I miss my 20-year old, pre Multiple Sclerosis body. This was my thought while walking the second half of my morning run today. I’m not prone to whining. But heck, if I can’t vent in a blog, where else can I do it. I’m not talking about the way my body looks. I’m okay with the exterior (and posterior) of my 41-year old self. Nope. It’s the inside stuff that needs a facelift. It’s downright saggy. And because I have MS, it’s hard for me to determine if my digestive, breathing, and muscle weakness problems are caused by the disease or just the natural aging process. The fact is it doesn’t really matter. There’s not much I can do about MS or being over 40, except exactly what I’m doing. Eat right (my big downfall), exercise, and keep my stress levels low.

But the reason I run has always been less for my health and more for the way it makes me feel…which used to be good. Now it’s a little like gambling. I still bet each time I go out that I’ll catch a little glimpse of that athlete and connect with that effortless motion akin to my childhood dreams of being able to fly. Today, I couldn’t get off the ground. And maybe tomorrow will be the same. But, if I keep trying, I believe I’ll get there again. I always say that my health is where it needs to be when I can run 5 miles. Right now, I’m running downhill 1.5 and walking the remaining 1.5 back home.

That said, there’s always something good about being out. Everything’s in bloom right now in Boulder. You have to love purple and fuchsia blossomed trees. It’s like something out of a Dr. Seuss book. The Boulder Creek is also running fast. Makes a nice soundtrack with the beat of my feet. Complements the new Counting Crows playing through my iPod Shuffle. And hard as the run was, it still beats sitting in this office typing. I feel cleansed and awake. Because with running, there is an afterglow. So for now, I’ll stop my whining and bask in it for a while. Thanks for listening.
–Michelle

Don Imus. Don Imus set a new bar for racism and stupidity this year with an asinine and offensive comment about the Rutgers players following the NCAA Women’s Basketball Championship in April. It was the racial and gender slur heard ‘round the world. And, thank God, no one—including Imus’s bosses—took it lightly.

I’m a huge college women’s basketball fan. In 1993 Sheryl Swoopes led Texas Tech (my alma mater) to its first and only national championship by scoring a record 47 points in the final game. 47 points. Who does that? Seriously, male, female, black, white? Who scores 47 points in a college championship game in the NCAA Division I? Feats like that transcend demographic qualifiers and stereotypes. Still I’m guessing there were folks out there who said, “Yeah, but it was the women’s tournament. I’d like to see her do that in the men’s game.” Proving you just can’t win with some people. After all, Billie Jean King beat Bobby Riggs more than 35 years ago to silence some of those sexist voices, but they find their way out into the world, don’t they?

I cheered for Rutgers through the entire tournament this year. They were my pick to win. I continued rooting for them long after their loss to Tennessee as they stood up to Imus in a face-to-face meeting. The women at Rutgers showed intelligence, sophistication, and dignity. Clear winners. I personally would have called him an old, white curmudgeon, who’d be blown off the court by any one of the Rutgers players. But I haven’t been coached by C. Vivian Stringer, so I don’t have the poise her players possess. I’d just say whatever came into my head at the time.

I’m often asked why we don’t feature more women of color in our pages. The short answer: we can’t afford to do our own photo shoots with our own models, so we have to rely on stock photography. In terms of diversity, the outdoor sports images available to us through stock buys are rare. Other outdoor magazines will tell you it’s because the primary sports participants in hiking, biking, backpacking, and trail running are white men. Their covers mirror their audience. Women’s fitness magazines feature stick-thin white women in bikinis. Their audience is diverse—and they have the money to reflect that in their images—but most of the time they choose not to. I’ll point out in their defense, though, that their cover models don’t really look much like any real women I know anyway.The Outdoor Industry Association encourages diversity and has made it an initiative. Everyone benefits from exercising in the outdoors and connecting with elements in nature. Reflecting minority participation in the media is a critical part of growing that segment. That said, I can’t hang my hat on an excuse that the images I need that support diversity aren’t readily available. I can lead the way, or I can shut up about it. Here at Women’s Adventure, we will always choose to lead.

If you’d like to submit your thoughts and experiences with the topics of racism and sexism in sports, please register here on our blog and make a comment. Let’s hear from you!

In a town as small as Creede, I wonder if the grocery store check out lady has to swear to shopper / cashier confidentiality? I’ve thought it quaint that each time I go in and buy cold medicine the bagger, stock boy, and cashier all ask how my son and I are feeling. In Boulder, they’d probably wonder if I was purchasing all that pseudophed for my Meth lab. But in Creede, they know we’ve been trading the cold and flu within our family for over a month now.

