Dingle Way, Day 3
4 July 2010
Fourth of July, which meant nothing since we were camped out in a kind stranger's back yard in Ireland, began in a cloud and settled on spitting mist heavy enough to rattle the fly on my tent. I would have liked to lie in and let the moist Irish morning burn off, but that wasn't really an option. We were in the rose garden, the cows were leaving the barn and clomping down the road and we didn't want to overstay our welcome. Also: one shouldn't pee in a stranger's backyard. So we got up, packed our tents up wet and huddled next to the shipping container that served as the backyard shed to half-heartedly make breakfast.
Maybe we were trying to look miserable. I didn't have to try too hard. The rain was starting up harder, it was blowing in my face, and I'd made a critical mistake with my fuel pump. See, I wanted to strap the fuel bottle to the outside of my pack. That makes sense because it reduced the risk of spilling gasoline inside my pack--on my clothes or my food or my dishes. I unscrewed the plastic fuel pump and figured that because it was fragile it needed to be protected, so I naively tucked it into my bowl--There! That'll keep it from getting smashed. And it did. My fuel pump was not smashed, but it leaked into my bowl. Petroleum distillates besides being disgusting are dangerous. Wind and rain in my face, every layer of clothes I owned, huddled up next to a rusty corrugated box, staring longingly into my fuel-flavored instant coffee I must have looked a sight and tugged the heart strings of the nice Irish lady doing her dishes at the kitchen sink.
The woman came out and told us that we were welcome to come inside and have breakfast and use her bathroom. I waved my hunk of soda bread at her and tried to convince her that we were really okay. She wasn't having it and told us to get inside. Twice was enough. We threw our packs in the shed and shed our outer layers at the door and padded into her kitchen.
We tried to have a conversation about Obama (they like him) and rashers (she was sorry there weren't any, she forgot to take them out of the freezer last night!) and the Dingle Way while the woman gave us tea and toast and honey and cookies (for breakfast!). She spoke Irish at our request and tried to explain how to pronounce the various dotted letters. I think her name was some variation of Katherine, but I had a very hard time understanding her accent. I did understand that she often offers her backyard to Dingle Way hikers, but we were the first she'd had that year. The economy, she figured.
Her kitchen reminded me of every farm house I've ever been in back home--warm and distinctly utilitarian despite the floral pattern of the dishes or the faded wooden plaque above the sink with Irish proverbs in pastel. We were at the table, the social hub next to the back door where folks come in and out, stamping their feet, removing their hats and looking towards the stove to see what's on after being out working hard on the tractor/bringing cows up/taking hay down.
After we'd had a few pieces of toast and I'd slurped down two cups of tea that didn't contain gasoline we headed out into the rain and down the trail.
The trail lead through a narrow gap between two hedgerows for about a half a mile. I was glad to have my gaiters. From there, we headed up a hill on a short road walk before turning north and traveling around the shoulder of Mount Eagle. This was the best walk of the whole trip. We walked through pastures along some wickedly steep inclines. Great Blasket Island and Dunmore Head grew in front of us and there were archeological ruins all around--the clochans, beehive huts and old stone walls were still being used in some places.
The rain had burnt off and the hills were greener than anything I'd ever seen against the turquoise ocean.
After a few miles skirting Mount Eagle we came down steeply onto a road at Slea Head and stopped at a cafe there for coffee. After we finished our coffee the Dingle Way took us along a gravel road for maybe another mile before we crossed a stream and headed back uphill towards the Great Blasket Centre outside of Dunquin.
It was warming up but we were still a big wet from the morning. We dropped our packs beside a stone wall and headed into the Museum. I think the admission was around 4 Euros, which is also what we were paying for a pint of Guinness, so it seemed reasonable. Great Blasket Island (An Blascaod Mór in Irish) was inhabited by a small community of fishers and farmers and an inordinate amount of artists and writers until it was forcibly evacuated by the government in 1953 following a period of hardship. Now it's a ghost town of ruined cottages that can be accessed by ferry and explored on foot in the summer. Fred and I skipped the ferry ride over, but I wish we had gone.
We decided to do a big day to the base of Mt. Brandon on the following day so Dunquin was the end of the line for us on 4th of July. We were too early to check into youth hostel so we walked down into the small village of Dunquin to see if we could get a Guinness. The pub, with a plaque of James Joyce by the door, was closed so we hobbled a bit further up the road to kill some time first in the cemetery and then, tiring of that, with our feet in a small cold stream in someone's back yard.
The youth hostel was fine, it had books and games and a telephone that I managed to call home from but lacked internet. In the kitchen, we met a group of tough looking guys from Belgium. They weren't terribly friendly and we didn't chat or linger in the kitchen too long. I made my dinner and set my pot next to the sink while I went out into the dining room to eat. Within 2 minutes the lady of the house tracked me down to tell me to Get in there and cleanup after yourself! I humphed and did her bidding. I didn't so much appreciate the bossing but Fred and I DID get a whole 10-bed room to ourselves which almost made up for that. We stayed up late looking at old pictures on the iPad. It was still light out at 11 when I went to sleep.
Thursday, March 31, 2011
What's The Matter with Jane?
In 1920 an editorial “The Matter with Jane” appeared in the New York Times. Jane had problems—oh boy did she ever—Jane was a teenager. We now call this Adolescence and recognize it as a distinct developmental stage—though, at the time was still a relatively new idea, being coined only 16 years earlier. Thanks to child labor laws and public schooling, kids were finally able to enjoy a longer period of dependence between childhood and adulthood. Surliness was also invented around this time.
Like all things we do not understand, it was a problem. Adolescence is, of course, impossible to understand by anyone who has survived it thanks to our human nature to repress traumatic memories.
The concerns that parents had for their girls in 1920 are the same as today, with a quaint Victorian twist. Instead of monitoring the dangers of the internet, Jane’s father is worried that his daughter is spending too much time at the movies or reading romance novels. Jane’s mother wrings her hands that her daughter is becoming “self-conscious and vain”. Problems by definition have solutions.
The solution to the problem of Solitary Jane the Adolescent—in whom the biblical battle of good vs. evil rages—is Girl Scouts. There, Jane would learn outdoor skills through hiking, camping, swimming and woodcraft. The Girl Scouts would teach her that “her young body is to be used instead of decorated” or “The kindergarten in the great school of citizenship through service”.
The writer lamented that 4,000 girls a month were being turned away from membership because of lack of volunteers; being turned away from the one organization that could save them from their ‘problem’.
