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unholyhelbig · 3 years

Note

hizzie prompt with hope being gay about lizzies dimples

Title: Dimples & Sunshine

Ship: Hope Mikaelson/ Lizzie Saltzman

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Hope Mikaelson tried desperately not to notice Lizzie Saltzman’s smile. But it took over the room, no matter how large and stretching. She could flash a moment of grace and everyone would stop as if magnets in their shoes were suddenly conducting energy. That’s why Hope tried not to look- why she would bury her face into the scent of books, or the morning rain.

The camping trip was different.

It was some scheme cooked up by Doctor Saltzman over spring break. Hope was perfectly content with traveling back to New Orleans, or at the very least, staying in the school while it cleared out. She wouldn’t be the only one. But he refused, stating that they all needed to bond, and would do so much better the second half of the year if they weren’t cooped up all week.

So Hope pushed headphones over her ears as she slumped in the front seat. She watched as Virginia trees whirled by. She would latch onto one until it was out of view entirely before choosing a new target. It helped to drown out the twins entirely.

Josie had her head between her knees, clenching a shopping bag like a vice. Her white knuckles nearly shredded the plastic from the force of her nausea. Lizzie, on the other hand, was loud and angry that Hope had gotten the front seat in the first place. She caught an icy stare once and a while through the side mirror.

“I’m your child.” She pushed her head through the middle two seats “Aka, the one who gets first dibs on the best seat in your gas guzzler.”

Hope let out a sigh and removed one of the headphones “I called dibs,”

“Fair is fair, Liz Bear.”

That killed the argument momentarily. Lizzie hated the nickname, and she hated it even more when it came from her father’s mouth. She smelled like spring, and lavender, and a tinge of strawberry lip balm from the gas station they stopped at two hours back.

Josie groaned, noise muffled as Alaric took another sharp corner. He shot a worried glance back at the girl and eased up on the gas. His car was barely making it up the mountain. Everything, including a neon yellow beetle, seemed to pass them with ease.

Hope was beginning to feel like a caged animal. It didn’t matter how many true crime podcasts she had downloaded, and how many she had gnawed through like a dog with a bone. She was restless, and the cab of the car was cold- and she wouldn’t quite mind stopping to stretch her legs.

She glowered in the mirror at the taller Saltzman twin. She caught a stare back, and had to admit- she wanted to stir something up. If anything, she could get Rick to stop the car on the side of the road and let Josie gain her legs back under her.

“I’m just faster than you, Lizzie.”

“What?”

“I think you heard me. I’m faster than you. I always have been.”

She could hear the way Lizzie’s nails scraped against the leather of the backseat. But Lizzie smirked and that stupid little dimple of hers was painfully obvious. Fuck; it was almost endearing. She wasn’t supposed to smile. Hope hid her frown well.

Lizzie sighed “Right, believe what you want.”

Hope turned in the seat entirely and gripped the headrest. Lizzie was playing a game, a dangerous one that Hope had initiated, sure, but she was expecting some cooperation. Some type of argument that made Alaric turn off the interstate because nothing else would.

“Jo, do you still have your book?” Lizzie asked. She grasped it before she got an answer. Josie knew that reading made her ill in a moving vehicle. But still, she brought the latest fantasy series with her in hopes that it would change at some point. “Do you mind?”

She still wore that smile as her eyes flicked up towards Hope. That stupid dimple and the more than stupid look in her eyes. Hope drew out a breath and turned in her seat. She fished in the glove box to kill some time. The cassette tapes were collecting dust.

“Dude, do you have anything from this century?” She turned to Rick.

“Aqua?”

“I said this century.”

She had to admit that she had a weakness for Barbie Girl just like the next person. But Lizzie would lean into the soundtrack and she couldn’t have that. She so resigned to the silence and the occasional turning of the page. At some point, she had drifted off into an uneasy sleep as a small Toyota edged up on the left and vanished in front of them.

The campground is a large dirt path in the center of even larger pine trees. The sun barely shoots past the tops of them. But Hope can smell the mint and the wind in the air. The dirt is wet and there is a creek nearby that runs towards the west. She’s suddenly glad that Freya taught her how to read nature.

She walked ahead, a bag was slung over her shoulder. Lizzie was a few paces behind her and Rick had stayed by the car to hold Josie’s hair back as the discomfort from the last four hours came to a head. Lizzie was struggling to keep up and Hope was enjoying it a bit too much.

“There are too many bugs out here.” She grumbled, using her free hand to swipe away some gnats. “How long until daddy decides to call it quits and takes us to the nearest motel?”

Hope scoffs and sets their bags down in a dry area that caught the sun from the trees just perfectly. She turns to Lizzie. Her shoes are already sopping with mud and she looks like she’s never been outdoors in her life. The faded pink of her sneakers were a muted grey and all hell was going to break loose when she realized it.

“Yeah Liz Bear, that’s not going to happen.”

Her face turned red, scalding, and dark. Even when she frowned, she had a dimple. Hope dropped to her knees and started to pull open her backpack. The soil was cold and damp, and she knew it would be hard to start a fire before the sun started drifting away.

Lizzie squatted too, starting to pull the different contents from the bag. “You’re just trying to fuck with me, aren’t you?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because neither of us wants to be here.” She sighed, pulling out a few fire starters and the tent's manual. “And my father wants us to get along. You’re not good at listening to him.”

“You are?”

“Absolutely not.”

Hope let her eyes linger on the girl's face for way too long. It was hard to not notice her smile here; to not notice the way her chin curved and the way her skin looked so perfect under the lowering sun. She still smelled like lavender, sweet, and sour at the same time. And she smiled again- as Hope let her stare linger for a bit too long.

“I think it’ll make him happy though,” She continued “just for the weekend, you know? To play nice.”

“Just suddenly?” Hope sat back on her heels and quirked an eyebrow “Wouldn’t it be odd for us to suddenly hold hands and sing kumbaya?”

“Well, not all at once. I could see his annoyance in the car and I don’t know, I guess I felt kind of bad. This is his vacation too.”

She contemplated the offer for a moment; with the old cassette tapes in the car that were trying too hard and the way he rubbed Josie’s back diligently. Alaric was so excited about this stupid camping trip. She waited until she heard their footsteps to nod apprehensively.

“Fine, whatever. We play nice, but only for the weekend.”

Lizzie smiled once more, this time brighter and happier. And those stupid little dimples shined almost as brightly as the orange sunset. Hope hated the way she couldn’t ignore the way they lit up the room- and in this case, the forest.

#hope mikaelson #lizzie saltzman #Hope x Lizzie #Hizzie #Hizzie fanfiction #legacies fanfic #Legacies

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springtimebat · 3 years

Text

The Autumn Meeting (3/4)

Abram bounces up and down on the spot, his scales dancing across his forehead, his mouth a giant grin, teeth as sharp as knives.

“You’re gonna love it so much guys! You don’t understand! It’s probably the best thing I’ve ever conjured.”

“Just get it over with Abe,” Emil whines, checking a small clock in his breast pocket, “We’re already behind schedule.”

Abe stops dead and wraps his fins around his chest.

“Are you always this mean?” The Queen asks, shaking her head at Abram who stares at the floor.

“You’ve read about us, or so you say. Why don’t you tell me?”

The Queen rolls her eyes. Abram gives a wistful sigh. Gus, a disembodied head in the leaves, squeaks in a strange nonsense language that makes his friends smile.

“Start from the beginning this time Abram. I don’t want a repeat of the mermaid incident.”

“The mermaid incident?” The Queen asks

“He started from the middle. The girl already owned legs, yet she still longed for them.”

“That was one time!” Abram huffed, “Now is everyone settled? Or do you need to shout at me some more?”

All three attendants nod.