I wonder how anyone here purchases a home pregnancy test, condoms, or even Preperation H without the entire town whispering about it. And, while everyone here seems to know who I am and why I’m here, no one seems to have met Pam Houston. Case in point…

Amy, Logan, and I attended the Creede Early Learning Center fundraiser and silent auction on Saturday which was held in the Creede Community Center (found in the underground mining museum at the edge of town). At dinner, we met some girls who were actresses in the Creede theater. One of them, upon hearing that we were housesitting Pam Houston’s ranch, exclaimed, “Oh my God, is that the coolest bathroom or what?”

Pam’s bathroom is an amazing feat of tile work and imagination. A huge bay window next to a red clawfoot tub and pedastal sink make the room a work of art. The window frames the mountain view like a painting. The blue and white checkerboard tiles on the floor and the niche alcoves built into the walls show off the creativity of the designer. But the best…is the magic floor which lights up into a pattern of constellation stars at night beneath your feet.

Back to the dinner guest who says, “The floor glows in the dark!”

Someone else turns to her and says, “So, how do you know Pam?”

To which the girl responds, “Oh, I’ve never met her. I’ve just seen her bathroom.”

This brings up questions I don’t ask.

I’ll take photos of the bathroom for the next blog.

For now, I’m working and writing while stranded at the ranch. I bottomed out my Audi A4 in Bachelor Gulch and pierced the oil pan on Sunday. I thought “old pearl” was doing just great on these back roads, but I overestimated her low clearance. A guy named Hank is fixing her. I’ll catch a ride with a guy named Dex when she’s finished. Until then, I’ll live off my stash of groceries.

More from the ranch next week.

By Pamela Clark

Surfing has given me the ability to fail and to fail miserably with pride. There should be a small line of text on rental surfboards that notes those learning to surf after age 30 are due for years of upstaging by pre-adolescents, ungainly dismounts, unappealing smells (neoprene, etc) and an incursion of novel words into the personal vocabulary. “Dude, quit dropping in on my copier space! Wait your turn, I’m collating here!” Yeah, just what the bosses want to hear from once promising employees.

Surfing has given me the ability to not care about what my middle aged body looks like in neoprene, or that I smell a bit “off”, or that the eleven year old to my left is dropping cutbacks like crazy while I fall off the board just trying to trim with style. It’s OK- failure is the only way to progress. In nothing else in my life has failure been the way to progress, and finding this pleasure in surfing has been extraordinary for me.

I love to fail in surfing. Because, even in failing, I’m still in the ocean and progressing towards a goal. Surfing will remain in my life forever, while jobs will come and go. Thanks, surfing, for reminding me that practice does make perfect even if that practice takes decades.

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Drive into the town of Creede and you’ll see this sign: Welcome to Creede. 586 Nice Folks & 17 Soreheads. I’ve yet to meet any soreheads here; everyone is just so danged nice.

Yes, small town life has its drawbacks. Mysterious things like the USA Today missing an entire section, the Corona Light six pack having one bottle with a Corona Extra cap on it, and hours of business that vary based on fishing, weather, or whim. The espresso machine in the only coffee shop for miles is still down. But, they have homemade pizza night on Thursdays, and that more than makes up for it.

This morning, the grocery bagger thought my bill sounded too high, and he went back through the receipt to make sure they hadn’t overcharged me. Everyone waves when they pass you on the road, dirt or paved, and I’m perfecting my nod and two finger driving “hello.” I pass the same stretch of land twice a day, and I’ve named one part of it “Two Elk Meadow” for the duo that hangs out there grazing without fail. I’m suspicious that the Chamber of Commerce puts them out there for tourists.

On the way to Logan’s day care on Monday, I caught sight of a coyote the size of a small bear. Rabbit, hawk, bluebirds, deer, elk, and meadowlarks, fill up my days here in Creede. Unpredictable weather and my health (I’ve been well just two days in over a month) make getting outside a bit spotty. I started running again this week and made it 2 miles Monday, Tuesday, and Thursday. At 9,000 feet, I’m sucking air and feel terribly out of shape. Nothing to do but chip away at it like a sculpture. Little by little, I’ll get there. And I swear, the mountainsides turn one more shade of green with each step I take.

Everyone here already knows my name and why I’m here. Word gets around when you’re new in town. Most of the businesses open up on May 1, so I’ll have way more to tell then. I’ll let you know if I meet any soreheads.

