Viva Italia!

I have never cared about a single sporting event like I did during the World Cup Final. I rushed home after church to catch the pre-game show. I put on an Italia shirt and hung my giant Italy flag from our balcony. I got out my small Italy flag and waved it around our apartment. I wished our Italian neighbors were still around and thought that we could all have a party together. Oh well. The excitement had begun. I was devastated when France got an early goal, from a penalty kick that may not have even been deserved. I lost hope early on, knowing that the first goal so often determines who will win, but Italy didn't make me sad for too long. With the game tied at 1-1 early on, I watched every play with excitement and nervousness and wondered how people do this on a day-to-day basis. I mean, I barely could do March Madness this year without taking some Valium before each game. I thought Italy was looking good after the first half, but the French certainly came back and dominated the second half. Italy's defense refused to surrender, however, and the game went into overtime. My heart was racing and I sat on the edge of the couch. Italy had a couple of very close shots, but nothing. I can't say I like it when a game ends with penalty kicks, but you gotta get a winner I suppose. I screamed and hollered and yelled to Joy in the other room to announce each penalty kick. And yes! Italy was on fire baby!!! When Italy won, I screamed and lept to my feet, running around the apartment yelling "Azzurri! Azzurri!" I then left the confines of our aparment (a little too small for a true celebration) and ran around the apartment complex with my flag, yelling up to people on the balconies that Italy had won the World Cup! Dreams were realized. Life was good. Joy and I then got in our car to go to Ravinia, the outdoor picnic-like setting of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra. On the way, Joy waved the Italy flag out the window. Most people probably had no idea what we were doing, but there was this dear old lady who was driving next to us, who waved and started pumping her fist in excitement. We even took the Italy flag into the park with us and were able to tell many more about Italy's victory. I apologized to a German woman about their loss to the Italians, but I wove the flag proudly and with great honor. I thought about the night ahead for Rome and Milan and the rest of the nation. I actaully think for a few hours I became Italian. The World Cup was back in the hands of those people on the boot, not having won since the year of my birth, 1982. VIVA ITALIA!!! VIVA ITALIA!!! AZZURRI!!! AZZURRI!!! AZZURRI!!!

PICTURE: Crab Dinner

This is our dinner sprawled across our table. This picture is, of course, before we took the leftover desert from the table next to us...

Tuesday, July 4

After some great sleep on Tuesday night, we woke up and spent some time in the hot-tub outside. What a great feeling for our weary bodies. I sensed that this whole trip was shaping up to be quite good. We then put in some loads of laundry and prepared to watch the World Cup game: Italy vs. Germany. Needless to say, there was excitement in the air as the game began, and I was nervous as I'll get out. Blom and I both put on some Italia shirts and we sat down for the game. As everyone knows by now, it was a great game, and it was a great game to watch in some stranger's living room, chilling out with two fantastic dogs. Blom did snooze off for a little while during overtime, but claims he was awake when Italy came in for the goal. If he wasn't, my screaming certainly woke him and we quickly began our celebration. Ah yes, life out West is good.

After the game was over and our spirits were high, we then decided it was time to put our bodies back to work. We borrowed Blom's roommate's two kayaks, strapped them to the top of the Subaru (they are all over the place out there), and drove the short distance to Puget Sound. We looked totally cool as we carried our kayaks to the water, the picnickers and crowds there for the 4th watching in jealousy and intrigue. Okay, that might not be accurate at all, and once they saw our paddling skills, those looks may have turned to skepticism and mockery, but hey, I'm gonna stick to my theory. We kayaked for a while during the mid-afternoon and it was again a perfect day outside. We were a little scared of waves at first, and also scared of the speedboats and ferries, but we soon relaxed to enjoy the views of the Olympic Mountains in the distance and the houses on the shore nearby. To make everything so much better, there were jumping fish all over the place. Blom thought I was lying at first until one practically jumped into his kayak. There are these little fish that just jump out of the water. I have no idea why, but maybe it's because they want to catch an insect or maybe it's because God was being really playful when He created the little fellas, and yes, they are totally cool.

After quick showers back at the house, we then headed into the city of Seattle for the night. We did find the very first Starbucks store by Pike Place Market (the market itself was closed), grabbed some coffee, and then found a nice table to sit at at one of the many seaside parks in Seattle. It was here that I was again reminded of the awesomeness of my friendship with Blom. We sat and talked for quite awhile about God, heaven, marriage, our dreams, our fears, our weaknesses. I love it when you are in a friendship and you don't have to worry about how the facade is holding up. It's okay to show that the paint might be a little chipped or that you sometimes just don't feel like you're doing the best you could be at this thing called life. It's okay to talk about dreams and ideas that realistically just might not happen, but someone is there to understand that we just can't stop dreaming. It's okay if I'm not the best husband in the world after six months, because, heck, he says he's not the best husband after a year, and that means he's had a whole six months more than me to be the best. It's weird, because I probably keep the facade so much of the time thinking it will make my life easier, make me more likeable or cooler or stronger. But I know that's not true, because I know the moments of great friendship where I am overwhelmed at its beauty and life, is found when I take away the facade. (Yes, Mr. Horner, this is yet another call to V&O, Vulner&Op.)

