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haylanmakesstuff · 2 years

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Day 36

While still at Olympic I earned a special badge, Olympic Ocean Steward. This badge is dedicated to Mary Finley, and to any anonymous donors who are strangers to me. You may have seen my story shared by a mutual friend, or found me through EDS/HSD hashtags, but it takes a sincere type of kindness to put your hard-earned money towards someone you don’t know asking you to donate for a rare disorder, fundraiser, charity of any kind. Thank you.

Today we got up very early in order to make it into the Hurricane Ridge area. This is usually the most popular part of the park, and I also knew there were road closures, so we were sure to go early and on a weekday; the best way to see the parks when they are less crowded, but also to leave less impact as a visitor to these busy places. I mean, look how serious I am, with this view in my pajamas.

It worked; we waited just about 10 min or so to get in and there was lots of parking. We walked some of the paved trails in this area; far flung views of snowy topped mountains, wildflowers still in bloom, and on the other side of the ridge we were treated with the San Juan Islands, and Canada across the sea.

Even though it was “less crowded” for a weekday, we found ourselves wanting to get off the beaten path some. Just outside of the parking lot there is a dirt road called Devastation Road; although I couldn’t find out why it has such a gnarly name, it looked like it was going to have stellar views. There were definitely less people in general, and we were right about it being beautiful. At the end of the road, we had a little picnic for lunch. I also proved that Husbands clothes are all so big I can fashion anything into fully, warm pants for the gusty chilly winds. Did I have my own in the car? Yes. Is it more fun to do this? Yes.

Instead of choosing a hike in the pretty alpine area at the end of the road full of cars, we opted to go to a hike we had seen on the way in that had just one car at the trailhead. The sign at PJ lake had said it was only .9 miles, and I had remembered from reading that it was 600 feet of elevation loss/gain. But we wanted to hike, and I was feeling surprisingly good today. The lovely weather on most of this trip has made me suspicious that my condition is definitely exacerbated by the Texas heat and humidity. You see, I hadn’t experienced a regular Texas summer since I started working seasonally in some capacity in 2013. In 2016 I was in Big Bend Country, and that may as well be another state, the humidity is so low, and the elevation was high. When the pandemic struck in 2020, I didn’t take a seasonal job and was immediately reminded how utterly terrible summer is at home. Did working in Hawaii, Wyoming, and Oregon all those years delay my diagnosis? I’m thinking so.

We met the hikers in the single car at the trailhead just a few hundred yards into the trail. They were kind of wrecked, but very friendly. We chatted for a few moments and then we had the whole trail and lake to ourselves. I could not be more grateful that I was feeling so well, because this hike would have absolutely ruined me otherwise. In fact, although it was short, this was definitely one of the harder hikes I’ve done on this trip. Some of it was so steep that I was shocked the National Park Service even designed and maintains it as an actual trail. It was clearly built for the use of mountain goats. But, great weather, beautiful scenery, no humans, we put on our mountain goat suits. A nice surprise and reward was this magnificent waterfall! I’ll call it Knee Breaker Falls.

The lake was just uphill of the falls and was totally worth all the careful scooting downhill we did.

We could see trout all throughout the clear water, jumping up to feast on bugs constantly. Late season fireweed still bloomed on the banks, crowded by pine trees and flotsam. A fairytale waterfall trickled down a cliffside.

It feels weird to say that the way down was the easy part, but I really, really hate uphill hikes. It is so hard for me, and really always have been. I am glad to understand *why* better now, but I was worried since this was going to be extreme. And here is the real surprise: I did…great! What the heck happened!? Was I fueled by natures beauty, or maybe the negative energy of park visitors? The last time I did this well on a hike, and I am not kidding, was probably 2012. That’s the last year I remember hiking feeling like “myself” without struggle. What was special about today? It’s the perfect mix of fitness, sleep, food, everything, that you can’t ever do on purpose. You can’t copy it, you can’t make it happen. What a rare and special thing this hike was. To get to the top of a difficult hike, even if it’s only 9/10 of a mile, and feel…fine. I’ve had more trouble walking to the bathroom at my house than this hike. I might be dreaming.