“Okay, now I’ll start.” He turned to their guest, “Your majesty, you might wanna cover your ears for the first few minutes. The beginning may be a bit muffled but many have been known to go deaf when I slip into my other voice.”

“Another voice?”

“You’ll see,” He grins. And so the third tale of the night begins at four in the afternoon:

{The Two Beings}

There were once two beings

One was of greys, blacks and whites

He lived amongst royalty

Survived in their courts

He never quite belonged

So he also held company with lower beings

Of slime and muck and grit

As the first being grew strong on their discarded remains

He left the royalty and the courts

And ruled along the paper margins of Fairy

Soon after he developed an interest in humans

A hobby many found unhealthy

He’d follow them around

Watched them

Children seemed to be the only humans that would listen to the ruler’s prattling

The being did not mind

For they were interesting

They filled a void that slime could not

Then

One day

The ruler met a second being

The second being was one of light

Of blues, greens, reds and pinks

She was human

She belonged to the upper wall

And she lived her life in chains

As bright and as ordinary as the ruler was dark, stark and strange

She spent her days alone

Hiding her beauty from the rest of the world

An assistant to twin brothers

Frogs

Toads

She was left to feed off of scraps

And to be whipped by a cruel guardian

The first being found his counterpart one night

One lonely night

Peering through his window

He caught her exhausted in rags

Torn at the hem

Hair bushy

Face muddy from soot

And of course

He immediately fell in love with her

So he began his pursuit

Observing her from his own realm

She was everything he was not

Everything he lacked

A great regard for life danced in her forget-me-not eyes

It was a short

Almost too short

Time

before the ruler of the muck and slime was certain she would be a suitable bride

And his determination grew

He’d leave tributes on her bedroom sill;

Pine cones, leaves, twigs and rocks

Each one she took from him

A special pieces of his soul

She tucked them all away

Never to be seen again

The girl ignored him

Acted as if he were not there

And so the challenge went on...

“Exeunt.”

Abram smiles, looking around the campgrounds for a response. Guy whistles and The Queen gives her second clap of the day. Emil, unchanging, shakes his head. Before he can respond, Abram begins again.

“I’m working on the middle...and the beginning…and the ending.”

“Obviously,” Emil snarks.

“Wait I’m confused,” The Queen stutters, “Was there an ending?”

“No,” Abram replies, confused, “Why would there be?”

“This is a workshop, your majesty. A story doesn’t need an ending if you don’t want it to.”

“I know it’s awful,” Abram frowns, anxious tears forming in his eyes like beads of smoked glass.

“I was thinking of adding a subplot with some gremlin people. Like, a parallel romance story line to kinda act as a comedic escape from all the existentialism-”

“Ah yes that would be very fine,” Emil grins, “Very fine indeed Abe my boy!”

“Y-yeah! I also thought maybe...you could help me with uh… some world building and structure and stuff. So it flows naturally.”

“Hmm, good idea. Good idea Abram.” Emil rolls his head back to the fire, which is starting to die out, “Say Abe, can you answer a question I have about your story?”

“Sure!”

“Is your story, perhaps, based on a particular person in this group tonight?”

Abram rolls his eyes, “It ain’t about you Emillian.”

“No not me you fool! Is it based on our guest of honour over there?”

The Queen’s eyes grow wide. Abram says nothing and begins to stare down at his feet again.

Emil smirks triumphantly, “Thought so.”

Gus’ thigh gives a little creak in the darkening wilderness.

“I know that Gus, but how many of those queens are sitting down here with us tonight?”

Gus shrugs a shoulder, giving up.

“Last year, you told me to be spontaneous,” Abram mumbles, “Now here I am, making up prose as I go, and you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it, Abe my boy! I just find it intolerable.”

Abram groans. The Queen sighs in annoyance.

“I’m terribly sorry for existing, sir.” She mutters.

“Good. You should be. But since you’re here you can give Abram some pointers for his story. Make yourself useful.”

“Pointers? What pointers could she give me?”

“She’s a queen you dolt! She knows all about rulers! She’s gonna marry one!”

“Oh yeah! Hey I do need help on the characters innermost fears and desires! Being stuck underwater most of the year makes you miss out on courtly endeavours.”

With that, Abram shuffles closer to the Queen’s makeshift throne. As the group reorganises, a high screech flies through the air above their heads, causing them to lift their eyes to the treetops. The Queen shudders and pulls her shawl tighter around her shoulders. Her dress shifts slightly. Only slightly. But it’s enough for the men to notice how her stomach swells underneath the fabric.

“So that’s it then,” Emil grimaces, “A bouncing baby boy. That’s why he’s marrying you.”

The Queen gives a warm smile and strokes her stomach with one hand, “He’s three months old.”

“A big thing for three months.”

A softer, yet hungrier scream pierces the forest and the queen goes back to hugging her cloak.

“It’s the corridors.”

“The corridors?”

“Yes. They’ve discovered I’m gone. They’ll be coming soon. How long will this take?”

“As long as we want it to.”

“My husband will be here soon and-”

“Exactly! That’s what we want to talk to you about. Now quick fussing! Abram! Ask one question now. We still have one story to get through.”

Abram grins, “What do you think of purity?”

“Purity?” The Queen repeats, taken aback.

“Yes, purity.”

The Queen swallows, “Purity, at least the ideas most people have about purity, are phantoms. Babes, the pure ones, the prideful ones, can handle cruelty in their stride. They hold glass shards in their eyes. Beware the little ones; they’ll devour your heart with knives, forks and all. The phantoms, these small shadows of ideas, lead you on and ensnare you in a pretty bear trap marked with flowers. Mark my words, the pure ones will eat you clean.”

The men stare at her. She shrugs her shoulders.

“It’s something my mother used to say to me.”

“Hmm,” Emil turns to Abram, “That has nothing to do with the King my boy. Ask another one about the king.”

“Oh no, please don’t! I don’t think-”

“Why? What do you not want us to find out? That he eats babies too?”

“Nothing! It’s just he told me things. Important secrets you only tell the person you wish to marry.”

“What things? What important secrets?”

“We were sat on the screen porch one day-”

“The what?”

“The screen porch. It’s a balcony in the castle, hidden away with an invisible tarp.”

“What’s its purpose?”

“The glass hides the rest of the world. Puts it on its side. And it keeps the insects out. The panels are covered in their eyeballs and guts-”

“How gruesome!”

“The king, an insect grower!”

“Imagine!”

“And a competent one at that!”

“The nerve of the rogue!”

“The view makes up for it. On that day of secrets, we were watching a sunset, spying on the angels.”

“Hmmph, angels!”

“Yes. The King was talking about angels, demons and the like-”

“Typical monarch!”

“He likes to discuss things that he can’t keep in cages.”

“Particularly to things he’s managed to trap.”

“Indeed, I suppose some would see it that way. I find talk of immortality fascinating.”

“You would, you immortal.”

“Future immortal. We were just finishing dessert when the king grabbed my hand and began to stroke the creases in my palm. When I looked up at him he said, “You know what I wish for? More than anything in the world?” I just said I could guess but I’d probably be wrong.”

“How humble of you.”

“He stopped for a moment and gazed up at the sun, on its last legs. Then he swallowed and looked back at me. He told me his biggest secret then.”

“And now you will tell us, three old pedallers. You will tell us an immortal’s Achilles heel?”

“Yes, I don’t see why not.”

“Very well child.”

“He turned and said-”

“What? What girl?”

“Isn’t it obvious? A soul.”

“A soul?”

“At first, I thought he had something caught in his throat. Like, he meant to say “soldier” or “solar panels”. Anything other than a soul.”

“Oh how perfectly ludicrous! An immortal obsessed with souls! That explains you finally. You’re his pet soul. A human girl he can point and laugh at.”