Where to start? My family arrived here on Thursday making me realize that home is wherever they are. Daisy, the Jack Russell, and Biscuit, the Shiba Inu romp the 120 acres like they are part coyote and always have been (a point they want to make certain I make publicly). Pam’s wolfhounds ignore them, and I’ve actually caught them both shaking their heads and snickering at the arrival of the miniature canine greenhorns. I’m just thankful Rose and Mary Ellen decided that Daisy and Biscuit weren’t part of the food chain.

We’ve all had the cough and cold flu for two weeks. Mine morphed into a burst ear drum. Logan’s turned to pink eye. And, Amy’s went to her chest and set up house. Logan arrived still on antibiotics and proceeded to get the barfy flu his first two days here. He’s learned to say the word “puke” (we’re such great parents, I swear).

In between bouts of throwing up, Logan feeds the horses carrots, pets the wolfhounds, and imitates the bluebirds and meadowlarks by flying around Pam’s house tweeting.

Before my family arrived and on the night before Pam left, Pam and I spent time child-proofing her house by moving carvings from Bhutan and other items from across the globe out of Logan’s reach. When we came across a tiny guitar on the floor in a corner, I told her that Logan would definitely be interested in it and would absolutely break it. She said she didn’t really care. I asked that she make sure she was ready to say goodbye to the item because it would be in pieces when she returned. She just smiled and said, “I’d like to point out that the back of that guitar is made of an armadillo.” Point taken. Logan discovered the guitar yesterday and is enjoying it immensely. Thanks Pam.

With all of us sick, we hunkered down for Easter weekend. The bunny came, but for the most part, we stayed in bed Sunday. Logan started at Creede Day Care yesterday. For the first time, he’s staying where there are more adults than children and can get undivided attention. Small town day care rocks.

Pam mentioned she spent just 11 days at the ranch in 2005. A few more than that in 2006. And, she’s trying for at least a month or so this year. To say that Pam travels would be an understatement. I’ve asked her how she can stand being on the road so much, and she tackled the answer in her Letters from the Divide column in our May/June issue (on stands May 5). Amy and I cleaned out her fridge one morning to make room for fresh groceries and held a contest for the oldest item found. Amy won with a condiment dated January 2002. I lost with an unidentifiable food item dated March 2003. World travels evidently give a person a strong gastrointestinal constitution.

With Logan in day care, Amy and I drove the Bachelor Loop mining tour just outside the town of Creede. The canyon is one of the most beautiful I’ve seen and looked even more ominous because of the layers of fog, light snow, and blue sky sneaking through 13,000 and 14,000 foot peaks. Spring weather here makes you crazy or you accept it for all its layered grandeur. I plan on bringing my camera next time up.

Next, we tried to find Love Lake, seven miles up snowy, muddy, rutted road past Pam’s ranch. An old man riding an ATV, black lab aboard the back, passed us. His yellowish grey beard (think Santa Claus) matched his teeth. He looked every bit the part of a miner who could have founded the town. For all we know, he could be mayor. He stared at us the way the wolfhounds stare at Daisy and Biscuit, and he made sure we made it back down when the road got too tough for our SUV and we turned around to head home with our tail between our legs.

Next up, fly fishing on the Rio Grande. Amy fixed up my line. I wore my snow boots to wade in the shallows. As she was teaching me to cast, I noticed a dead rat floating next to her boots. We debated whether or not it was a rat, a beaver, or a marmot, before sending him on his way with a small eulogy. Who knew the Rio Grand had the elusive and near-extinct Rat-Beaver? You should know that that’s all we caught that day.

Amy calls me twice from the road on the way out of town. Once to tell me about the “movie theater” in Monte Vista which consists of a motel where you can watch movies out your window on an outdoor drive-in screen. And later, to tell me that she’s dodging potatoes as they blow off of a farm truck, giving mashed potatoes a whole new meaning.

While I type, the snow blows sideways, then stops, then starts again. It might seem depressing if it wasn’t so beautiful and fleeting at this time of year. Blue sky peeks out, just like the horses by the barn.

More photos to come, including the town of Creede.

I’m starting week 2 at Pam’s ranch in Creede. First, the bad news. I came here with a cold and cough. Got an ear infection on Saturday. Burst the ear drum on Sunday. Called in the prescription to the only pharmacy an hour away, to a guy named Frank, who warned me that they don’t take insurance (haven’t had to for 22 years). If you saw the pharmacy once I got there, you’d wonder as I did if the pharmacist was really a large animal vet and the antibiotics you’d be taken were meant for horses. But, I digress.

