The Blog with an Outline about Mammoth and Rap

I don't usually start these bloggings with an outline, but today I am.

• Gary
• Church
• Eminem

And that, my friends, is the most organization you'll ever see from me.

Quick backstory: my roomie and I went snowboarding this weekend.

Gary. So I guess you need to get gas before the 200-mile-ish stretch of nothing when driving to Mammoth. Or, if you find yourself in a situation like ours, you stop at the one Shell between civilizations and you use Dave's Mini Mart's restroom to brush your teeth and take out your contacts, as one had previously fallen out of your eye which then forced you to make your roommate control the steering wheel highway fiasco while you stabbed it back in. You'll probably make a joke about how the flickering neon sign looks like Dave's Mini Mar as the "t" is burnt out. And as you walk inside you will see Gary. He will be staring out the window as if he could see the world turning or the blackness breathe. He will have a bone-shivering horror music soundtrack playing and the store will be littered with clocks and mechanical middle fingers and tourist mugs. He will try to make a joke when you are walking to the restroom, one that is just as not funny as it is inaudible, and he will laugh morosely to himself as if to save his efforts. He will look down at his hands and metaphorically, but much too realistically, taste the familiarity of understanding that he is misunderstood.

Because that's what happened to us.

Angeli and I were in the bathroom. I was mid-tangle brush in the hair battle when we heard a knock on the bathroom door. We looked at each other. I opened it quizzically to find Gary standing there. He reminded me of Spongebob's Gary the snail... sized with a considerable round body, a sphere-like head sitting atop it, and a shaggy, rusty-colored bowl cut to (quite literally) top it off. I actually don't really know how he reminded me of a snail besides the name resemblance.

   "How are you doing?" he asked... creepily, sheepishly, lonely.
   "We're good. Thanks for... asking," I replied.
   "Oh." His small, button-like eyes turned towards the floor again, "okay." I could imagine the mental attack in his head, beating him down, those little insecurities punching in his brain tissue with the self depreciation that I know all too well. We stood there, my hand on the bathroom door, his mass standing like a frozen tree.
   "What is your name?" I asked. If he was previously frozen, spring happened... a magical spring like the one in Narnia when Aslan roars and breaks the boundaries of the white witch. I don't know if I've ever seen anyone's face light up and literally produce illumination, but his was close.
   "Gary" he replied. His words were not words to me. I think his words were what life-hope would sound like if life-hope was a sound. He stood there, basking in the idea that someone actually cared about what his name might be, and then shook himself to come back to earth and the logic that goes with that.
   "What's...what's your names?" His tongue pushed out the words like they were too big for his mouth.
   "I'm Ashley." I stretched out my hand and he shook it, and for a second, there was a shared sense of community between human souls. There was a lightness in that strange little mini mart starting from the bathroom border that spread to the corners. I closed the door with a smile a wave and a "bye" and he left us to finish our nightly routines. I left him a "Happy Thanksgiving" note on the chalkboard in the women's restroom, but realized that he will probably never see it... because it is in the women's restroom.

Church and Eminem combined because I can't even stick to my own outline and my thoughts bleed all over each other. Angeli and I camped at Mammoth. We slept in the car the second night after realizing that no amount of layers could victoriously battle 19 degrees. Angeli and I always seem to have a theme song. It is unintentional. It has no reason, and definitely no rhyme. It chooses us.

Day 1

There is a Light that Never Goes Out - The Smiths

Day 2

Water Fountain - tUnE-yArDs

One of my favorite feelings in the world is waking up in my tent or the back of my car. And that second day I got to wake up in the back of my car in the bare-bone basin of the mountains. They surrounded us like they were the edge of the soup bowl and we were the soup. I love how gold glints off window dew and how ice forms on the inside of the car when you've been breathing all night in it. It melts, and the drops sprint down with their gravity incentive to pool in that little rubber lining around the window for such times as these. And then I got the stunning feeling that I was overwhelmingly small. That there is space and a globe and countries and that I'm a part of it. Later that day I watched the snow gusts snake their way along side of me while I snowboarded. When I paint, I see the artwork forming, but when I snowboard or wake up to the sun I feel as if I'm actually an active part of it. I feel as if I am a part of creation screaming the name of its Creator, and I feel close. Close to the intentional beauty meant for the world. Close to purity. Close to the God that orchestrates it together.