Given the fantastical situation, we thought we’d play our luck and see if we could still get into the Sol Duc Hot Springs Resort, still in the park but over an hour away. We did! Luckily it was outside, and we got to soak for an hour. It was almost too much for me with a heat sensitivity and I wasn’t even in the hottest pool. The A+ ranger at the fee booth gave us the heads up that the salmon had just started heading up the Sol Duc River earlier that day, so we thought we’d test our luck again by going to look. And don’t ya know it, there they were. Shiny and determined fish driven by instinct, amazing sensory perception, and probably insanity, flinging themselves up torrential waterfalls like their life depends on it. Ironic, since after they make it and complete fertilization, they will fall apart and die.

Do you know how hard it is to get a picture of jumping salmon at dusk? Harder than getting a photo of a Junior Ranger Badge in a cave!

They were mostly terrible at it, and in about an hour we only saw 1 salmon that made it up one tier of the falls. There was one who failed so spectacularly, its whole body wacked against the rock, sounding just like a clown hitting an unsuspecting circus visitor in the face with a dead fish.

This is the only river where salmon spawn almost every season; at least 4 different types of salmon come from the ocean up the Sol Duc, and each species at a different season. How lucky were we!

My favorite thing I learned, that seems almost magical, is that these fish have so much delightful nitrogen in their bodies when they die, it released a super-charged amount into the forest and animals, making rich and fast growth. The cycle of life is pumped up to the extreme in these areas because of these salmon that use memories and chemical signals to make their way miles from the ocean back to where they were born, to keep an amazing cycle of life going.

We finished our evening with a picnic in the dark before heading home. This was one of the best and most memorable days of my trip so far. Not only did we see and do so many amazing things, but to have the rare day of clarity and little pain is one of the most valuable things in the entire world. Getting to experience this with my best Husband friend is so meaningful, it’s beyond words.

Haylan

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brightgnosis · 14 days

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Disabled Hikers: Outdoor Hikes and Guides Made by and for People with Disabilities by Ali Berman via the Bird Alliance of Oregon

#Disabled Hikers: Outdoor Hikes and Guides Made by and for People with Disabilities #Ali Berman #Bird Alliance of Oregon #Natural Connections #Bookshelf #Tumblr Staff Has Ruined Links Now And I Hate Them For It

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wolfwind20 · 2 years

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Waterproof camera Silver Glen Springs part 3

#underwater photography #waterproof camera #silver glen springs #disabled photographer #disabled hiker #disabled artist

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dissonantpapersouls · 2 months

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View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Mandy Horvath (@mountaingnome0.5)

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#disabilties #disability #disabled women #disabled rights #disabled representation #amputee #hiker #Instagram

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jadevine · 4 months

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Preindustrial travel, and long explanations on why different distances are like that

Update March 1, 2024: Hey there folks, here's yet another update! I reposted Part 2a (the "medieval warhorses" tangent) to my writing blog, and I went down MORE of the horse-knowledge rabbit hole! https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/741423906984951808/my-post-got-cut-off-so-i-added-the-rest-of-it Update Jan 30, 2024: Hey folks, I've posted the updated version of this post on my blog, so I don't have to keep frantically telling everyone "hey, that's the old version of this post!" https://thebalangay.wordpress.com/2024/01/29/preindustrial-travel-times-part-1/

I should get the posts about army travel times and camp followers reformatted and posted to my blog around the end of the week, so I'll filter through my extremely tangled thread for them.