“I point and laugh at him much more than you realise. I didn’t laugh at him on this particular day. On soul day. I just hugged him.”

“And that right there is why he tolerates you. That’s why he wraps you in cotton wool and keeps you locked up with him. That’s why he smothers you with heavy brick walls.”

“Maybe so. It’s also the reason he asked for my hand.”

“That’s why he asked for your wrist. What’s your reason?”

“For our marriage?”

“Yes, sod it all, what was your reason for saying yes to him?”

“Well, I said yes because I love him and I was lonely. And he loves me and is lonely. That’s how these things tend to work.”

“Why do you love him?”

“Obviously because he’s the grower of insects!”

“I suppose that’s a requirement then? To love a king?”

“That and a pretty sunset.”

“How trivial.”

Suddenly, Abram gives a giant huff. Everyone turns back to him, kicking his legs in the dirt.

“Sure! Sure! It’s fine when Emil interrupts me but when I interrupt his story to ask a simple question. Oh no! Blasphemy! I’m a degenerate! You know what Emillian? I like my story as it is! No subplots, no ending, no superfluous detail, nothing! I don’t need any of this nonsense! What kind of king just sits in a giant flytrap all day, eating babies and wishing about souls and angels and demons and…ugh! I’m done with this Emillian! It took me twenty years to be invited here and I always get treated like mud. But this takes the cake! Enjoy your new companion. I’m going to where I’ll be respected. That’s what I’m doing! Hang around the royalty you despise. Enjoy yourself.” Abram starts stomping away, then stops, picking up a piece of Gus’ chest plate, “And I’m taking Gussie with me!”

He gives a growl then leaves, ignoring the groups’ stunned silence as he gives himself to the shadows.

“Should we go after him or-”

“No. He’ll be back. He just needs to cool off.” Emil replies, gazing up at the sky. The sun was beginning to set and the shadows were getting stronger.

“We haven’t got much more time,” The Queen explains, “The king will probably start searching the woods soon and he hates it when I go out on my own-”

“Very well,” Emil interrupts, calmly, “Start your story now. Abram will have to miss out just this once. Poor old guy.”

The Queen sighs with relief and rests back into her throne.

On the outskirts of the never ending forest, encased in smoke, shadows and carcasses, the city of tomorrow outstretches a wary leg. It has waited patiently. It has called her name for hours. Now it will wait no more. After a moment of hesitation, it slips into the trees, merely a grotesque silhouette.

#creative writing #my story #ongoing series #part three of four #fantasy #horror #surrealism #surrealist #parallel worlds #monsters #cryptids #cryptidcore #weirdcore #oddcore #american gothic #southern gothic #nonsense fiction

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pcttrailsidereader · 4 years

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The Best of the PCT Continues

The countdown continues with Rees’ Numbers 8 and 7. See Howard’s in yesterday’s post.

By Rees Hughes

NUMBER 8. THE MAGICAL EVENING AT DRAKESBAD, July 9, 2010

There are certain magical days on the Pacific Crest Trail that stand tall; days that rise above that broad forest of glorious days. These are the days that your memory immediately races to when you reflect on your life on the trail. There was the day we guessed our way around snow-covered Mt. Adams ending on a ridge with a commanding view of Mt. Rainier and a solstice sunset; the day we swam our way down Falls Creek marveling at the granite walls above Grace Meadows only to while away an afternoon in the soft, lush grass basking in the warm sun near Wilmer Lake; or the day we walked south from Cook and Green Pass past Kangaroo Springs to Lower Devils Peak with its ringside seat to the conflagration raging across the Klamath River Valley. Every hiker has their transcendent days.

Such days do not always represent a confluence of everything wonderful. It is their enchanted quality, what English writer Nan Fairbrother calls “exquisite moments,” that sets them apart. Besides, time seems to blur the difficult and brighten the best experiences of these stellar days. Such was the case this particular day.

The day dawned with vestiges of the tumultuous evening resting on the peaks above Lower Twin Lake in Lassen Volcanic National Park. We tried to shake off as much moisture as possible but there was no alternative but to pack the tents wet again. Dr. Howard tended to Don and Eli’s ailing feet. Wet boots and long days had chaffed their feet raw with blisters compounding their discomfort. There were unspoken thoughts of an early exit from the trail as it is no fun when each step hurts. Perhaps a short day will improve spirits.

Speed bumps of late season snow gave way to long stretches of snow sheltered by the dense tree canopy. I always find these situations wearing if not exhausting. Climbing up and down the steep edges of the snow banks; picking your path around downed trees; add in a couple of postholes. We carefully crossed several creeks swollen by the melt water and preceding night’s rainfall. About midday we reached the crest of a line of basalt cliffs that comprise Flatiron Ridge high above the Warner Valley and, more importantly, Drakesbad.

Drakesbad, initially established clear back in 1900 as a guest ranch, remains a rustic refuge accessible via a corrugated unpaved road seventeen miles in from Chester (which is pretty remote itself) or on foot. There are only nineteen units at Drakesbad some of which still rely on kerosene lamps. However, the price for a night rivals the cost of a month on the PCT. Yet, during much of the summer, accommodations have been reserved for years. It really is a Northern California Shangri-la.

As we made the long traverse down, we could see the steam rising from the hot spring pool set out in a broad meadow. The siren song of happy voices pulled us forward. Our own chatter focused on the possibility of reserving a space for dinner.

We set up our tents in the Park Service’s Warner Valley Campground, hung a line and did our best to give the high mountain sun a chance to dry out our saturated gear. Howard and I were nominated to walk the half mile to Drakesbad to ask about a table for four in the well ventilated section. We donned clean tee-shirts and tried to sponge away the most offensive trail musk.

As we stepped into the closed space of the dining room, even our deadened noses became aware of the aroma that accompanied us. The colorful tablecloths festooned the light wood of the dining room. The room was set for dinner. Salad forks. Second spoons. Wine glasses. The ambiance was simple but elegant. The realization that we didn’t fit here made us yearn for the opportunity that much more.

A tall woman brusquely emerged from what appeared to be the kitchen. She had the air of a person with a long list of urgent tasks and little time for hiker trash. Our first efforts to turn on the charm bounced off her and fell impotently to the floor.

We continued, “Any chance, any chance at all, that there might be a way to handle four more this evening?” We weren’t above inserting a hint of desperation in our request.

“The Ranch is full and we usually only have enough food for our paying guests,” she replied without a hint of sympathy. There was a pause as she saw our crestfallen faces. “I will check with the chef and see if there is likely to be extra food.” Perhaps it was her Germanic accent that underscored the futility of our quest. Perhaps it was that she didn’t seem to be heading off to ask anyone anything.

We turned to go, tails between our legs. Don and Eli will be so disappointed. We had hoped this would be an antidote for their blistered feet and bruised morale.

With one foot out the door, Howard asked if it might be possible to use the phone for a quick call home as our cell phones had not been working along this stretch of the PCT.

It was if Howard had uttered a magic incantation that had propelled us into a parallel universe. We were Dorothy trying to get into Oz. “Why didn’t you say you were on the Crest Trail,” Billie Fiebiger exclaimed. “We always have enough food for PCT hikers.” In fact, Billie gave us the key to the city. “Use the showers (please) and the pool. Make yourselves at home. Come back at 7 p.m. although you may not be seated until later.” Still shaking our heads at our good fortune and this rather mysterious turn of events, we hurried back to tell Don and Eli the news before the spell was broken.

As the four of us returned the dark clouds that had dogged us the past several days were building quickly. But, the warm showers and the hydrothermal pool kept us occupied until the rumble of thunder became more aggressive. Within minutes the remaining blue patches of sky vanished. Lightning forced us reluctantly to vacate the pool. The hail drove us for cover under the eaves of the bathhouse. The gusting winds pushed tentacles of rain toward even the most protected corners.

