I was writing a thing in which I tried to explain how I spent Earth Day, or at least partially how I spent Earth Day, since I don’t think the part about pineapple-coconut tiki drinks would be all that enlightening, and then I caught myself describing urban rivers as “the mightiest, throbbiest vein in any metropolis” and I decided to stop for obvious reasons.

Let’s have a do-over, eh?

On Earth Day morn, I met up with some friends to help with a cleanup organized by Friends of the LA River. We donned gloves, grabbed garbage bags, and wandered a narrow riverside corridor, scooping up binder clips and hypodermic needles and broken tiles and dead rats. After filling my bag with the sullied spoils of capitalism and the residue of broken dreams, I wandered over to the river itself, thought to hell with it, and waded in, my tennis shoes squelching against the concrete bottom.

For the most part, the Los Angeles River does not a river seem; if you’ve lived here or you’ve seen Chinatown or Grease, you know its certain lack of aesthetic appeal. The river was once wild, but as the city grew dense and flooding became an issue, it was converted to an unattractive concrete funnel, shuttling water along a nearly fifty-mile Slip-n-Slide between the San Fernando Valley and the Pacific Ocean.

Still, we urban-outdoorsy types fawn over this thing as if it carried our very lifeblood, and I think we’re kind of on to something. It may not boast the grassy banks, vibrant parks, or farmer’s markets you’d find along other urban rivers (although that is slowly changing), but it does serve as one of the many threads that weave together our city’s history – and its people.

I’m excited, then, to begin a new project with my friend Brooke (she of Year of the Scout fame), exploring the length of the L.A. River from north to south. Like good stewards, we plan to pick up litter along the way, and like good urbanites, we hope to learn a bit more about our city (and the others it flows through) during our little expedition. Tips and insights on your own L.A. River experiences are welcome!

***

In other Earth Day-related news, I was honored to profile the six winners of this year’s Goldman Environmental Prize for Outside Online. Considering the current state of…affairs…it was really nice to write about people who not only value the environment and their communities, but who are also doing concrete work to fight for the protection of both; a bit of salve for my own soul, as it were.

On a similar note, I continue to write the new “Trailblazers” series for Modern Hiker, shining a light on people who are making an impact in the outdoor world on both a national and local level. My next subject is the incredible Nick Hummingbird of the Hahamonga Native Plant Nursery, an indigenous Californian who works to educate the public on cultural history, the importance of embracing native plants, and the necessity of forging a connection with the natural world. He’s a master storyteller and I was absolutely transfixed while listening to him drop knowledge. I might have cried.

Ok, I definitely cried.

***

To close this new letter-ish thing I’m trying out, here are a few pieces I’ve read lately that lounged around in my head after the fact:

• Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About The Antiquities Act But Didn’t Know Who To Ask (Casey Schreiner for Modern Hiker)
• Going It Alone (Rahawa Haile for Outside Online)
• The Heart of Whiteness: Ijeoma Oluo Interviews Rachel Dolezal, the White Woman Who Identifies as Black (Ijeoma Oluo for The Stranger)
• Tough Love (Blair Braverman’s new column for Outside Online)

Adiós!

- Shawnté

But –

The inevitable worry kicks in. The miles. The pass. The daylight. The rain. I force myself semi-upright in the waning darkness. Out come the earplugs, off comes the hat, and once I wrestle my semi-conscious body halfway out of my cocoon, I finger comb and re-braid the gnarled mat of sunblock-smeared, dirt-crusted hair sprouting from my head, then customarily turn my nose at my own unfortunate smell.

Once less comatose, I make a full exit from my sleeping bag and replace my wool socks with one of two pair of semi-clean, semi-dry hiking socks that were likely festering in some forgotten corner of the enclosure. Then I slither out of one pair of underwear into the other, and lazily pull my sun-bleached skirt to my shrinking hips. On goes the sports bra, over that the tank top, and finally – The Shirt. Shock-stiff with dried sweat, it always sits half crumpled at the foot of the tent, just far enough away to avoid waking me with drifting waves of hard-won B.O.

