zone, I watch them leave, jumping like gazelles.

This is where they go to drink, and I show them the water source, coming out from under a huge boulder. There are so many different tracks now, it is hard to tell which ones are fresh. We come back home to help prepare a lavish Thanksgiving dinner, and play games. We discuss that next year's turkey might be wild-caught, as Sheena will start turkey hunting. We also talk about different recipes to prepare wild boar for Christmas next year, when we visit my sister in California, as the boar hunting season is year-round over there. In the late evening, I succumb to a good night's sleep, exhausted by my very long day.

When I wake up, again, before my 4 AM alarm, I am wondering if I can keep up this pace. Yes! And I jump up, do my short and quiet morning routine and set off, while everyone else is still sleeping. As I hike up the hill to another spot where I know that deer hang out, I am absorbing that for me, hunting is really an excuse to be out in the woods, alone. Wilderness is my temple and this is where I find unity within me, make sense of the world we live in, come up with creative ideas, and better myself as a human being. Hence, I am cherishing every second of it.

When I come back to the house, we decide to do some target shooting with my son's BB gun that hasn't been used in ages. We create a target with a big cardboard box, review some basic safety rules, and Felix and his dad David shoot their hearts out, for hours.

Comes Saturday, everyone but my mother has to go back to life and the house suddenly becomes eerily quiet and relatively empty. After dinner, I stick my head outside and see a myriad of stars shining in a cool but dry night. I ask my mom how she feels about keeping an eye on my teen Naomi, while staying in the house as I head out for an overnight in the woods. Her jaw drops. "You are joking, right? Now? Tonight? It is 10 PM! And isn't it a bit cold out?" "I have the best outdoors equipment, remember I go winter camping all the time." "But, still, all by yourself? Isn't this dangerous?" "I have a gun... plus this area is safer than any place on earth." Wide-eyed, she lets me be. After forty-six years, she knows what to do by now.

THE OVERNIGHT

The excitement overwhelms me as I hike up the hill and forget I want to go slow to avoid getting all sweaty and then, clammy. I shed a few lawyers of clothing and continue my stride, a bit slower this time. When I get to the top, I find a very nice flat area next to a large boulder, just big enough to set my mat and sleeping bag. On my back, I gaze at the sky. Shimmering high above, the stars cast their spell upon me. And then... a shooting star! I smile, utterly contented. I am exhausted yet I do not want to sleep; I want to watch the night go by. Every millisecond of it.

I am awakened a few hours later by a familiar yelp, that of a red fox. I wonder if it is the same one that I saw last week. As I ponder whether I can continue to sleep with my full bladder, debating whether it would be even worth all the effort it would take to get out of the sleeping bag and strip down at that point. I will be getting up really soon, anyway. The yelp is getting a lot closer now. A few seconds later, it is so close that I sit up, and hear a rustle in the leaves. Really close! When I can see the fox a mere few feet away in the darkness, coming straight in my direction, I holler a human Hey! so it can detour around me and sure enough, it misses me by inches and jumps over my backpack, which is sitting right next to me. Wow! That was close... but then, another one, which I hadn't seen. One that hadn't noticed me either comes running towards me as well and this time I shriek, as I am taken by surprise. Upon hearing this loud and scary sound, the poor fox practically has a heart attack and jumps three feet high, next swerves 90 degrees left to avoid me and my pack altogether. Within seconds, I hear no sound from either of them.

I am completely awake now. I sigh and lay on my back, watching the stars and listening to my heartbeat and the wind in the branches high above. The stillness of the night enters every pore of my body and I surrender to its magic, to its power as it mingles with the sweet smell of the autumn leaves.

The sun is very slowly showing promising signs of a glorious day and I decide to pack, eat, and then stay still, quiet. Hours go by. I stare at the woods, listen to every sound, and surrender to my monkey mind, racing in every direction. I promised I'd be back before noon, and so I head back, slowly, admiring the daytime setting, which I had travelled in the dark, the night before.

The instant I enter the house I am greeted by a warm and welcoming motherly hug. She says my hair smells like the woods. She puts her nose back into my neck, wanting to double check. She says it would make a very nice perfume, one that would please the outdoorsy type, like me. I forego my idea to take a shower, and will wait until this woodsy smell is gone.

PLANNING THE NEXT ESCAPE

Back to work on Monday, Sheena can't stand the confines of the four walls in the small office, with its window overlooking the parking lot. I decide that five days is way too long to wait for my next hunting escapade and take Friday off. I will do this until the hunting season - which is only three weeks long! - is over. There are only two weekends left anyway. How can time once lived so slowly on day one go by so quickly now?

After four long work days, it is time to go out again. The 4 AM wake-up call arrives none too soon and as I am hiking to my spot, it suddenly strikes me how much this newly-found passion is crawling under my skin, deeper and deeper with each outing.

The first snow of the season fell this week, then melted a bit, creating a nice crusty feel under each footstep that alerts all the beasts, big and small, as far away as other counties. The rustle of the leaves was quite tempered compared with this abomination. How did our hunting ancestors do it? When their survival depended on it, how did they overcome this problem?

A large Pileated Woodpecker is drumming with its bill at a dead tree, a distance away. Taking my camera out, I decide to do a different type of hunting. Moving as quietly and slowly as I can muster, given how clumsy I am, making a ruckus on the crusty snow, I bring myself to about twenty yards from the tree. Suddenly realizing it is being watched, just a mere second before I bring my finger down on the shutter, the woodpecker flies away to another tree, quite a distance away.

Today, unlike other days, I have a plan: I will walk very slowly the whole length of the deer herd path, along the boulder field, just below the cliff, from one end to the other, about 2.5 miles. Even though I put my utmost concentration on trying to make as little noise as possible, given the dry snow breaking down under each footstep, I can't help but think at how effectively I am alerting every living thing of my presence within a five-mile radius, when suddenly, I see three does, mixed in with large boulders, about 50 feet away. How in the world did they not hear me? I stop walking, but as two of them escape, one stands still and stares in my direction, as if thinking, I thought I saw something move over there, what was it? Where is it? The gun is safely on my shoulder, as I oftentimes put it when I least expect to see anything when I walk. Of course, if I move even just an eyelid, she will turn and run away. So I leave the gun on my shoulder and stare back, not flinching even a muscle, keeping my breathing shallow, hoping she will put her head down long enough for me to reach for the shotgun. Made suspicious by the fact that her two companions had already escaped, she slowly turns around and then quickly jumps out of sight. I decide to carry the gun with both hands, and make my way behind them, as stealthily as possible, calling upon my long-lost American Indian hunting genes. I am Sheena, the huntress!

A couple of hours later, I catch up with them. I have a lot to learn, I realize, as I had obviously not thought that this could even be possible, and I had again put the gun on my shoulder once my forearms became tired and now, here I am standing still next to a big tree, trying to blend in. The doe (the same one?) is staring straight back at me this time around and without hesitation, flees, again.

For almost twenty-five years, I have been going almost annually on a weeklong journey of solo backpacking. It is my walking meditation. It takes four days for my mind to settle, to stop its nonsense of nonstop chatter. Then I spend the rest of the week enjoying the true silence, until I return to 'life'. Hunting is a sitting meditation. Doing nothing but contemplating, I have seen more wildlife in one month than I have ever in all of my years spending time in the woods. My mind settles down after a few hours, as I stop thinking and just be.

LAST WEEKEND

Another four-day workweek went by, actually quicker than the previous ones. Maybe it is because I am on a mission to find camouflage clothes that fit me and I spend my lunch hours shopping? There are great sales at Dick's and Gander now, given that the season is almost over, yet, I can't find pants that fit me. I float in even the smallest size they have available. I decide to buy a large kid-sized overalls only to return them a couple of days later. Overalls are absolutely impratical for a woman. What was I thinking?

I have been talking incessantly to Rich about my hunting experience for three weeks now, and had shared my anticipation for some weeks prior to that, and he had not been seduced to join me, until today. All of a sudden, my athletic man sees this as an opportunity to be out in the woods and get a great workout. He will be driving the deer tomorrow as Phil and I wait at the opposite end. I ask, "What took you so long?" "Well, you can go from 0 to 100 in three seconds, whereas I need three months to get there. I am here now."

This is the last weekend of the hunting season and here we are, now a threesome with a hunting strategy. Phil has been scouting a different area than I, and there is definitively a lot more activity here than where I had been. Rich will hike to the top of the ridge, walk down through the thick evergreen grove while Phil and I wait at the other end. Sure enough, Phil who is ahead of me, sees three deer jumping out of the woods and takes a shot at one, but misses. Meanwhile, the loud gunshot noise scares a beautiful large white bird from the grove and it lands in the tree right next to me. I look up, it turns its head around: an owl! Not any owl, however, but a young, beautiful, and rare Snowy Owl! I stare at it in awe as it is an unusual sight and a first for me.

When I meet up with the guys, they are discussing a new and improved strategy, as the does fled down the valley and there is another ridge above them for Rich to run to and hopefully scare them back down. Rich is wearing his red Hawaiian shirt and red cap, which is his way of sticking out, in more ways than one, a stylish safety measure during hunting season.
After a few more attempts in trying to move the does back towards us, we call it quits and decide to start a bit earlier the next day.

THE PLAN

Phil and I decide to position ourselves in strategic locations, and arrive as early as we can, since we cannot avoid making a cacophonous entry because of the crunchy snow. It is a cold and windy night, but I am lucky to find a huge log a few yards off the trail where I settle and get cozy. The sleeping bag captures my body heat in a few minutes; comfy and sheltered, I watch the bright moon shining in my face, and try, in vain, to go back to sleep, even for just an hour.

From a distance, I hear footsteps in the snow, as the noise resonates in the stillness and blends with the wind. A few minutes later, I can see a silhouette, walking in the dark, without a headlamp, as the moon sheds plenty of light to see. He is walking straight towards me, and as I am thinking how could I possibly be this visible next to the dead tree, he swerves left to go around the log just as I say, "Hi Phil!" He jumps and hollers, "Geez you scared me! What the heck, I nearly stepped on you!" "I know, I thought you could see me and were going to stop and say hello!" A bit out of breath, he asks, "Where is the trail?" "Just over here, behind me..." "See you later then!" As he moves on, each step becomes fainter and fainter.

When the sun starts to rise, I decide to take a bit of a catnap, as there are no more stars to watch anyway. When I finally wake up, I sit and stare at my surroundings, hoping to see something: a deer or two would be nice. Nothing. I look at my watch. 9 o'clock! What? I am supposed to be in my other spot already and now I have to pack and eat something and walk a ways and! I call Rich, "Where are you?" "At the top, ready to come down." "No! Not yet, I need about 15 minutes!" Ditto with Phil. They will wait for me.
With nothing in sight, I get up, pack in a frenzy, grab a granola bar, get to the trail and start walking briskly, then decide it is best to take care of my full bladder while I still have some privacy. I put the gun down, then the pack, walk a few steps off the trail, turn around, and as I am about to take my pants down, I hear some noise behind me and turn. Two big does, about ten feet away, are staring at me. The gun is out of reach, waiting on the trail. I stare back. This cannot really be happening. Can it? I can almost put my arm out and scratch their noses. How did they not hear me coming? I made as much noise as a freight train! Of course now if I even move a nostril they will start running. After the staring contest, they win, and I say goodbye to the venison steaks, the stews, and the meatloafs I just missed having for the winter. At least they did not catch me with my pants down.