This picture represents a large sacrifice of body warmth.

Fast forward through two less-than-half-priced Mammoth dream days to the drive home. To the dark and those random neon lights as you pass through those random towns in that random cold desert. Through those five hours I discovered rather randomly that Angeli has a sweet-tooth for rap. Dare I say "old school" rap. A fresh Spotify playlist and a few hours later we came to Eminem. She showed me his song Headlights and told me how it was his response to his song Cleaning Out My Closet in his earlier years. Both are about his mom, and Headlights is his apology. 

A pre-cursor disclaimer: I believe church can be an absolutely beautiful thing in the way that it was intended. Encouragement. People meeting together with the same fire in their heart. That concept is a beautiful result in anything really. Two mathematicians create brilliant formulas. Just thinking about two chefs in the same room makes my mouth water. And there's something so beautiful about people getting together who understand what having a relationship with God is like.

I believe that God is omnipresent. But I feel that there is a beauty lost when people stagnate "worship songs" into circles like those round-about driving things. I see so many more of God's qualities in Eminem's song Headlights than I do in the production of many church services and modern "worship." There is so much more authenticity, repentance, and beauty in this song than in any wooden pew. I believe that the heart behind the words, including the explicit ones, overflows just as much, if not more beauty than a perfect harmony or fancy chord progression. This... the cussing, the thoughts, the repentance, the search for new life is the deepest part of who he is, and I believe that is a beautiful thing to the heart of God. Jesus walked a life worth following, and by stumbling, sometimes backtracking, often wandering from but returning to those footsteps I've found a depth provided by a God who simply wants our authenticity. And the closer I get to Him... there's a continual clean slate, growing depth, and thirst for more like I've never known before.

(I especially like 2:25 and on)

Aaaand some more pictures. Adventure on and live deeply my friends. 

 

 

It is Well

It's been a while. School started.

Today I woke up at five and, in my (literal) blind delirium, I decided to go to the beach. I grabbed my six foot egg-fishy, a red flannel, and some of the incense I got on Amazon. But I forgot pants, which made it mildly inconvenient to write this in a public coffee shop. You really realize your priorities at 5 am. I also realized that there are different shades of black in the morning. The small-room-stubbed-toe black and the early morning sleeping pavement black. There's the eye pupil black and the copy-cat pupil camera lens black. It's strange to think we're looking at black through black. Whether you take that at a deep metaphorical level or the shallow physicality it was intended in, it's an interesting concept to think about.

The scent I grabbed was called Sunrise. Figures.

After my climb-in-the-passenger's-door-due-to-my-bad-park-job shuffle, Bethel popped in my head. It more like burst to the seams of my skull because the name's been a bubble in my head for a while. It took the needle of 5 am for it to burst and make me actually look them up. My fingers stumbled on It is Well (Live). I'm really glad they did ---->

Fast forward to 6 am at Zuma watching the 20 billion people fight each other for the ankle biters and me burning incense like I was better than the quarter of their ability that I actually am. Whenever I burn incense it makes me think of the frankincense the wise men brought to Jesus or the burnt offerings in the Old Testament. Sometimes I wonder if that's what it was like to be God... He smelled the offerings and got that dull buzzing in the back of his head because the smell was so encompassing. I have no idea, but all I know is that moment was like a symbol of taking a moment (moment-ception?) to simply take time to sit in silence with God and give Him the first fruits of everything I find pleasurable... the best smells, the best part of the morning, the best place to possibly watch the sunrise... and I was so fully completely perfectly content. It reminded me of the gratification I get when I please someone I love... except that God IS the definition of love, and He gives us the opportunity to fully please Him when we will never be able to fully please people.

So have a happy, fulfilled morning. Please the One you Love today.

Happy Earth Day

Today is earth day. It's my favorite holiday... that I forget about until about 4 pm the day of. Thank God for facebook. I almost forgot my second-cousin-triple-removed's birthday too.