Then my bandanna. Then my gaiters. Then everything else is flung just outside my tent atop a small square of blue tarp scavenged from a Dollar Store in Pasadena. I stare at it all for a little bit as I continue to dig the sleep from my eyes, then avoid the whole mess by focusing on some inappropriate form of breakfast. Payday candy bar and coffee. Cajun-flavored trail mix and coffee. A handful of nuts. A piece of saltwater taffy. Fuel.

Eventually the tarp pile beckons, so its contents are methodically crammed into Bertha, my 62-liter, literally falling-apart-at-the-seams cavern of a bag. The tent is dismantled, its scattering of condensation cursed at. Throughout this all, I maintain a steady state of prayer that I’m able to work up enough digestive magic to abscond to some semi-private location and make a deposit before hitting the trail, returning with a slight bounce in my step. You understand.

Then Bertha is slung on, the hip belt fruitlessly tightened (we all fight a losing battle against an insurmountable caloric deficit on a long-distance backpacking trip), my sit pad jammed under to help distribute the weight, and various things clipped and pulled on – camera, water bottle, fanny pack, hat, gloves, GPS. Hiking poles are set at 115, whatever that means, and it’s almost always uphill from here. To a pass, to a highpoint, to whatever 10,000-foot-plus thing I’m trying to best before the afternoon storms roar through.

Within a mile, I’m in my stride, which can really mean anything at all. I could be deep in conversation or taking deep, greedy, gasping breaths. Up, up, up. I’m almost on top of It, whatever It is that day, by lunchtime or just after, and this topness almost always becomes the emotional apex of the day, the physical highpoint after which my adrenaline begins to wane, my muscles fatigue, my bones creak against the oppressive heft of Bertha.

Before a complete shutdown, I descend in search of a place that has a mixture of both quality shade for my body and quality sun for the drying of things. Water is boiled, semi-palatable food is heated, and after a vicious tooth-gnashing that scarcely resembles more civilized human eating mechanics, I settle in to the dense brain fog of the post-lunch foma. If it’s cold, I lay prone in the quality sun; if it’s hot, I splay out in the quality shade, and then I drift off into that weird sort of head-nod naptime so common on airplanes. And apparently on granite slabs.

Once somewhat roused from my afternoon slumber, I walk for a while like Frankenstein or a newborn foal or any other awkward thing you can imagine, stumbling over talus, making heavy steps over large granite blocks. As if by magic, a second wind appears at 3 or 4pm and whips me awake. I talk to the marmots and sing to the trees and my river crossings evolve into a delicate form of riparian ballet.

Until the last mile.

The last mile to camp is always a drag. Almost always. Or always. I could be strolling through a wonderland of gold and diamonds and chocolate fountains and unicorns, but moving like an uninspired sloth. My feet are tired. My butt is gently chafed. I need nutrients.

In camp, I immediately engage in some sort of polite battle with fellow tent-pitchers over The Best Spot. “No, you pick first.” “No, no – you pick.” I invariably choose one that seems flat and windless. Seems.

Time for water math. Do I have enough? Should I filter tonight or in the morning? How much should I grab for dinner? Once finished, I regard the evening’s meal with contempt, cook it, eat it, and make one last cathole lap before retiring to my mountain chateau.

Clean the camera lens. Set the alarm. Pull out the next day’s maps and mileage and notes. Write in my journal. Spend entirely too many precious high-altitude breaths inflating my sleeping pad, then spend entirely too many minutes wriggling around on it like an angry worm. Once comfortable-adjacent, I burrow into my quilt, the soft black interior grazing my nose as I pull it tight around my face, blocking out the bright summer evening.

And then I smile…Every. Single. Time. Today was a good day. They always are.

***

Important Note for Context

I wrote this while downing a box of wine in a leaky trailer at VVR at the tail end of a solid week of vicious thunderstorms. I was reading Steinbeck and feeling poetic. And gently drunk.

To the classic A-frame sunk into a muddy field near Devil’s Lake. You were a warm respite, a cozy nook, a place to gather with friends…as well as the site of my first completely unintentional hot-boxing. Dear tentmates: sixteen years later, I am still sorry. Please forgive.