Part 2 - Preindustrial ARMY travel times: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/739342239113871360/now-for-a-key-aspect-that-many-people-often-ask

Part 2a - How realistic warhorses look and act, because the myth of "all knights were mounted on huge clunky draft horses" just refuses to die: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/732043691180605440/helpful-things-for-action-writers-to-remember

Part 3 - Additional note about camp followers being regular workers AND sex-workers: https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/740604203134828544/reblogging-the-time-looped-version-of-my

I saw a post on my main blog about how hiking groups need to keep pace with their slowest member, but many hikers mistakenly think that the point of hiking is "get from Point A to Point B as fast as possible" instead of "spending time outdoors in nature with friends," and then they complain that a new/less-experienced/sick/disabled hiker is spoiling their time-frame by constantly needing breaks, or huffing and puffing to catch up.

I run into a related question of "how long does it take to travel from Point A to Point B on horseback?" a lot, as a fantasy writer who wants to be SEMI-realistic; in the Western world at least, our post-industrial minds have largely forgotten what it's like to travel, both on our own feet and in groups.

People ask the new writer, "well, who in your cast is traveling? Is getting to Point B an emergency or not? What time of year is it?", and the newbies often get confused as to why they need so much information for "travel times." Maybe new writers see lists of "preindustrial travel times" like a primitive version of Google Maps, where all you need to do is plug in Point A and Point B.

But see, Google Maps DOES account for traveling delays, like different routes, constructions, accidents, and weather; you as the person will also need to figure in whether you're driving a car versus taking a bus/train, and so you'll need to figure out parking time or waiting time for the bus/train to actually GET THERE.

The difference between us and preindustrial travelers is that 1) we can outsource the calculations now, 2) we often travel for FUN instead of necessity.

The general rule of thumb for preindustrial times is that a healthy and prime-aged adult on foot, or a rider/horse pair of fit and prime-aged adults, can usually make 20-30 miles per day, in fair weather and on good terrain.

Why is this so specific? Because not everyone in preindustrial times was fit, not everyone was healthy, not everyone was between the ages of 20-35ish, and not everyone had nice clear skies and good terrain to travel on.

If you are too far below 18 years old or too far past 40, at best you will need either a slower pace or more frequent breaks to cover the same distance, and at worst you'll cut the travel distance in half to 10 or so miles. Too much walking is VERY BAD on too-young/old knees, and teenagers or very short adults may just have short legs even if they're fine with 8-10 hours of actual walking. Young children may get sick of walking and pitch a fit because THEY'RE TIREDDDDDDDDDD, and then you might need to stay put while they cry it out, or an adult may sigh and haul them over their shoulder (and therefore be weighed down by about 50lbs of Angry Child).

Heavy forests, wetlands and rocky hills/mountains are also going to be a much shorter "distance" per day. For forests or wetlands, you have to account for a lot of villagers going "who's gonna cut down acres of trees for one road? NOT ME," or "who's gonna drain acres of swamp for one road? NOT ME." Mountainous regions have their traveling time eaten by going UP, or finding a safer path that goes AROUND, so by the time you're done slogging through drier patches of wetlands or squeezing through trees, a deceptively short 10-15 miles in rough terrain might take you a whole day to walk instead of the usual half-day.

If you are traveling in freezing winters or during a rainstorm (and this inherently means you HAVE NO CHOICE, because nobody in preindustrial times would travel in bad weather if they could help it), you run the high risk of losing your way and then dying of exposure or slipping and breaking your neck, just a few miles out of the town/village.

Traveling in TOO-HOT weather is just as bad, because pushing yourself too hard and getting dehydrated at noon in the tropics will literally kill you. It's called heat-STROKE, not "heat-PARTY."

And now for the upper range of "traveling on horseback!"

Fully mounted groups can usually make 30-40 miles per day between Point A and Point B, but I find there are two unspoken requirements: "Point B must have enough food for all those people and horses," and "the mounted party DOESN'T need to keep pace with foot soldiers, camp followers, or supply wagons."