In 2010 there was still a problem with Jane—though this time it is high school drop out rates, teen pregnancy. The modern solution is Girl Scouts, still, but this time around Girl Scouts is rebranding itself as the trendy “Gamma Sigma” to get away from the ‘old-fashioned’ program of hiking, camping and crafts. “Traditional badges are out. Gamma Sigma will have speakers, workshops and experiences intended to bolster girls’ self-esteem and decision-making”.
Juliette Gordon Low first brought girls outdoors to help them learn to trust themselves as independent, powerful, resourceful citizens. Girl Scouts has never been intended as only a training ground for park rangers or river guides. Taking girls into the outdoors was also never meant to simply remove the girls from the problem (modern society). Outdoor education removes the problem (self-consciousness, vanity, lack of courage) from the girl. The lessons learned through pioneering and camping were meant to inspire in the girls a sense of comeradere and teamwork—a Can Do attitude. Camping teaches girls that they are powerful and influential human beings, despite being adolescent.
The solution to the problem with Jane is still outdoor education. The solution is still to give Jane the tools to control her own destiny, even if it is only for one weekend in the woods, so that she will have the confidence to face any challenge in her life with determination.
Like all things we do not understand, it was a problem. Adolescence is, of course, impossible to understand by anyone who has survived it thanks to our human nature to repress traumatic memories.
The concerns that parents had for their girls in 1920 are the same as today, with a quaint Victorian twist. Instead of monitoring the dangers of the internet, Jane’s father is worried that his daughter is spending too much time at the movies or reading romance novels. Jane’s mother wrings her hands that her daughter is becoming “self-conscious and vain”. Problems by definition have solutions.
The solution to the problem of Solitary Jane the Adolescent—in whom the biblical battle of good vs. evil rages—is Girl Scouts. There, Jane would learn outdoor skills through hiking, camping, swimming and woodcraft. The Girl Scouts would teach her that “her young body is to be used instead of decorated” or “The kindergarten in the great school of citizenship through service”.
The writer lamented that 4,000 girls a month were being turned away from membership because of lack of volunteers; being turned away from the one organization that could save them from their ‘problem’.
In 2010 there was still a problem with Jane—though this time it is high school drop out rates, teen pregnancy. The modern solution is Girl Scouts, still, but this time around Girl Scouts is rebranding itself as the trendy “Gamma Sigma” to get away from the ‘old-fashioned’ program of hiking, camping and crafts. “Traditional badges are out. Gamma Sigma will have speakers, workshops and experiences intended to bolster girls’ self-esteem and decision-making”.
Juliette Gordon Low first brought girls outdoors to help them learn to trust themselves as independent, powerful, resourceful citizens. Girl Scouts has never been intended as only a training ground for park rangers or river guides. Taking girls into the outdoors was also never meant to simply remove the girls from the problem (modern society). Outdoor education removes the problem (self-consciousness, vanity, lack of courage) from the girl. The lessons learned through pioneering and camping were meant to inspire in the girls a sense of comeradere and teamwork—a Can Do attitude. Camping teaches girls that they are powerful and influential human beings, despite being adolescent.
The solution to the problem with Jane is still outdoor education. The solution is still to give Jane the tools to control her own destiny, even if it is only for one weekend in the woods, so that she will have the confidence to face any challenge in her life with determination.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Wow...
There's an article about Andrew Skurka in the March issue of the National Geographic Adventure magazine.
Here's a guy who actually walks the walk. He traveled around the state of Alaska in 176 days. He says it makes him feel alive. And that makes sense. When your only occupation is attending to your basic needs, and moving from point A to point B, it makes sense to be in tune with your existence. Sometimes the existence is called into question and I think that's when you REALLY get to the core of what it means to exist.
Today I spent some time sweating at the Sony Ericsson Open. I work right down the street and the opportunity to play hooky presented itself. I took it. Not quite the same as circumnavigating the state of Alaska solo, but it felt pretty hard.
Here's a guy who actually walks the walk. He traveled around the state of Alaska in 176 days. He says it makes him feel alive. And that makes sense. When your only occupation is attending to your basic needs, and moving from point A to point B, it makes sense to be in tune with your existence. Sometimes the existence is called into question and I think that's when you REALLY get to the core of what it means to exist.
We are, for large part, a nation of bystanders when it comes to venturing into nature's realm. Oh, there are day trips, weekend campouts, and occasionally multi-day trips for some of us. But to step entirely out of our comfort zone to head out into the wild for days on end, well, that's why there are the Andrew Skurkas of the world whom we can live vicariously through.
Today I spent some time sweating at the Sony Ericsson Open. I work right down the street and the opportunity to play hooky presented itself. I took it. Not quite the same as circumnavigating the state of Alaska solo, but it felt pretty hard.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Sam Gardner and the All-in Trek
I ran across this guy over at whiteblaze He is getting a bit of attention over there.
He set up this website. He made some big claims. In one year, starting 1 January 2011, he was going to hike the North Country Trail--4600 miles from New York to North Dakota--then, hop on a plane and start the Pacific Crest Trail --2650 miles from Mexico to Canada along the west coast-- headed north, no doubt to thaw his bones out after a few months snow shoeing. Again, a plane hop over to the northern terminus of the Continental Divide Trail --3100 miles from Canada to Mexico through Montana (skirting Idaho), Wyoming, Colorado and New Mexico. I assume by here he'd be hitting his stride. Three trails down and only the shortest trail on his list--the Appalachian Trail-- still to go. I guess it was to be his victory lap. By my calculations that would put him at around November to come off the CDT and Again! hop on a plane and hit the northern terminus of the AT. I'm not sure how he planned to do this one--Baxter State Park closes to overnight camping on October 15th.
I know that people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, but 12,525 miles in 360 days (- travel between trail heads) = 34.8 miles per day. That seems a bit unrealistic to me.
Sam had to come off the trail in early March due to a hip injury. He's planning to start again next January 1. Best of luck to him.
He set up this website. He made some big claims. In one year, starting 1 January 2011, he was going to hike the North Country Trail--4600 miles from New York to North Dakota--then, hop on a plane and start the Pacific Crest Trail --2650 miles from Mexico to Canada along the west coast-- headed north, no doubt to thaw his bones out after a few months snow shoeing. Again, a plane hop over to the northern terminus of the Continental Divide Trail --3100 miles from Canada to Mexico through Montana (skirting Idaho), Wyoming, Colorado and New Mexico. I assume by here he'd be hitting his stride. Three trails down and only the shortest trail on his list--the Appalachian Trail-- still to go. I guess it was to be his victory lap. By my calculations that would put him at around November to come off the CDT and Again! hop on a plane and hit the northern terminus of the AT. I'm not sure how he planned to do this one--Baxter State Park closes to overnight camping on October 15th.