To the cheap Coleman with the flimsy fabric and irritable zippers. You were the first tent I exchanged real, live money for; I owned you with pride. I look back fondly on our times spent tucked into the sands of Huntington Island and that other swampy place whose name I can’t recall. I only regret riding you hard and putting you away wet – who knew mold was so tenacious?

To my first backpacking rig, the spacious REI Half Dome. You accompanied me to the highest and lowest points in the Continental United States. You weathered two wide ExPed Synmats being jammed across your interior time and time again. You handled the repeated abuse on that single zipper like a real pro. Miles and miles and miles, you were my workhorse. My companion. My everything. I hope you aren’t jealous of my new, infinitely lighter and sexier backpacking tent.

Oops – did I say that out loud? Apologies.

To that snazzy glamping compound in the Serengeti. I’ll never forget the solace of your flushing toilet, the comfort of your asininely huge bed, or the bliss of your warm bucket shower. I’m also infinitely grateful for your protection against that one jackal that spent the entire night stalking me. Asante sana.

To the fancy expedition model on Kilimanjaro. What can I say? We laughed together, we cried together, and that one vulgarly cold night, you even let me pee in you (in a clearly marked Nalgene bottle, of course). I’m not sure if my special eau de backpacker ever left your weather-resistant walls, but I hope you’ll remember me always.

To the stupidly small rented Mountain Hardware disaster pitched in the snow at Rock Creek Lake. Your guylines were dumb. Your interior was miniscule. Your walls manufactured cascades of condensation despite proper ventilation. Still…I suppose you held up your end of the bargain. Barely.

To the absurdly large Kelty 4-person castle. You are my McMansion of car camping. The day I realized I could set up a folding chair inside of you was the best day ever. So what if I look like I’m fighting a greased pig every time I set you up while alone?

To my relatively brand new Big Agnes Fly Creek UL2. Your silnylon is soooooo sexy. The way it barely collects dew in the morning…the way it dries nearly instantly if damp…the utter and improbable lightness in my pack…I’m in love with you. What do you say we hike 942 miles of the Pacific Crest Trail together this year?

…and to sometimes leaving all of the tents behind in favor of cowboy camping under an infinite sky.

(Yes, that’s the best cowboy camping picture I have. The sky looked way better at night, I promise.)

Jeff’s thumping may turn violent once he realizes that I’m not going to continue the chain by posting and tweeting to a bunch of other blogs – although I tend to think most hikers are lovers, not fighters. In that spirit, I hope you enjoy my answers below (oh, the digitally-enabled narcissism!) and check out not only SoCal Hiker, but also the outdoorsy blogs he links to in his Blogstöcken post!

***

Where was your most recent walk, hike or run?

I enjoyed a rather ill-fated run last evening around the Silverlake Reservoir. It began well, it really did – Kanye’s “Black Skinhead” (see above for inspiration) pumped through my janky headphones, giving me the confidence to run like a phalanx of Kardashians was at my tail armed with a frightening arsenal of false eyelashes, Botox, and butt pads. I was in a groove. After a few miles, Sharon Van Etten’s “We Are Fine” made for a perfect finale and I began a lazy walk home, only to realize that I dropped my one lonely house key somewhere along the route. Deciding it a better option in the waning light to walk one more mile than three (and having left my phone at home like a moron), I made my way to Cat Sitter #1′s apartment to ask for my spare key…but no one was home. Dejected, I slumped another half mile over to Cat Sitter #2′s apartment…but was denied once more. They were all gone somewhere, partying it up with my spare keys. I buzzed the intercom again and prepared to sit on the stoop like a lost puppy until my friend came back home. Miracle of miracles, she answered and gave me a ride home. Running is a lot of fun, but so is having unfettered access to your cat and all of your worldly possessions.

What is in your daypack right now? Bonus points for a photo of the contents.

I’m very glad you asked, because I’ve been expert-level procrastinating packing for an upcoming backpacking trip and this forced me to address the insanity parade that is my daypack. You’ve heard of the Ten Essentials, right? I have about Eleventy Hundred Essentials, and you can see them spread out in all of their overabundant glory above.