I find myself focusing on the "the things unseen" in a lot of my theocratic, pensive quiet time, especially when I want to be "spiritual." I believe in them with all my heart. Like love and a relationship with God. They're so potent in life, and I don't know what life would be like without them. That's such an arbitrary statement. Like the ones you hear in Sunday school stories while you're coloring Joseph's coat with broken crayons that have weird names like piggy bank pink.
     "Color inside the lines. It's a coat of many separate colors." You stop and look at your scribbled coloring-book cartoon adolescent. He looks back with bubble eyes and an overly friendly grin. The oh-so-helpful lady who helped your artistic juices flow now interrupts your pondering.
     "Let's clean up! Time for our Noah and the goldfish snacks!" You can hear the zingy squeak of Larry the Cucumber wafering in from the other room... My question is where in the Bible does it ever say that Joseph's coat was composed of separated colors?

But when I stop to think about it, I really don't know what life would be like without the things we can't see.

But... the earth. I think it's one of the few "beyond-our-understanding" things we can touch. We can see its mind-entrancing complexity on top of a mountain when the pines and boulders and ribbon rivers are laid out like a tea party. We can see it under a microscope in the life of a drop of water, which we drink every day without thinking. We see a myriad of colors and slithering shadows scratch themselves across drawstring curtains and we can touch the sun dancing on our skin when the wind coughs through an elderly oak's leaves. But it is all so much bigger than us... In every concept available. Yet I feel like we only have the perspective of a ladybug in a cardboard box (I used to collect those, poor things) in comparison to what God has planned for us.

Nature is tangible. Ask any tree house enthusiast. I can assure you that they won't be sleeping in a non-tangible tree. But it is so much more than tangible. There's a secret tree house in my neighborhood that we call Wonderland. Why? Because when you lay down and see the egg-shell sky held back by branches with little ants and birds breathing their little lives into the same air as you it's not just a tree house. It's an all-encompassing, jaw-dropping awe.

So, Happy Jaw-Dropping, Stupifying, Cali-fragil-is-tic Earth Day. May you hug many trees.

Sunrise from the base of Mount Fitz Roy

Can I have some Ranch with my Word Salad?

I'm coming home soon. I feel like my heart is being strained through a cheese cloth... with no emotions. My heart is just my heart. The cheese, cheese. The cloth, well, it's a cheese cloth... a cloth with a bit of specification... but you get the point. There's so many feelings that they all mutilate each other like rabid rats. At the Casa there's a plastic toy gun that's been on the couch for about a week. I know because I sit on it just about every stupid day. I was (emphatically) informed by Jacob, my 20-year-old colleague, that it was the "red power ranger's gun... Jason's gun." And yes, I googled that to refresh my memory.

Anyways, I can't seem to focus on the big picture. I haven't blogged for a while because everything that rolls off my tongue (or more literally, my fingers) is word salad. That's actually a term I learned about in Psychology. Word salad. I can just imagine a bunch of men in lab coats discussing it at an over sized, rectangular very official table. Probably with rat cages blurred in the background.

     "Yes, yes, we need a term for this." A mouse squeaks in the distance.
     "Wordanoia?" a man suggests. His lab coat is one button off and his goggles are steaming up a bit.
     "No... no..." the instigator replies. "That's been used for the Wordophomous solomonus." Seemingly defeated, he puts his head in his hands. "They're too similar."
     "Spitography!" exclaims another across the table raising a finger. The instigator sighs in unison with another mouse squeak and just shakes his head, still in his hands. Suddenly the doors swing open and a boy enters. He's carrying a brown paper bag with little oil spots seeping through.
     "Dad, you forgot your sala..." The men sit up a little straighter and independently look off in the distance with glazed eyes. The rats stop running on their wheels. The boy freezes. Light suddenly streams down onto the boy's hand holding the bag. A rat falls over dead. The men then whisper in unison as if the lightest sound would break the magic,
     "Salad..."

I also learned about schizophrenia. My teacher showed us a clip of a schizophrenic man. The things he said were so disjointedly brilliant. They made such illogical sense to me that I started to frantically write down everything he said, starting with the "picture [on the wall] that had a headache." Afterwards I looked up expectantly to discuss what he said when I remembered we were analyzing the subject, not the subject matter.

That made me sad. Trained by society, I feel that we focus on analyzing the subject rather than listening to what it is saying. I guess that's what I'm unconsciously not doing. I'm not saying this to say I'm better than society, but rather, why I don't feel like I'm a part of it. I think I'm not feeling because I'm listening to what South America is saying rather than trying to analyze it. Of course I realize that everyone processes and deals with things in different ways. Mine isn't necessarily better or worse than someone else's... it's just different. I could go into one of my infamous rants about my love hate relationship with the cracks on the sidewalks, but I think you've heard that enough.