Valiant employees raced down the trail to the pool in an electric cart to rescue the castaways three per trip. The meadow had been transformed into a Sargasso Sea and the pyrotechnics kept us all jumpy. Eventually we were deposited in the Lodge where we were to wait until dinner.

The photo albums and memorabilia in the Lodge deepened our appreciation for just what a special place Drakesbad is. For two generations the Sifford family had built and tended this Guest Ranch. For over 60 years they reclaimed the facility after each harsh winter for its four months of annual operation. It had to be a labor of love. The facility was incorporated into the National Park in 1958. For the past 19 years, Ed and Billie Fiebiger have served as the hosts, caretakers, and stewards of Drakesbad.

Ed, in his chef’s apron, called us for dinner. We crossed to the dining hall and were promptly seated. There were several choices of entrees. Or, Ed suggested, “Try them all!” Heaping plates were brought to each of us. The folks at the adjacent table took a special interest in our story. One of their group had come annually for nearly fifty years. Another from their table was sent back to their cabin and instructed to return with some of their wine stash to be shared with us. “White or red?” “No”, she instructed her husband, “bring one of each.” We were peppered with questions and asked quite a few of our own. We soaked up the attention that comes with being minor celebrities.

Ed pulled up a chair. He had a bigger than life quality and exuded a warmth that permeated the hospitality of this magical place.

My cynical side wanted to peer around to make sure that we were not being fattened up by some wicked witch. But, Drakesbad is a place that replenishes your faith in the generosity of the human spirit. Distrust, doubt, and skepticism have no place here.

And, there was desert too. In fact, there were three kinds. “Try them all!”

It was tempting to linger much longer than we did. I confess that it was all I could to restrain myself from asking if they served breakfast too.

Eventually we said reluctant goodbyes and enthusiastic thank yous. The rain had stopped by the time we walked back toward our campsite. If we weren’t walking down the road with our arms around each other, singing and talking loudly, then it felt like there was that sense of conviviality.

The storm had spread our clothes across our campsite and sent cascades of water around our tents. But there was nothing capable of dampening our spirits on this magical day.

NUMBER 7. Harvesting pine nuts south of Walker Pass, May 10, 2011

I wanted to include a representative small moment that happens along the trail. These are times when you slow down, stop, and absorb the nature that surrounds you. These are the countless quiet, gentle experiences that occur, if you let them. I like to consider these my Mary Oliver moments.

When I section-hiked the PCT from Tehachapi to Walker Pass several Mays ago, as we neared the northern end of that trip we took a lunch break one day under a grove of piñon pines. As we reached into our pack for our usual lunch of cheese, rye crackers, and salami, we began to notice that the forest floor was littered with pine nuts. While some had become food for rodents, squirrels, and other foraging animals since dropping to the ground the prior autumn, most were so very edible. Soon we were each on our hands and knees collecting cones and harvesting their delectable contents. I ate my fill and packed an empty bag with more nuts that I brought home with me when I left the trail. It helped me understand the important role that pine nuts could play in the diet of Native Peoples. One pound of these nuts can contain up to 3,000 calories.

Another one of these small moments took place on the sandy bank of the McCloud River in Northern California on a section of the trail that most thru-hikers treat as an unfortunate 83 miles necessary to get from spectacular Burney Falls to Castle Crags and the beginning of the more dramatic Trinity Alps. I was hiking with my friend, Bruce Johnston. We had made excellent time from Deer Creek and decided to stop in the early afternoon and enjoy easy access to the McCloud River from the Ah-Di-Na Campground, located on the site of a former Wintu village and eventually a lavish resort owned by newspaper mogul William Randolph Hearst (the family still owns an estate, Wyntoon, ten miles upstream). By the late 1950s the Hearst family had razed the resort buildings and in 1965 the Forest Service had acquired the property. The one constant throughout was the beautiful McCloud River. Bruce and I set up camp and retreated to the edge of the river where we could lie flat on a sandy bar. There was just enough wind to avoid the mosquitoes that had been feasting on us in camp. For the next two hours we watched the evolution of the evening sky, the dance of the bugs, birds, and trout, the breeze in the trees. All of this accompanied by the soundtrack of the McCloud River. In a trail culture where it is all about perpetually moving forward, there is much to be said for slowing down. “We are Nature,” Walt Whitman says, “long have we been absent, but now we return.” Being more mindful has been an important life lesson for me.

#Drakesbad #blisters #Lassen Volcanic National Park #McCloud River #Ah-Di-Na Campground #Mary Oliver #pine nuts #Walker Pass #Deer Creek CA Section O #Warner Valley Campground

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dougrobyngoold · 5 years

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CT Segment 11 - North from Clear Creek Campground, CO

Today we headed north on Segment 11 of the Colorado Trail, leaving from our campsite at Clear Creek Campground. We had hiked this trail previously (a couple of years ago), but we wanted to complete the entire section going north toward Twin Lakes. We have a spot along the trail that we hiked to two days ago from Twin Lakes heading southward, that was our destination for today. The trailhead is located along CR390, you can see it climbing along the hillside on the northside of the road (pictured above, before we started the climb). Great views up Clear Creek Canyon as you climb up this portion of the trail:

Before you reach the summit of this hillside, you will find yourself under the trees. It is a pretty descent through the aspen and pines. We ran into a mountain biker as we started downward, he was walking his bike toward the summit. Definitely a challenge to ride this trail! At the bottom of this hill, we ran into the utility road and the trail continues along this road for a bit. We did come across plenty of cattle on this portion of the trail, even had to “shoo” a couple off of the trail so that we could pass. They were not happy with us! We finally reached a CT sign at a “Y” in the trail and made our turn to the west and up into the aspens.

This was my favorite part of the trail - lots of grass and tree cover. We wandered up the hill a ways, quickly coming to the point on the trail that we had hiked to two days ago. Segment 11 - DONE!

Just under 10 miles, out and back today. Not bad and it felt pretty easy. Love the view of Clear Creek Reservoir and our campground on the final descent:

But our favorite part of the hike is always what awaits us back at camp:

Drinking local - Cheers!

#Colorado #Colorado Hikes #CT

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flcwersbloom-blog · 5 years

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Heyo, friends!! I’m Lexie and I’m so hyped to be here! Anyway, here’s my child Marnie!! I’d love to plot with all of you, so feel free to hmu here or on discord @ *hums my heart will go on* #6853

☠ ◞ kathryn newton . twenty - one . cis female . she / her . › is that rosemarie wilde i see walking through the campgrounds ? i can’t believe that the virgo is spending their summer here . i heard that MARNIE is a psychology major when they’re at home in portland , oregon . but while they’re here , i’ve seen them lounging by the lake while humming dreams by fleetwood mac . i’ve called them the mom friend but that’s only because of their VEHEMENT and DOGMATIC tendencies . apparently , they’re back at camp silver lake this year because her older brother was one of the ten campers that went missing . ‹ played by lexie , she / her , 20 , est ›

the history.

Rosemarie Keegan Wilde is the middle of three children born to Noah and Juniper Wilde. In the early 90′s Noah Wilde was in and up and coming rock band, they were on their way towards getting a record deal before Juniper found out she was having twins, a year and a half after their son Bowie was born. The couple decided they should settle down rather than take three kids on the road. When the twins were born, two year old Bowie wasn’t able to say Rosemarie or Meadowlark, so he dubbed his baby sisters Rosemarnie, which was later shortened to Marnie, and Medda.

Growing up, Marnie was always outgoing and caring, the first to say hi to the new kid on the playground or share her snack with others. While some kids were quick to call her bossy, she preferred to say she was organized.