After our chat by the Sound, we realized we were quite hungry and headed off for some dinner. We found a place called The Crab Pot and dined on sausage and potatoes and clams and mussels and crab. They even gave us hammers to help us break the crab legs open. Tremendous fun. Towards the end of our meal, we saw another waitress bring another table a giant cake version of strawberry shortcake. We weren't very hungry, but we thought we could manage a few bites. Well, as I said, it was a giant version, so instead of ordering our own, we simply watched the other table, knowing there was no way they were going to finish it. And we were right. And I walked over to their table after they left. And I picked up the desert. And Blom and I ate it. And we were happy.

We left our dinner a little after 10, and as soon as we walked outside we saw lots of people walking to the pier. The fireworks had just begun. Watching the fireworks over Puget Sound was the perfect was to end my weekend. I love fireworks. I love the oohs and the awes and the people and the surprises. I remember watching the fireworks remembering just how crazy good God is. It was a moment when I was so aware of life and it's too often that I lose this awareness in the monotonous living of every day. I was aware of friendship and brokenness, of beauty and community, of nature and God.

It was one of those moments you wanted to last for so much longer than it did. But the moment came and the moment left and I boarded a plane early Wednesday morning and came back to Chicago. And you know what, life can be lived here too. Friendship and brokenness and beauty and community and nature and God are in Chicago just like in Portland and Seattle. (Alright, "nature" might not quite be here like it is there, but I bet if I take off my glasses and make everything a little hazy I could find a flower or something.) That's what I was reminded of as I flew home. I was then quickly reminded that I hadn't gone to the bathroom since my big seafood dinner the night before and had never been so thankful for the moment when they took the seatbelt sign off. That's a moment I'd rather not remember so much.

PICTURE: Blues Festival

This is another picture from the Blues Festival down at the riverfront. The reason I love this one so much is solely because of the man standing over Blom's right shoulder. Quite the character, no? I love Portland.

Monday, July 3

We woke up on Monday a lot less sore than we were anticipating. Because we had been anticipating feeling miserable, we decided on Sunday night to cancel our planned surfing for Monday. We did drive Sunday night to Corvallis to stay at one of Blom's friends' apartment. We woke up, went to grab some coffee at one of the numerous coffee stands all over the place, and then went with one of Blom's friends to go play a round of frisbee golf. Now, the first time I ever heard of frisbee golf was when I was in college in Indiana, and truthfully, I never realized that it's an actual sport with courses and unique discs and everything. I just assumed it was something bored college guys in Indiana did when they couldn't find a date. Well, apparently that's not the case and there are frisbee golf courses all over the place. The three of us had a nice round of 18 holes, and yes, Blom and I were competing against each other, and again yes, I won. For my first time, let's just say my short game was pretty hard to beat.

It was about noon when we left Corvallis and headed up I-5 for Portland. Blom and I then spent the afternoon in Portland, doing what we called a "Donald Miller Tour" of the park and roundabout where D.M. lived and even had some Fat Tire beer, which I believe Donald also mentions in his books. We checked out Hawthorne Street, which is rather unique in its shops and its patrons, and then headed to Northwest 23rd Avenue to go to Powell's on the other side of the river. Powell's is indeed the largest bookstore in the United States and both times I've been there, I've been a little overwhelmed and overstimulated. It's a grand time. On this visit, I bought a book that has come highly recommended to me by a few people: "The Kite Runner."

Dinner was with some great friends I went to Nepal with in 2003: Dawnette and Taylor, as well as Taylor's parents. We had dinner at a great little restaurant and had lots of laughter and talk of moving to Oregon. After dinner we headed to the waterfront by the river, where the annual Portland Blues Festival was going on. We stood happily with the families and hippies, going crazy with the masses. In essence, it was amazing. Blom, Dawnette, and I then headed away for the night, but not before we took a dip in what quickly became one of my favorite Portland landmarks: the People Fountain. (It's real name turned out to be the Ira Keller Fountain, but I think People Fountain still sounds so much better.) It's true...a fountain in Portland where you can actually get in little people pool at the fountain and play. And this wasn't some little pool-type fountain. It was more of a "play in the little pool at the top and look over and watch the water fall down the about 50 feet" type founatin with 13,000 gallons of water falling per minute. It was splendid.