I hear South America saying many of the same things the United States would say. That I need to shower in the mornings. That the dust here is also made from skin cells and that gravity still keeps our feet planted in the same way. Don't get me wrong... there are definitely differences. Major differences. But that toy gun will probably still be on the couch when I leave, and life will go on, and that's okay. And somehow that's both a comforting and rip-my-body-to-shreds-ing concept that isn't soaking in. I don't know if it ever will because my head can only soak things in at one place at a time, which never really gives me the full perspective because I can only physically be at one place at a time.

"It's God, not me." I've been thinking about that concept a lot lately, and how much I've used it. I never want to use it again. It assumes that I was something in the first place. Why don't I just say "It's God?" Because I have to be in the equation somewhere. "Here God, I'll let You have the first respective subject in this non-grammatically-correct-sentence because I have reached complete humility." I want to replace that with what John the Baptist said, "He must increase, but I must decrease." Now there's some good grammar. It's a continuous action of decreasing. That's addressing the constant struggle for humility rather than saying I am humble. That's the authenticity I want.

I was going to talk about my English class and how we "analyze" things. The trick to the class is to use "teacher pleasers" such as idealized and passionate and suffering and despair. Bonus points for personification and reminiscence or if you can think of anything longer than 5 syllables. You could pretty much say the same thing about everything to deepen the class discussion.
      "Oh yes, I believe the author used personification to idealize the situation of suffering he was in when he was reminiscing in his passion." Maybe switch it up to add a new perspective. But make sure to furrow your brow a bit to make it authentic.
      "The author used personification when describing his suffering to idealize the passion because his reality was clouded by despair."

They like it when you use nouns as verbs with quick little suffixes, such as clouded. You could do that with just about anything. Shower-ed. Pillow-ed. Meth-ed... (Maybe not everything). How out-of-the-box and descriptive of me. But as I was writing this I realized it's all I do on this blog anyway. How sneakily hypocritical of me. I surprise myself at my abilities sometimes. Jesus really does deserve to be "increased" and I really do deserve to be "decreased."

That's all.

My Respect, Argentina

I am studying in Buenos Aires, Argentina, and it has become a part of me. I deeply love Israel as their history is a crucial part of my definition as a Christian. So, January 18, 2015 was shocking for me.

I don't want to pretend to be an expert in Argentine politics, or any politics at all really. But the gunshot to Nisman's head was like a blow to mine. Argentina's president, Cristina Kirchner, declared it a suicide. But why would someone commit suicide mere hours before testifying evidence of a collusion between the Islamic Republic of Iran and the Cristina Kirchner government? Nisman's report of nuclear connections between Argentina and Iran suggested provisions of uranium and nuclear cooperation during the suicide bombing on the Israeli Embassy in Buenos Aires in 1992. Evidence, which if revealed in court, would be strong enough to force Cristina to resign.

I met an interesting man the other day in a cafe that played Chet Faker. He was sitting at our table as I was struggling through pluscuamperfecto. He shifted his weight, tilting his head back a bit.

"You know they only use that in Spain." Perfect English. A deep voice. I looked up. My bangs were rustled from the integration of my nails through my scalp like little inchworms, and I quickly saw them sticking up like straw in the mirror by his head.

"I have a test on Monday" I replied, distracted as I tried to bat down the rat-bed disaster.

We started to talk as the pages of my notes stagnated. I'd rather engage in what's in front of my nose rather than have it buried in a book, as fascinating as books can be. Alex is from Israel, lives in LA and works in Buenos Aires. Suffice it to say, he has surfed the best breaks on three continents. I eagerly gave him my phone to type out suggestions all the way from places to go to books to read. He looked down at his list on the screen before giving it back to me.

Surf Wise
Surf Sex and Fun
Forces of Nature

"Well, you got yourself a poem there."

Naturally, we started to brief on politics. We have quite similar views as our passions align. We talked about the march on Wednesday. I listened as he told me his views on Nisman and Cristina and Israel and how passionate he was about his country and the desolation there.

The march on Wednesday. I told him I was there too.