When I meet up with Phil, he tells me he just saw two does running down. "I know, I saw them too..." and tell him my story. We laugh. I am such a rookie! I have learned my lesson and this won't happen again...
Positioned in our spots, we wait for Rich to come down. Sure enough, a few more does are seen from Phil's position and he takes a few shots, but he misses, again. I see them run away, the same scenario as yesterday is repeating itself.

Phil and Rich call it quits early, whereas I return in the afternoon to show Frank, who does bow hunting, where this good spot is. He is an experienced hunter and has given me a lot of pointers, and will hopefully help us dress the deer we bag, if not this year, then maybe next. In the parking lot, just as we are parting, he gets a phone call and he is summoned by one of his friend to help him track a deer he injured. He lost the trail of blood in the snow and needs Frank's help. He invites me over. Sure! I love to learn new skills.
Flashlights in hand, we follow the drops until they stop. Frank gives his friend a bit of a hard time for putting footsteps everywhere, making the task for finding deer prints that much harder. After about an hour, we have found and lost the trail a few times. His friend admits he took a poor shot, being that the season is almost over and all, and now regrets it. I vow to not let my impulse take over if this ever happens to me. They never found the deer.

Sombered by this experience, over a fabulous dinner Rich has prepared, we discuss strategies for the next day. Phil cannot join us so it will be just the two of us.

THE LAST DAY

As I get to the parking lot before dawn, another pick-up truck comes over and a hunter starts chatting." So, how many of your guys are up there?" "Just me and another." "Did you get anything?" "No, you?" "Me neither and man, I hope we get lucky today, this is the last day!" "Yeah, that would be great... Good luck!" "Good luck to you too!"

As I am getting my stuff out of the truck, I realize that he did not talk to me the same way other hunters have spoken to me. As I reflect upon this, I suddenly realize that in my getup, balaclava covering my hair, ears, and the bottom half of my face, he probably thought I was a guy! A short one, but a guy neverthless! It was not the tone of his voice, or the choice of his words, it was his attitude. I have met a bunch of hunters in the last month, and although none of them showed outward disrespect, there is either a look of suspicion or a nod of approval. But this time it was different: I was his equal.

Once in position, I lay still, until Rich gives me his cue. A couple of hours go by and Rich is ready to descend to the grove. About an hour later a doe jumps out of the tight forest, about 75 yards away. That is a little too far for me... and it is behind an old rock wall. My luck, again. I then realize that I can at least attempt one shot, as I will either miss it or kill it, only seeing the head, going up above the wall and disappearing. I can't hurt it, as her body is sheltered behind the rocks. I put the gun up. I follow her trajectory, I hold my breath, and pull the trigger. Missed. Taking a shot was not that bad afterall, strangely.

It starts to rain and we head back home, saying farewell to a fun first hunting season. A few minutes before dark sets in and the season is officially over, we get a call from Phil. "I got one!" I call Frank and grab some beers and we all head to his garage, where the doe (huge!) is laying. It is Phil's first deer. He had seen her the day before but she was too close, thirty feet or less, and he did not have the heart to take a shot. Today, she was twice away that far and having thought it over, he had made peace with it, and was ready for this one when she showed up.

Frank arrives shortly thereafter and thus begins the laborious and somewhat gory task of turning this animal into food. Under Frank's watchful eye and vigilent instructions, Phil is doing really well for a first-timer and I am sure happy it is him, not me, doing this right now. Phil's son Diego, who just turned seven, has a lot of questions about anatomy and is videotaping the whole process. We each get a lot of answers to our questions; Frank used to do animal dissectation for work and Phil is a physician's assistant in a hospital. The wealth of knowledge exchanged between the two of them makes for an interesting anatomy lesson. For example, we learn that deer have four stomachs, like cows and have pretty much the same diet. Once the dressing process is over, there isn't much of an animal left, but about forty pounds of meat waiting to be butchered properly in the next day or so.

Venison stew will have to wait until next year. Until then, there is turkey season in May! And I, Sheena the huntress, am jubilent with anticipation.

YEAR TWO

When spring came, I decided I wasn't going to go turkey hunting after all. It felt like a lot of time and effort for just a few pounds of meat. Moreover, there is always too many things competing for my time (Gardening! Rock climbing! Trail running!) to afford adding yet another activity.

Even though I had been looking forward to it, when the deer season started, my heart just wasn’t there. I was recovering from a major emotional trauma and the thought of killing an animal just chilled me. If I would have been lucky, I’m not quite sure how I would have been able to handle it. So going hunting was an excuse to be in the woods to find myself, and that was fine too.

I couldn’t take any time off from work during the week, as I had used up all my vacation days already to take care of Rich because of his accident. The crowded woods of opening day were a total put-off for me, so a month prior to gun season, I scouted the most remote areas that I could find.

When the first day finally arrived, I headed out to an area a couple of miles into the woods. The weekend forecast called for perfect weather, so I planned to stay there for the full two days. I was dropped off at the trail head at about 10 PM and hiked up, spooked (or rather, was spooked) by a couple of does, and bee lined to the bivi spot I had found the weekend prior, set up my bag, and stared at the stars above me.

My mind was racing from not having had any time to myself for weeks now. Trying to calm it down, I took deep breaths and tasted the sweet smell of the air. Finally, I dozed off. I woke up before dawn, grabbed a bite to eat, drank some tea, and sat. Just as the sun was coming up, I heard a motorized vehicle come up. I had hiked a couple of miles uphill into the woods only to be reached by modern means... It never occurred to me that a pick-up truck could navigate up this steep terrain, with big rock jutting everywhere. Now I knew (a bit late though). Three guys got out of the truck.

During gun hunting season, whenever I sit in full camo, I put a blaze orange cap in a tree branch near or above me to alert other hunters of my presence. They saw this immediately, of course. A few minutes later, one of the guys came to visit me, and approached stealthily.

“Hi! Did you hear me coming?” he asked, a bit cocky and proud of himself. He had walked on the ridge, on the rock escarpment, had avoided all the leaves, and was standing about 20 feet from me. “I’ve been hunting in this spot for over 30 years and have never seen anyone else here outside of me and my sons,” he said, puzzled. “Honestly, I came this far into the woods because I didn’t think I’d see anyone,” I replied, hoping he'd get the message. He finally left after he’d asked too many questions, which I aptly avoided responding with too many details. Within the hour, they got two does, but not the eight-pointer he mentioned he was hoping to get. I decided to go for a walk.

When I came back to my spot in the middle of the afternoon, the guy did the same thing again and stealthily approached me, but this time from behind. “Did I surprise you again?” this time he was starting to creep me out. But it got worse. He started flirting with me. “You’re really a very attractive woman, do you know that?” Maybe, but I also have a 7 mm gun on my lap, in case you didn’t notice. My guards were completely up, and I resisted the urge to tell him exactly what I was thinking. If I really wanted to get flirted, do you honestly believe I’d be in the middle of the woods, all by myself? No, this is not were I’d be. “If you don’t want to have to hike back, I can give you a ride in my truck. What time will you be here until?” I truly didn’t want to tell him I had plans to spend another night there, having avoided to the best of my ability to answer questions about my previous night. “I’m planning to leave at sunset,” I replied, thinking it would give me a full two hours to think of how I was going to avoid this situation. “Do you want some candy?” he asked, as he reached into his pocket. Are you kidding me? You flirt with me, then offer me a ride, now candy? Honestly? You’ve got to be kidding me! I’m not going anywhere near you... jerk! “No, thanks. I don’t eat candy (truth). I’ll meet you at your truck just as the sun sets (not),” I replied. Satisfied, he left.

Then, as soon as he was out of sight, I packed in a frenzy, and headed into the woods Indian-style. I followed a herd path for about half a mile, and then lost it completely, just as it started to snow heavily. I was bushwhacking in rhododendrons towering over me, struggling at each step to move forward, when I saw the eight-pointer buck this guy hoped to get. I was not in any position to take a shot, even if by chance it would have been good, let alone look for, find and then drag the beast out from these thick bushes. I was so pissed that this hunter had altered my perfectly (or so I thought) laid out plans for the weekend that I made as much noise I as could to scare him away from where I came from, Sheena secretly showing her middle finger to the jerk, waiting for that buck, behind me.

The next mile was the most ankle-breaking and treacherous terrain I had ever bushwacked through in my entire life. I could barely see where I was going because of the snow falling heavily, but knew that if I followed the ridge and kept the drop on my left side, I’d get to where I’d hope to be before it got completely dark out. Luckily, I ended up on the other side of the mountain at twilight, just as the snow stopped falling. Drenched in sweat, I found the trail I hoped to cross, and headed down.

Once on the carriage road, I put my headlamp on and went about to look for a place to crash for the night. I soon found water, an essential part of a good overnight camp, and not long thereafter found a relatively straight but small and narrow spot, yet just perfect for my sleeping bag. After I ate dinner, tired of my day, I got comfortable in my bag. As I was ready to fall asleep, two does almost stepped over me! I was very near a herd path. My last thought before dozing off was that it might be a good spot to be the next morning.

Outside of seeing a flock of about 40 turkeys, I didn’t see anything else the next day. I headed back home, a bit frustrated by my weekend, but happy I’d gone out nevertheless.

I went back out a few mornings in other less remote areas during the next three weeks, but didn’t see anything at close range. On my way to my mechanic one day to get the car set with winter tires, I passed a yearling and a fawn on the side of the road staring at their mom, laying on the other side, who apparently had just been hit. It was a very sad sight, but all too common in this deer-infested area. On my way back from the garage about an hour later, the yearling had been hit too.

I called Frank. "What's the deal with road kill? How long do we have before it's too late for the meat?" After I gave him the details, he explained that it was well within the acceptable time range for safety and that if I wanted him to help out, I should report the deer to the DEC and he'd come right over. "Nah, my red neck index isn't that up yet," I answered, with an audible hint of regret in my voice. I wanted venison, but not that bad. "Now that I know though, maybe next time." The same evening, we had friends over for dinner and I told them my story. "You mean to say we could have eaten venison tonight?" they asked, disappointed. You know who your true friends are when they are willing to eat road kill.

On the last day of the season, I went to a spot where I’d seen plenty of deer the previous year. I got there at about 5 AM. As soon as the sun was up, I heard gun shots from every direction around me. Hunkered down behind a large tree, I wondered, “How am I going to get out of here?” and thought, "This might be Sheena's last gun season."

YEAR THREE - BOW HUNTING (Sheena got her first deer!) is currently in the works and will be posted on Jan. 15, 2012.

© 2010-2012 Myriam

Beautiful Barcelona

2010-02-14T05:43:00.040-05:00

DAY ONE – THURSDAY, February 11, 2010

It amazes me how many details to attend to whenever I leave the comfort of my day-to-day life for an adventure elsewhere, whether it is for a weekend or a week long trip. Bills to pay, people to notify, pets to care for, emergencies to anticipate and have remedies ready… not counting the minutiae of the travel itinerary itself.

We make it on time to JFK, which by itself is quite a feat, only to be told upon our arrival that even though our ticket is bought through Delta, and paid to Delta, the flight confirmations given by Delta, the flight itself is administered by Air France and that as such, we have to go to a different terminal, on the other side. Can air travel get any more complicated? And, so much for the perfect timing… Upon seeing my expression of utter disbelief, since we are carrying the laptop, the guitar, a suitcase of Levi’s jeans and Abercrombie clothes for our European friends, travel books, our own attires and the like, she manages to get us a Delta shuttle van that will pick us up and drop us at the right gate.