This means your mounted party would be traveling to 1) a rendezvous point like an ally's camp or a noble's castle, or 2) a town/city with plenty of inns. Maybe they're not literally going 30-40 miles in one trip, but they're scouting the area for 15-20 miles and then returning to their main group. Perhaps they'd be going to an allied village, but even a relatively small group of 10-20 warhorses will need 10-20 pounds of grain EACH and 20-30 pounds of hay EACH. 100-400 pounds of grain and 200-600 pounds of hay for the horses alone means that you need to stash supplies at the village beforehand, or the village needs to be a very large/prosperous one to have a guaranteed large surplus of food.

A dead sprint of 50-60 miles per day is possible for a preindustrial mounted pair, IF YOU REALLY, REALLY HAVE TO. Moreover, that is for ONE day. Many articles agree that 40 miles per day is already a hard ride, so 50-60 miles is REALLY pushing the envelope on horse and rider limits.

NOTE: While modern-day endurance rides routinely go for 50-100 miles in one day, remember that a preindustrial rider will not have the medical/logistical support that a modern endurance rider and their horse does.

If you say "they went fifty miles in a day" in most preindustrial times, the horse and rider's bodies will get wrecked. Either the person, their horse, or both, risk dying of exhaustion or getting disabled from the strain.

Whether you and your horse are fit enough to handle it and "only" have several days of defenselessness from severe pain/fatigue (and thus rely on family/friends to help you out), or you die as a heroic sacrifice, or you aren't QUITE fit enough and become disabled, or you get flat-out saved by magic or another rider who volunteers to go the other half, going past 40 miles in a day is a "Gondor Calls For Aid" level of emergency.

As a writer, I feel this kind of feat should be placed VERY carefully in a story: Either at the beginning to kick the plot off, at the climax to turn the tide, or at the end.

Preindustrial people were people--some treated their horses as tools/vehicles, and didn't care if they were killed or disabled by pushing them to their limits, but others very much cared for their horses. They needed to keep them in working condition for about 15-20 years, and they would not dream of doing this without a VERY good reason.

—

UPDATE January 13: Several people have gotten curious and looked at maps, to find out how a lot of cities are indeed spread out at a nice distance of 20-30 miles apart! I love getting people interested in my hyperfixations, lol.

But remember that this is the space between CITIES AND TOWNS. There should never be a 20-mile stretch of empty wilderness between City A and Town B, unless your world explains why folks are able to build a city in the middle of nowhere, or if something has specifically gone wrong to wipe out its supporting villages!

Period pieces often portray a shining city rising from a sea of picturesque empty land, without a single grain field or cow pasture in sight, but that city would starve to death very quickly in preindustrial times.

Why? Because as Bret Devereaux mentions in his “Lonely Cities” article (https://acoup.blog/2019/07/12/collections-the-lonely-city-part-i-the-ideal-city/), preindustrial cities and towns must have nearby villages (and even smaller towns, if large and prosperous enough!) to grow their food for them.

The settlements around a city will usually be scattered a few miles apart from each other, usually clustered along the roads to the city gates. Those villages and towns at the halfway point between cities (say 10-15 miles) are going to be essential stops for older/sick folks, merchants with cargo, and large groups like noble’s retinues and army forces.

Preindustrial armies and large noble retinues usually can’t make it far past 10-12 miles per day, as denoted in my addition to this post. (https://www.tumblr.com/jadevine/739342239113871360/now-for-a-key-aspect-that-many-people-often-ask )

#writing #preindustrial #horse riding #horse care #writing advice #medieval

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there-are-4-lights · 3 months

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"In Her Nature" by Rachel Hewitt was shortlisted for The Great Outdoors "Nature book of the year"! Vote here.

It's a great read about grief, running, hiking, female embodiment, and the history and present of women experiencing nature. The autobiographical chapters are deeply touching, and the historical ones are well researched and made me want to Google everything, especially the bits about female-only alpinist societies, and mountaineers with disabilities.

Ask your library to get a copy! Buy one as a gift for the woman hiker/runner/cyclist in your life.