I was plastered against an angry old man on the supte (subway). He sniffed disapprovingly and barked at me to provide him more room (in a less polite and more gesture-filled way then I choose to write). I weaseled out a "sorry" or two as my hands were tied, or more literally, barged between another lady and someone else's armpit and plastic pearl bracelet. But I stood determinedly on my 2-square-inch plot of supte ground as Alex (different Alex) earlier had to yank me inside the closing doors. The suptes here allow as many people as will fit. Some will force themselves in the moment the doors close, with nothing the 500 other protesting people crammed inside can do about it (except wait till the next stop to forcibly push them off again). I looked at Alex and tried to gulp down some of the underground air drizzling through the cracked window as the rails whisked by.

After disembarking that torturous transportation device, we climbed the steps to the street. I noticed what was coming at us. So did the Porteños (Argentine locals). I looked to my right and Alex to her left and watched like wet cats as they simultaneously and expressionlessly popped out their umbrellas. I guess I should have checked the weather that day, but I guess it doesn't matter as I don't have an umbrella anyway. We were doomed to direct exposure to the elements. I wrung out my already sopping hair. Thunder cracked in the distance.

We were there for the silent protest. For the people. We were there for the ladies on the sidewalk with tears disguised as raindrops. We were there for the men in suits and the ones in jeans. We were there for the honor of Argentines unknown to us, and we were there under the same rain and the same zapping thunder. We were there for the chanting of "AR-HEN-TINA" and "JUS-TI-CIA" rumbling up through 400,000 individual throats to collaborate with the contributing thunder. It was beyond powerful. My own throat swelled as I stood there, helpless. I won't pretend that the corruption has effected me in the same way, but I want to give every single step I took and every single step I will take here to that silent march. To the Argentines who's hearts and stories have stolen parts of mine. I want them to know that I am with them, in every possible sense of my understanding. I want to share the in the pain of the corruption that we blanket term as "life."

There's something powerful about that... being connected with Argentina and Israel and the States in one silent march. About how different lives can come together to stand for one thing. For justice. For freedom and honesty and righteousness to solidify in our world again. I can't do much, but I want every footstep I have on this soil to count for something in pursuit of validating what the people want it to stand for; because once you have lived in Argentina, a part of you will stay in the wire-lines of the supte cars and the cracked sidewalks forever.

*photos taken from Google search

Pelons

(Conversated in Spanish but written in English for your [and my] sanity).

"Hi. Can I have the fruit outside? Look." I turned around and walked outside with the man at my heels. "This fruit. How do you say this? Nectarina?" I pointed at the plump redish yellow swirled nectarines sitting in the stand outside the market. The man hinted at a smile in the left corner of his mouth.
   "Pelon." I looked at him quizzically. He seriously tried to suppress the growing grin.
   "Oh."
   "How many?"
   "Four." I watched as he carefully picked four of the fruits for me. It's different here because you tell them what fruit you want and they pick it for you rather then bringing it to the counter yourself. I could tell he was picking the very best ones as he examined each of them before clutching them to his chest. It's a gamble here. As a foreigner I'm either treated like scum or a goddess. I like the goddess days. We walked back inside and he started to weigh my fruit.
   "28 pesos." I started digging through my backpack, paused, then pointed to the fruit sitting on the scale.
   "How do you say that again?" The skin between his eyebrows wrinkled.
   "28 pesos?"
   "No, the fruit." His glimmer of a smile returned.
   "Pelon."
   "Pelon" I whispered to myself. He watched me for a few seconds.
   "Where are you from?" He answered before I did. "The United States?" I looked down and laughed. His smirk turned into fret. "No?" I looked back at him as he bagged my fruit in a blue and white striped plastic bag.
   "Is it obvious?" He grinned again. The bag wrinkled and a car honked outside.
   "Thank you, sir." I smiled at his eyes and walked back out the door.

I looked up how to say Nectarine when I got back to my apartment. It's Nectarina.