Relieved, we drop off our luggage, pass through security, and get to the gate, where 500 people are waiting “in line” to board the Airbus A380-800, which is the world's first twin-deck, twin-aisle ten-row seat airliner. It is the largest passenger airliner in the world and looks like a two-story hotel with wings. We finally depart 1.5 hour late, a bit anxious as we had only one hour between our first flight to our connecting flight… but so be it. Que sera, sera. The gargantuan metal bird takes flight, smoothly and I am in awe, again, as to how much weight can take flight and climb seamlessnessly to 40,000', navigate at temps -70 F, while we are pretending to be in a living room, watching one movie after another.

The very cheery stewardess offers us a meal consisting of a Middle Eastern-style seven-grain salad with sautéed chicken that is actually true to its word and absolutely delightful, a choice of a main course of sautéed beef with chasseur sauce accompanied by mixed vegetables and mashed potatoes or cheese ravioli with aurora sauce and shrimp. Naomi picked the former, I choose the latter, and we do not regret it. Following Emental cheese with baguette bread, the desert is a coffee-chocolate chip cake accompanied with an entremets pudding...

Since I do not want coffee or tea, for I had the delusional wish to actually sleep, I ask if they have any herbal tea. “Bien sure, je vous apporte une tisane. Est-ce que tilleul ca vous va?” This “airline” meal is served with a complimentary glass of red (or white) wine that is paired perfectly with the meal. I am very happy flying Air France right now. The menu of movies, TV shows, games, radio stations, and the like is so extended that I actually forego my idea to sleep after a brief but nevertheless honest attempt, and brainlessly entertain myself silly all night long watching three movies in a row, intercepted with some very depressing world news. Cloudy with a Change of Meatballs wins as my favorite, shamelessly competing with Ice Age III and Hangover, which definitively comes in last.

DAY TWO – FRIDAY

The aircraft is outfitted with a web cam on its tail, nose and underbelly. It is very cool and I really love flying with Air France right now. Rich and I watch a glorious and luminous sunrise over Europe, and then as the plane does its slow decent, watch the landscape beneath us. Turns out France has more snow than our home in the Hudson Valley.

We land at Charles de Gaulle (GDG) airport, run to our connecting flight, which thankfully is also late as we would have missed it. GDG is huge! And after passing customs, security, and walking what seems like about 1.5 miles of hallways, we manage to get to the gate where everyone is still waiting to board. We are all sweaty but swept with relief.

We are all able to take a short snooze and finally land. After picking up our luggage, Pauline, who has arrived from Paris just a couple of hours earlier, greets us. We jump in a taxi and head to beautiful Barcelona.

Barcelona! As a rather hot item on my pretty extensive bucket list, which I have decided to seriously tackle, I am extremely excited to be here. We find the apartment, on an ancient pedestrian-only alley in the Ciutat Viella quartier. Our very welcoming and warm host, Marc, German born and also raised by a French mother, speaks impeccable English and Spanish, like a true European, and shows us our rooms and the common areas. The girls get the big room with the large windows; we get the smaller room with the private bathroom. Everyone is happy. We are also introduced to Christian, an Italian student renting a room here, who also speaks several languages.

Soon thereafter, we decide to go for a walk. The most touristic street, La Rambla, reminds me of Old Montreal, with its restaurants, bars, street artists and performers. We quickly move away from this strip and venture in the Barrio Gotico quarter, making one turn after another in medieval lanes, going into shops, and stumble upon the First Church of Gaudi which holds the crypt of the much celebrated martyr of Barcelona, Saint Eulàlia. We also come across the Museu d'Història de la Ciutat de Barcelona, and visit the true foundations of ancient Barcelona, set by Romans over 2,000 years ago. I feel quite humbled by witnessing such long history.

Utterly lost by now, we somewhat begin to venture back towards a restaurant that is supposed to cater true authentic Catalan food. By some sort of miraculous feat of bad Spanish-speaking, instruction-asking including variations on the question ¿Dónde estamos en este mapa?, and some group map-reading, we make it to Bodega Vasconia, a truly small gem where the owner, who speaks no English, explains every item available to us from his display case. Between the four of us, we pick 14 dishes, and get to sample a red and a white Spanish wine. The red, from the Rioja region, wins the taste test and supplements well our tapa dishes of calmar, stuffed and stir fried sliced octopus, hot sausages, potato-garlic, mushrooms, meatball, blood-versed rice, hot saussages, and other appetizers difficult to describe.

We find our home, stumble in bed, satisfied, and descent into dreamland.

DAY THREE – SATURDAY

Very slowly we emerge from a 12-hour night that feels like just a few hours. We decide to let the girls sleep some more and get some breakfast makings, some café con leche and fresh bread from the open air Boqueria Mercat, just a few blocks away. Once there, our jaws drop, as hundreds of small shops sell their fresh fares of fruits and vegetables, meats, cheeses, nuts, olives, breads, pastries… just name it, they have it all, fresh. Absolutely dumb struck, we decide it is best to stick to our plans to get just a few items and come back once we have more time to stroll, unhurried.

Once back at home, we rouse Naomi and Pauline up. After breakfast, we decide to play tourists and take one of the town’s bus tours. We get to see landmarks we want to go back to and watch other go by that we are glad we do not have to do a special trip to see. Along the way, we can hop on and off and we decide to stop at the Museu Nacional d'Art de Catalunya, and beeline to the modern art wing. Modern art, in this museum, is the last 300 years. All things are relative, I am reminded, and one’s view of history is not different. We then visit the utterly colorful Miró Museum, one of my favorite modern visual artists, and as I walk from one exhibit room to the other, witnessing the span of his lifetime’s work, I smile ear to ear. His art conveys such wonderful spontaneity, youthful, and joyful emotion.

Debarking from the tour bus, we stumble upon a sculpture, Barcelona Head, by Roy Lichtenstein.

We have built quite an appetite by now (again!) and decide to eat right around the corner of our flat, as Marc calls it, curious as to why there was a line out the door earlier for lunch at La Fonda. Our delicious meal begins with a spinach-stuffed canenoli and a platter of roasted vegetables appetizers, followed by authentic paella. Sadly, after this meal, I will never be able to fully appreciate paella wanna-be…

Uninterested in our plans to go to a Spanish guitar recital to finish the evening, the girls decide to head back home. We finish our meal and go out only to discover that the misty drizzle of the afternoon has turned into pouring rain. And the girls have the umbrellas that were in our bags, of course…

I mistaken Carrer Dels Escudellers for Passatge Dels Escudellers, (doesn’t help that these medieval streets are all narrow and look the same! Rich thinks we need a compass...) and we head east instead of north and get mildly lost. I eventually find my bearings and we find the romantic Iglesia Santa Maria del Pi, and sit, dripping wet, with just a few seconds to spare before the guitarist Xavier Coll comes in.

He begins by playing a Vihuela from the 17th century. He then moves on to the Guitarra Barroca, from the XVII-XVIII era. His third instrument is the Guitarra Romantica, built around XIX. He concludes his program playing una Guitarra Moderna. The pieces, all by Spanish composers, are impeccable. He surprises us in his last encore piece by also singing, with a smooth tenor voice while playing the guitar.

We walk back home just a few minutes away, climb the five flights of stairs, completely satisfied by our day. I take my soaked clothes off and jump into a hot bubbly bath. Barcelona!

DAY FOUR – SUNDAY

Getting everyone out of bed early is quite a challenge, but we manage to have a great breakfast and head out to walk in the El Borne quarter, stop by the "closed while renovations" Iglesia Santa Maria Del Mar, with our destination the Picasso Museu. Aside from a wonderful retrospective of his life’s work, there is a special exhibit on his lifelong interest in Japanese erotic art, which I knew nothing about. Later in his life, he incorporated this influence in very erotic, cubanistic-inspired, rarely seen or even published, work.

As this town dictates us to eat every two hours as a result of its depth and breadth of gastronomical choices, we go to Neyras for lunch, where we order two delightful dishes: grilled calamari and mussels in white wine sauce.

To stick with the spirit of Picasso’s exhibit, and since it is Valentine’s day, we decide to visit the Museu de l'Erotica and corrupt the 16 and 17 year old young women that accompany us. (Actually, it was their idea…) Albeit small, this exhibit displays various culture’s view of eroticism during different ages.

As we stroll down La Rambla, we hop in and out of shops and witness not one, but two processions of carnavals that we have yet to identify. We change our minds to go see Flamenco and decide instead to go eat at a restaurant recommended by our host. Even though it is past most American’s dinner time, it is quite early for Barcelonians and the restaurant, Los Caracoles, whose 60+ tables are all reserved for a busy night, is currently empty. In operation since 1835, it has five small different rooms on three floors, which creates an ambiance difficult to duplicate.

Making a meal out of appetizers, we order stuffed canenoli and snails which they prepare on coal fired - really hot - stoves. Fresh snails… juicy and tender snails that make me wonder how in the world I have been dupped in eating the canned variety as the real thing…

Another great day in beautiful Barcelona...

DAY FIVE - MONDAY

We rouse at a time that finally seems reasonable given our jet lag and head out for an all-Gaudí day. After a couple of metro stops, we come out and see the Casa Bastllo. Gaudí did not build the structure, but renovated it to its current state. Round forms and light defines this beautiful six-story building.

We then walk a few blocks north and visit La Pedrera. Albeit more subdued and traditional than the Casa Bastllo, his imagination was let completely loose on the rooftop terrace, adorned by giant sculptures doubling as air vents. Again, sensual curves and natural lighting predominate his creation.

It has already been four hours since our breakfast, which is a record since we got here, and we head to La Gramola restaurant, found on a website called Spotted by Locals - Barcelona. For 9 Euros, we eat an appetizer big enough to be a meal by itself, a main course, desert and ¼ liter of wine: a pretty good deal.

Our next stop is the Sagrada Familia, but unfortunately, the towers are closed due to the weather. We decide to do a rain check and come back some other day. We walk down to the Museu of Musica, where hundreds of instruments from all over the world are beautifully displayed.

The girls want to go to El Cortes Ingles to do some shopping and we part our separate ways in this gigantic center. Once done, a short metro ride brings us back home, where we are welcomed by Marc’s fabulous assortment of cheeses, meats, breads from the market, and sauteed sweet peppers with sea salt which he prepared for us.

We share life stories and also learn about Spain’s current economic woes, which dwarf our American credit, housing bubble bust, and unemployment issues. Later in the evening, Naomi is dumbfounded by my very energetic response of her suggestion to go out again at what is normally by bedtime hour. By Marc’s recommendation, we go to a small bar in the Placa Reial, just a block away.

Pauline asks for a Martini and upon repeating our order, given the cute waiter’s delivery of the “r” in Martini, we figure he must be fluent in French as well. When he comes back with our drinks, we tell him our assumption and he replies with his perfect French, that yes, his girlfriend is from Paris and he speaks that language all the time now. He grew up in Italy, learned English there, then moved to Spain where he learned Spanish and Catalan. Rich notices his long nails on one hand and adds that he also “speaks” guitar… at this point, the poor cute waiter blushes and asks what else did we deduct from our brief encounter… Rich adds that he is also left handed…

We ditch the idea of going dancing for another night and head home, collapse in a bubble bath and then bed.