The Wilde kids went to Camp Silver Lake for about five summers before Bowie and the other campers went missing. That summer started out like any other for Marnie. Camp had always been on of her favorite places, ever since the first summer bowie went and the twins had only gone with their parents to drop him off. She was only at the camp for a short time, but at six years old, Marnie was entranced by it. The summer of 2009, proceeded to seem like just another summer at camp, like all of the ones before, Marnie spent all of her time with her friends and sister. With Bowie being 13 now, he didn’t spent as much time with his sisters as he had previous summers, something Marnie called him out on, saying that he thought he was too good for them now. The two argued off and on for the majority of the summer right up until Bowie and the other campers went missing.

In the years since, Marnie, while still caring, has become a bit more withdrawn. Since her brother’s disappearance, however, Marnie has become more and more interested in true crime and the paranormal, part of her hoping that maybe she could figure out what happened to Bowie and the others.

the task.

* character name . age . birthday . sexuality .

rosemarie ‘marnie’ keegan wilde. twenty-one. august 25th. bisexual.

* why are they labeled as the trope that you applied for ?

being the middle of three children, marnie’s always felt like she had to look out for the people around her, even more so after her older brother went missing ten years ago. she likes to be prepared for any and all situations that might come up and making sure everyone’s taken care of.

* who are some of their character inspirations ?

nancy wheeler from stranger things, shirley craine from haunting of hill house, dipper pines from gravity falls, dana scully from the x-files, clarice starling from silence of the lambs & emily prentiss from criminal minds

* do you think they’d run into danger or run away from it ?

she’d run towards the danger, especially if it was to save someone she cares for.

* what are the worst parts of their personality ?

she’s incredibly stubborn. once she has her mind set on something, it’s hard to dissuade her to convince her otherwise. she hates being wrong and often won’t admit if she’s made a mistake.

* what are some connections that they would have formed at camp the first time they were around ?

eleven year old marnie was incredibly outgoing. while at camp she really tried her best to step out from under her brother’s shadow and make herself known as more than just one of bowie’s little sisters, or medda’s twin. she was constantly getting into trouble, and always did things on her own terms, while also making sure everyone packed a snack so i could see her having had a little squad of trouble makers.

* are they nervous about returning back to camp silver lake ? why or why not ?

she is. she hasn’t been back since her brother bowie went missing ten years ago and she’s worried going back will bring back all of the old feelings of anger and sadness back. anger at herself, over the fact that she fought with her brother in the days before he, and the other kids, went missing.

* what’s their favorite scary movie ?

carrie & nightmare on elm street.

* finally , what are some connections you’d like for them to have ?

her old groups of friends, whether they kept in contact or not would be fun to talk about. maybe an old crush/“summer fling” (or as much as one as an 11 year old would have had..). i’d be really into seeing some people who were friends with marnie’s brother, bowie, maybe they were close to the to the twins too, or maybe not (bonus points if this is also her old crush)

PINTEREST ∙ PLAYLIST

#slasher.intro

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susanhaley1111 · 2 years

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Tuesday 2/3/22 home to Pine Grove. PA 478 miles

Dana's office

Jake's favorite perch.

Drove 478 miles yesterday. Very uneventful. Both dogs are such good travelers. We are at Twin Grove for the night. Arrived at 8 PM so went right to bed. Lots of deer grading near the highway so driving in the dark is not safe.

Tomorrow we go further south and hope we miss the freezing rain predicted.

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travelingtheusa · 3 years

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PENNSYLVANIA

2021 Sep 1 (Wed) – We left Newburgh, NY this morning at 9:00 a.m. The remnants of Hurricane Ida were bringing pouring rain to the area and the drive was long and wet. We arrived at Twin Grove RV Resort in Pine Grove after 4 and a half hours. This is a large campground and seems to be very pleasant. I would certainly come back here if I was in the area again. As it is, we are only here for one night.

After the rain left up a little, we went out to get fuel and stopped in the Moose’s LZ for dinner. It was a bar and grill that, it turns out, is next door to an Army base; Indiantown Gap. I visited that base a couple of times over the years. I think half the customers in the place were service members.

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stefymcfly · 5 years

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TWIN PINES CAMPGROUND objects by Stefizzi

Hi all! Here you can find the objects that were created especially for my Twin Pines Campground.

You can PICK AND CHOOSE, or only have the MERGED package. (remember not to install them together)

Kisses,

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vulpixen · 6 years

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Story Time

Word Count: 1024

Characters: Stanley Pines, Carla McCorckle, Jessie and James Pines (my ocs)

Summary: Stan tells a bedtime story to his twin niblings about conning.

A/N: I wanted to take part in @stanuary this year too so here is something on the sweet side in an au where Stanley and Carla married and have twins of their own. Hope you all enjoy!

In the year 1978...

Stan grins over to his six-year old twin children, Jessie and James, about to teach them the ways in the art of the con artist through a story he often told. He sits on a chair in between their respective beds inside the RV they’ve been raised in since the twin’s infancy. Having the decent size vehicle parked at a campground in Tennessee. It was common place for Stan and his small family not to remain in a state for too long, but once James and Jessie had to start school, they had to make adjustments for the sake of their education.

Carla watches over from nearby with a small amused smile, always enjoying to see her husband tell their children stories or teaching them some valuable lessons, even if on the morally grey side. He was both a good and bad influence. Carla does admit she’s a little like her husband, finding thrill in the moment where risk and reward were involved.

Stan clears his throat as he tells his kids, calling them by their respective nicknames: “Lil’ Sixer” for James and “Firecracker” he calls Jessie in parental affection for both of them, “Alright, Lil’ Sixer and Firecracker, ready to hear one of your old man’s stories?”

“Yeah! Story time, story time!” the twins cheerily exclaim in unison from their beds. The two always loved how enthusiastic and expressive their dad gets while telling the tales.

Stan delightfully chuckles, seeing how excited they’re getting, “Alright, alright. Let me tell you a story about a con artist and how he came to be the very best in the land of…uh... Coin-topia! Yeah, let’s go with that.” Jessie was at the edge of her bed as she listens to her father spin the tale. “There once was a man named Hal Forrester, a young likable guy to his friends and family, putting on a friendly face despite his living situation was in the dumps. Literally! He never had a lot of money in his whole life and was envious of the rich pockets that never bat an eye his way on the streets. The rich, fat coin purses lived in the high estates, lording over their wealth while letting those with low income suffer and die. In order to survive in a cruel world, Hal needed to rely on his wits and silver tongue -- which was really made of silver.”

The twins giggled a bit as James asks his dad, “What does Hal do to get money?”

“Tell us!” Jessie playfully demands.

Stan chuckles using a flashlight to do hand puppets with, “I’m gettin’ to that part. Hal got some of his friends and family members involved to pull of a great scheme. A high risk with great rewards.They were gonna con the head honcho himself, Old Bigwig, the richest phat cat in Coin-topia. So here’s what they did…”

Stan had his children captivated, enthralled by the tale that was enhanced by their father’s improvising, creating exciting scenarios where the story took many twist and turns. There were moments where the kids roared with laughter. The young man taking pride that it wasn’t just Carla who loves hearing his stories.

Stan gets to the end of the story as he tells them something profound, “Ya see kids, if you two ever finds yourselves in a messy spot and low on cash, use your wits when you need ‘em most to survive in our own messed up world of ours. Okay? Why your pops tends to con when funds are low….”

Carla frowns at the mention of her husband conning people out of their money, but understanding when cash gets tight every now and then.

“And it ain’t stealing when you’re taking something back what they stole from you,” Carla shared with a small smile, placing kisses on her kid’s foreheads.

“Okay!” Jessie squealed, taking her dad’s advice to heart, even if it may not be the best option, “I wanna help make money too!”