Dawnette dropped us off at our car, and then it was time to change out of wet clothes. As we were changing, we remembered seeing Papa Haydn's just down the street, this nice restaraunt known for their deserts. Well, we postponed our leaving of Portland for another hour and decided a little desert couldn't hurt. The deserts at this place are beautiful and big and tasty beyond all description. We then got in the car and drove back up into Washington, wondering just how long it would be before we moved to the Portland area. Hopefully not too long.

PICTURE: Summit 3

Happily resting on the very tippy-top. 10,358 feet, baby.

PICTURE: Summit 2

Smiles are back.

PICTURE: Summit 1

PICTURE: Still Optimistic

Sunday, July 2

We woke early on Sunday (around 6 am) for what ended up being the hardest day of physical activity of my life. (Yeah, it even beat that marathon I ran when I was 12 or so, for those of you who are willing to believe the truth that it actually happened.) It also turned out to be one of the most rewarding days of my life. Here's the short version...

The South Sister is among Three Sisters in Central Oregon. The South Sister is the tallest of the three and stands at a proud 10,358 feet. And yes, I felt each and every one of those feet. The trail to the summit is about 6 miles long and gains a ridiculous 4,900 feet in elevation. Yeah, that basically means that it's long and steep.

We began by reading Psalm 121: "I lift up my eyes to the hills --where does my help come from? My help comes from the LORD, the Maker of heaven and earth. He will not let your foot slip..." We found those verses to be true as we began our journey.

The first 1 1/2 miles took about 1 1/2 hours and was straight through the woods. We were on the trail by 6:30 but had pretty much lost the trail by 6:45. You see, we weren't expecting the snow to be so far south in the woods. Yet snow there was and trail there was no longer. We tried to find our way for a while, but then we heard someone coming up behind us. It was an older gentlemen who we promply named Captain Red Coat. Captain for his age and seeming knowledge of what he was doing and Red Coat because, well, he wore a red coat. We began to follow him, but a minute later some young climber came flying by. Literally flying. He was jolly and pleasant and moving at an alarming pace, quickly going by not only already-winded Blom and I, but also sailing past the Captain.

After this first section, we came to the top of the tree-line and found that there were not only beautiful views of the mountains around us (including the one we wanted to claim), but that there was also a nice stretch of pretty-much flat ground for us to cross. It was glorious. The sun shone and the mountains rose and Blom and I skipped with glee. (Well, you might not have called it skipping, but there was certainly a new spring in our step.) Our goal was to keep Captain Red Coat in view just so we could get an idea of where we were supposed to go next.

After this nice middle section, we again began an uphill battle that would continue for several more hours. First there was snow that we were climbing, and we thought it was pretty difficult. Yeah, we were wrong, because we discovered that the real difficulty began once we were done with the snow. Once we had been going for a total of about 4 hours, we climbed another little hill that had been blocking our view of the summit and saw that the remaining part would be done on dirt and rock. We thought the summit didn't look all that far away. Yeah, wrong again. We began the trek, and let's just say that these were 2 hours of misery. This was where the climb was no longer fun and I began to loathe the Sister. I wanted to kill her or wanted her to kill me. Either way would have been fine, but it seemed the latter was likely to win over. We would move for thirty seconds and then stop for fifteen. Over and over and over again. Meanwhile, that seemingly close summit seemed further away than ever. I wondered if this could be worth it, and figured there was no way it was, but for some reason, I kept going anyway. And through the pain, there were moments of great laugher. For example:

STEPHEN: I think I have a hernia.
BLOM: I think I'm having a heart-attack.

Maybe it was the lack of oxygen, but I couldn't stop laughing. When making a hike like this one, a good hiking partner makes all the difference in the world, and I can say that I had the best. On top of the agony and the falling rocks, it was during this final stretch that the young jolly guy came literally running back down the mountain. When he passed, it was all I could do to keep myself from reaching out my foot to trip that jolly little I-bet-he-has-no-friends-otherwise-why-would-he-be-doing-this-alone and take him to the ground.

Finally, after about 6.5 hours, we were at the summit. And yes, it immediately was clear that it was all worth it. The skies were clear and the views ridiculously beautiful. I smiled, Blom smiled, and I think God smiled too. Right at the top, we were also accompanied by a few hundred butterflies which were apparently in some sort of migration at the time. Yeah, it was pretty amazing. We rested and took pics and stayed up there for a half hour before we began the climb down.