I'm impressed if you've made it this far through my blog. I just wrote about buying Nectarines at a fruit stand. But my point is that Argentina is interesting because it is so different from any other Latin American country I've been to. It almost has its own vocabulary, and the accent is so different. They even call their language different: Castellano. I feel bad for the new students who just arrived this semester. They were sitting in class like a deer in the headlights. Argentinians pronounce the double ll's as sh instead of y. For example pollo is pronounced po-sh-o and ella is e-sh-a. So are the y's. So playa is pla-sh-a. I think that's why no one can pronounce my name. They say it like it's a magic potion or something with the way they sound it out. Here's a link if you're interested further ---> https://www.travelblog.org/South-America/Argentina/blog-195247.html

I've never felt like I have had a city before. I grew up in something like a town on the coast and I study twenty minutes from LA. But I feel like this city is becoming my own. It is taking my heart little piece by piece. Today I wanted to visit a thrift shop, so I looked one up online that looked decent and started walking. I walked for 45 minutes to find that it was closed. I looked through the window at the gaudy 80s jewelry lined up on tables and wasn't too disappointed. So I started walking back, and that's when I passed the Nectarines. They were too plump and available to resist. My 90 minute walk for them was worth it. But I love those nectarines. And I love that this city smells like cigarette smoke and that the apartments have old metal keys and locks and elevator doors. I know the sidewalks and which tiles are loose and will splash you if you step on them in the rain.

That's it. My heart fluttered when I flew back into BsAs after traveling for Christmas break. I thought that deserved a post.

It's Happening

We survived. I'm now sitting on the floor of our hostel in Ushuaia reading the sharpied notes on the walls. Hostels are like a 3D pintrist. There are so many different languages... different countries and stories behind the chicken scratches on the walls. From this angle I can see the tasteful "I had sex on the beanbag" strategically scribbled in a conspicuous spot under the communal bookshelf under a Derren Brown book and a thin Chinese one. It's a guessing game as to which of the five beanbags not to sit on. I moved to access a better plug to find myself face-to-face with an outlined Taj Mahal on the wall and a few moments later to have the hostel lady scold me for being a road block in the hallway. 

Directly after our trek in Puerto Williams we crashed on our beds. We were lucky to snag a private room for two, even though the bottom bunk was too low to sit upright and the top had no ladder. After a who-knows-how-many-hour long nap, the hostel owner flung open our door to ask if we wanted Piscos. We drowsily looked up, our hair horrid from the mixture of dirt from the trail and bed head from the first real pillow we've had for a week. Confused as to as why we were sleeping at Pisco hour we assured her that she didn't need to bring us any. We discovered the next morning that she later didn't come tell us the time of the ferry because she didn't want to disturb our slumber. Piscos > Transportation Information. Funny how this corner of the world works.

Dientes de Navarino. The Southernmost Trek in the world. Known as "Alaska on steroids." We were reading a travel blog aloud one night before we started. "If you like... bushwhacking. If you like... 

nature in it's natural state. If you like <insert other dangerous obstacle here>... Then the Dientes de Navarino is for you!" We swallowed. Were we really doing this? After the first day of drop-off cliffs and no trail Angeli looked at me between the wind bursts and mustered out a, "it's happening."

It's happening. I'm where I always dreamed about being. I feel like I'm living out a 180 Degrees South documentary or like I'm starring in a Secret Life of Walter Mitty film. My eyes have been dazzled by some the most beautiful unseen things in the world and my heart rate has pulsed on the edges of unmanned shale mountains. I've camped in snow and been pelted with hail and tread in thigh deep mud mountains and been lost in the rain in a below-freezing forest. I wouldn't trade any of it for the world, and these experiences will stay with me for the rest of my life, but it's taken all of this for me to realize the key of how to live simply with concepts beyond simplicity but too down-to-earth to be complicated but too big for my mind to wrap around.

Whenever I'm backpacking, or even just on a mountain or in nature of any kind, I feel it's the way it should be. It's me, and God, and what I choose to think about. But all that I can think about is the nature around me, which screams back in the direction of God. But I don't think we have to be on the top of a mountain or in the middle of a snowstorm to be in nature. Maybe in the technical sense of the word, but I think it's so much more than that. How was Paul so content in a four wall prison? I think it's because he chose to live in the mindset of nature. To let the things he thought about scream back in the direction of God. Whether you take the Bible literally or not, Genesis is an incredible analogy at its least. I think when He finished creating and stepped back and said, "it is good," He was referring to the creation's state it was in and not necessarily only the objects. If it was only the objects, it would still be good and perfect after sin.