Stan pats his daughter’s brunette head, feeling touched that she wants to help, “Hehe. You don’t have to, Firecracker. But I’ll teach you and your bro how to con and pickpocket tomorrow. Small stuff for now. It’s time to go to sleep, my little gremlins.” He hugs both his twins, the two returning the gesture. James, however, was reluctant to rest.

“Aw…” James pouts with a crestfallen face, lying that he wasn’t feeling tired, “but I’m not tired.” The blush on his face telling Carla and Stan he was fibbing. Jessie acknowledging when she points.

“Lies!” Jessie laughs in her bed.

James sticks his tongue out at his sister, making a, “Leeehhh!” sound.

Stan chuckles a tad, “Now, Lil’ Sixer, careful with that tongue showing, she may just bop you in the mouth. Not nice to do if ya ain’t bein’ playful.”

James retracts his tongue back in his mouth, knowing his sister hits hard and doesn’t want to be on the receiving end in their spats on accident, “Yes, Daddy.”

Jessie grins in satisfaction, having been called, “slugger” on more than one occasion for not taking crap from any kid that tries anything to be mean to her and James.

“Everyone needs sleep, sweetie. Your dad and myself need it too,” Carla tells her son, tucking him in as he lies down with a yawn. “See?” Carla giggled, “You’re definitely tired.”

Saying their goodnights and the twins drifting off to sleep in their beds, Stan and Carla turned off the lights and head off to bed themselves. The two may not be perfect parents, but Stan and Carla do their best to raise their kids to help them thrive, along with loving and supporting them unconditionally, while trying to make sure they know how to fight back in a world where people are going to harm them one way or another. The best they can do was try. Whatever’s out there -- in some other plane of existence -- knows Stanley and Carla try. Stan never wants to be the man his father was to him; telling himself silently as he curls up next to Carla in their own shared bed.

#gravity falls #gravity falls fanfiction #gf ocs #stanuary 2018 #week one: con #stanley pines #carla mccorkle #gravity falls au #starla #james pines #jessie pines #vulpixen fanfiction #fic #vulpixen's ocs #mr and mrs mystery au

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reddiefortheweekend-blog · 6 years

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Trip of a Lifetime: Part Two (Reddie)

Warnings: Underage drinking

Summary: The Losers go on a trip to wrap up their 18th summer.

Pairings: Richie x Eddie — Bill x Stan — Ben x Bev

Parts: 1, 2, 3, 4

Part Two:

“Green Valley Campground” read Richie, glancing at the words printed on the campground’s faded sign. “Looks like we’re here, guys!” He exclaimed excitedly, waking up Bill and Stan in the backseat. “The best campground in all the state.”

The campground sat on the edge of a modest lake and was surrounded by a thick mixed-wood forest that continued into the distance, blanketing a collection of small, rounded mountains. The sounds of birds and insects hummed in the overgrowth and a cleansing breeze swept through the air.

Bill had rented two small cabins overlooking the lake in the far corner of the site. He explained that he wanted to avoid getting noise complaints from any neighboring sites, therefor he chose to have one of the more secluded sites. The others agreed that this was a good idea considering they were planning on being fairly loud while they were there.

The campground was not too busy. Tents were sparsely erected between the looming trees, but there seemed to be no significant collection of people around. This was perfect for the Losers because it gave them more freedom to roam around or be a bit loud.

Richie flicked on his turn signal and took a right turn onto a thin dirt road labelled ‘Cabins 3-4’. The red truck that the other Losers were in followed close behind. After a few moments of driving, the forest opened up revealing two humble looking cabins placed a few metres away from each other. Both of which overlooked the lake.

Eddie let out a light gasp. “It’s so pretty.”

“It’s pretty, but it sure isn’t as pretty as you, Eds” Richie said, giving Eddie’s cheek a quick pinch.

Eddie recoiled pushing Richie’s hand out of the way while giggling. “Focus on parking the car, jerk.”

Richie parked his vehicle behind the first of the two cabins and hopped out to direct the truck to the other cabin. Both cabins looked reasonably old, most likely being built within the last 60 years. Quaint bushes lined the outside of the walls and a single pine tree sat between the two cabins. Along the lake, there seemed to be a small beach making it a perfect swimming spot.

After both vehicles had parked, everyone hopped out and ran to check out what was inside.

“Only two beds in this cabin”, Richie smirked, “Dibs sleeping with you, Kasbrak!”

“And why would I want to sleep with you?” Richie shot back playfully.

“Well if you don’t want to sleep with me, I can go sleep with Mikey Boy over in the other cabin”

“No, it’s fine. Let’s share a bed” Eddie quickly said, not wanting to lose an opportunity to share a bed with Richie. It is possible he responded too quickly, though, because Richie gave him a sly smirk before tossing himself onto the twin size bed.

Eddie felt his cheeks turn red out of embarrassment. He did not always do the best job trying to hide his feelings for Richie. He sometimes wondered why he insisted on keeping his sexuality a secret. Was he afraid of the response if he decided to come out? He had recently graduated high school, so it was not like he would have to worry about anyone bullying him from school.

So, what was he so afraid of?

“Hey Stan, check out our little bed” said Bill as he jumped onto it.

Stan wandered over to where Bill was and pressed his hands into the mattress. “Seems sturdy enough, eh?”

Richie let out a groan. “I swear to God if you guys keep me up at night I will personally jump into your bed and kill you both whether you’re in the middle of making out or not.”

Stan and Bill chuckled, giving each other a knowing wink.

The inside of the cabin was modest. There were two beds on opposing walls and a fireplace that sat against the wall opposite the door in the center of the room. In the middle of the room lay a small table surrounded by a few wooden chairs that seemed to have been found at an antique store.

“It’s nice”, Bill said, circling the room with his eyes, “Small, a little dusty, but nice.”

A knock at the door suggested that Ben, Bev and Mike had already checked out their cabin and were ready to start up the evening activities.

“Guess who gets a whole bed to himself” Mike announced as he walked through the door. In his right hand he was carrying a case of beer and in his left some cups and balls. “Now who’s ready to get their ass kicked at some beer pong?”

Eddie had never been particularly good at beer pong, but he decided to join in on the fun anyway. He initially was on Ben’s team, but after a few rounds Richie convinced him to come be his partner.

“You know I am not very good, Right?” Eddie said to Richie after taking a sip of his beer.

“I’ve played with worse. Plus, I’m so good that I might need the handicap to make this a fairer game!” Richie joked, giving Eddie a little nudge.

“Nah, you’ll need all the help you can get”, Mike chided from the other end of the table, “No one beats me and Bill when we’re on a team!”

“Yea! Go Bill!” Stan yelled from his spot by the fire place. Stan had taken it upon himself to get everything set up while the others goofed off and drank. No one else seemed interested in unpacking, lighting a fire, or even preparing food, so he decided to do it himself. Though, he did not mind very much.

Ben and Beverly stood beside the pong table making bets on who would win.

“There’s no way Mike and Bill will lose when they’re playing together. They’re unstoppable” Ben explained to Bev who had chosen to bet on Richie and Eddie.

“Well, I find it much more fun cheering for the underdogs”, she said, smiling at Richie and Eddie, “No offence guys.”

“None taken”, Richie laughed, grabbing a ping pong ball from off the table. “That just means these chums are about to lose to the underdogs.”

Ben ended up being right about the game. Eddie and Richie put up a good fight but ended up losing the game by a few cups. At this point, everyone was quite tipsy, Richie and Eddie more-so after losing their game.

“Let’s go swimming!” Richie excitedly announced after a while, raising his cup into the air.

“It’s pitch black out” voiced Stan, a hint of concern in his tone.

“Don’t be a party pooper!” Richie yelled, his shirt already being pulled over his head. “Let’s go!” He started running out the door towards the lake.