DAY SIX - TUESDAY

Sunny Barcelona is not quite living up to its reputation since our arrival as it has been quite grey with occasional rain and today is no exception. We rouse later than we wanted, but head out and decide to do a museum-centric day because of the rain. We first start with the Museu Maritim, just a few blocks away. The main exhibit is a very old row boat with over hundred seats on each side. I can only imagine what the effort it took to move this over the ocean, by hand.

We cross the street and venture on the Rambla De Mar, in Port Viel, and go to the aquarium. We watch penguins (in Barcelona!) and sharks and other mean and amazing beasts of the wild deep... By the time we get out, we have already built a new appetite with all this sightseeing and walk towards la Barcelonetta, another old quarter right next to the Mediterranean. We walk by a surfer in a dry suit heading back to his apartment and enter a small corner street restaurant, the Segons Mercat, and order an assortment of tapas. We eat a delectable feast of hard goat cheese and olive oil, a salad of tomatoes, tuna and pine nuts, roasted potatoes with garlic and melted cheese, roasted peppers with aubergines and melted soft goat cheese, roasted asparagus with sea salt topped with roasted soft goat cheese, accompanied with bread with olive oil and fresh tomato juice spread… We have been eating very well since our arrival, but this meal is the best thus far.

Rich feels brave enough to venture out on his own and visit a Luther in another part of town and the girls and I head out to the Museu de Xocolata, adjacent to a chocolate culinary school. After the exhibit, which covers the history of cocoa and its manufacturing methodologies across time and the continents, we watch the chefs-to-be learn the art of chocolate sculpture-making and then drink a hot chocolate, creating a true surprise to our taste buds’ expectation.

Stomachs full, we end up on the sidewalk, look left, then right, and decide to cross the street and go into a small bamboo furniture shop, Naomi and Pauline thus launching another shopping spree over several blocks, as we slowly wander our way towards the Arc the Triomf, just as the sun is setting. Once back at the apartment, we all reunite and take a moment to relax and then decide to go watch some Flamenco at a nearby bar, Tarantos, along the Placa Reial, just a couple of blocks away. A half hour long, this performance has a trio playing Spanish guitar, singing, hand clapping, and percussion, while a couple is dancing, intensely.

Thereafter, we head towards La Crema Canela, around the corner of our show, which Marc highly recommended. It feels like our meals are getting better and better… as much as the lunch seemed truly amazing, the dinner is even more stunning… roasted salmon, chicken brochettes with rose-flavored basmati rice with raisins, Mediterranean salads, roasted calmar, and heavenly desserts.

My bad Spanish is getting better as I am always surprised to be understood and moreover, really stunned when answered at Mac IV speed, where I have to make a decision to pretend I actually understand their reply or give them a dumbstruck look, in the hope they will either s-l-o-w down or realize I actually have no clue what they are talking about…

DAY SEVEN, WEDNESDAY

We decide to forego our Montserrat day trip and just have a slow day in town. The girls want to sleep in and we decide to go to the market the instant we get up. Once there, still mildly sleepy and ready for breakfast, the rainbow of colors is magic to the eyes. We find a small shop where we are served excellent cappuccinos and a what looks like a vegetable omelet. We then stroll and explore each alleys of the market where the displays are beautiful and plentiful. It is a foodie’s peep show. We get cured olives, sundried tomatoes, fresh fruits, and dates and plan to go back for more.

The girls get up and are greeted by warm chocolate croissants and astonishingly red, fresh, juicy and gigantic strawberries. Marc comments that he would like to travel with me, as he likes how I set the table for the girls in the morning. I reply that it would be fine, but I that would forego the few minutes of cuddling in bed...

The sun comes out, a sight unseen until now, and we are set to finally visit La Sagrada Familia, a true spiritual and architectural still-to-be finished Gaudí masterpiece. At the top of the 300' tower, we can view the Mediterranean Sea and the city of Barcelona, below.

We then head to Park Guell, another Gaudí jewel. The visit ends with a tour of Gaudí's home, Casa Museu, a very modest and somewhat uninspiring stucture, given everything we have seen thus far created by him.

In the ride back by taxi, I ask the driver if he knows of a good restaurant, and after explaining in details the differences between Catalan cuisine and traditional Spanish cooking, he drops us off at Irati, a nice Basque tapas bar, where we watch local workers come to take one or two appetizers with their glass of wine before heading back home. Stomachs full of roasted asparagus, salmon, onion with goat cheese and amazing bread, we go take some night photos of the Pedrera and Casa Batllo (shown above). We then go to another guitar recital. In the same small chapel as the concert we previously heard, Manuel Gonzalez charms us with true virtuoso, playing one Spanish piece after the other, flawless. Rich buys the CD.

Once home, we share some good wine and fun conversations with Christian and crash...

DAY EIGHT - THURSDAY

Rich and I get up early and set out to stroll the streets with sunglasses on our noses as it is nice out, for a change. We go have a wonderful breakfast on the sunny terrace at Ra, where we can only imagine the beauty of the terrace once all the vines are green with leaves comes spring.
Every cafe and restaurant where we had coffee up until now give us a customized sugar packet which Rich has collected all week, and Ra is not different. These cute little packages of all colors and shapes, whether they are long, square, flat or chubby, with the logo of the restaurant, give a distinct signature and personality to each location.
Once our really great coffees are done, we take loads of photos at the market, walk around and head back home.

We rouse the girls and while they get ready, we go visit Casa Guell, another of Gaudí's work, just a few minutes away. Once the girls are good to go, we take the train to Sitges. We spend the afternoon walking in this small coastal town, see and feel the Mediterranean Sea, which I am told takes 300 years for the water to fully circulate and change.

We have a nice lunch next to the beach, where I eat the biggest and sweetest mussells I have ever seen, and then walk some more before we take the train back to Barcelona.

Once back at the flat, we are invited by our host, Marc, to join him at an authentic Basque bar to sample Spanish wine and tapas, that are absolutely beautiful to the eye and even better to the palate. We then go pick up the girls and head out for some salad, vegetable lasagna, and decadent chocolate desserts... dreams are plentiful that night.

DAY NINE - FRIDAY

While Rich returns to visit the Luthier, I head out and show the market to Naomi and Pauline. We then head out to have some tapas in a basque resto and do a little shopping. The girls then go to a flea market while I go meet Rich at the Museu d'Art Contemporani de Barcelona. The architecture of the museum is more interesting than the exhibits it hosts, despite its un-Gaudí blandness, minimalism and unimaginative lines, except for one very temporary exhibit: Black IN White. This special exhibit features Richie (dressed in black) attempting to chimney his body up some walls (in white) of the museum. I take a picture. He stops before getting caught by security. Laughing, we leave and walk the Medieval streets of El Raval and then El Borne, trying to take it all in as this is our last day...

We finish our afternoon at the market where we buy olives, cheeses, breads, wines, seafood, salad, and other goodies. We go to the award-winning La Pasteleria Escriba for some exquisite desserts to bring back home and share with everyone.

Many delicious bites and perhaps a bit too much wine later, we end our last evening with Marc and Christian and go for what amounts to a short nap before getting up for our flights...

DAY TEN - SATURDAY

Today we head back home... ending a very fulfilling and truly inspiring cultural, architectural, historical, and culinary week in beautiful Barcelona...

© 2010-2012 Myriam

A Force to Reckon

2009-08-01T21:09:00.006-04:00

The current grabs my feet and pulls me under, fast. I hardly had time to finish my breath, and manage to drink a bit of water as a result. Now immerse, my thoughts are racing "I knew it! I knew something bad would happen!" and kick my feet hard, try to swim back up. Above the surface, I take a half breadth only to be pulled back under, once again. "So that is how people drown... it happens all so fast." I take a split second to reassess my position and decide it is best to swim under the water for a few strokes, to get out of this cycle.

I reamerge, the water still running fast, and I breathe and cough and breathe and cough and I am so happy to be out from this overwhelming and powerful force of nature.

© 2009-2012 Myriam

Bewitched

2009-07-24T13:19:00.007-04:00

The only sounds I hear are my heartbeats going really fast and my breathing, also fast. And the bubbles. These sounds just blend together as one long giant drone: breathe in, hold, heartbeat, bubbles, repeat. The descent, although short, feels like forever, in dry land minutes. Once at the bottom, the knees on the sand, I look up to see the sun rays moving in the water, like waves. My world is upside down.

All around me, where the water and the sand blend, underwater horizon is dark, mysterious, and scary, like infinity. My breathing has slowed down, just a bit, my heartbeat hardly so. I can feel the weight of the billions of gallons of water that surround me, although rather than crushing me, my body blends into it and I become one - I am one with the ocean. I am in the womb of the planet.

I slowly start moving forward. Forms of life appear in strange colors, shapes, and types of motions. Vegetation, straight from sci-fi movies, dwarf my human size. Forms hide under the sand and stare back. I am a visitor here, and they know it.

This is another world, one of long chains of interconnection, mutations, and survival, from microscopic plankton to the largest mammal - their survival all depend on one another. Break a link and whole ecosystems disappear.

My heartbeat has slowed down now, and so has my breathing. I am blended in the experience, surviving this hostile and deadly surroundings on a mere few pounds of air at a time. The uniqueness of the flora and the beauty of the fauna stuns and comforts me: they give me hope. If they can do it, coexist, when whole species of life depend so much on each other, then maybe we can too, as humans.

I am weightless. I am neither heavy nor light. My movements are in slow motion, like time. Suddenly, the hour is over. Before running out of air, I go back on the boat, back to reality, back to gravity. I awaken from the spell that was cast upon me by the underwater world.

© 2009-2012 Myriam

The Mermaid

2009-07-20T16:05:00.009-04:00

I searched for her, all along, unknowingly. I longed for the smoothness of her skin, her curves, her smells. One day, I heard her voice. Fearful at first, I very slowly surrendered to her call, her muse, I let go, opened my arms and gave myself to her.

I was pulled away from land, in the mystical cold and dark water of the unknown... can I breathe? Will I survive?

My heart kept beating fast, uncertain. Electricity moved in my body, aware now of its constant flow, keeping me awake, even when tired.

Mesmerized, I wondered if it was all real. Life as I knew it ceased to exist. I was becoming. Fantasies turned into reality and reality turned into fantasies.

I only watched her, moving as she only could. I would not touch her as we were from different worlds. Her voice calling me made the pain deep and so much real.

The canvas waited patiently to be painted. It was blank, staring back, waiting... and waiting... Once the brush stroked, it was fury, madness, passion, fusion of creator and creation. The colors flying and forming life. The mermaid watched, from afar.

Once done, the canvas dripped from love and despair.

© 2009-2012 Myriam

Going Solo, One More Time

2005-03-23T19:51:00.001-05:00

August 2004

Day One: Entry

It is my first night out. I unpack my backpack only to find a note from Rich, my beloved life-partner, which reads: “Have a great trip. I love you.” He snuck it for me to find while I would be in the woods; tears form in my eyes. Just a few months back, as I was putting photos in albums, I stumbled upon pictures of the solo backpacking trip I had done five years ago in the Pecos Wilderness. It then dawned on me that five years was a very long time since I had set foot alone in the woods for a week, and that realization perturbed me. Time flies, I thought. We were supposed to be spending this upcoming week together, but upon this insight, I suggested it would be best if I were alone. He fully supported my adventure, with mild envy.

