From the monthly archives:
December 2009
I don’t know how “awe-inpsiring” this is, but here’s a short essay I wrote after hiking in the Sawtooth Mountains several years ago. -Mike
Sidehill on Loose Gravel
One summer, a friend took me hiking in the Sawtooth Mountains in Idaho. We started out at Redfish Lake, elevation 6,500 feet, and hiked up the backside of 10,700-foot Decker Peak.
My friend was once a Forest Service Ranger and part of his job then was to maintain trails in the 756,000 Sawtooth National Recreation Area—an area the size of the state of Rhode Island. So after all those years of maintaining trail, naturally the first thing he wanted to do was get off-trail.
It was what you’d call a strenuous hike. Very steep. Very thin air. Very slow going. Take a step. Inhale. Exhale. Take another step. Inhale. Exhale. All afternoon. Finally, about 500 feet beneath the summit of Decker Peak, we reached the Saddleback Lakes—two ice-cold, crystal-clear lakes that look like a saddle on a topographical map. That night, I camped out beneath a sky full of more stars than I thought possible.
The whole experience provided me with a profound sense of achievement. The solitude, the view and the cleansing effort it took to get up the mountain all combined to make the world seem much less complex. Things seemed more comprehensible. And it seemed that it might, in fact, be possible for a man to control his own fate. It was an intoxicating feeling that lasted until the next afternoon—when it was time to come down.
When you descend from Decker Peak, you have two options: You can follow the stream beds down as they merge into bigger and bigger streams and eventually lead you to churning whitewater of Redfish Lake Creek and then to Redfish Lake. Or you can go sidehill around the mountain until you are above the lake, and then head straight down the mountain. By the time we were ready to head down the mountain, we only had a few hours of daylight left, so we decided on the latter option. It would be faster. But it would also be more treacherous.
We started out just above the tree line. Above us were jagged peaks of granite. A few thousand feet below us was the fast-moving water of Redfish Lake Creek. Across the narrow gorge from us were more peaks, looking very dramatic at eye level.
We made good time—despite stumbling along with our 40-pound packs, right leg always above the left leg on the 30-degree incline—until my friend, John, suddenly stopped. Cutting across the route in front of us was a steep vertical strip of decomposed granite—nature’s equivalent of silicone-coated marbles. The strip was about 20 yards across and stretched from one of the old granite peaks above us to as far down the mountain as we could see.
“Do you think we can make it across?” I asked.
“I think so,” said John.
He went first. The decomposed granite required constant motion to cross it. As soon as you put a foot down, the granite gave way and started to slide down the mountain. The only way to avoid going down with it was to shift your weight to your next step and keep moving. Stopping or tripping in the middle of a patch of granite would mean a long slide down.
I followed John, and we encountered one patch of decomposed granite after another, going sidehill on loose gravel for the next few hours. At one point, I slid 30 or 40 feet down the mountain, but stayed upright and eventually regained control. Even moving as fast as I could forward, I typically lost a foot vertically for every foot of horizontal progress. It was dangerous, but I never had time to think about that. I just kept moving. When we finally got around the mountain and saw the lake below us, I was much relieved.
That night, and on many nights since, I’ve thought about that hike. About how the climb to the top takes so much out of you, it’s all you can do to think about your next step. About how your tenure at the pinnacle—brief as it may be—is filled with the intoxicating sense of omnipotence. And about how the descent occurs so rapidly, you’re lucky if you’re able to keep your footing. You don’t really have an opportunity to look back and contemplate the whole thing until after it’s done. If you’re not careful, you could climb mountains your whole life and never have time to think about what you’re doing or why you’re doing it.
I often think about that hike because when you’re a kid, you don’t control your own fate, but you temper that knowledge with the thought that someday, you’re going to grow up and be an adult and the world will be your oyster. But the older you get, the more you realize most of us are just a bunch of big kids. We do adult things—we work, we make house payments, we pay taxes–but control is an illusory thing. It’s like running sidehill on loose gravel. In the end, people seem much happier when they stop pursuing control and start seeking meaning because at that point, you begin to establish a foothold on solid ground.
Do you hang out at coffee shops? If so, you’ve probably met some colorful people, witnessed or been party to some interesting scenes, and heard some fascinating stories. We’d like to hear those stories, too.