So I've dropped some of that Sunday school vocab in this blog. "Sin" and "creation" and "Genesis" and such. But my point is this. I want to be in a place where I can feel the same freedom I have at the top of a mountain while I'm studying for Statistics. And if these experiences have taught me anything, it's that my throat can tighten and my adreanaline can quiver whenever I chose to let my thoughts scream in the direction of God, which is only replicating that of what I'm feeling when I'm surrounded by trees or drinking from a glacier-melted stream. I can have that same peace whenever and wherever I choose, and that's what I believe the entire purpose of why such beautiful places exist. It's like being in them is teaching me how to live... How life was intended for us for us to live. And then, any anger or hesitance I have stored up, swelling through my veins towards God, trickles out of me and I realize that only someone who loves me more than Himself could possibly create an intended life so beautiful for someone so small and insignificant. And all I have to do is choose it. It doesn't mean that the thigh-deep mud or the hail will suddenly disappear. But it does mean that the struggle turns into something worth fighting for. And when I can open my eyes for that split second against the paralizing wind to see that vista, I know that I know that life is worth fighting for.

Courtesy of The Hipster

Ashley Dawn Ekstrum

The Guru / The MVP

If you're down to hang with any cool cat from the Southside of California (and I mean the coffee shop), my top percolated pick for a caffeinated get-together is Ashley Dawn Ekstrum. You can find her snowboarding at the bottom of the world, singing to diffuse the tension at the top of it, and somewhere in the middle she'll be burning the skin off her nose to spend all day in the sand and surf. On top of that, she's the one person in South America you can count on to be there for you. Whether she's saving your ass or your life on a mountainside, or holding the vodka at the house party so that no one falls under the sway of Dr. Strange love and Captain Beefheart—one who's got a beef to pick and the other a strange love to give—you can be sure she's helping someone, because she's always got something higher on her mind. Whatever she decides to do in this life—writing, teaching, healing, rescuing—she's gonna end up saving someone. She may be a Southern Californian, but she can go where even Idahoans and Coloradans fear to tread, which probably stems from the fact that her heart's so big, it could house all the horses, cows, sheep, and drunk farmers of a barnyard dance, and three, fine young chickens besides.

Courtesy of:

The Hipster

Chocolotto, Captain Beefheart and Torres del Paine

I'm in a cafe called Chocolotto to snag some wifi and I ordered a strawberry juice. What is wrong with me.

I'm also in a large port town called Punto Arenas. By large I mean comparatively to the other port towns in Patagonia. It's composed of cafés and backpacking apparel stores and a strange knitting shop, which I'm totally okay with. I think the world needs to have more cafés and backpacking apparel and knitting stores. There's also a rusty shipwreck. I named it Beefheart so that I can be Captain Beefheart (a band you should look up... I actually still need to look them up, so this isn't a formal recommendation... A hipster just told me about them). The rocks on the beach seem like they would roll on your feet like little massages as you walk. But I wouldn't know because my hiking books are practically glued to my feet by now... Those dusty grey things encrusted with mud. But I can't complain because they have saved me on more than one occasion.

We were on the bus station floor eating peanut butter and raw oats twenty four hours prior to starting Torres del Paine. Angeli called it a dinner for Rachets. Alex called it a cookie. I was spooning more peanut butter when Alex proposed we extend our trek from the five day "W" circuit to the nine day "O." Angeli and I looked at each other. "Sure" we both shrugged. Turns out we had a bit of a time miscalculation, which we discovered on the trail, so we had to combine a few days to complete both circuits. Best decision of my life.

I feel healthier by just being in Patagonia. The water is aqua marine and sparkling from minerals and crystel clear when you cup it in your hands. The rangers gave us the clear to drink it unfiltered, so I stuck my face in every stream we passed to come up gasping from the cold and purity trickling down my throat. There is a certain moss that only grows here because it is too fragile to grow anywhere else. Patagonian air is the only air that is pure enough for it to survive. And I can tell you that it flourishes.

While trekking I felt incredibly independent. Of course I'm with two other incredible companions, but we sometimes just walk in solitude with the trees and mountains. It's wonderful to be solitary with someone. To listen to their footsteps. Of course there's the loud moments too, like trees falling and the wind and glaciers cracking. Apparently they closed the O because of weather after we started it. We got super lucky to start it when we did. There are some things I just can't explain with words. This trek was one of them. I think it is all together too beautiful to explain with any human sense. My eyes couldn't even handle the beauty sometimes. And if the fingerprints of God are this beautiful, how much more beautiful is the source of something so pure. Is there a state beyond 100% purity? I can't even fathom it. 