Everyone briefly looked at each other before excitedly running out the door with him, clothes flying left and right and cheers filling the starry night sky. They could already tell this was going to be one of the best weekends of their life.

Thanks for reading.

I swear next chapter will be a bit more spicy.

Please send any feedback you may have in my direction. I’d greatly appreciate it. <3

Next chapter will be out soon.

#reddie it fandom fanfic fanfiction richie eddie Trip of a Lifetime Part Two

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thehikingviking · 5 years

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Ship Mountain and Twin Peaks, Six Rivers National Forest

Asaka and I woke up at Big Flat Campground in Crescent City later than I wanted. We had a big day planned but I was not sure if we would be able to accomplish all of my goals. First we intended to climb the Four Brothers which was a short drive north of the campsite. If time allowed, we would then at least investigate Twin Peaks, an unclimbed peak further north along forest roads. We expected Daryn to attempt the Four Brothers as well, but were not exactly sure at what time he would arrive. We wound up meeting him near the trailhead of the Four Brothers, except he already had a summit under his belt that morning. There is a road that leads to a fire lookout at the top of Brother No. 4, however we decided to save this brother for last. We drove up the spur road a short distance until arriving at the general location of where we spotted a possible trail from satellite imagery in earlier research. There was no clear trailhead but after walking through some shrubs and forest we eventually found a trail. Finding this would save us considerable time. We followed this north as Ship Mountain (a.k.a. Brother No. 3) and Brother No. 2 came into view.

The trail was in great condition and if it weren’t for the lack of a clear trailhead I would assume it were maintained. We followed it for a short distance as it switchbacked to the top of Ship Mountain. There were remains of an old structure at the summit of the third brother. To the south was Brother No. 4 and the fire lookout.

To the west was the Pacific Ocean.

To the north were Brother No. 2 and Brother No. 1. The view to the second brother gave us optimism because the route looked mostly brush free.

So we continued down the northern ridgeline, quickly making our way down to the saddle. The second brother had the least amount of prominence so we reached the top in no time. The final brother looked the most difficult, as it required the largest drop in elevation and it seemed the brushiest.

Not wanted to waste any time, we continued following the ridgeline. This was slow going, but it wasn’t the worst bushwhacking we’ve done. We eventually dropped off the eastern side of the ridge and pushed through some knee high bushes until reaching the saddle.

Mt Shasta was barely visible to the east.

The final ascent was somewhat loose and there was clearly no trail. It wasn’t fun, but we eventually forged our way to the summit of the first brother.

On our way back, we tried to skip the second brother all together, but I’m not sure if this eliminated any time or effort. We connected with a possible abandoned trail underneath the third brother, and followed this to the well defined trail.

Now on good trail, the walk out was enjoyable. Back at the cars, we drove the short distance to the fire lookout at the top of the fourth brother.

It was noon, so we had lunch here, enjoying the slightly warm but clear weather. Towards the end of our lunch, the person manning the fire lookout drove up to join us, and after exchanging greetings we drove back down to the main fire road.

We continued along Forest Route 16N02 past Bear Basin until road’s end at the Buck Lake Trailhead. We planned to sleep in the car here in preparation for the upcoming big day of Bear Mountain. This was also the would be trailhead for Twin Peaks, and with plenty of remaining daylight, Daryn and I were anxious to give it a shot. On the other hand, Asaka was not interested, and requested to stay in the car. I felt no matter how much I pushed, she wouldn’t change her mind, and knowing we had the two most important hikes ahead of us, I decided to let her rest on a beach chair in the car’s shade. Daryn and I headed down the closed road to Siskiyou Pass, scouting the unfamiliar slopes of Twin Peaks ahead of us.

I did a lot of research on the route, but nothing is better than first had experience. There was a 4WD road listed on the topo map which we used to get to the southwestern flank of the mountain. The road was covered with a new growth of pines making the going slower than expected. We followed this road in an effort to get to the saddle between Twin Peaks and Point 4958 listed on the topo to the southwest of the peak. While the travel wasn’t optimal, it worked well enough. At the saddle, all that was left was a 1,500 ft climb. A recent fire burned the forest and all the brush that went along with it. I recommend climbing this peak sooner than later because the brush will regrow faster than anything else, making this peak a nasty bushwhack.

The climbing was steep and hence slow, but we were making progress and I was feeling optimistic. I was a little worn out from hiking earlier that morning, but the allure of a first ascent kept me going. To the south was Bear Mountain, the following day’s objective.

The summit came into view as we breached the edge of the burnt treeline. We found a mostly class 2 rock chute which we stumbled up. The rocks were loose and some came tumbling down, but that was expected on a virgin peak.

At the top of the ridge, the southeastern summit laid just above us. I first climbed up this sub peak.

To the northeast was the true summit in the foreground. Youngs Peak and El Capitan stood in the background.

I took the short walk over to the true summit where Daryn and I both scampered to the top, trying to edge each other out.

We made it with much less resistance than anticipated. Plenty of research definitely made the trip possible. To the south was Bear Mountain.

To the east was Preston Peak.

To the northeast were Sanger Peak and Youngs Peak.

To the north were Wounded Knee and Broken Rib Mountain, my pride and joy from the previous day.

Climbing all of these remote peaks without any trip reports gave me a great sense of accomplishment. Rather than retrace our steps, Daryn and I decided to take a more direct path towards Doe Creek in the valley below where there was another old road listed on the topo. While the descent to Doe Flat went very quickly, I think this was a mistake. The road was indiscernible and the whole area was overgrown with thick vegetation. This nasty bushwhacking had me sweating, tearing and cussing as we made slow progress back to Siskiyou Pass. I breathed a sigh of relief when we finally reached the main trail. We found Asaka in good spirits as we made it back to camp later that afternoon. We were ready to climb Bear Mountain.

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fitnesshealthyoga-blog · 5 years

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New Post has been published on https://fitnesshealthyoga.com/learn-about-the-dakinis-fierce-female-messengers-of-wisdom-in-tibetan-buddhism/

Learn About the Dakinis: Fierce Female Messengers of Wisdom in Tibetan Buddhism

Read the stories of the Dakini—fierce female messengers of wisdom in Tibetan Buddhism to tap into your feminine power.

Chris Ensey

When I was eleven, I ran home on the last day of school and tore off my dress, literally popping the buttons off, feeling simultaneously guilty and liberated. I put on an old, torn pair of cutoff jean shorts, a white T-shirt, and blue Keds sneakers, and ran with my sister into the woods behind our old colonial New Hampshire house. We went to play in the brook burbling down the steep hill over the mossy rocks, through the evergreens and deciduous trees, the water colored rich red-brown by the tannins in the leaves of the maple trees. We would play and catch foot-long white suckerfish with our hands, and then put them back because we didn’t want to kill them.

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Sometimes we swam naked at night with friends at our summerhouse in the spring-fed lake 15 miles away, surrounded by pine, birch, spruce, and maple trees. I loved the feeling of the water caressing my skin like velvet, with the moon reflecting in the mirror-like lake. My sister and my friend Joanie and I would get on our ponies bareback and urge them into the lake until they were surging up and down with water rushing over our thighs and down the backs of the horses; they were swimming with us as we laughed, clinging onto their backs.

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When violent summer thunderstorms blew through, instead of staying in the old wooden house I would run and dance outside in the rain and thunder, scaring my mother. I liked to eat with my fingers, gnawing on pork chop bones and gulping down big glasses of milk, in a hurry to get back outside. I loved gnawing on bones. My mother would shake her head, saying in desperation, “Oh, darling, please, please eat with your fork! Heavens alive, I’m raising a barbarian!”