I know that people in glass houses shouldn't throw stones, but 12,525 miles in 360 days (- travel between trail heads) = 34.8 miles per day. That seems a bit unrealistic to me.
Sam had to come off the trail in early March due to a hip injury. He's planning to start again next January 1. Best of luck to him.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Fontana Dam
According to my virtual-dream-hike schedule I have here, today would be a zero-day at Fontana Dam. My fantasy-hike was slow going through the Georgia mountains.
I'm thinking about weather tonight---the skies over Miami are solid red on the radar screen. There's warnings for nickel sized hail and tornados. And so the cats have decided to grace us with their presence tonight. Lizard hunting is no good in a downpour, I guess. They're inside fighting and the dogs are hiding under the bed, from the thunder or the cats.
Up at Fontana Dam the forecast for the week is rain and temperatures between 55 and 35. There's a frost advisory tonight. Burr.
Fontana Dam was built in the early 1940's by the Tennessee Valley Authority and is (somewhat morbidly, I think) named for the town it inundated. It's 480 feet high and about a half a mile long. It's the tallest dam in the eastern US.
From a hiker's perspective, though, the dam represents 166 odd miles in the bag and the gateway to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I hear there's a pretty sweet shelter on the other side of the dam (as you go north). So nice, in fact, that it's nicknamed "The Fontana Hilton".
I guess it wouldn't be so bad to sit through a rainy zero day at a place that nice. Taking zero days in the woods is economical--no where to spend money. I hear resupply is expensive in Fontana Village--which is the remnant/descendant of the town they built to house the folks working on the dam int he 40s--but there is a post office there. I'm thinking it might be wise to send a box ahead to pick up there. One could call a shuttle from the visitor center at the dam, or hobble down to the post office under their own steam (it's 1.8 miles from the dam).
Well, here's to imagining foul weather camping while enduring lung-draining-tropical-humidity and nickel sized hail...
I'm thinking about weather tonight---the skies over Miami are solid red on the radar screen. There's warnings for nickel sized hail and tornados. And so the cats have decided to grace us with their presence tonight. Lizard hunting is no good in a downpour, I guess. They're inside fighting and the dogs are hiding under the bed, from the thunder or the cats.
Fontana Dam was built in the early 1940's by the Tennessee Valley Authority and is (somewhat morbidly, I think) named for the town it inundated. It's 480 feet high and about a half a mile long. It's the tallest dam in the eastern US.
From a hiker's perspective, though, the dam represents 166 odd miles in the bag and the gateway to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park. I hear there's a pretty sweet shelter on the other side of the dam (as you go north). So nice, in fact, that it's nicknamed "The Fontana Hilton".
I guess it wouldn't be so bad to sit through a rainy zero day at a place that nice. Taking zero days in the woods is economical--no where to spend money. I hear resupply is expensive in Fontana Village--which is the remnant/descendant of the town they built to house the folks working on the dam int he 40s--but there is a post office there. I'm thinking it might be wise to send a box ahead to pick up there. One could call a shuttle from the visitor center at the dam, or hobble down to the post office under their own steam (it's 1.8 miles from the dam).
Well, here's to imagining foul weather camping while enduring lung-draining-tropical-humidity and nickel sized hail...
Friday, March 25, 2011
Notes on Camp
There is an episode of This American Life about Camp, and how special it is to be one of 100 screaming kids in the woods, and how strong the group dynamic is that persists year after year, even when we're away. Camps, after all, survive on repeat customers.
Here's the link to that show, you should listen to it.
Here's the link to that show, you should listen to it.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Trail Tales Thursday, Dingle #2
Dingle Way, Day 2
3 July 2010
Fred and I woke up on our second day on the Dingle Way to light rain and a thick blanket of mist over the surrounding hills.
*So this is how it starts* I thought as I packed up my tent, which was damp but thankfully not soaked. I knew that the Dingle Way has a soggy reputation and I also knew that the forecast called for rain.
Fred and I ate a quick breakfast and then headed off past the gas station, down hill and over a small river before heading back Up into farmland. The stretch of trail from Lispole to Dingle was mainly on narrow country lanes, with hedges built up so high that if for some reason we needed to get out of the way of any cars or machinery hurtling past us, we would be unable to. So we prayed for deliverance from fast-moving vehicles. Luckily we were not squashed but did get to witness some creative cow-hearding.
After the cow-hearding-traffic jam we followed the trail Up and over our first turnstiles through some fields. Here, we were safe from traffic but eyed the cows nervously and kept our distance. The trail wound on through the fields until there wasn't any more Up. We crossed a ravine and then started working on some Dingle Way Down through sheep fields and over big rocks. We spotted some day hikers and puffed up our chests with a little bit of un-deserved superiority. We watched herds sheep on the far hills; farmers on four-wheelers and their dogs (though we couldn't see the dogs, we could see their work). The herds were fuzzy amoebas moving slowly across the hills, sending out pseudopods hither and thither and then being driven back.
For about 2 miles we could spot the town of Dingle, but like the bedroom door in Poltergeist, the more we walked it seemed the further it got away. It was cold and windy and I was hungry. Fred stopped on the side of the road to tend to his swollen blistery feet. I watched a farmer herd sheep in the pasture across the road, but my stomach was growling and would not be ignored. Plus, it was windy and I was cold. I may or may not have threatened to leave Fred behind and started stomping loudly downhill toward Dingle. Empathy is not one of my strongest character traits sometimes I am embarrassed to admit.
When we made it to Dingle Fred was still speaking to me. We walked through town, which looks exactly like every other tourist town on the face of the earth, only this one is on a steep hill. We walked down a street, didn't find anything to eat that fit our appetite or budget and then began walking back up hill. My feet and Fred's feet were not pleased with the arrangement and our appetites conceded to eat at wherever we landed next.
We ended up in a generic Irish pub. We slunk in around the doorjamb and slid into the first table we found. We shoved our packs over along the bench and hoped that our stench wouldn't be considered a deal breaker. It was only day two but we'd managed to work up quite an aroma between the mist, the farmland and my synthetic clothing which started the trail with a reasonable amount of funk. Lamb stew and half pints of Guinness fixed all that ailed us (except Fred's blisters, nothing could fix that).
We paid homage to Fungie the dolphin and followed the road out of town. When we got to Ventry two miles later, Fred was done for the day but it was only about 3--too early to stop. Because we were counting on the hospitality of strangers to find camping sites, it made sense to spend as little time as possible actually camping. We bought a loaf of soda bread and cheese at the post office there at the cross-road and hopped a low stone fence into an empty field. Leaning against the fence with our backs to the road, I checked the map. With a handful of bread in my mouth I managed to convince Fred that it would be an easy mile down the beach to the next town. He agreed, only barely and we saddled up and headed out, slowly.