Wherever I go, I have a three-pile system when packing my necessities. The first one is all the items I cannot live without, the second are items I would like to bring, and the third are the items I might want to bring along for fun or comfort, luxury items, which is a very loose term depending on the circumstance.

For an obscure reason, my first pile of essentials has grown steadily larger by each backpacking trip. Pillow. Sandals. Water filter. Cookies. One air mattress (in addition to the foam pad). Tent. Chocolate covered espresso beans. Walking poles. Pee pot. Extra fuel bottle. Sunglasses. Water pouch. Camera. Bathing suit. Extra book. Chocolate covered blueberries. Sunscreen. I must carry at least twenty pounds more than I used to twenty years ago. To add on my list: Tiger Balm for sore shoulders.

Going backpacking solo for a week requires a healthy dose of masochism. The first few days the pack is heavy and my legs wobbly. As I grow stronger, paradoxically, the pack becomes lighter. This time, I feel pain on body parts I never even know existed.

Day Two

I am terrified of bears. Just before I left, our friend Phil lent me a book about them. I read it cover to cover. I now feel more knowledgeable and understanding, however, every bit of information in that book confirmed my deepest fears. I bought a bear-proof canister, but unfortunately, because of the dog food (really!), the food supplies don’t all fit in and have an extra bag I need to hang, at least for a couple of nights. I set my food bag by the book. It is beautiful; ten feet off the ground, five feet away from other branches. Just as the sun rose, we hear a loud ‘crack’, which made me believe a smart daring bear had successfully reached my stash. Méo and I get up, curious. The food is still hanging. We didn’t see any bears and haven’t yet figured out what made that loud noise.

After a night of rain and a too sudden premature rise, I decide to go back and lounge in the tent. Mesmerized by the rain drops, I also listen to Méo snoring louder and louder under my sleeping bag. I had invited him in during the night, as he sat up from his sleep, shivering of cold. Now I hear him snoring and his dog breath warms up my cheek. Tonight I will put his coat on just in case. I stretch, and try to get up. I feel sore muscles I hardly use any other time. The multitudes of all these new feelings of soreness make me feel old. Twenty years have gone by since my first solo outing in the wilderness. I thought back then that I had all the time in the world. Now I feel I am on a count down.

Traveling in the valleys translates into mud, lots of mud, like the wilderness-savvy Hardie warned me. At first, I patiently hop from rock to rock, or detour in the forest fighting against the branches, just to end up stepping in the mud anyways. I decide to make good use of my new gaiters and merrily swish through, ankle deep. I am the first one on the trail this morning as I undo the night’s work of hundreds of spiders criss-crossing the trail.

Life as I know it is left behind. There is just the now. I let the thoughts go by like clouds. Moving one step in front of the other, concentrating on my breath, trying to forget the burning between my shoulder blades.

At the end of the day, happily back into my sleeping bag, I write in my journal and vigilantly inscribe the day of the week on the top of the page to make sure I don’t forget when I need to be out and return to life. The moon sheds a mild light as I lay awake on my back, listening to the loons on the lake, the gushing sounds of the waterfall nearby, and my snoring dog who now farts deadly ones in my small tent.

Day Three

All morning, I keep repeating to myself somewhat in vain, “Never walk on wet roots or wet man-made structures”. As I set my foot on the planks laid across a severely wet section of the trail, I barely have time to put my weight and quickly end up on my back, stranded. I will never turn a turtle on its back for the fun of it. Not any more. After sinking elbow deep in the mud, I wonder if my watch is as waterproof as the small print on it claims and manage to get back on my feet. I now look at the boards with fierce resolve and proceed to cross, slowly.

When my thoughts have nowhere to go, with really nothing to attend to, they race in every direction, before settling down, usually by day four or five of a solo trip. When I do not have to be focused on my footsteps, I hear music and lyrics I didn’t even knew I knew, hear hits from the fifties, sixties, seventies and today, including TV show jingles such as Batman. I watch, in awe, the Niagara Falls of thoughts flowing in my mind and judge not. Some memories go by, some fears, some dreams, all flow steadily, between the moments where I need to be focused on the mud, which are now more frequents than those of free flowing thoughts.

When I see a nice big rock or the trunk of a fallen tree, waist-high, I rest my pack on it and relieve my back and shoulder of its weight. I learned this simple trick from the Nepalese, who carry on their backs more than their own weight and perfected the art of resting without taking their loads off by creating “rest spots” at the end of steep hills, hip high rock walls. I try to rest as often as I can or need.

Reaching my destination is not as important any more. Enjoying the journey in getting there is more significant. I like to savor the silence of the woods, the bubbly sound of the brook, the rain falling on the leaves of the trees high above.

Mud as become a conversation piece among the hikers I run into. On any given day, the usual trail questions are “How are you?” to “How far is…?” to “Is there anyone in the lean-to?”. Now the questions are “How is the condition of the trail ahead?” Mud. “And from where you came from?” Mud. “What about on the other side of the mountain?” Mud “A lot of mud??” Yes. Lots of M-U-D. Other times, there is the occasional comment, without a question, such as “I’ve never seen so much mud.” or “I can’t believe how much mud there is.” And mud there is, as it has rained almost daily this summer here. The soil is soaked and so are my boots now.

The mushrooms are blooming in every corner of the forest. They are short, tall, luminescent, red, purple, orange, brown, white, yellow, penis and umbrella-shaped. All kinds of mushrooms are thriving in this wet environment. I take pictures of them. When I get to the umbrella-shaped one, I notice that the camera’s battery is low. How many more photographs will I be able to take before it dies? One more thing to add on my list…

When I get to my camping spot, I take my load off and head out to the lake. Swimming at the end of a long backpacking day shaves the last five miles off my body. Feeling rejuvenated, I look forward to a hot meal and rest.

I turn my boots upside down and a small puddle forms under them… I have surrendered to the reality that my feet will be wet for the remaining of the trip, unfortunately.

With Méo, I don’t feel alone. I know he will alert me of the presence of others, humans or animals, and that fact comforts me. Truly alone, I can only rely on my limited senses. He also travels twice the distance as I do, going on off-trail excursions and terrorizing chipmunks. He is too small to carry a dog pack. I carry more than my share, as his food for a week adds up.

My senses are waking up by each passing day. The moist forest delivers a multitude of new scents and delicate aromas, some of which I am starting to identify. Today I thought I could smell rain. The forest bottom littered with pine needles has the sweetest smell of all. Shade and sun have different smells too. And mud, there is now and forever a very large imprint in my brain of the scent of mud. The hikers I cross who are fresh from civilization smell of soap, antiperspirants, and fabric softeners. Their smells linger for a long time. I don’t like it. They probably don’t like my smell either, which has grown steadily by day, despite rinsing off by day’s end my sweat and salt.

While eating dinner, I watch hummingbirds getting their very own, in a nearby wildflower patch. One by one they come, and sometimes argue over feeding territorial rights.

Day Four

My body finally surrendered to the task, as my pack got magically lighter, since half the food is already eaten (which helps). I have also started fantasizing about food I can actually chew. Dehydrated foods are lighter, but when they get re-hydrated, they tend to all end up with a similar texture: mushy. Baby food grows old after a few days. Today however, I am looking forward to lunch, as I am having the teriyaki beef jerky that Rich made and is the best I have ever tasted.

The dehydrated milk I brought to mix with my granola for breakfast is lumpy, despite doing my very best to mix it. This morning I decide to use hot water instead, in the hope that it will be easier to dilute. This is a big mistake. It is a lot worse. I miss my vanilla soymilk, enriched with calcium, and vitamins. I never drink cow’s milk. I don’t like it, except on the trail, which is better than mixing granola with water. My thoughts wander back to a week earlier, when I was shopping at my local health food store, where I had to choose between the organic and non-organic dehydrated cow’s milk. The organic one required the use of a blender, but not the non-organic. Or so they said. Frustrated, I skip the cereal and decide to eat the chocolate covered blueberries, even though they were meant for dessert after dinner.

Women are usually the ones asking me if I am alone. Men never ask. I usually answer that I have a trail companion, and point at Méo. In their eyes he doesn’t count for much though and do not see how much he makes a difference. He does. I have a being that I look after and who looks after me. We relate. Alone, you have no beings to relate to, except for the others you encounter on the trail. I have backpacked alone and it is very different. I went days sometimes without uttering a single word. I had only myself to be contented or discontent with. I don’t feel lonely in my solitude with Méo.

Of course I am alone, in the human being sense of aloneness. That is why I am so slow on the trail. I have no allowances for getting hurt. Every step counts. Every. I have noticed that the second I lose my focus, I slip or I miss a step, I get out of sync. I stop, breathe deeply and start again. It is a walking meditation.

Backpacking solo is about ownership. Owning which pace I go. When I stop. How long. How often. Owning each footstep, whether going up or down. Ownership of whether I decide to pursue or not, and why.

I have yet to figure out what is worse: Trying to avoid the mud by contouring it, thus increasing the erosion and compounding the problem, or walking straight into in, ankle deep and sometimes deeper. Undecided, I sometimes choose to walk through it, sometimes around it. Both require a lot of energy. My boots are so soaked that they now weigh five pounds each. The cold water swishing around my toes take an hour to warm up in the morning.

There are so many humans on this mountaintop tonight that I feel as if I am at a public campground. I long for solitude. Maybe tomorrow night?

Day Five

Twenty years ago, I used to get up with the sun and hit the trail by seven. Now I sleep in and let my laziness be. I can’t “get up and go” as it reminds me too much of my day-to-day life. I linger in the tent and savor it. I cuddle Méo and fall back asleep. This morning he fell back asleep before me, his head on my shoulder, his dog breath flowing in my neck, snoring. This is the closest to dog heaven he will ever get until he dies, I think.

The first time I became aware of backpacking as an activity, it was with my old boyfriend Melvin who had taken me for a day hike in the Green Mountains. On top of Mount Mansfield, the highest peak of Vermont, despite the rain, the clouds, and no views, I was hooked. A few weeks later, with my new hiking boots laced tightly, I hit the trail with my black Labrador, Hito, for what I thought would be a six-day adventure on the Long Trail, which runs through Vermont from Canada to Connecticut. By day three I was so enthralled that I took our last three-day worth of supplies and subdivided it in half so we could double the days of our journey . Needless to say, we got hungry and we both lost weight. Lots of weight. Although I vowed to bring enough food for a longer journey next time so I do not wake up in the middle of the night with my stomach growling, I loved every second of it.

For the next few years, I set out once every summer and backpacked in my beloved Greens of Vermont. These weeklong adventures prepared me well for a two-month journey into Nepal and Tibet. Then I got married, had children, and although I did manage to go out once during that time, it wasn’t until I got divorced that I got back out again few more times. I have kept the last 20 miles of the Long Trail to do with my kids, someday, I hope.

Now, being in the Adirondacks High Peaks Wilderness is a new adventure. There is a feeling of remoteness I longed for and am finding hard to get as a result of the multitude of others. I try to make room within myself for tolerance.