I have to cut this short because I got kicked out of Chocolotto. It doesn't get dark here until 10 so I didn't realize the time. I was sitting in the street trying to cling to the last bars of wifi outside the door when a nice man named Oscar started to talk to me. He said he could tell I was from Argentina by my accent. A stray dog came up to me and wanted to cuddle. My heart was melting, so I figured it was time to move to a pub to get an Irish coffee. But now I need to go waterproof spray everything I own before we fly to our next trek tomorrow. So here's some pictures and a goodbye for now.

Meet Team Quinoa

Today, Sara left us. Not in malice, but in adventure. She is splitting off to continue her adventure in Bariloche and Mendoza to hike and bike and God-knows-what while we head to southern Patagonia. This has caused a lot of reflection for me, so I want to take a moment to introduce my travelling companions, or as we call ourselves, Team Quinoa.

Team Quinoa at Machu Picchu

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Alex Free // The Expert / The Hipster

Alex and I at Ushuaia, Patagonia

Alex is the definition of hipster. Mention The Arctic Monkeys or The Strokes and you can see the fire light in her eyes. However, she does not need you or anyone to join her for a dance party. As soon as she plugs in her earphones she is raptured into her own personal concert. You can hear her singing and see her head banging in planes or on any other mode of transportation. She is basically an honorary band member of a band in Idaho, Marshall Poole. If you talk to her, you will be sure to hear about Idaho within the first five minutes of conversation. She will probably mention the true hipster scene or the outdoors hikes and biking trails as she is an athletic powerhouse. A social butterfly, she always tends to find herself dates with random people who turn out to be band members or hipsters like herself. She is the ultimate planner, but makes sure to plan time for spontinaity. I can currently hear her on the phone planning a hiking trip for May. If she wanders off by herself there is no need to worry, because it is a common theme for her to walk off in a new city or a mountain alone for hours on end. She miraculously manages to maintain a rocking fashion sense even while backpacking. She is a creative writing major and has already written two novels in the genre of magic realism. You can tell she is a writer by the words she says and how her fingers connect to the keys on a laptop.

Sara Hyman // The Scholar / The Klutz

Sara and I at Lake Titicaca

If you need a source for classical liturature, you need a Sara Hyman in your life. She will incorporate Kant or Reinassance references into everyday conversation. However, she is so much more than merely her intellegence. She will willingly have heart-to-heart conversations with you on beach porches and she is ready for any adventure if offered the opportunity. Her love for Jesus is evident in everything she chooses to do in her life. She has a beautiful heart for service which can especially be seen during the summers as you can find her volunteering on Skid Row or other places in need. She will graciously lend you her phone charger at any moment of the day. You will commonly find her reading on her kindle as she tends to read full books in less than a day. Despite her wisdom, she will easily be taken out by small dogs or be knocked over by bees or other insects or elements of nature, or really anything beyond her own two feet.

Angeli Mata // The Trainer / The Comedic Relief

Angeli and I at the Salt Flats in Bolivia

If Team Quinoa was a sitcom (which it very well could be), Angeli would be the audience's favorite character. She can make any person feel comfortable in a conversation and is warmly welcoming with her smile and spunky personality. She loves to wander through supermarkets and can sometimes take days comparing prices of deoderant at different stores in different towns to make sure to get the best bargin. She is majoring in Sports Medicine and will unashamedly proclaim her hate of vegetable oil and will take as much time as she needs to read the labels on every single can of tuna to make sure to get the healthiest choice. She accomplishes day hikes with her entire backpack filled and will even walk around the city with her backpack to make sure to get every bit of training in before our treks. She leads Insanity workouts in upstairsapartments and will have an enouraging word for you at any moment of the day. She shreds on a snowboard but will be completely modest about any of her skills when asked. She is a true and trustworthy friend who will openly talk about her Catholic faith whenever someone might have a question.

 

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All in all, I have been completely honored to have spent so much time with such quality people. Buenas Suertes to Sara on her future adventures, and the rest of us will see where life takes us in these next two weeks in Southern Patagonia.