Ventry Bay was flat and easy in the late afternoon. We had to wade through about 100 yards of somewhat squishy flotsam (kelp and some unidentifiable flora and fauna in mat form) to get down to the hard sand. There were lots of folks out on the beach with their incredibly well behaved dogs and it was getting chilly.
The trail left the beach and took us through the dunes and over several streams. We were both extremely tired and almost called it quits in a flat spot next to a creek, but we were nervous about breaking some land use laws so we pressed on. The trail lead up to a road. Fred was so determined to drop his billion pound pack for the night that, uncharacteristically of him, he asked the first person we passed if they knew anywhere we could camp.
The woman explained that we could use her backyard and that we should just walk on up the road and set up camp. Her husband may ask us what we were doing but we were to tell him that she had given us permission. Her accent was so thick, now that we were West of Dingle, we could only understand about every third word.
We found nice flat ground for camping, crawled into our tents and called it a night.
3 July 2010
Fred and I woke up on our second day on the Dingle Way to light rain and a thick blanket of mist over the surrounding hills.
*So this is how it starts* I thought as I packed up my tent, which was damp but thankfully not soaked. I knew that the Dingle Way has a soggy reputation and I also knew that the forecast called for rain.
Fred and I ate a quick breakfast and then headed off past the gas station, down hill and over a small river before heading back Up into farmland. The stretch of trail from Lispole to Dingle was mainly on narrow country lanes, with hedges built up so high that if for some reason we needed to get out of the way of any cars or machinery hurtling past us, we would be unable to. So we prayed for deliverance from fast-moving vehicles. Luckily we were not squashed but did get to witness some creative cow-hearding.
After the cow-hearding-traffic jam we followed the trail Up and over our first turnstiles through some fields. Here, we were safe from traffic but eyed the cows nervously and kept our distance. The trail wound on through the fields until there wasn't any more Up. We crossed a ravine and then started working on some Dingle Way Down through sheep fields and over big rocks. We spotted some day hikers and puffed up our chests with a little bit of un-deserved superiority. We watched herds sheep on the far hills; farmers on four-wheelers and their dogs (though we couldn't see the dogs, we could see their work). The herds were fuzzy amoebas moving slowly across the hills, sending out pseudopods hither and thither and then being driven back.
For about 2 miles we could spot the town of Dingle, but like the bedroom door in Poltergeist, the more we walked it seemed the further it got away. It was cold and windy and I was hungry. Fred stopped on the side of the road to tend to his swollen blistery feet. I watched a farmer herd sheep in the pasture across the road, but my stomach was growling and would not be ignored. Plus, it was windy and I was cold. I may or may not have threatened to leave Fred behind and started stomping loudly downhill toward Dingle. Empathy is not one of my strongest character traits sometimes I am embarrassed to admit.
When we made it to Dingle Fred was still speaking to me. We walked through town, which looks exactly like every other tourist town on the face of the earth, only this one is on a steep hill. We walked down a street, didn't find anything to eat that fit our appetite or budget and then began walking back up hill. My feet and Fred's feet were not pleased with the arrangement and our appetites conceded to eat at wherever we landed next.
We ended up in a generic Irish pub. We slunk in around the doorjamb and slid into the first table we found. We shoved our packs over along the bench and hoped that our stench wouldn't be considered a deal breaker. It was only day two but we'd managed to work up quite an aroma between the mist, the farmland and my synthetic clothing which started the trail with a reasonable amount of funk. Lamb stew and half pints of Guinness fixed all that ailed us (except Fred's blisters, nothing could fix that).
We paid homage to Fungie the dolphin and followed the road out of town. When we got to Ventry two miles later, Fred was done for the day but it was only about 3--too early to stop. Because we were counting on the hospitality of strangers to find camping sites, it made sense to spend as little time as possible actually camping. We bought a loaf of soda bread and cheese at the post office there at the cross-road and hopped a low stone fence into an empty field. Leaning against the fence with our backs to the road, I checked the map. With a handful of bread in my mouth I managed to convince Fred that it would be an easy mile down the beach to the next town. He agreed, only barely and we saddled up and headed out, slowly.
Ventry Bay was flat and easy in the late afternoon. We had to wade through about 100 yards of somewhat squishy flotsam (kelp and some unidentifiable flora and fauna in mat form) to get down to the hard sand. There were lots of folks out on the beach with their incredibly well behaved dogs and it was getting chilly.
The trail left the beach and took us through the dunes and over several streams. We were both extremely tired and almost called it quits in a flat spot next to a creek, but we were nervous about breaking some land use laws so we pressed on. The trail lead up to a road. Fred was so determined to drop his billion pound pack for the night that, uncharacteristically of him, he asked the first person we passed if they knew anywhere we could camp.
The woman explained that we could use her backyard and that we should just walk on up the road and set up camp. Her husband may ask us what we were doing but we were to tell him that she had given us permission. Her accent was so thick, now that we were West of Dingle, we could only understand about every third word.
We found nice flat ground for camping, crawled into our tents and called it a night.
Saturday, March 19, 2011
Friday, March 18, 2011
Scout Haute Couture
 | ||
| Figure 1. Subject is wearing long johns under shorts with spandex cape |
This is something interesting that happens when Scouts are together. The general conventions of fashion or typical adolescent self conscious behavior flies out the window. This phenomenon can be observed in as little as 10 minutes, though rare. Usually after 1 to 2 days removed from society the Scout in her natural habitat will begin exhibiting signs of squirrely-ness in dress and behavior.
Scout Haute Couture can be recognized by the subject's inability to match color, pattern or even material. Mainstream ideals of acceptable things to put on your face fly by the wayside and banana stickers, magic-marker-mustaches and some types of food become facial adornments. Anything that can be wrapped around a limb such as grass, flowers, or office supplies become jewelery. Materials that are usually off limits become highly sought after. (Fig. 1-3)
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| Figure 2. |
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| Figure 3. |
The authors conclude that because Scouts have a refined system of friendship the typical societal rules for presentation can be stretched to accommodate more complete outward expression of a person's personality. The most amazing facet of the Scout Haute Couture is the ability to ignore the powerful odors that can develop after two or three days on the loose. Scouts can remain friends through experiences like this and have developed their own standards to live by (Yes, the lake counts as a shower. Yes, babywipes are perfectly acceptable for day to day hygiene).