Every day after dinner, I bathe Méo to get rid of the mud he has up to his chin. He is a little dog, but he his holding his own. He has gotten used to the tempo by now. At first he would run everywhere. He has soon learned that we are here to stay for some time and is now following my footstep, going a lot slower than he is used to. After bathing him in the river, he shivers. I use his towel to absorb the water, and use a comb to untangle his hair of twigs, grass, and mud clumps. He enjoys this nightly ritual. Today we are in the sun, and he slowly stops shivering, relaxing as I put him on his back to clean up his belly. At night, I put on his blue coat. Little dogs can get away with wearing blue coats with light reflectors on them. At night, he is no longer “Toto, the trail dog”, but my very own little Méo, who snores.

The sun has set not long ago behind the mountain. Glimpses of dusk are lingering. Nightfall is different from a mountaintop. I am glad to be out of the valleys. The moon is setting also now, slowly. Some stars are beginning to appear. The night is still, the air is motionless, just the distant sound of the brook remains, which helped me shed fives miles just a little earlier.

I make myself comfortable. I take out my sleeping bag, position myself on my back so I can watch the stars come in one by one through the opening of the tent door. When was the last time I watched the rise of the night like this? I will have to remember to remember.

As I lay on my back, my very wet socks are hanging above my head on a makeshift clothesline inside my small tent, created with a glimmer of hope that they may dry, even just a bit. I just don’t understand why they smell so much. I am glad to be alone, with a dog who doesn’t mind my smells as I am learning to live with his, and is now sound asleep, snoring.

I read for a while and then shut off my headlamp. Total darkness now surrounds me. Millions of stars are shimmering. The Big Dipper is hanging over Mt. Colden, barely holding on. I feel like sleeping with my head outside the tent. Then I remember the entry in the log, in the nearby lean-to. Visits of bears have been nightly. I change my mind, regrettably.

Just as I am about to fall asleep, Méo wakes up and wants to go out. Nature calls, I suppose. I open the zipped door and he goes to his bowl to drink. A lot. He trots back in, trailing some mud from his paws, and goes back to sleep, snoring. I have always envied the guys’ bladder, and still do so now.

Day Six

I can see some sun touching the tent. I am delighted. This morning I will set out with my daypack to climb up Mt Colden and have some views of the High Peaks! I prepare breakfast and almost forget to use cold water, not hot, and leave the tent up so the morning dew can dry. I also don’t want to waste any time packing. With great anticipation that the sun’s warmth will make magic, I set up a clothesline between two trees and hang my soggy socks and the wet towels, mine and Méo’s. I sacrifice my only dry pair of socks, hoping that upon my return, the other one will be dry. I gather lunch food. I crave salt today, and am looking forward to eat my pistachio nuts on top.

This morning I am tired as I didn’t sleep so well last night. The clear night had brought some cool air and Méo was shivering, despite wearing his coat. I was not really warm enough myself to surrender part of my sleeping bag to him, so I instead let him sleep on my Gore-Tex pants in the hope that it would help him be warmer. It did.

As I begin my hike, I feel a new twinge in my left knee, the good one, and I wonder what it could be. I am worried. I walk slowly, very slowly. In fact, I am walking so slowly that any slower and I will be standing still. I am taking baby steps, waiting for my muscles to wake and warm up. I am focused on my knees. Have I been compensating with my good knee? Probably. Now I am vigilant to make sure I alternate the demands of the ups and downs, navigating around the mud and stepping onto logs. My head is looking down, at where I position my feet and poles. I am glad to be four legged.

When I finally pause, I look up and notice fog moving up quickly from the valley. By the time I am almost to the top, mashed potatoes surround the mountain. I am so disappointed that there will be no views that I stop, sit, and look at the map. I surrender my idea of going to the top and take out my pistachio nuts. Unsalted. I put them back in my bag and eat a granola bar instead.My spirit is strong, willing to continue with my journey two more days until the end of the week, but my body is tired. I assess my options. I decide to make my last day tomorrow and head back home.

I go back to camp and pack up. We have eaten most of the food and my backpack still feels heavy. It must be the 2.5 lbs of the bear-proof canister that I am carrying my food into. Or my growing list of “essentials”. Whatever it is, it weighs.

My socks are still very damp, but not wet anymore. Now I do not have any dry socks. I hate having wet or cold feet, let alone both simultaneously. I’ll have to add another item to my ever-expanding list.

I only have a few miles to go to the next lean-to, which is a good thing since I am moving slowly. I am not in a particular hurry either, which helps. I get to my second destination for the day, Lake Tear of the Clouds. Somehow in my imagination I created this image of a turquoise glacier-like lake, nested at the foot of giant Mt. Marcy. It is a very plain little gray lake, with no view of Marcy today. I take a picture nevertheless, my first one since my mushroom spree, so I can show my kids the farthest water source of the Hudson River watershed.

My last destination is in a gorge, at the feet of the Haystack Mountains. I am relieved to take my pack off. I read the logbook. There are too many nighttime bear activities to make me feel comfortable. Besides, I am finally alone, the only human around, and for several miles. All of a sudden, I am glad I have been carrying my newly purchased $80, 2.5 lbs bear proof canister.

As usual, I head out to the brook; wash Méo who doesn’t want to get in (smart dog). The water cascades into a hip deep pool, bottomed with huge polished rocks. I see myself sitting in this pool, washing away the day’s last five miles. I get in and as I walk slowly to the magical spot, my feet and calves get numb. I change my mind and rinse off quickly instead. I now understand why Méo gave me a dirty look and growled as I washed the mud off his belly.

I unpack. I hang my old wet socks. They are starting to rot. I hang my new wet socks, hoping they will not absorb the humidity that is filling in the air. As I prepare dinner, Méo bolts out suddenly and barks aggressively. I am hoping his wolf genes are not too far behind. After an hour of this dance, he finally sits back to relax. Meanwhile, I have gathered enough rocks to kill or maim a bear.

After reading for a while, legs up on the walls of the lean-to, I step inside the tent. My feet are cold. I put my gloves on my feet, carefully placing each toe inside each finger space. Suddenly, I am ten years old, putting my multicolored fashionable socks on, with individual placement for the toes. As I glimpse back into the seventies, I smile. My monkey-feet, albeit uncomfortable, are warmer now.

Méo keeps growling every now and then. At first, my breath would stop, my heart would race, and I’d look suspiciously towards the pitch black forest in fear. Now his growls comfort me. I know he is on high alert, so I don’t need to.

In the comfort of my den, I feel safe. Although a mere layer of nylon separates me from the outside world, here is my haven. I have positioned the rocks outside the door and a pole, just in case. Whatever happens happens.

I hear the brook far below, smell the moisture in the air. I am subdued to the fact that it will be raining again tonight and possibly tomorrow.

This is my last night. I am finally all alone in this gorge with no one around for miles. I like the feeling of remoteness. I will have to come back in the winter, when humans (and bears) hibernate.

I have found what I wanted. I am ready to go home.

© 2005-2012 Myriam

The Death of Dartagnan

2004-12-28T20:28:00.003-05:00

THE NEWS TO HIM
Friday, October 3, 1997

Claude has recently decided to let his hair be the natural gray it had been for over thirty years. He has also taken on drinking cappuccino, which he vigilantly prepares every morning for himself and his partner of four years, Françoise. This morning, as he goes through his morning routine, he looks at the clock incessantly. When 9 AM comes, he has to call the hospital and get the results of the tests he has taken last Monday.

He gets his diagnosis: Carcinoma of the soft tissues, a very aggressive, malignant cancer. Today is his 64th birthday. With Françoise, they cry in each other's arms all day long. They had both retired and bought a house in the country to move into, just a week before. The news crumbles their dreams.

THE NEWS TO ME
Monday, October 13

I am hit by an avalanche. The weight covers every inch of my body. I am cold. The sudden silence is pounding in my ears. My breath is still. As I hang up the phone, my mind starts racing. I can't even hear myself think; a tornado has caught up with me.

I make my way to the kitchen where Rich is waiting for me. "My father has cancer", I hear myself say. As his arms embrace my body, my heart melts away, surrenders to my tears. His words, "I know how it feels, I've been there", echo softly and soothe my pain. His soft red beard brush against my cheek and comforts me.

The next day I call Mary, my mentor at the college. "I am quitting. I can't stand the pressure, I can't do this", I explain to her. "Family, work, school, getting divorced, and now with my father's illness, it is too much for me right now", I tell her. There is a short silence, the one where thoughts are weighed because as words they will have an impact. You can't, she answers. "You can't quit, you can't quit now. Remember that there will be
the before, the during and the after, and nobody knows how long any of these will last. You will have to learn to deal with it and move on with your life, through it all." I hang up. She is right, but the plain truth is hard to accept.

A DIFFICULT FALL
October - November

The alarm goes off. The moon is still out, a small but distinct crescent on the horizon, just below the Orion Belt. As I step out of bed, the chill of the morning slowly wakes me up. I turn on the stove and make myself a cup of Wild Berry Zinger tea. I sit at my desk and ponder, again, about the night that just went by and the dreams that accompanied it. I shake my head and begin to work. There's nothing like Statistical Inference to start the day at 5 AM.

At 6:30, I wake up Ilan. His sleepy face surrounded by his tousled hair tells me he would rather stay in bed. Daily routine obliges, so he gets up, puts on his favorite jeans (the ones with both knees torn out), eats his Cheerios with vanilla soymilk and practices violin. As he heads down the driveway to catch the school bus, Leah, the first day care child arrives and plays with Naomi, who just came down the stairs.

At 9, Cathy arrives to relieve me from the day care duties. The seven children run around with glee. Unlike me, they have had a full night of sleep. I retire to my office to continue some Statistics. I try, somewhat unsuccessfully, to tune out the kids' squeals and concentrate on today's homework. I am distracted. Images of my dreams haunt me.

At lunchtime, I take a leave from my haven to prepare the meal for everybody. Food has no appeal to me these days. I eat because I need the fuel, but taste nothing. Cathy has been noticing the half helpings I serve myself and tries, to no avail, to motivate me in getting seconds.

It is 1 PM, Cathy has just left and the children are down for naptime. I inhale the silence that permeates the house. More homework interrupted by memories of my dreams, which I've had recurring all week. I dream of my father, shriveling in his hospital bed, aging so fast, death crawling under his skin, his bald white head pulsating with blue veins, his eyes, dark and deep. And then I wake up, and stay up for hours as I reflect on Claude's illness, on what it means for me to lose my father as I divorce his carbon copy: two men that I have rejected lately because of the abuse I have decided not to bear anymore by either one. I also ponder on life's futility, on Zen and the art of living and dying and of how to slow down the train of my life so I can catch my breath and assimilate all of what this means yet I can't slow down because I can't.

As the afternoon comes to an end, I wake the kids up, serve snack, and welcome Ilan back from school. As the parents pick-up their child one by one, some notice my weary eyes and offer words of support.

At dinner, as we sit around the table, I feel fortunate to have these three wonderful beings sharing my daily life. They are so buoyant, loving, beaming. I thank God to grant me this day and ability to appreciate Rich, for his generosity, love and outstanding support; Naomi, for her genuine affection and tender heart and Ilan, for his sensitivity and presence.

As I hand out bath toys to Ilan and Naomi, my body screams for a respite. It has been a long day. When I cuddle Naomi to sleep, I almost fall asleep myself. I sluggishly step out of the children's room, go downstairs to start a load of laundry. As Rich practices guitar in the living room, I try to get a hold of Linda, my sister, who lives in San Francisco, with whom I have daily contacts. Either she or I call the hospital every day to gather some news and then we share the news to the other.