#Rachel Hewitt #in her nature #i thought i had posted about this book before but i guess not

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wanderingcas · 2 years

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The Common Hours A Destiel Fic Coming October 1st to ao3

Three months ago, Castiel lost all memories of himself and his past. His life revolves around the only things he’s ever known: spending time with his new friend, Charlie, and photographing things in the world that he’s forgotten. But when a man who he doesn’t remember rolls into his life with haunted (and oddly familiar) green eyes that linger on him too long, the life—and person—he thought he knew is thrown into chaos.

Chapter 1 Sneak Peek

Castiel Novak thinks that he’s thirty-two years old, but he’s not sure.

He also thinks that he had a breakfast of packaged oatmeal in the microwave this morning before setting out on his daily walk, but he’s not sure of that either.

Admittedly, his memory often fails him.

Each day, he reminds himself of the things he does know: seven months ago, on February 16th, he woke with no knowledge of who he was or how he got to the narrow hospital bed he was lying in. A nurse had found him disoriented and half-conscious in front of the entrance. All they had found on him was a wallet with ten 100-dollar bills, a Starbucks rewards card, and an ID with a name and address that never existed.

Before he was discharged, that same nurse helped him fill out forms applying for unemployment and disability. She also introduced him to her friend, Charlie. (“We larp together,” the nurse explained with a distant smile; Castiel had just hesitantly smiled back, not knowing what the word meant). Charlie helped him find a small, cheap apartment in her building. Days later, when he was discharged from the hospital, Charlie brought him secondhand clothes that an older brother left behind.

When he went into the real world, cold and quiet and isolated, he realized not everyone was so kind.

But Charlie was. She lived down the hallway, and her apartment was filled with plants and always smelled like cinnamon. She brought him dinner, and helped him find a bed and a couch and a cheap cell phone plan.

Over the last few months, he’s learned that happiness for him is tucked into routine. So every morning, he pulls on his sweater, rolls his pant legs into his socks (tick season, the morning news reminded him, can’t be too careful) and walks to the woods by his apartment building.

Crammed between the thick, towering trees is a trail easily accessible to both cyclists and hikers. Sunlight streams through the tops of the trees, shattering on the black turf of the trail. The crisp autumn air, spicy from the scent of pine, tickles Castiel’s cheeks. There’s not a person in sight, and Castiel is thrilled.

Pulling his camera out of the bag strapped to his shoulder, he unclips the lens.

Charlie had found it for him at a thrift store: a simple Canon, small and square. He squints through the lens. Adjusting the aperture for the morning light (around 16 f-stop should be sufficient, his manual had instructed him), he tilts the camera at a red bird perched on top of a birch tree.

Castiel had known the name of it yesterday, but today he’s forgotten. He adjusts, focuses, and shoots. The soft click in the otherwise quiet woods flusters the bird, and it flies away.

He watches it disappear into the trees, unable to pinpoint why its flight left a tight feeling in his chest.

Crouching, heels pressed into the back of his thighs, he points his lens down the trail. The wind kicks up leaves in its wake. Spindly, shadowed figures walk toward him in the distance. The sun hangs low enough to peek through the branches shrouding the path, offsetting a moody autumn sky.

After taking a few photos, he sits on a bench by the trail, his breath small puffy clouds. Standing for too long makes him dizzy. He’s not sure if it’s a condition he had before his accident, or something new.

Elbows resting on his knees, he leans over his small camera screen to squint at his work. A group of people in thick coats walk past. They barely glance at him to say hello, their laughter fading away down the trail.

Castiel wonders if he was this lonely before the accident.

He’s only lonely now because he’s forgotten anyone he ever knew. The only memory he has, fragmented and disfigured, is one of a mother he thinks he once had, and a time they were watching a documentary together. He thinks he was younger. Five? He’s not sure.

The documentary spared no imagery of ocean wildlife caught in pools of oil, unable to move. Castiel remembers the tears spotting his cheeks as he watched the camera point to a seagull struggling in an oil puddle. Its wings were laden with black sludge. It couldn’t move or fly. It called desperately to its flock perched on the building above; they could do nothing but watch.