The level of comfort that allows Scouts to be Best Friends Forever and is both the cause and effect of the strange fashion that manifests itself in Scout settings. Because how could you Not be friends with someone who is baring their sole to you thus (Figure 2). And if this were you, why would you not want to share it with your friends? (Figure 3).
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Trail Tales Thursday, Dingle #1
In Honor of St. Patrick's Day, we'll kick off the Trail Tales series with the Dingle Way.
Dingle Way, Day 1
2 July 2010
Fred and I got up early, left our hostel in Dublin and hopped on the bus to Limerick at the Busarus. That's the Irish word for Bus Station I guess. I like to say it in my head like this "Bus R Us" but that's not right.
I quickly learned that Irish buses are among the most sinister car-sick-inducing torture devices in the world. The seats are very tall and so it's impossible to see out the front window from any seat besides the very front. Irish roads are narrow and windy. Irish bus drivers seem to enjoy playing Billy Joel at very loud volumes. I knew I wasn't going to make it if I stayed in the back, so I had to move right up to the front. Right up there, next to the chatty old people who cross themselves whenever they pass a church, and there are a lot, so it's more like an episode of Sit-and Be-Fit than a calm, silent, still bus ride.
And I think I might die.
For 6 hours I focused on not puking, or trying to devise a contingency plan if I do. I decided that in the event of an unexpected voiding of my stomach I would try to aim it for the space next to the door, then at least they could hose it out easily.
Luckily, we made it to Limerick and then to Tralee (which is pronounced Truhhh-lee, not TRAY lee) without any vomiting. From Tralee we got on another bus which we thought was going to take us to Camp. But it didn't. Fred told me "doesn't that sign say Camp? Shouldn't we get off? Maybe you should tell the driver we want off." I said "Relax Fred, calm down. The bus will stop and then we'll get off. We'll know when we're there." But I was wrong. The bus did not stop. In Ireland, you must jump up and down or wave or holler to signal your intention to get off the bus, wherever. Stops listed on the schedule are just suggestions. When we realized that we'd driven past Camp we started to get anxious. When the next-town-looking place rolled around we stood up, and sure enough the bus stopped and let us out.
In Annascaul. This not where we planned on being. We meant to walk from Camp counter clockwise around the peninsula. Now we're forced to go Clockwise.
At least we've finally made it to Dingle.
The first thing I noticed about Dingle, is that it is cold and windy. It's also much more mountainous than I expected. From the map, from home, Ireland looked flat-ish. 950 m Mountains are not really mountains, or are they? They are. Especially when they grow directly from sea level.
I know that I have underestimated this place. We stopped in a small park with the statue of some antarctic explorer. Tom Crean. He went with Shackelton and stuff...and he's from Annascaul. Fred and I hadn't eaten since breakfast and now it's 3 pm and we need to hike at least 6 miles, preferably twelve before we sleep. I pulled out a loaf of soda bread, a chunk of cheese and began to chow down, whilst contemplating Fred's "10 pound more awesome" bag.
I wonder if he can really make it 90 miles with all that Stuff. Who brings an iPad backpacking, anyway?
After we finished eating we cinched up our bags and headed off. Over a bridge, across a road and then Up. We walked up for quite a ways, until there was no more Up and then we could see the ocean, and we walked Down for a while. It was warm enough out to walk in just a long sleeved shirt and it wasn't raining.
So Far So Good.
We came across a beautiful bouldery-beach with a castle.
Thanks Ireland, that'll do nicely.
Then, there was more up. We were mainly walking on narrow farm roads, which was not very exciting at all. There were nettles and whoever was in the back was in charge of hollering "Car!" so that we could dive, quickly, into a ditch or press ourselves up against the nearest nettle-infested garden wall. And it was a windy day, so there were lots of false alarms. We did manage to entertain ourselves though, playing with the local fauna--farm dogs--and arguing about whether Cromwell built the castle or knocked over the castle.
The sheep dogs in Ireland are very friendly. They are generally allowed to roam and seem to generally stay where they're supposed to. More than a few times we were followed for quite-a-ways by friendly dogs. This is the first one we encountered. In DunQuin we were followed all the way home from the pub by a dog. On the other side of Mt. Brandon we were followed for about a mile by a dog who liked to play 'fetch' with rocks that we kicked in front of us, until someone drove by in a car and stuck their head out the window "Bella! Come on!" and the dog turned around and trotted after the car.
After about 6 miles, we spied a gas station. Since I refused, on principle, to pay 10 Euros for white gas in Dublin we decided to just fill the fuel bottle with gasoline at the first opportunity. So we stopped at a gas station that backed up to a really nice canyon that was bridged by an old rail-road viaduct. I filled up the fuel bottle and went inside to pay the 45 cent bill. The man behind the counter looked at me funny and said "Very small car?" I held up my fuel bottle and said "Yes" I bought a postcard and a candy bar and went back outside to see what Fred was up to.
He was lounging against his 10-pounds-more-awesome bag with the nastyiest-pus-ridden-flea bag tom cat I've ever seen in his lap.
I loaded up the fuel bottle and looked at the map for a bit. "Fred, how much further do you want to walk?" I was nervous about where we'd stay, and since there was 6 more miles to Dingle Town I didn't think we'd make it before it got dark.
I convinced Fred to go inside and ask the man behind the counter if there was any place we could stay around Lispole (where we were). Fred came back out with a bottle of water and the message that Dingle Town was the closest place with accommodations. "Did you ask about camping, or bed and breakfasts?" He said he didn't know and I shook my head. It was already 7 and I didn't think we were going to make it to Dingle. I went back into the shop myself to ask the man specifically about camping. I was a little embarrassed because by this time we'd been hanging around in his parking lot, petting that nasty-pus-ridden-flea-bag cat for like 15 minutes. "Do you know anywhere we can camp around here? I don't think we can walk all the way to Dingle Town tonight" The man didn't even pause for a second before he said "Sure, camp across the way in my field. There are no animals in there and the electric fence is off". Of course, it took a few iterations to get the message across--so thick was his accent, or my brain.
Awesome! Our first experience with Irish hospitality. It was easy. The man showed us his field and we set up our tents in a flat spot behind a nice church.
We had a quick dinner. Though we were tired we walked a mile down the road to the nearest pub. The man behind the counter was probably about 80 and by the looks of the decor, was named Tom and had been running the place since the 40s, or whenever he stopped playing rugby on his local team (Go Kerry!). We were the only people in the place. We tried to have a conversation with the old man about the vuvuzelas on the TV (world cup was on) but again, the thick Irish accent was hard for us to get through. The man was really lovely though, and we went and played a game of pool on a tiny pool table (or was it a snooker table?) before we headed back out. By this time it was nearing 9:30 and we toddled back to our tents. It was still light.