From the start I have had this ominous feeling that Claude would not make it. Yet Linda is hopeful, although signs of fast deterioration are obvious. Bernard, the oldest of the family, is the only one who lives in Montreal and gets a chance to visit him as he wishes. He sees the decrepitude. He says I won't recognize him, especially since his hair fell out because of chemotherapy. But I tell him, "I see him in my dreams, I visit him every night."

My body slouched on the sofa, I listen to one of Bach's suite for guitar played by Rich. The minutes, the seconds are still. The time warp of the day comes to a halt. My eyelids are heavy, so I go run a bath. The bubbles feel soft; the honeysuckle smell tickles my nostrils. The candlelight dances on the wall. As the cells of my body soak in the heat, my mind races, as I try to sort through the labyrinths of my life.

The covers up to my chin, the sweet smell of the snow comes in from the open windows. I snuggle up on Rich's shoulder and fall fast asleep. "Maman! Maman!" Naomi calls for me. I wake up from a very vivid dream and walk to her room to see what it is going to be tonight. The covers are off and she is cold. I am hopeful that tonight I might be able to sleep better than the night before, where she woke up every hour altering between her fears of monsters and cramps in her legs. As I slip back under the sheets, trying not to wake up Rich, I look at the clock: 2:43 AM. Good, maybe I can sleep another two hour before my alarm goes off.

The images of my dream keep turning in my head on replay mode. In this dream, I arrive very late at my friend's Eliane's house for lodging and am told by my sleepy host to use the guest room, at the end of the hallway, on the right. As I enter the bedroom, there is my father, sitting at the desk, his back to me. As I approach, he turns to greet me and he is himself, only what he used to look like three months ago. He gentlemanly offers me the chair and sits on the bed, facing me. As I start talking to him, I am rather distressed because I know that it is only an illusion, an image of what he used to be. I begin telling him about my discomfort. I begin sharing with him that I think his difficulty to welcome us now that he is on his death bed is related to the fact that he doesn't want to be seen like this. I have over thirty years of memories to cherish and want to be with you during this difficult transition time. As my voice echoes in the stillness of the night, his body starts to shrivel down until the state that he is now, a bald cadaver, waiting for its last breath.

As the seconds and the minutes and the hours go by, I am completely absorbed by the images of my dream and how they ring so true. He does not want to be seen like this, completely vulnerable, helpless.

TALK WITH THE DOCTOR
Thursday, November 20

Dr. Hings and I have had one phone conversation at the beginning of the month, when I asked her to give me honest answers about my father's diagnosis, treatment and prognostic. This time I am calling her because Claude has been going downhill really fast in the last week and I am beginning to think that the end is sooner than anticipated.

"Yes", she says, "I thought it would be a matter of months before your father dies, but now I am more certain that it will be within few weeks." "Have you mentioned this to Claude?" I ask. Dr. Hing replies, "Not yet, because until now there was still hope that the treatments would slow down the cancer, but because of his pneumonia, we weren't able to do anything." Worried that he's not getting all the support he actually needs, I ask, "As anyone talked to him about death?" "No", she confesses. I am worried that my father will die wrapped up in his fear of death. Mortality has been a taboo subject for my father for as long as I can remember and I feel it is needed to be addressed at this time. The next day, Dr. Hings talks with Claude about his imminent death. As Claude listens, tears run down his cheeks.

DEATH AS SALVATION
Sunday, November 24

Just after dinner, as Dr. Hings does her last round, she tells Claude that it will be a matter of days before he dies. The reality is harsh but he chooses to open his arms. "I want to see everyone I know and say my final Good Bye", he answers, to everyone's astonishment.

For the next two days, a train of people pass and receive a message, come out teary knowing that they will never see him again. "I am dying", he would say, looking deep into their eyes. "It is time for me to leave and go meet my mother."

My father had lost his mother of tuberculosis when he was four years old. He always felt her presence and throughout his life, held firmly to her picture in his wallet. He was sent to an orphanage in La Malbaie, overlooking the St.-Lawrence River and hated it. He was given a boiled onion to eat at every meal, to strengthen the immune system, the Brothers would say. Until this day, he resented eating onions and would tell us of orphanage stories as soon as a bite of onion would mistakenly end up in his plate.

My mother, Thérèse, Claude's wife of 40 years, got to meet Françoise for the first time. The exchange was cordial, but tense, as they both were saying their farewell to the man they both passionately loved, one in the past, the other in the present.

COME NOW
Tuesday, November 25

It is 2 PM. I receive a call. Linda who flew to Montreal from San Francisco that morning tells me that I should come fast because he is not doing well at all. I had planned to leave the next morning, because I had to organize and prepare the day care for the days I was going to be absent, but the adrenaline kicked in and was through getting everything ready by 6. Rich cared for my children that evening and opened the daycare the next morning until my assistant showed up. He did so, very generously. I feel overwhelmed by the pace of the events. I am so grateful to have Rich in my life, who genuinely offers unconditional support: a lesson for me who needs to learn how to receive.

On the way up north, I beat my own record in driving time from New Paltz to Montreal. I am trapped in my fear of arriving too late and wish to be there already. I get to the hospital and jump into Françoise's arms who collapse. "I'm so glad you made it on time; I was so afraid that you would not see him before he died. Everything has been going so fast, so fast," she says, weepy.

We spent a couple of hours talking about anything and everything, got to know the woman with whom my father had decided to spent the last years of his life. He had kept his relationship completely private. He didn't want to let anyone between the two of them.

HUMOR, INSIGHTFULNESS AND ANGELS
Wednesday, November 26

From his hospital room on the 17th floor, the cars below look like toys. The town, the air, the rooftops, all is white with snow. The busy-ness of the city is hustling.

Claude wakes up. After a few moments, he gathers his senses, looks my way, his gaze into mine. "Myriam, you have arrived", he softly says, with a smile. I hug him and rub his bare head.

We talk. I share with him childhood memories. I tell him that every time I grab sandpaper, contact glue, a Phillips screwdriver or the circular saw, I see images of him, I hear his voice. I tell him that now, when I do work around the house, Ilan is my helper. He smiles.

He doesn't want to eat anymore; only a bite here and there to soothe the stomach, but no more. He soon falls asleep for his morning nap and I sit next to his bed. His right shoulder is nested in my hand, like a small orange. His other shoulder, with the cantaloupe-size tumor, is pulsating with blue veins. My hand holds his small, muscleless hand. The cancer-ridden arm and hand are swollen, the tumor restricting the circulation.

After his nap he requests that the visits be limited to his children and Françoise, only. He wants us in the room. "I am ready to leave", he tells us, "make a circle around the bed and hold hands." We close our eyes. A cylinder of light descends over the bed. Northern lights-like beams dance within the cylinder. Claude's invisible double is standing, ready to go. Claude's physical body wakes up and says, "I have to get up, I have to stand, I have to go now!" "Claude, you are paralyzed, you cannot get up", Linda answers. "It is so beautiful, it is so beautiful, I cannot believe I am back", he mutters.

After a short coffee break for all, we gather back and sit down again, he has a message for each one of us and for his grandchildren. He tells Françoise to live her life, to live it now, to continue and move on. "Remember Françoise that you get to choose", he says, with a smirk. We look at each other, this is an inside story between Claude and Françoise that is drawn forth as we learn that when they met, another man was courting her and she chose Claude.

When Linda's turn comes up, she says, "We do not have a grandchild for you to give a message, but as you know, we have been trying hard to conceive a child for the past two years. When you go to the other side, can you look around and see if there is a little cherub ready to come down?" "I will make it my utmost priority", he answers, looking deep into her eyes, "but you will first have to give me a few days."

There isn't one pair of eyes that is dry in the room. He asks us not to cry, not to be sad. "But we are moved by what you have told each one of us, can we be inspired by your strength and courage and beauty?" I ask, teary. He whispers, "Yes, in this case, it is okay then... but you know, I have some flaws that I have tried to hide from all, throughout my life, but they are there, you know, and..." I interrupt, "Are you trying to tell us that you are not perfect?" Everyone laughs. My father has always tried to pretend that he was above it all, in all circumstances, and now he surrenders to his humanity. I am moved by his lucidity, his egolessness. Where is the father that I have known, the rage-aholic, arrogant, self-sufficient, egocentric man?

We get quiet again and close our eyes. Two small angels are behind his back, pulling and tagging, trying to help him leave. Claude wakes up, "My back hurts", he says. The two little angels stop, disheartened, look at each other and leave.

"I am getting too much love from all of you now, I can't leave", he says. "But the love was always there, Claude, only now, you are able to receive it", I say, as his eyes water up.

We are asked to leave, he wants to spend some quiet time with Françoise now.

IT'S QUIET TIME
Thursday, November 27

Françoise has been alone with Claude since the day before. Linda expresses her concerns that it isn't probably favorable to leave her alone like that for so long. Minutes later, Françoise shows up and tells us that Claude doesn't want her to be alone anymore. As his children, we take turns, one at a time, so as not to clutter the room.

At times Claude wakes up, whimpering because of the pain. He mutters, "I cannot complain, I cannot complain, there are many worse than I, many." "But you now belong to those Claude, you are among the worst", I interject. "No, there are many more worse than I, those who are alone, suffering, those in Third World countries who are abandoned, political prisoners, who are tortured, they are all worse than me", he says. Nothing comes out of my mouth. I am completely absorbed by the words he just said, by the unsettling truth they carry.

At times he wakes up, his gaze filled with apprehension, "What if I go to the wrong place?" he asks. "You are going to go to a beautiful place, you will meet your mother, Napoleon, Alice, Gigi (and party 'till midnight again), Roland (and tease him 'till eternity) and others you do not know", I answer.

Lunch arrives and Claude wants to taste some chocolate pudding. After his first spoonful, his eyes get wide and large and he says, gleefully, "This is good!" After many more, and many more of the same joy of tasting, he says, "I have to stop eating this or I will never want to leave this place!"

During his afternoon nap, I listen to his breathing, my hand rubbing his bare head. I comment to Françoise about my amazement as to how Claude has learned, through his relationship with her, to live the present moment and enjoy the little pleasures of life. She is surprise, for she has always known him that way. She adds that he, from the time they have met, has sent her love letters, notes, faxes, E-mail, every day, and that she has kept them all. Claude was the one noticing the color of the clouds, the smell of the wet leaves in the forest, the chirps of the Robins. I am glad he has been able to experience the present moment. I am sad it took him so long to do so.

Françoise asks her son Frederick to go look for her Jeep, which has been parked on the street for five days already. He comes back with bad news; the Jeep is gone, stolen. Françoise's response was typical of her non-attachment to the material things. She felt it was one less thing to be bothered with and was relieved. Just the night before, she and Claude had talked about how selling the Jeep for a smaller car was going to be more practical for her. Now she didn't have to sell the Jeep. The Great Architect had taken care of all that.

Later that day, during a lull, I take my pen and start scribbling notes in my notebook, when, out of nowhere, I hear a melody and words of a song. I write it down. It is my first song and it is dedicated to Claude.

LAST CONVERSATIONS
Friday, November 26

He almost doesn't talk anymore, just some short conversations here and there. I would like to go walk in the woods one more time, he tells Linda. You miss the forest? she asks. He nods and his eyes fill up. I need a gun, he says to Linda. You mean, you need a gun to make a whole in your stomach and get rid of all of these painful gases? I need a gun for that and more, he answers, with a look that had much to tell.