I also found out this weekend that I’m being audited by the IRS. Lucky for me, my IRS auditor is on vacation until the end of the month too.

All that aside, I’m settling into Pam’s place and her two giant wolfhounds and I are fast friends now. The horses tolerate me and haven’t trampled me yet. We have an understanding.

Pam’s place is a giant library. Books everywhere from some of the best authors I’ve read. The 120 acres spreads out as mostly flat meadow with foothills cradling it like the fingers of a hand — the ranch resting in its palm. Beyond the foothills, 12,000 foot peaks with snowcaps stand guard over the valley. The windows of the ranch frame the scene like an Ansel Adams poster. For now, the land is devoid of color, just like Ansel’s photos would be. But, soon…oh, very soon…the flowers and green will come.

Bluebirds court each other and check out the real estate in the form of the wooden bird houses tacked up along the fence posts. A Western Meadowlark wakes me with a sweet morning song. I check the propane tank, the horse trough, the feral cats. I do a load of towels and hang them from the outdoor clothesline to dry in 40 mile per hour winds. I only lose two.

When I arrived a week ago, I checked out a coffee shop in the town of Creede. The espresso machine was down, but the pasteries looked good. Today, I stopped by again. Espresso machine still down. They’re still waiting for the repair guy. They smile and wave at me. Everyone here has a story. From the way they look at me, I can tell they wonder what mine is. But I’m not a full time resident like they are. So their stories have got to be way better. How does one come to live in the middle of nowhere? I plan on asking and will fill you in when I do.

I finished Pam’s book, A Little More About Me, and vow to get her to write more about some of those adventures in the pages of Women’s Adventure. We’re all in for a treat in the July/August issue because she agreed to write a feature, instead of her regular column, about her days as a rafting guide.

Photos of Pam’s ranch to come. Promise.

TRADING LIVES WITH PAM HOUSTON: A Weekly Blog

Seven years ago, I sold my Colorado ranch, a 10-acre plot with Continental Divide views and trails that led from my back door all the way to Canada. The house sat smack in the middle of an elk migration pattern and lion, bobcat, bluebirds, red tail hawks, coyotes, deer, and black bear jolted me from life’s stupor on a regular basis. I lived among the miracle of emerging seasons, budding out seemingly because I took the time to notice. Though I know they’ve gone on without me—pasque flowers breaking delicate lavender heads through the soil to whisper spring’s arrival. The last night at my home, I slept in a bag on the hardwood floors. I’d asked the elk for a proper send off, and sure enough, at 3am I woke to find they had formed a circle around my house. I tiptoed from window to window, watching as their snorts of breath fogged the panes. The perfect ending to my life as a mountain cowgirl.

I moved in November of 2000 for love and because my time for healing was over. My partner and I have been together for 9 years. We have a son named Logan. Two little pups. And, a charmed life next to the majestic Flatirons in Boulder. I still have views and trails. But, my life is full of people now, a career I love, and far less wildlife.

So, if I’m so happy, why did I agree to housesit for Pam Houston, the iconic and gifted adventure writer, in the middle of nowhere—Creede, Colorado? Was I trying to challenge how domesticated I’ve become? Or, maybe seeking to regain some lost part of myself? It might be as simple as I needed a vacation. A change of scenery. My family will join me here. We’ll trade off tending the ranch for two months. But, for now, I sit alone in Pam’s kitchen. Six hours away from Boulder, worrying about wells, septic tanks, and fence lines.

Yesterday, prior to her departure, Pam walked me around the 120 acres. During my time here, I’ve agreed to keep alive and happy her two horses, two Irish Wolfhounds, and a couple feral cats that keep rats and mice at bay. I neglect to tell her that I’ve not been around horses since I sold the two I owned, both of whom sent me to the ER more times than I’d like to admit. I’m not afraid of horses when I’m on their backs. I’ve ridden horses that have bolted through densely packed forests, reared on steep, loose gravel hillsides, and bucked like they were rodeo stars. I get jittery on the ground. That’s where my accidents happened. I’ve got trauma and these horses, Roany and Deseo, know it. It’s not until my first night alone on the property that I read the first chapter of Pam Houston’s book, A Little About Me, that I realize she’s been through worse—lost 19 pieces of bone in a riding accident—and might have understood my apprehension.