What is the one third-party app on your smartphone that you would never uninstall?

Camera+, hands down. While I carry a moderately decent digital camera on significant hikes, I also tend to give my iPhone lens quite the workout. That Yosemite valley pic above? I was too lazy to dig out my camera and was able to take a quick snap with the phone and shine it up a bit with the app. Presto-bingo, an iPhonetographer is born.

What is your favorite local trail?

What is this, Sophie’s Choice?! Fine, fine – I choose…a tie. The winners are Sandstone Peak, for its undulating scenery, ocean sightlines, and un-Californian “sandstone,” and  Icehouse Canyon for the cool water, alpine views, and countless adventures to be had (see above for once such view enjoyed during one such adventure to Ontario Peak).

Photo: Eddie Bauer

Name your favorite outdoor-inspired book or movie.

All hail the King O’ Mountains, Ed Viesturs! While I credit Jon Krakauer’s Into The Wild for sending me down a path of ravenous mountainous obsession, I have Ed to thanks for making sure I traversed that path logically. His book No Shortcuts To The Top is kind of my mountaineering bible, mostly because in it, he sold me on the concept that “Getting to the top is optional. Getting down is mandatory.” Plus, there’s a lot of really awesome adventure-stuff in there.

If time and money were no object, what is your dream adventure trip?

Oh, my. Oh, my, my, my. Let’s start at the top – or at least near it – with a monthlong circumnavigation of Annapurna, followed by a trip to Everest basecamp and a sampler platter of smaller local peaks. From there, perhaps we pop over to the Alps for some hut-to-hut action and a taste of via ferrata. Once I’ve located a handsome Swiss mountain husband, we’ll continue together down to New Zealand, camper-vanning our way from Auckland all the way down to the penguin-coated tip of the South Island. Since we’d already be down yonder, it only makes sense to pop over to Australia for a romp in the Outback and some bouldering in the Grampians. We’ll swoop back home to visit family and friends and purchase an adorably cozy mountain cabin, then down to South America it is for some Patagonian adventures. If we accidentally end up on a boat to Antarctica, so be it.

I’m in this photo somewhere

Describe your earliest memory of outdoor adventure.

Camp Whitcomb/Mason in Hartland, Wisconsin. It was the eighties; shorts were short, socks were long, and I had a crush on Sean Astin. I went to the Boys’ & Girls’ Club across the street from my house and this was their camp; I sailed off a half hour west and a world away from Milwaukee and came back with a lifetime of inspiration. THERE WERE SO MANY TREES. And a big field. And a lake. And a wetland. And arts & crafts. And a petting farm. And a pool. And canoes. And Capture The Flag. And cabins. And archery. And a giant moose head. And funny songs. And silly traditions. And cool counselors. And it smelled like pine and bug spray, two scents that to this day immediately propel me back to that first summer and so many after.

What in the name of all that is holy compels you to write your blog?

I don’t know if I’d call it holy, but it might be supernatural – it’s just the urge to write. To dump out the thoughts that seem worth sharing, but don’t fit over at Modern Hiker or Year Of The Scout (or any of the other places brave/foolish/kind enough to host my words). I’ve been a writer since I was in the single digits and the affliction shows no sign of stopping anytime soon.

If you could spend a weekend camping with one person no longer living, who would it be and why?

JOHN MUIR. I would build the biggest campfire known to man, continuously stoking it  while the Bearded One regaled me (and a group of select friends) with all of his tales.

Looking into a crystal ball, where do you hope we will find you in five years?

“Alive, awake, alert, enthusiastic!” to quote a song we were (rather joyfully) forced to sing at camp most mornings. On top of that, I’d simply love to continue living a life full of outdoor adventure and creative inspiration. Whether that finds me still in Southern California or decamped to the Sierras or living in a Colorado cabin with a lovely mountain man, I do not know. But as long as I’m happy, the kids are alright.

How many times do you plan to hit me with a Blogstöcken for nominating you?

Just one gentle thwack will do.