Castiel remembers asking his mother why the man holding the camera didn’t help the bird. He remembers her smiling, brushing his tears with a perfunctory swipe of her thumb. “It’s the job: to observe the pain, not to fix it,” she explained.

He remembers not understanding this—thinking it was cruel.

Out of all the memories that flew out of his brain from his accident, he doesn’t know why this one caught onto the hinge, stubbornly flapping in the wind, refusing to leave his mind.

Maybe he was a photographer in his previous life. Maybe that’s why he’s drawn to this memory, this hobby—this constant desire to observe rather than connect.

To his right, another group of walkers hover in his periphery. Castiel repositions his camera strap around his neck and rises, setting off in the other direction.

It’s easier not to know people.

He could forget them all again.

* * *

The sun is much higher in the sky when he returns to his apartment building. He jiggles the key in the old lock of his apartment door. It jams with a click and refuses to move—the fifth time it’s gotten stuck this week.

He sighs, pushing his forehead against the door. “Damn it.”

A bag rustles to his left. He glances at the man just a few doors down, precariously balancing a bag of groceries in one arm. Sam, his memory supplies. He’s only talked to his elusive neighbor a handful of times, but his name still stubbornly sticks in his mind.

Sam, struggling with his own door lock, turns to Castiel. When they catch eyes, Sam hesitantly waves.

Castiel nods back, head still against the door.

“You okay?” Sam calls.

“My lock is jammed. I’m trying to decide my next move.”

Setting his bags on the ground, Sam offers, “If you’d like, I can help.”

Castiel steps back from the door, hand held out. “If you want.”

Striding to Castiel, Sam takes the key. A fresh cut and a pattern of bruises sketch the tanned skin of his hand. “You just have to push it to the left while you slam your knee into the door, like…” With a few grunts and jerky motions of his wrist, the door pushes open. “There you go.”

“Thank you. They should replace our locks.”

“Yeah, that’s up to the landlord, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. I’ve met him—doesn’t seem like the go-getter type.”

“I suppose not.”

They stand there, steeped in silence. Castiel realizes that he should either say something else, or tell Sam goodbye.

Yanking the stubborn key out the hole and crossing the threshold to his apartment, Castiel nods. “Have a good day, Sam.”

“Uh, yeah—you, too.”

When Castiel turns to close the door, Sam has already gone.

Apartments like his have been described as “plain” and “depressing” by others, but Castiel loves it more than anything else in the world—down to even the rusty brown couch Charlie helped him find on Craigslist that sags too much on the left side. The kitchen smells faintly of onion and tumeric, which he’s always found comforting. He found every piece of furniture—his futon in the bedroom, his few utensils, the rickety card table in the middle of his kitchen—either from thrift stores with Charlie or abandoned on the side of the road. They make up the only home he’s ever known.

He deposits his keys on the counter. For a few moments, he sits on the faded couch, frowning at his hands. He can’t remember why he returned home in the first place. It’s only noon.

Leaning forward to grab the TV remote from the coffee table, he jerks in surprise when something heavy bumps against his chest. He blinks down at the camera still hanging around his neck.

Oh.

Turning on his pilot stove to boil water in the chipped kettle, he sits in front of his laptop at the table and begins uploading the photos he took on his walk.

Piles of books litter the kitchen table, a scattered collection of books that either Charlie has bought for him or ones he’s renewed countless times at the library. They range from guidebooks on birds, mushrooms, star constellations to one depicting military strategies of World War II. Charlie had raised her eyebrow at that last one when he requested it from the secondhand bookstore. He opens the guidebook on birds as the photos upload.

Minutes tick pass on the clock as he clicks through the photos to the red bird he captured, squinting and thumbing through the pages of the field guide, looking for its twin. He eyes the mug of hot water that’s mysteriously found its way into his hand, poised just centimeters from his lips. Watching the steam rising from the water’s surface in tendrils, he wonders why he never put in a tea bag.