Turns out, it never gets dark in Ireland.
Dingle Way, Day 1
2 July 2010
Fred and I got up early, left our hostel in Dublin and hopped on the bus to Limerick at the Busarus. That's the Irish word for Bus Station I guess. I like to say it in my head like this "Bus R Us" but that's not right.
I quickly learned that Irish buses are among the most sinister car-sick-inducing torture devices in the world. The seats are very tall and so it's impossible to see out the front window from any seat besides the very front. Irish roads are narrow and windy. Irish bus drivers seem to enjoy playing Billy Joel at very loud volumes. I knew I wasn't going to make it if I stayed in the back, so I had to move right up to the front. Right up there, next to the chatty old people who cross themselves whenever they pass a church, and there are a lot, so it's more like an episode of Sit-and Be-Fit than a calm, silent, still bus ride.
And I think I might die.
For 6 hours I focused on not puking, or trying to devise a contingency plan if I do. I decided that in the event of an unexpected voiding of my stomach I would try to aim it for the space next to the door, then at least they could hose it out easily.
Luckily, we made it to Limerick and then to Tralee (which is pronounced Truhhh-lee, not TRAY lee) without any vomiting. From Tralee we got on another bus which we thought was going to take us to Camp. But it didn't. Fred told me "doesn't that sign say Camp? Shouldn't we get off? Maybe you should tell the driver we want off." I said "Relax Fred, calm down. The bus will stop and then we'll get off. We'll know when we're there." But I was wrong. The bus did not stop. In Ireland, you must jump up and down or wave or holler to signal your intention to get off the bus, wherever. Stops listed on the schedule are just suggestions. When we realized that we'd driven past Camp we started to get anxious. When the next-town-looking place rolled around we stood up, and sure enough the bus stopped and let us out.
In Annascaul. This not where we planned on being. We meant to walk from Camp counter clockwise around the peninsula. Now we're forced to go Clockwise.
At least we've finally made it to Dingle.
The first thing I noticed about Dingle, is that it is cold and windy. It's also much more mountainous than I expected. From the map, from home, Ireland looked flat-ish. 950 m Mountains are not really mountains, or are they? They are. Especially when they grow directly from sea level.
I know that I have underestimated this place. We stopped in a small park with the statue of some antarctic explorer. Tom Crean. He went with Shackelton and stuff...and he's from Annascaul. Fred and I hadn't eaten since breakfast and now it's 3 pm and we need to hike at least 6 miles, preferably twelve before we sleep. I pulled out a loaf of soda bread, a chunk of cheese and began to chow down, whilst contemplating Fred's "10 pound more awesome" bag.
I wonder if he can really make it 90 miles with all that Stuff. Who brings an iPad backpacking, anyway?
After we finished eating we cinched up our bags and headed off. Over a bridge, across a road and then Up. We walked up for quite a ways, until there was no more Up and then we could see the ocean, and we walked Down for a while. It was warm enough out to walk in just a long sleeved shirt and it wasn't raining.
So Far So Good.
We came across a beautiful bouldery-beach with a castle.
Thanks Ireland, that'll do nicely.
Then, there was more up. We were mainly walking on narrow farm roads, which was not very exciting at all. There were nettles and whoever was in the back was in charge of hollering "Car!" so that we could dive, quickly, into a ditch or press ourselves up against the nearest nettle-infested garden wall. And it was a windy day, so there were lots of false alarms. We did manage to entertain ourselves though, playing with the local fauna--farm dogs--and arguing about whether Cromwell built the castle or knocked over the castle.
The sheep dogs in Ireland are very friendly. They are generally allowed to roam and seem to generally stay where they're supposed to. More than a few times we were followed for quite-a-ways by friendly dogs. This is the first one we encountered. In DunQuin we were followed all the way home from the pub by a dog. On the other side of Mt. Brandon we were followed for about a mile by a dog who liked to play 'fetch' with rocks that we kicked in front of us, until someone drove by in a car and stuck their head out the window "Bella! Come on!" and the dog turned around and trotted after the car.
After about 6 miles, we spied a gas station. Since I refused, on principle, to pay 10 Euros for white gas in Dublin we decided to just fill the fuel bottle with gasoline at the first opportunity. So we stopped at a gas station that backed up to a really nice canyon that was bridged by an old rail-road viaduct. I filled up the fuel bottle and went inside to pay the 45 cent bill. The man behind the counter looked at me funny and said "Very small car?" I held up my fuel bottle and said "Yes" I bought a postcard and a candy bar and went back outside to see what Fred was up to.
He was lounging against his 10-pounds-more-awesome bag with the nastyiest-pus-ridden-flea bag tom cat I've ever seen in his lap.
I loaded up the fuel bottle and looked at the map for a bit. "Fred, how much further do you want to walk?" I was nervous about where we'd stay, and since there was 6 more miles to Dingle Town I didn't think we'd make it before it got dark.
I convinced Fred to go inside and ask the man behind the counter if there was any place we could stay around Lispole (where we were). Fred came back out with a bottle of water and the message that Dingle Town was the closest place with accommodations. "Did you ask about camping, or bed and breakfasts?" He said he didn't know and I shook my head. It was already 7 and I didn't think we were going to make it to Dingle. I went back into the shop myself to ask the man specifically about camping. I was a little embarrassed because by this time we'd been hanging around in his parking lot, petting that nasty-pus-ridden-flea-bag cat for like 15 minutes. "Do you know anywhere we can camp around here? I don't think we can walk all the way to Dingle Town tonight" The man didn't even pause for a second before he said "Sure, camp across the way in my field. There are no animals in there and the electric fence is off". Of course, it took a few iterations to get the message across--so thick was his accent, or my brain.
Awesome! Our first experience with Irish hospitality. It was easy. The man showed us his field and we set up our tents in a flat spot behind a nice church.
We had a quick dinner. Though we were tired we walked a mile down the road to the nearest pub. The man behind the counter was probably about 80 and by the looks of the decor, was named Tom and had been running the place since the 40s, or whenever he stopped playing rugby on his local team (Go Kerry!). We were the only people in the place. We tried to have a conversation with the old man about the vuvuzelas on the TV (world cup was on) but again, the thick Irish accent was hard for us to get through. The man was really lovely though, and we went and played a game of pool on a tiny pool table (or was it a snooker table?) before we headed back out. By this time it was nearing 9:30 and we toddled back to our tents. It was still light.