I’m given two sets of instructions for life on the ranch. Winter and spring. When I left Boulder, I wore shorts, a tank top, and sandals. Like everyone else, I’ve got spring fever. I wake at Pam’s to snow falling. Translation. More work and worry. Once the creek thaws, I don’t have to fill the horse troughs. If the pasture greens up, Roany and Deseo won’t need hay thrown. When the driveway dries up, the garbage guy can take the trash, which is accumulating in a room in an outbuilding. As mud season ends, Mary Ellen and Rose, the 150-pound Wolfhounds won’t leave a trail of earth across the floors to stick to my socks. Spring makes life easy.

Pam’s instructions are 4 pages long. She warns me not to feel guilty if any of her animals, particularly Rose who is 8 years old, happen to pass on during her absence. “Let’s not go there,” I tell her. Seriously, not on my watch, please and thanks.

I realize as we drive to town, 12 miles away with nothing much open until June, that I’m signaling—flicking on my left and right blinkers when I turn. We never see another car. Back at her place, I lock the doors, only to be told that there is no key. Undressing at night, I get self-conscious in front of the windows—no blinds here. Unless the horses or dogs have a problem with nudity, I need to get over it. I realize on the day before Pam leaves that I’ve become “citified.”

So, here are the things I wonder: How will my 20-month old adapt to life at the ranch? Will there be enough trout biting for my partner to stay entertained here? How can I get my taxes from my CPA signed and sent by April 15? Will Rose and Mary Ellen try to eat Daisy and Biscuit (my 20-pound pups – Jack Russell and Shiba Inu respectively)? Can I exist without a microwave, dishwasher, and clothes dryer when I have a toddler? And finally, will a burgeoning spring in the wilderness stir something in me I’d forgotten I had?

Stay tuned. More blogs to come from Pam Houston’s ranch…including descriptions, photos, and the arrival of my family here.

Can the weight-loss headlines on magazine covers cause eating disorders among teen girls? That’s what some medical researchers wanted to find out, and the results appeared in the January issue of the Journal of Pediatrics. What they found isn’t shocking; it’s just sad.

The Minnesota study tracked more than 2,500 middle-school students over a five-year period and found that girls who frequently read diet articles were three times more likely to try to lose weight through vomiting or laxatives than girls who read other types of articles. Boys in the same study seemed unaffected by weight-loss content.

The release of this information follows on the heels of some modeling agencies’ setting new minimum-weight guidelines barring models who are unhealthily skinny from hitting the runways.

Skinny does not equal healthy. But in our society, it’s come to mean beauty and even competence. Attractive individuals are more likely to land a job and make more money than their heavier counterparts. It wasn’t always this way.

Look back to the Victorian era, when voluptuous women ruled the day. Paintings by nineteenth-century artists honored the female form and placed it on a pedestal, with every lovely curve prominently displayed. In many other countries being plump is synonymous with wealth and is envied. The “fat cat” prospers. In the United States, more than 60 percent of women said they’d rather be thin and poor than overweight and rich.

I’m not suggesting that we celebrate our fat rolls and scarf another Debbie’s snack cake. To be certain, obesity contributes to most major health problems, including heart disease, diabetes, cancer, and stroke. Being overweight shortens our life span and, some might argue, lessens our enjoyment of it by making daily tasks more difficult. Wanting to be the ideal height and weight for health reasons is very different from what we’re talking about here.

I’m 5 feet 3 inches and 118 pounds. Why is this discussion important to me? Because those attributes aren’t what makes me beautiful or smart or a better human being. Every magazine shouting “Get Your Best Body Now!” or “Great Abs in 10 Moves!” or “Thinner Thighs in 30 Days!” tells women that their importance as a person can be reduced to the exterior—to how they look and not who they are or what they can contribute.

One of the very first things I learned in Mass Comm 101 was that the media sets the agenda. If the media coverage of Sudan topped the headlines every day, it would appear that things were escalating there even though they’ve been terrible for years. The media has a responsibility. I ask the question: What else could fill those hundreds of pages dedicated to the frivolous pursuit of fitting into a size 2 dress? The message we need to send to this generation of women—and the next—is to strive to be happy, healthy, strong, and confident. The message to be skinny so that others will love you or accept you isn’t worth the trees sacrificed to make the paper.

I believe the answer is adventurecising. We can all do our part to spread the word.

Live life to its fullest. Experience all it has to offer. Treat your body with respect and love. Thrive in the wild.