15 + 12 points
Mihi by Wetdryvac
September 15th, 2009 5:58 PM
Introductions, greetings, salutations,
I believe this to be something most wetdryvac oriented creatures are geared towards. We've got geological features we consider to be ours in terms of home, in terms of habitat, and in terms of, "That unto which we return." When we introduce ourselves, it tends to be in reference to these things we hold important - and these important things shadow our works, resonate in them, and define where we've come from. As such, in addition to the three geographical features, I believe it may benefit those who observe to know where I come from in the full presentation of mihi.
My canoe is a 17 foot Grumman aluminum canoe. It is named for the headwaters to which the French Voyagers traveled in their fur trapping expeditions, and it belongs jointly to myself and my mother. My family believes in passing these things on, and the canoe's name is never released. It has been through the quetico wilderness on trips, has been turned upside down for shelter from rain, and has been my home away from home.
My lake, upon which that canoe travels most, is a lake named, "Pond," Bordering between two small Maine towns. I grew up in and upon the several miles of water, swimming first the half mile across to earn solo canoeing privileges, and later kayaking from from the pond down stream to the end of the next lake in line, portaging the mile (or so) between. Canoeing and kayaking are in my blood, likely literally in the latter case, from the layer upon layer of fiberglass patching upon a 1960s slalom kayak I've embedded into my thighs and back over the years.
My mountain is in Weld, in central Maine, a lovely convergence of Tumbledown, Little Jackson, and Big Jackson. In highschool, training from cross country, friends and I would run the peaks. We'd fell run the patches without trails between. We'd kamikaze the downhills. That convergence, with a tiny pond in the valley atop, is home. I've gotten amazingly lucky accidentally running off a headwall into some treetops - a minor bruise and some very great surprise - and I've watched another person die there, from pitching headlong into treetops while free climbing.
My family, wilderness rescue and technical climbing trained, did their best. The helo pilot proved amazing in the evac, standing within a meter of the outcrop to get the hard-shell and board down.
The third place I'd consider to be mine would be Bald Mountain, ala Fantasia's Night On, and Maine's small bare granite, "Mountain," Which has now become private land due to people abusing the trail. Each of these places sings to my heart, and Bald Mountain particularly, where I night hiked in December after an ice storm upon returning from Russia, sick out of my senses on industrial antibiotics in the chemo-therapy grade. There, one might say I partook of a vision quest - though really, the plan was for my brother, some friends, and I to get in a simple hike and have some good cold food at the top.
Climbing, when one's available warm boots are Dr. Martens with no traction on any surface whatsoever, is an experience. Doing so on ice, without proper gear, especially across an ice field of more than 100 yards at 30 degrees pitch, using rocks as ice axes, at 01:30 under a full moon: Of these things visions are made. It was at that point I realized *firmly* that by comparison being an American in a Russian city during times of tension and escalating attacks made this fairly seriously dangerous activity seem tame, and that sick and hallucinating, I was still doing better than while in Russia.
Hi. I'm the vac. I've been attacked more times than I can count. I've survived almost without injury some truly crazy things, and followed this up by breaking my leg while trampled by 10-12 year old camp kids at a Quaker camp. It's been a life, and the life keeps getting better.
Me: Hi.
You: Go do something you love, in a place you love. It's worth the effort.
So, documentation in story form. It's no longer legal to hike Bald Mountain, and I'm far, far from my heart's homes - but the boots, the boots I still have. They're finished with stomping people who attack me in foreign countries, I hope - but they've served me well.
Belonging is the fell run, the boots, the canoe.
I believe this to be something most wetdryvac oriented creatures are geared towards. We've got geological features we consider to be ours in terms of home, in terms of habitat, and in terms of, "That unto which we return." When we introduce ourselves, it tends to be in reference to these things we hold important - and these important things shadow our works, resonate in them, and define where we've come from. As such, in addition to the three geographical features, I believe it may benefit those who observe to know where I come from in the full presentation of mihi.
My canoe is a 17 foot Grumman aluminum canoe. It is named for the headwaters to which the French Voyagers traveled in their fur trapping expeditions, and it belongs jointly to myself and my mother. My family believes in passing these things on, and the canoe's name is never released. It has been through the quetico wilderness on trips, has been turned upside down for shelter from rain, and has been my home away from home.
My lake, upon which that canoe travels most, is a lake named, "Pond," Bordering between two small Maine towns. I grew up in and upon the several miles of water, swimming first the half mile across to earn solo canoeing privileges, and later kayaking from from the pond down stream to the end of the next lake in line, portaging the mile (or so) between. Canoeing and kayaking are in my blood, likely literally in the latter case, from the layer upon layer of fiberglass patching upon a 1960s slalom kayak I've embedded into my thighs and back over the years.
My mountain is in Weld, in central Maine, a lovely convergence of Tumbledown, Little Jackson, and Big Jackson. In highschool, training from cross country, friends and I would run the peaks. We'd fell run the patches without trails between. We'd kamikaze the downhills. That convergence, with a tiny pond in the valley atop, is home. I've gotten amazingly lucky accidentally running off a headwall into some treetops - a minor bruise and some very great surprise - and I've watched another person die there, from pitching headlong into treetops while free climbing.
My family, wilderness rescue and technical climbing trained, did their best. The helo pilot proved amazing in the evac, standing within a meter of the outcrop to get the hard-shell and board down.
The third place I'd consider to be mine would be Bald Mountain, ala Fantasia's Night On, and Maine's small bare granite, "Mountain," Which has now become private land due to people abusing the trail. Each of these places sings to my heart, and Bald Mountain particularly, where I night hiked in December after an ice storm upon returning from Russia, sick out of my senses on industrial antibiotics in the chemo-therapy grade. There, one might say I partook of a vision quest - though really, the plan was for my brother, some friends, and I to get in a simple hike and have some good cold food at the top.
Climbing, when one's available warm boots are Dr. Martens with no traction on any surface whatsoever, is an experience. Doing so on ice, without proper gear, especially across an ice field of more than 100 yards at 30 degrees pitch, using rocks as ice axes, at 01:30 under a full moon: Of these things visions are made. It was at that point I realized *firmly* that by comparison being an American in a Russian city during times of tension and escalating attacks made this fairly seriously dangerous activity seem tame, and that sick and hallucinating, I was still doing better than while in Russia.
Hi. I'm the vac. I've been attacked more times than I can count. I've survived almost without injury some truly crazy things, and followed this up by breaking my leg while trampled by 10-12 year old camp kids at a Quaker camp. It's been a life, and the life keeps getting better.
Me: Hi.
You: Go do something you love, in a place you love. It's worth the effort.
So, documentation in story form. It's no longer legal to hike Bald Mountain, and I'm far, far from my heart's homes - but the boots, the boots I still have. They're finished with stomping people who attack me in foreign countries, I hope - but they've served me well.
Belonging is the fell run, the boots, the canoe.
This is how to do a Mihi right. Well done. Fantastic and intense read.
+Sunshine