Drinking the hot water all the same, Castiel finally finds the bird in the book: a cardinal. His forehead scrunches with a frown. He hopes he doesn’t forget that again, too.

Castiel continues to click through the photos. They’re mostly birds, plants, or mushrooms he found interesting—sometimes a squirrel that chirped at him in a funny way. He smiles briefly at the wild lupine he captured; ever since he began his morning walks, he’s noticed them lining the edge of the trail. For whatever reason, their purple blossoms leave him with a warm feeling.

In a photo of an oak tree, he accidentally captured a family of three in the background—a baby is strapped to the front of her mother’s chest. He remembers the family passing by him on the trail, the parents cooing at the baby, the baby blowing bubbles back. They were happy.

Their smiles swirl and twist on the screen.

Castiel sharply stands, his left knee clattering against the table, threatening to knock over his mug. He runs his fingers through his hair, tugging and twisting, as he paces the living room.

The feeling will pass.

It always does.

#destiel #destiel fic #if anyone wants to be tagged on tumblr when i start posting lemme know!!#and if you've already asked feel free to ask again because i lost my tag list lol #the common hours #i'm so excited to post this!!!!#especially in the fall. all my fics have fall vibes #it's a personality trait at this point #also if you signal boost this you have my undying adoration and gratitude!!

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cyanomys · 1 month

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Letting myself be angry at and grieve my illness is a form of healing

I habitually used to call myself lazy or unmotivated when my body fails me or when I listened to my body, when the true reality is that my motivation vastly exceeds my physical capacity. I love life. I love doing things. And then I slam into my limits like a bus into a wall

I learned to blame myself because neither I nor my family were prepared to accept the truth. Because the truth is fucking depressing. Grieving sucks. Accepting my health situation is so much less inspiring than thinking “if I just want to be better harder I’ll get better.”

But blinding myself to reality has caused me to make myself sicker. So much sicker actually. I don’t know how much of my current disability can be attributed to my pushing myself too hard, and what would have happened if I hadn’t. But I’m certain it wouldn’t be as bad.

Fuck it. Having my conditions (vestibular migraine and etc) is a shitty hand to be dealt, and I may never be able to do all the things I wish I could do, and I may be disabled forever. That’s it, I said it, the end.

But that doesn’t mean I’m helpless. Now I have to live in this body and figure out how to make a life with what I have.

If I live within my limits I will a much fuller life than continuing to push myself until I crash over and over, each time slowly chipping away at my abilities and shrinking my world a little more. If I am careful maybe I will even be able to gain back some of what I lost. Patience. I have to accept, and be patient, and be grateful.

Now instead of telling myself “just try harder!” I can say “what compromises can I make to set myself up for success and health.”

Maybe I won’t ever have a “real career.” But I can derive meaning from my hobbies, and maybe even do a little part time work from home someday. I can be grateful for my husband being able to work and support me.

Maybe I won’t ever be able to play roller derby or be a hiker. But I can go on a walk most days and dance a little in my living room. I can be grateful that I am able to stretch my legs.

Maybe I won’t ever be able to go to conventions or play games at busy game stores. But I can play TTRPGs with my friends online, or have friends over for board games. I can be grateful to have a wonderful online community.

Maybe I can��t go on vacations or fly in a plane. But I can go on a picnic with my husband and dog. I can be grateful for good food and that nature is so accessible to me.

#chronic illness #disability #migraine #vestibular migraine #spoonie #anyway if it wasn’t already clear the emgality isn’t helping

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rebeccathenaturalist · 2 months

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This has not been a week of writing, but I was expecting that. I had a number of other deadlines lined up, and company arriving imminently so it's just a short week where not a lot happened. That being said I managed to carve out a couple of hours of working on The Everyday Naturalist manuscript this evening before and after the class I taught. The glossary is now done, and I also added some crucial information about accessibility after consulting with Syren Nagakyrie of Disabled Hikers. That just leaves formatting the bibliography properly, and then the first draft will be done and I can start polishing the manuscript in preparation for turning it in to my editor at Ten Speed Press.