See also This 7-Pose Home Practice Harnesses the Power of Touch

Barbarian, I thought, that sounds great! I imagined women with long hair streaming out behind them, racing their horses over wide plains. I saw streaked sunrises on crisp mornings with no school, bones to gnaw on. This wildness was so much a part of me; I could never imagine living a life that didn’t allow for it.

But then I was a wife and a mother raising two young daughters, and that wild young barbarian seemed lifetimes away. Paul and I had been married for three years when we decided to move from Vashon Island back to Boulder, Colorado, and join Trungpa Rinpoche’s community. It was wonderful to be in a big, active community with many young parents. However, the strain of the early years, our inexperience, and our own individual growth led us to decide to separate and collaborate as co-parents.

In 1978, I had been a single mother for several years when I met an Italian filmmaker, Costanzo Allione, who was directing a film on the Beat poets of Naropa University. He interviewed me because I was Allen Ginsberg’s meditation instructor, and Allen, whom I had met when I was a nun in 1972, introduced me to Costanzo. In the spring of 1979, we were married in Boulder while he was finishing his film, which was called Fried Shoes Cooked Diamonds, and soon thereafter we moved to Italy. I got pregnant that summer while we were living in a trailer in an Italian campground on the ocean near Rome, and that fall we moved into a drafty summer villa in the Alban Hills near the town of Velletri.

When I was six months pregnant, my belly measured the size of a nine-months pregnant woman’s, so they did an ultrasound and discovered I was pregnant with twins. By this time I knew that my husband was a drug addict and unfaithful. I couldn’t speak the native language and felt completely isolated. In March of 1980, I gave birth to twins, Chiara and Costanzo; they were a little early, but each weighed over five pounds. I buckled down to nursing two babies, caring for my other two daughters, and dealing with my husband’s addiction, erratic mood swings, and physical abuse, which started during my pregnancy when he began to hit me.

My feelings of overwhelm and anxiety increased daily, and I began to wonder about how my life as a mother and a Western woman really connected with my Buddhist spirituality. How had things ended up like this? How had I lost that wild, independent girl and left my life as a nun, ending up in Italy with an abusive husband? It seemed that by choosing to disrobe, I had lost my path, and myself.

Then two months later, on June 1, 1980, I woke up from a night of broken sleep and stumbled into the room where Chiara and her brother Costanzo were sleeping. I nursed him first because he was crying, and then turned to her. She seemed very quiet. When I picked her up, I immediately knew: she felt stiff and light. I remembered the similar feeling from my childhood, picking up my small marmalade colored kitten that had been hit by a car and crawled under a bush to die. Around Chiara’s mouth and nose was purple bruising where blood had pooled; her eyes were closed, but her beautiful, soft amber hair was the same and she still smelled sweet. Her tiny body was there, but she was gone. Chiara had died of sudden infant death syndrome.

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The Buddhist stupa of Swayambhu in the Kathmandu Valley, Nepal.

Bikalpa Pokhrel

The Dakini Spirit

Following Chiara’s death came what I can only call a descent. I was filled with confusion, loss, and grief. Buffeted by raw, intense emotions, I felt more than ever that I desperately needed some female guidance. I needed to turn somewhere: to women’s stories, to women teachers, to anything that would guide me as a mother, living this life of motherhood—to connect me to my own experience as a woman and as a serious Buddhist practitioner on the path. I needed the stories of dakinis—fierce female messengers of wisdom in Tibetan Buddhism. But I really didn’t know where to turn. I looked into all kinds of resources, but I couldn’t find my answers.

At some point in my search, the realization came to me: I have to find them myself. I have to find their stories. I needed to research the life stories of the Buddhist women of the past and see if I could discover some thread, some key that would help unlock the answers about the dakinis and guide me through this passage. If I could find the dakinis, I would find my spiritual role models—I could see how they did it. I could see how they made the connections between mother, wife, and woman . . . how they integrated spirituality with everyday life challenges.

About a year later, I was in California doing a retreat with my teacher, Namkhai Norbu Rinpoche, who was teaching a practice called Chöd that involved invoking the presence of one of the great female masters of Tibetan Buddhism, Machig Labdrön. And in this practice there is an invocation, in which you visualize her as a young, dancing, 16-year-old white dakini. So there I was doing this practice with him, and for some reason that night he kept repeating it. We must have done it for several hours. Then during the section of the practice where we invoked Machig Labdrön, I suddenly had the vision of another female form emerging out of the darkness.

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What I saw behind her was a cemetery from which she was emerging. She was old, with long, pendulous breasts that had fed many babies; golden skin; and gray hair that was streaming out. She was staring intensely at me, like an invitation and a challenge. At the same time, there was incredible compassion in her eyes. I was shocked because this woman wasn’t what I was supposed to be seeing. Yet there she was, approaching very close to me, her long hair flowing, and looking at me so intensely. Finally, at the end of this practice, I went up to my teacher and said, “Does Machig Labdrön ever appear in any other forms?”

He looked at me and said, “Yes.” He didn’t say any more.

I went to bed that night and had a dream in which I was trying to get back to Swayambhu Hill in Nepal, where I’d lived as a nun, and I felt an incredible sense of urgency. I had to get back there and it wasn’t clear why; at the same time, there were all kinds of obstacles. A war was going on, and I struggled through many barriers to finally reach the hill, but the dream didn’t complete itself. I woke up still not knowing why I was trying to return.

The next night I had the same dream. It was slightly different, and the set of obstacles changed, but the urgency to get back to Swayambhu was just as strong. Then on the third night, I had the same dream again. It is really unusual to have the same dream again and again and again, and I finally realized that the dreams were trying to tell me I had to go back to Swayambhu; they were sending me a message. I spoke to my teacher about the dreams and asked, “Does this seem like maybe I should actually go there?”

He thought about it for a while; again, he simply answered, “Yes.”

I decided to return to Nepal, to Swayambhu, to find the stories of women teachers. It took several months of planning and arrangements, a key part being to seek out the biographies of the great female Buddhist teachers. I would use the trip to go back to the source and find those yogini stories and role models I so desperately needed. I went alone, leaving my children in the care of my husband and his parents. It was an emotional and difficult decision, since I had never been away from my children, but there was a deep calling within me that I had to honor and trust.

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Back in Nepal, I found myself walking up the very same staircase, one step after another, up the Swayambhu Hill, which I had first climbed in 1967. Now it was 1982, and I was the mother of three. When I emerged at the top, a dear friend of mine was there to greet me, Gyalwa, a monk I had known since my first visit. It was as though he was expecting me. I told him I was looking for the stories of women, and he said, “Oh, the life stories of dakinis. Okay, come back in a few days.”

And so I did. When I returned, I went into his room in the basement of the monastery, and he had a huge Tibetan book in front of him, which was the life story of Machig Labdrön, who’d founded the Chöd practice and had emerged to me as a wild, gray-haired dakini in my vision in California. What evolved out of that was research, and eventually the birth of my book Women of Wisdom, which tells my story and provides the translation of six biographies of Tibetan teachers who were embodiments of great dakinis. The book was my link to the dakinis, and it also showed me, from the tremendous response the book received, that there was a real need—a longing—for the stories of great women teachers. It was a beautiful affirmation of the need for the sacred feminine.

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Brooke Lark

Coming Out of the Dark

During the process of writing Women of Wisdom, I had to do research on the history of the feminine in Buddhism. What I discovered was that for the first thousand years in Buddhism, there were few representations of the sacred feminine, although there were women in the Buddhist sangha (community) as nuns and lay householder devotees, and the Buddha’s wife and the stepmother who raised him had a somewhat elevated status. But there were no female buddhas and no feminine principles, and certainly no dakinis. It was not until the traditional Mahayana Buddhist teachings joined with the Tantric teachings and developed into Vajrayana or Tantric Buddhism in the eighth century, that we began to see the feminine emerge with a larger role.