Thankfully, hiking down is nothing like hiking up, and it was rather enjoyable. Plus, we were getting more and more oxygen as we went. I was elated. Once we got to the snow, we could slide on our butts down the steep sections, which was of course delightful. Every once in a while, I would look back at the beast I had conquered and let out a scream of pure joy. Once we got back to the woods and another steep downhill climb, my feet began to cry out against me. They say that one of the greatest blessings in nature is to get away from the sound of humanity. For me, I think I may have rejoiced more when we began to hear cars and knew that we were so close to being done. All in all, it took us TEN hours. And yeah, others do it so much quicker, but I don't care. Let them. We had an agonizing, yet surprisingly joyful, day out on the Mountain and came back heroes. We hugged at the bottom, removed our socks and shoes, and then dreamed of the rest that was to come that evening.

South Sister, you and I have met. And there were moments when I hated her. She wouldn't allow me to give up, because she simply kept calling me to take one more step. And each step was worth it. Perhaps she knew more than I how it would feel to accomplish the climb in its entirety. I know there's a song that says "you can reach the peak but that's not the point," basically saying it's more about the climb than the actual finish. Yeah, while I see the truth in that, I also say that the peak is pretty dang good.

PICTURE: Camping at the Base

Here we are enjoying what we called "The Possible Last Supper."

PICTURE: The Three Sisters

Here are the Three Sisters as seen from the drive in to the campsite. (The one on the far left is the South Sister, the one we climbed.) As we looked at these mountains, we couldn't help but comment on the fact that these are the kind of mountains you see and wonder, "Who actually climbs those?!" Yeah, that's right, we do.

PICTURE: Shirtless Skiing

Need I say more?

PICTURE: Skiing Mount Hood

Nothing like skiing in July.

Saturday, July 1

Well, I'm back in Illinois (sadly) and back at work (even more sadly), but feel refreshed and excited about the weekend I had out west. Since there is so much to say, I'm going to blog each day on its own and then post it under that day to make things a little less confusing. So here we go....

I arrived in Seattle at 10pm on Friday night. Of course, the airport was madness, but Blom found me and we took off for Oregon. We drove for about three hours until we reached our campsite near Mt. Hood. It was 2am by the time we arrived (4am Chicago-time), so we quickly set up our tent near some giant trees and a rippling stream. The smell was one of the first things I noticed. We were nicely in the woods, and after spending the day in an office and then an airport and airplane, the fresh Oregon air was heaven to my nostrils. We quickly went to sleep, excited about the days ahead.

We woke around 6:30 on Saturday, had a quick breakfast of scrambled eggs and yogurt and then packed our bags for a day of skiing. We drove about half an hour up the side of Mt. Hood until we got to Timberline Lodge. The day was positively beautiful (this will be a theme throughout each of my days out west) with blue skies, no clouds, and views that pretty much made me wonder why it is people live in the Midwest. We rented skis and then headed for the snow. It really was quite an experience to be so warm while skiing. The bunnies were in spaghetti-strap tops, guys were skiing without their shirts, and shorts and t-shirts were commonplace. Most of Timberline in the summer is devoted to camps for skiers and snowboarders, but we still had great fun. I've said it before and I'll say it again now: skiing is my favorite athletic activity. It's physically challenging and most definitely a sport, but it is also very much an art and it appeals to the artistic side of me. I love the motion of skiing, gliding in half moons down the hill, and when I'm skiing, I also love the sound, the rhythmic pulsing of snow and ski. Of course, I had many good falls, and instead of watching for trees as one would expect, when you ski in the summer, you watch out for piles of dirt and rock that have lost their cover. And yes, I did meet with one of these dirt piles. Did it hurt? Yep. Was it worth it? Absolutely. You see, I'm not an expert skier, and the snow was more akin to, well, a long steep sheet of ice. Needless to say, it took me a while to adjust, and there were plenty of falls. As the day warmed up even more, it felt like we were skiing in a giant snowcone. For our one final run down the mountain, Blom and I decided we wanted to be as cool as everyone around us and took off our shirts. I was afraid I'd have one last wipe-out, but I made it down without a fall. Ah...it was fantastic, and not even the least bit chilly.

We then got rid of our skis, jumped in the car, went back to our campsite to pack up the tent, and then drove south for a few hours. We went through the forests, went through some desert (Oregon has just about everything when it comes to geology), and saw some marvelolus views of the mountain we were going to attempt to climb the next day. We finally entered the Three Sisters Wilderness in the Willamette National Forest and found a campsite right next to a little lake. We set up camp, built a fire, and had a nice little campers dinner. We were then exhausted from an evening of little sleep the night before and a day of skiing and knew we would be up early the next day, so I'm pretty sure we went to sleep around 8:30. No one said being rugged meant staying up past bedtime.