Next week will likely also be a wash for writing; I will have an information booth for my guided nature tours and other work at the Portland Spring Home and Garden Show Thursday through Sunday (come say hi to me at booth 1349!), and I'll likely be too wiped out at the end of each day to want to anything more than shower, eat, and sleep. But that's okay. I'll see what I can fit in otherwise, and then the week after I'm home and don't have to go much of anywhere.

Oh, and the manuscript is currently at 74,857 words, an increase of 654 words. It won't get too much larger, though I have a ton of website URLs that need to be formatted in the bibliography, so that'll add a little wordcount. After that--it's time to start trimming (yikes.)

#writing a book #nonfiction #book writing #authors of Tumblr #author #writing #writer #nature #nature identification #manuscript #The Everyday Naturalist #book jail #mushrooms #fungus #fungi

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haylanmakesstuff · 2 years

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Day 13

After seeing some familiar faces still working in the forest, we left for a long day. We were going to explore the southern end of the forest. This area is known as Longmire Country, as the beloved book series by Craig Johnson takes place here. Since we are both Longmire fans, we took a required pit stop in Buffalo. This is an adorable little town just on the east side of the Powder River district of the Big Horns. This is also where Longmire takes place, though renamed as Durant. This book/show series has accidentally infiltrated my life in more ways than one: Husband worked for the Forest Service when it was being filmed in the little town he lived in, in New Mexico, and I worked for the Forest Service where the books were written and take place. My favorite shop here is Gigi’s Upscale Retail. I think they must have a time machine secreted away somewhere, because the overwhelming abundance of vintage dresses here, many still with tags, is astounding (and at amazing prices, too). We spent way too long digging through rack after rack of items, adding to our try-on piles, trying them on and flouncing about like the ghosts we are.

On to a few shops, where we petted Craig Johnson’s dog, Annie, but did not pet Craig Johnson. After eating at the Busy Bee Café, of Longmire fame, we headed out of town towards a hike into the Cloud Peak Wilderness. A designated wilderness means that only those on foot, pack animal, or devices assisting the disabled may enter. No cars, motorbikes, ATV’s, or even bicycles are allowed. In fact, no machines allowed at all – trail work in the wilderness must be done with saws since chainsaws are outlawed. This means there is as little human influence as possible, mostly all you’ll see from humans are trails. This trail actually plays an important role in the first Longmire book, even though I didn’t know it when I first hiked it years ago.

I didn’t expect to complete this hike either, since it’s harder, longer, and over rougher terrain, but I did. I was definitely pushing myself during it and felt it afterwards; but to be able to show someone this gorgeous place after experiencing all of these things along in the past was special.

During this hike we noticed something interesting:

Bears had clawed up a tree! Or just one bear, more than likely, who am I to know what they’ve been up to. One bear or three bears; it’s a super cool thing to notice.

Mirror Lake was our destination; surrounded by alpine mountains, lodgepole pine, and wildflowers. It’s a serene and cold lake that’s great for feet with degenerative joints; but I can’t go in above the ankles or I’d become a popsicle. I can’t expect Ashton to carry a popsicle my size all the way out of the wilderness.

The very long drive home was filled with the stink of the Worland oil fields, a rogue giant herd of elk in the road (really the road is rogue, not the elk), and a group of stranded young men in a van. They didn’t know how to use their gears going down a steep mountain and burned out their brakes. It was almost midnight, and when they flagged us down, they were distraught to say the least. I offered to make a call for them at a place I knew had service, but after I explained how to use their gears and coast down the mountain, they felt they could make it to the little town of Shell at the base. I hope they made it down safely. Strange end to a long night!

Haylan

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