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I’d like to put together a book of stories about the great teachers you’ve known, and do it as a tribute to all great teachers.
My girlfriend, Kathy, is a Montessori teacher. I see every day how much she gives to the kids in her class. They apparently see it, too, because she often gets a letter or an e-mail from somebody she taught five, ten or more years ago thanking her for being such a great teacher.
Who were your best teachers? And what made them such good teachers? One teacher I’ve never forgotten was Stacy Hall. She was already near retirement by the time I had her for 9th grade biology. That was the year that I got into a lot of trouble…skipped ~40 days of school, got arrested for shoplifting, stole Mom’s car and wrecked it, etc., etc. All of my other teachers gave up on me — and by giving up, I mean they all passed me and let me go on to the next level. Stacy Hall was the only teacher with the integrity to give me an F — and to this day, she’s the one I respect the most.
The story of Stacy Hall and that year of school would make a great essay. Now all I have to do is write it! Write down your story and tell me about the teacher who had the greatest influence on you or who most inspired you. Submit your story Submit your stories via our online submissions form.
Submissions deadline: Open until further notice.
The other day, I was walking past a meeting room at work. The meeting was just breaking up and I heard the sales manager clap his hands together enthusiastically and say, “Okay; if that’s our objective today, let’s make it happen.”
Let’s make it happen. I don’t know what it is, but the workplace–particularly the business workplace–seems to spawn more than its share of euphemisms. I assume that when the manager said, “Let’s make it happen,” he meant, “Let’s do whatever we need to do to meet our objective,” but that would sound boring and not very leader-like, so instead he said, “Let’s make it happen.”
We’ve all had to sit through meetings that were peppered with trendy catch phrases, clichés and euphemisms. Unfortunately, these phrases seem to catch on with a lot of people. For every individual that suffers a gag reflex upon hearing the word “synergy” there are at least half a dozen vice presidents who nod their heads in approval.
Personally, as a writer and occasional meeting-attendee, I think it’s best to say exactly what you mean. And when I hear something that sounds a little trendy, I try to translate it into plain English. For example, I’ve determined that when someone says, “It’s time to start thinking outside the box,” they really mean, “We’ve boxed ourselves in.”
When they say, “This is no dog-and-pony show,” you know you’re in for a dog-and-pony show. And, “We need to create a new paradigm,” means, “Nobody is buying our product anymore.”
About 500 years before Christ, the Chinese philosopher Confucius figured out that, “If what is said is not what is meant, then what ought to be done remains undone.” So if you find yourself surrounded by people talking in euphemisms, you might try quoting Confucius. If they still won’t say what they mean, try quoting martial-arts expert Chuck Norris who once said, “When I want your opinion, I’ll beat it out of you.”
Call for submissions: humorous stories about life in the modern workplace. Could be funny essays about serious stuff, serious essays about funny stuff, or funny essays about funny stuff (but serious essays about serious stuff will have to wait for another book). Submit your stories via our online submissions form.
Submissions deadline: Open until further notice.
Several years ago, I wrote and produced a sketch comedy show called Cubicles. It was great fun riffing on life in the modern workplace, and it was great fun working with talented actors to bring the show to life.
The ironic thing about Cubicles is that the funniest parts of the show were not made up…they were scenes and dialog lifted verbatim from the workplace! I’m sure you’ve seen the same thing…the lunacy, inefficiency, redundancy, hypocrisy, more redundancy (again), celibacy (no…wait!)…it’s so insane that if you didn’t laugh, you’d cry. There’s just an awful lot of silly stuff that goes on in the workplace.
Certainly “Dilbert” creator Scott Adams has tapped into the whole “it’s-funny-because-it’s-true” aspect of the modern office. Now you can do the same: send me your funniest, most bizarre, most surreal stories about life at work, and we’ll produce a book of essays so funny that people will be rolling on the boardroom floor.
To put you in the mood, here’s a short essay about “Making Things Happen” at work.
Do you hang out at coffee shops? If so, you’ve probably met some colorful people, witnessed or been party to some interesting scenes, and heard some fascinating stories. We’d like to hear those stories, too.
I’d like to put together a book of stories about the great teachers you’ve known, and do it as a tribute to all great teachers.