Turns out, it never gets dark in Ireland.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
Who is Lari?
Meet Lari!
or, the quieter half of this project. This is a link to an awesome profile she's got up at the Girl Scouts of Western Washington page.
or, the quieter half of this project. This is a link to an awesome profile she's got up at the Girl Scouts of Western Washington page.
Monday, March 14, 2011
Well, I've been here before
I had a blog before--during 2008 when I lived in Switzerland. My life seemed very interesting at the time. I packed up my belongings and flew off to a foreign land for an indeterminate amount of time. There was so much new there. New food to eat, new words to learn, new ways to embarrass myself in public and all of it ripe for blogging. Then, I moved back to the States, went back to Grad school and decided that being a grad student just wasn't interesting enough to read about. Actually, the truth was I just wasn't interested enough to write about it.
I suppose that grad school may be like a long distance hike. From what I've gleaned from volumes and volumes of Appalachian Trail through hike logs (check out the Resources section for the books I'm talking about) and daily posts over at Whiteblaze, a lot of folks don't really know what they're getting into when they start out from Springer or Katahdin. There's thinking about something, and then there's the actual doing of it. Everyone who finishes a thru hike was once a beginner with maybe a few years of backpacking under their belt at best. Everyone who finishes graduate school was once just an undergrad with a few credits of lab class and klunky pipetting hands. Whether that's mountains or endless days of bench-jockeying it's impossible to really know what you're in for before you go. Actually, the drop-out rates for grad students and thru hikers is roughly the same, about 20% for Life Sciencers (such as myself) and thru hikers between Springer and Neels Gap.
Of course I had high hopes for graduate school. I was going to FIGURE STUFF OUT. I was going to be really good at science. Turns out, it's less rewarding and exciting than that.
My days lately are an endless blur of impossibly tiny volumes (think 1,000x smaller than a drop) and impossibly tiny tubes. I spend about 9 hours a day moving tiny drops into tiny tubes, ad nausaem. I put the tiny tubes into tiny machines and wait a few hours before retrieving them, transferring tiny drops into other tiny machines to see if the magic cartoon strip of molecular genetics I have running through my head was correct, maybe. See, that may or may not be interesting for general consumption. But then, there are days when things work. When the results from the tiny machines is unequivocal. At times like these, I forget the weeks and months and late nights of frustration and cramped thumbs.
I guess the AT is probably kind of like that. Judging from the time-lapse video I posted earlier, and from pretty much what everyone says, I think it would be safe to conclude that the AT can be monotonous. The AT has can also be unpredictable and stressful: BEAR! LIGHTENING! COLD! But after the long climbs, or snow storms or bear encounters it is also beautiful.
So, maybe graduate school isn't terribly exciting to write about, but you should see my daydreams...
Today will be day two, landing us somewhere Gooch and Woods Hole shelters. The weather in Suches today: High of 65 low of 45 with 100% chance of thunder storms overnight.
 | |
| Figure 1. My Life |
Of course I had high hopes for graduate school. I was going to FIGURE STUFF OUT. I was going to be really good at science. Turns out, it's less rewarding and exciting than that.
My days lately are an endless blur of impossibly tiny volumes (think 1,000x smaller than a drop) and impossibly tiny tubes. I spend about 9 hours a day moving tiny drops into tiny tubes, ad nausaem. I put the tiny tubes into tiny machines and wait a few hours before retrieving them, transferring tiny drops into other tiny machines to see if the magic cartoon strip of molecular genetics I have running through my head was correct, maybe. See, that may or may not be interesting for general consumption. But then, there are days when things work. When the results from the tiny machines is unequivocal. At times like these, I forget the weeks and months and late nights of frustration and cramped thumbs.
I guess the AT is probably kind of like that. Judging from the time-lapse video I posted earlier, and from pretty much what everyone says, I think it would be safe to conclude that the AT can be monotonous. The AT has can also be unpredictable and stressful: BEAR! LIGHTENING! COLD! But after the long climbs, or snow storms or bear encounters it is also beautiful.
So, maybe graduate school isn't terribly exciting to write about, but you should see my daydreams...
 | |
| Figure 2. Doesn't this look better? Near Gooch Gap Shelter |
The Green Tunnel
Green Tunnel from Kevin Gallagher on Vimeo.
This is a really cool/kind of creepy stop-motion video of the entire length of the Appalachian Trail.
From EEBlog tipper BUCKET. Thanks!
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Department of Scary Numbers
Vertical gain on the AT is equal to 16 ascents of Everest. 91 vertical miles.
If you think you're sore now, you got another thing coming
To celebrate the 99th birthday of Girl Scouts yesterday, my troop and two others went out on a kayaking adventure. There were all the elements of high-seas drama--people tossed overboard, treasure hunts, high-speed races.... Or, we played some games and picked up some trash--always making the world a better place.
 |
| Launching Boats |
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| Experimental water photography by 10 year old. |
The scouts learned about water safety and the gear they need to stay safe on the water. Then we armed them with paddles and shoved them out into the wild unknown. There, they experimented with the proper ratio of dip to splash while lolling around in a big lagoon. Trailing bare feet and watching shafts of light dive through the green water. After a few minutes the guides impelled the girls into actual paddling by saying something about a Golden Paddle and a trip through Devil's Doom.
After about three hours of tag on the beach, tag in the water, hunting for treasures both natural and un-natural we headed back in.
The kids had a great time, I had a great time. Unfortunatley, in the rush to get everyone paid up and registered with the outfitters, I forgot (actually brazenly neglected) to put on sunscreen. I was burnt.
Next year, though, instead of nursing this sunburn and wondering how I can feel this darn old after an afternoon of paddling (I did stretch first, afterall),
I'll be rolling out of my bag, stamping my feet to drive off the cold and trying to make my fingers light my stove somewhere between Hawk Mountain and Gooch Mountain shelters. I'm hoping some of my scouts will come up and do this first section with me, so I can anticipate the morning mole-skin rituals and their unwavering
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| The Captain engages in some preemptive stretching |
Saturday, March 12, 2011
All Aboard!
Dear Friends,
I would like to invite you to join me on (an unofficial) through hike of the Appalachian Trail to commemorate the 100th anniversary of Girl Scouting in the USA.
Juliette Gordon Low said it first and best when she arrived home from England in 1912 and picked up the phone to call her cousin, “I have something for the girls of Savannah, and all of America and all the world and we’re going to start it tonight”. From there the organization exploded from 18 original members to over 50 million girls that have benefited from Girl Scouting in the past 99 years. Because they were encouraged to dream big, these girls of courage confidence and character have grown into women of consequence.