Too soon, too late, were among his last words. Too soon to die, too late to conquer the illness.

HIS LAST WORDS
Sunday, November 30

When he woke up this morning, death was lingering next to his right shoulder, waiting for its entry in the script of Claude's life. My father's eyes were farther than ever, mildly glossy, gone but yet still there. "What time is it?" he asks. "Noon." "I will be leaving at 2." Then revised himself and added, "At around 2." He then fell deep asleep never to wake up again.

THE COMA
Monday, December 1

I am in his room. The oxygen is hissing. His breathing is shallow but steady. I am alone. I talked with him before. Told him that he had been a great dad, although our relationship was far from perfect. Told him all the things that I learned through him. That if you do something, try to do it right, do your best at all times. This taught me to seek quality in things and in people. Told him how he had inspired me all my life to seek to fulfill my deepest dreams. To have dreams was important, but to fulfill one's dreams was even more so. He taught me how to trust my destiny, that things happen when they happen and that we have to surrender to those. Told him about the letter I sent him in September, when he didn't know he had cancer. Such a bad timing, I thought, to send him a missive about our unfinished businesses. On the other hand, would I have known about his illness, I would have never sent it. I am happy that he has received that letter but wonder how it would have been differently without it also.

I am sitting here writing all this on Linda's laptop. How strange. His body is letting go of life by the minute and I am here writing about it. His feet are now cold, his legs, mildly blue. Everyone is ready to see him go now. Even Françoise is ready. She has packed the whole room this afternoon. Everything. The gray bags are sitting next to the door, waiting to be taken back home. It has been seven weeks since they were first unpacked. It has been a long journey. The wait is long but necessary. I wouldn't want to be anywhere else right now. Of course my life is calling, all those responsibilities are waiting for me. I came to be relatively at peace with myself: I am not indispensable. The world can continue without me.

The electric razor we had just bought him is useless now. Bernard, my brother who always wore a beard until recently, is now the new owner. He warmly takes the razor in his hands, turns it around and sees our father through it. He looks up at me and looks down back at the razor. A mild discomfort passes through his body, as in, will I be able to actually use it?

THE MORNING OF HIS DEATH
Tuesday, December 2

I walk into the room only to find him still breathing and alive. I stare at him, somewhat discouraged as to how long he's been hanging on. I look at Françoise who starts to giggle and I join too. "Better laugh than cry", I comment. My father is an athlete: skied, played tennis, racquetball, hiked, all his life. His body is programmed to live, fight, survive. He is not going to let go like that.

Everyone believes that he will choose to leave his body and this world when he feels his lover is ready. He has been waiting for days already, but he his patient, for his love for her is greater and more passionate than anyone has ever seen him experience before. Until he fell into a coma, his gaze into her eyes was deep and meaningful for the love they have for each other has no bounds. The passion and intimacy they share are almost painful to watch because it is ending.

I can't help but to tell Françoise that she has to start getting out of his room. It had been at least three weeks since she has last ventured out of the hospital and only for few seldom hours when done so before that. "But I am so comfortable here!" is her reply to my request. "This is part of the problem", I answer. "But I have promised to stay by his side no matter what!" is the defense. It has been almost two months since they first ventured through these doors, creating a new love nest, sheltered from the outside world. I suggest, "Well, let's ask him for a clear sign that he grants you permission to move on with your life." I get a blank look. Claude has not flinched out of his coma for two days already. I talk loud enough for him to hear me. I know he can hear me. I have sung to him the day before the song that I wrote for him and his breathing changed. Every time someone talks to him, his response is a more rapid short inhale, followed by a similar exhale. I know he understands what is going on around him. I add that if he wants her to resume her life, let's ask him to give a clear sign today that he approves fully of it. Another blank look followed by a shy, incredulous nod.

The hospital is nested on the slope of the Mont-Royal Mountain. From the window, we can see some people cross-country skiing or horseback riding. All morning Rich is looking at a small field, observing the type of snow, examining its texture for a cross-country ski ride he is planning for the next day.

From the time Claude was asked to give a clear sign to Françoise, two hours has gone by. It has been a long wait. It has been a long week. It has been a long seven weeks. Françoise is alone in the room now. She sits by his bedside and lovingly talks to him. She reviews all the promises they have talked about during the previous days. She tells him how much she loves him and how soon he will be set to explore a new freedom. It is Tuesday, December 2, 1 PM, she tells him. His breathing starts to change, his fingers and hands are slowly turning blue. This is it! He is leaving!

Everyone waiting in the other room is called to come passively support him in his departure. I reach Bernard on his cellular phone. He is moving out of the apartment he has been living in for over a decade and starting a new life, apart from his partner of 17 years. "He is taking his last breaths", I tell him. Claude indeed is taking is very last breaths, very softly, slowly, effortlessly. As life leaves his body, so do the colors. His skin is very slowly turning gray. As we cry, we continue talking to him, wishing him a wonderful journey, a new life, a new beginning. Through her tears, Françoise kisses him and tells him I love you, I love you, my love, have a great journey, I love you, my love, I love you, I miss you already, I love you, my love, I love you.

I sing him my song and wish him a good journey.

CHANSON POUR CLAUDE / SONG FOR CLAUDE
pendant le cours de ta vie / during the course of your life
tu nous as tous légué / you have passed on to us
une belle passion de vivre / a beautiful passion for life
ta belle passion de vivre / your beautiful passion for life

pendant le cours de ta mort / during the course of your death
tu as semé en nous / you have strewn in us
lumière, beauté et espoir / light, beauty and hope
un beau cadeau d'amour / a beautiful gift of love

tu as vécu ta vie /you have lived your life
en guerrier, en Dartagnan / as a warrior, as Dartagnan
en amoureux, en passioné / as a lover, a passionate
tu l'as vécu ta vie / you will have lived your life

tu as vécu ta mort / you have lived your death
en guerrier, en Dartagnan / as a warrior, as Dartagnan
en amoureux, en passioné / as a lover, a passionate
tu l'as vécu ta mort / you will have lived your death

merci Claude, merci / thank you Claude, thank you
d'être parti ainsi / to have left as such
d'être venu vivre ta vie / to have come to live your life

I call Bernard again and tell him that Claude has just died. There is a silence. "The movers have just rung the doorbell goddammit", I hear him mutter. "We'll talk later", he tells me, as he exhales his cigarette puff.

Rich, looking out the window, turns to me, white as a sheet. "Come and see this!" My jaw drops. In the snowfield are now inscribed, by someone's footsteps, twenty feet long letters that spell FREEDOM. This wasn't there 20 minutes ago.

AFTER HIS DEATH
Tuesday, Dec. 2

I call Ilan to see how he is doing. It has been a week since I last saw him. "How was school today?" I ask. "Good", he replies. After a brief pause, he asks , "Is Pappy dead?" "Do you want to know the truth?" "Yes." "He passed away a few hours ago", wondering if he's too young for this. Silence. "When are you coming back?" I hear him say. "In a few days." "It has been a long time, I miss you." "I miss you too, Ilan. Do you know where Pappy went?" "Yes, he went somewhere called Heaven, all the way at the other end of the Universe."

As I wander around in his apartment during the reception, I notice his motorcycle helmets in the closet. His favorite, for long journeys, has "Je t'aime" scribbled with a silver marker on the back so that Françoise is reminded of his love for her as they ride together. His clothing, permeated with his smell and memories of warmth, will never be worn by him again and just hang, waiting for another destiny.

I glance at the calendar hanging on the kitchen wall. His tight handwriting is everywhere, a reminder of his habit of putting all kinds of events on it for the record. First motorcycle ride, April 4. Myriam's visit with kids, May 28. Their five week long motorcycle trip's destinations are scattered throughout July and August. His last inscription is October 18, just days before his hospital departure. The rest of the month and of the year is blank.

Françoise makes us listen the last message he has left for her on the answering machine, telling her how much he loves her, misses her, how much time passes too slowly without her. Hearing his voice makes me fall deep in to the sorrow of my loss, of my grief for the father I once had and that is gone, forever.

Just before he died, Claude promised Françoise that he would give her a clear sign of his presence next to her after his death. The first night she is back in their apartment, she is woken up by the halogen lamp at the other end of the bedroom. It is shining its full 300 watts. After a few seconds of assessment and confusion, Françoise keeps watching. The light starts to dance, going down and up and up and down, fast and slow. After its ten-minute choreography, it stops. She wakes up her son Frederick to tell him about this most incredible thing that had just happened. He shakes his head, my mother is going nuts, he thinks. Then the light lit again and performed another dance, just as unique, unsettling and beautiful. Frederick did not go back to sleep that night, neither did Françoise, but for different reasons: he, out of sheer fear and amazement at the phenomenon; she, out of pleasure to know that he had shown her that he was there, right next to her.

THE AFTERMATH

The week after he died, after a two-year effort in filling up my day care, two families called, each with two sons, each looking for full-time openings. Filling up the day care for me is the equivalent of stepping out of a financial rut I was trapped in for over two years.

Five days after Claude passed away, Linda was ovulating and got pregnant of her first child.

Sometimes, as I ponder about all of these events, I wonder if they really happened, if they were real. I do not like the thought of the impermanence of all living things, here today, gone tomorrow, yet it is my lifeline.

ONE YEAR LATER: A LETTER TO CLAUDE
December 2, 1998

I am nostalgic. Reminiscences of my life with you, of moments spent together, sprout up unevenly. I have felt your absence this year. Even though we didn’t share much in the last few years, I miss our phone calls and sporadic dinners.

When you died, the mourning came in spurts. The weeks following your departure were empty of your presence yet filled with chagrin. Every time I laid down my eyes on something that reminded me of you, sadness filled my heart. Writing my experience of my last week spent with you was a catharsis. Again, thank you for having let me be part of this moment.

Every time I sing your song, I cry. The kids do not want to hear it anymore: they dubbed it “The Song That Makes Us Cry.” Naomi still talks about you. When our rabbit died at the end of the summer, she fell apart. She kept crying and saying, “Loosing Papy and Hopper the same year is too much to bear.” Standing strong and tall on her four and a half years of life, she understands pain better than others ten times her age.

You come into my dreams again, only once in a while. What is most striking is your smell. I can smell you when you come in my dreams: the sweetness of your cologne mixed with the salt of your sweat; it permeates my nostrils until I wake up. Only then do I realize how much I miss you, you and all of your imperfections, you with your temper, your last word. You come in my dreams and talk and I can hear your voice too. When I wake up, I remember your accent, from all the way up North, an accent I cannot duplicate.

We buried your ashes exactly five months after your departure. Linda, Bernard and I made our own little ritual and it felt like you had just passed away, again, the day before. We relived your death a second time around and it was not a party.

When you took your last breath, I saw the last breath of all of humanity: the unavoidable destiny of mankind. As an ineffable moment of stillness, this last breath makes us One. Wherever we come from, from any place on Earth, there will always be, at some point, a last breath. When you took yours, this is what I saw. This image that comes and goes is a reminder of my finiteness, of everyone's finiteness.

When I think of you, I am reminded of where I come from. When I see your last breath, I am reminded of where I am going, ultimately, whatever road I take. As I think about my own death, I appreciate life for what it has to offer, for all the little things, which it is made up of, and I am grateful. Thank you for having passed along such a gift.

© 2004-2012 Myriam