Girl Scouting encourages girls to be self reliant and resourceful. These two qualities were what Juliette Gordon Low had in mind when she implemented the outdoor education component of the Girl Scout program. The importance of outdoor experiences for girls is becoming overlooked. Girls are feeling more pressure than ever to meet increasing standards of academics, fashion and career success.
Of course, academic and professional success are within the goals of the Girl Scout program. However, without the self confidence to try new things and the courage to try again after failure, girls can easily become overwhelmed with the high pressure society we life in. What’s missing, often, is a safe space for girls to be themselves, to work with a group and challenge themselves physically and mentally. There is no substitute for the satisfaction one feels when they’ve shed blood sweat or tears to accomplish something that may have seemed impossible.
Teaching girls outdoor skills goes far beyond the practicalities of knot tying or fire building. Taking girls outdoors and providing them with an opportunity to gain independence fosters personal development that can’t be gained in a classroom. After a girl muscles a heavy pack over a mountain, shares laughs and struggles and eventually success as a member of a team—nothing else in life will seem too far out of reach.
The Appalachian Trail has never been through hiked by an organized group of Girl Scouts. Juliette Gordon Low said that her purpose was to ”go on with my heart and soul, devoting all my energies to Girl Scouts, and heart and hand with them, we will make our lives and the lives of the future girls happy, healthy and holy.” It is my intention to devote six months to hiking the Appalachian Trail in honor of Girl Scouting and the devotion of our founder Juliette Gordon Low, in order to bring recognition to the value of the program that has been building women of courage, confidence and character for 100 years.
I aim to inspire girls to dream and act big, like Juliette Gordon Low did when she rounded up 18 neighborhood girls to start what would be the biggest volunteer youth organization in the world only 100 years later, by setting out on this monumental challenge.
Sincerely,
The Captain
I would like to invite you to join me on (an unofficial) through hike of the Appalachian Trail to commemorate the 100th anniversary of Girl Scouting in the USA.
Juliette Gordon Low said it first and best when she arrived home from England in 1912 and picked up the phone to call her cousin, “I have something for the girls of Savannah, and all of America and all the world and we’re going to start it tonight”. From there the organization exploded from 18 original members to over 50 million girls that have benefited from Girl Scouting in the past 99 years. Because they were encouraged to dream big, these girls of courage confidence and character have grown into women of consequence.
Girl Scouting encourages girls to be self reliant and resourceful. These two qualities were what Juliette Gordon Low had in mind when she implemented the outdoor education component of the Girl Scout program. The importance of outdoor experiences for girls is becoming overlooked. Girls are feeling more pressure than ever to meet increasing standards of academics, fashion and career success.
Of course, academic and professional success are within the goals of the Girl Scout program. However, without the self confidence to try new things and the courage to try again after failure, girls can easily become overwhelmed with the high pressure society we life in. What’s missing, often, is a safe space for girls to be themselves, to work with a group and challenge themselves physically and mentally. There is no substitute for the satisfaction one feels when they’ve shed blood sweat or tears to accomplish something that may have seemed impossible.
Teaching girls outdoor skills goes far beyond the practicalities of knot tying or fire building. Taking girls outdoors and providing them with an opportunity to gain independence fosters personal development that can’t be gained in a classroom. After a girl muscles a heavy pack over a mountain, shares laughs and struggles and eventually success as a member of a team—nothing else in life will seem too far out of reach.
The Appalachian Trail has never been through hiked by an organized group of Girl Scouts. Juliette Gordon Low said that her purpose was to ”go on with my heart and soul, devoting all my energies to Girl Scouts, and heart and hand with them, we will make our lives and the lives of the future girls happy, healthy and holy.” It is my intention to devote six months to hiking the Appalachian Trail in honor of Girl Scouting and the devotion of our founder Juliette Gordon Low, in order to bring recognition to the value of the program that has been building women of courage, confidence and character for 100 years.
I aim to inspire girls to dream and act big, like Juliette Gordon Low did when she rounded up 18 neighborhood girls to start what would be the biggest volunteer youth organization in the world only 100 years later, by setting out on this monumental challenge.
Sincerely,
The Captain
Happy Birthday Girl Scouts!
Today is the 99th Anniversary of the Girl Scout movement in the US.
Dear Girl Scouts USA,
On the occasion of your birthday I would like to congratulate you for 99 years of excellence.
Thank you for providing a safe place for girls to be themselves while they're still trying on so many versions of what that means. Thank you for all the good times. Thank you for giving them something to look forward to. They will never forget summers in Swagman or Smuggler's Notch or the chilly nights spent with sleeping bags pulled up over their heads, full of overwhelming gratitude for another day.
I will always be amazed that the waterfront director never figured out who moved the kayaks into the swim docks. We all remember our camp pranks fondly.
Thank you for bringing us together.
The best friends I've ever had were tested by fire and horizontal rain and conditions that were uncomfortable at best.
Thank you for teaching them about service. They've learned even more about themselves by helping others than I would have guessed was possible. Additionally, thanks for the confidence to believe that one person can make a difference.
Thank you for the skills they've learned. Thank you for the know-how to get the job done, and for the courage to believe
in themselves enough to risk failure.
Here's to another 99 years and all the great things that will be done thanks to the program that inspires volunteers to lead rowdy gangs of pre-teens.
How could we lose when all we have to do to succeed is be ourselves?
Your #1 Fan,
The Captain
Dear Girl Scouts USA,On the occasion of your birthday I would like to congratulate you for 99 years of excellence.
Thank you for providing a safe place for girls to be themselves while they're still trying on so many versions of what that means. Thank you for all the good times. Thank you for giving them something to look forward to. They will never forget summers in Swagman or Smuggler's Notch or the chilly nights spent with sleeping bags pulled up over their heads, full of overwhelming gratitude for another day.
I will always be amazed that the waterfront director never figured out who moved the kayaks into the swim docks. We all remember our camp pranks fondly.
Thank you for bringing us together.The best friends I've ever had were tested by fire and horizontal rain and conditions that were uncomfortable at best.
Thank you for teaching them about service. They've learned even more about themselves by helping others than I would have guessed was possible. Additionally, thanks for the confidence to believe that one person can make a difference.
Thank you for the skills they've learned. Thank you for the know-how to get the job done, and for the courage to believein themselves enough to risk failure.
Here's to another 99 years and all the great things that will be done thanks to the program that inspires volunteers to lead rowdy gangs of pre-teens.
How could we lose when all we have to do to succeed is be ourselves?
Your #1 Fan,
The Captain
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