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It’s finite in nature, the most valuable commodity, yet can’t be saved. Time. Arbitrary yet essential.
Within the human construct of time, we begin each day with 86,400 seconds. There’s no carrying it over to the next day. There’s no taking a loan against future days.
And it can only be spent on experiences.
A lot’s been written about it being better to spend money on experiences. But, irrespective of money, time is the single most important component of an experience.
The years have taught me the value of intangibles previously taken for granted and have given me an appreciation of experiences. Some call it mindfulness. Others might say it’s living without regret. Those terms are too abstract, they are actions.
On my part, there hasn’t been an unconscious or unintentional espousal of these concepts. Rather, it’s the life lessons learned myself or through others around me that prompt the incorporation of experiences in the finite time available. Changes I’ve made aren’t pervasive, but even the little things can be enough.
It’s been a slow buildup. It started 11 years ago when I picked up that first fly rod. Prior to that, spinners were my weapon of choice, with no strategy. Walk up to the water, cast to one point, then fan out to cover as much water as possible.
Fly fishing changed that. Even the simple preparation is a meditative process. Before stepping near or into the water, there’s the selection of flies, assembly of the rod, running line through ferrules, tying on leader and tippet. Depending on conditions and the water, there may be waders and boots to put on, a wading staff and net to attach to the belt, vest, or pack. You’re finally ready to look at the water, to study its flow, speed, depth, and the boulders, tree limbs, and vegetation affecting it, and where fish might hold. Now it’s time to cast, but to specific targets. Hooking a fish validates your analysis. Not hooking a fish prompts reconsideration of the depth of your fly, target, and fly selection.
All of this requires a focus that excludes all else, at least from my mind.
Motorcycling, if done properly and safely (mindfully you could say), requires much of the same attentiveness. Gear comes first; pants, jacket, helmet, gloves. Then check the bike – tires, brakes, lights, mirrors, clutch and shift lever. There’s no room for a lapse in situational awareness. A motorcycle puts you at the mercy of the world. It’s more than just cars. Roadway hazards include gravel, leaves, water, oil, expansion joints and bumpy patches, train tracks, and debris in general. There’s a refrain in motorcycling: one should never ride when in a hurry.
A recent change that introduced a small but satisfying experience to my daily routine is switching to a safety razor. It was suggested by my wife as an alternative that would reduce our waste output. It was intriguing. For the cost of a set of disposable razors that might last six months, I ordered a decent razor, shave cream, and blades enough for at least a year. There are benefits not initially realized: the shave cream is all natural with a subtle but pleasant scent that’s reminiscent of the past and somewhat calming. It has a richness not duplicated by the fluorescent stuff that comes out of cans. It has thirteen ingredients, less than half in the canned variety, most of them easily pronounced.
It takes a bit longer to use a safety razor, warming the whiskers, lathering up, waiting for the cream to soften the stubble, shaving in such a way as to address the direction of the growth of the whiskers, rinsing, and then applying balm. There’s a satisfaction that come with this ritual; a ritual that requires making time, but one that’s become a gratifying part of my day.
As for time itself, there’s my newfound appreciation and (not inexpensive) interest in mechanical watches.
Like all excuses, mine are more credible to me than anyone else. Our finite allocation of time has been consumed by classwork, the usual demands of full-time jobs, visitors from out of town, tending to the house and yard, emergency response training, dinners and events that keep friendships alive, and a purposeful exploration of local places previously ignored because “we’d get there someday.”
That was January, February and March. Three short months brimming with experiences, mostly good, some not so good.
Apart from spring break next week, the coming months will be just as full. We have one weekend day that remains unplanned. That won’t last long. There’s a shipment of Prager port to pick up.
Though the days are full, there’s a slowness – even if just a few minutes at time – encouraged by the bluebird skies of the last week. Brought to life by the accompanying warmth of the sun, our California native landscaping is putting on a show unforeseen.
Native landscaping in California requires acceptance that the bounty of spring gives way to dormancy during the summer. While manzanita, a huge island mallow, salvia and yarrow remain green all year, the vibrant green leaves of blue-eyed grass turn brown and whither. California poppies die off after scattering the seeds that will become their progeny.
But for now, the yard is playground of color visited by lizards, birds, bees and butterflies.
And now that the windows are open at night, spring is real and summer looming fast.
The best of this year was comprised of the many little moments. How, when during a stay at a vacation house tomahawks were discovered in the garage and friendly competition revealed that a younger nephew and my sister-in-law are aces. Or, time spent with the parents exploring a small arts and crafts show at which dad finds something humorous and for a moment looks like an over-sized teenager, walking while texting.
Like when the rescue dog adopted four months ago bolts out an open gate for the first time. There’s the fear fed from knowing that this little fur ball has wormed his way into my wife’s heart. After walking out to the street, he’s not in sight, with open space to the left and busier roads at either end of the street, and I don’t have shoes on. Then he comes running with that odd but funny gait the moment you call his name. It’s clear he now understands that he’s a member of our pack.
Then there are the friends met; some who seem destined to become enmeshed in your life, some who are only of that moment, but all who add joy simply by sharing time and experiences. I’m a naturally inclined introvert. It’s my wife who, unafraid, strikes up the conversations that bring new acquaintances into our life.
I’m thankful for these times, when the noise of the world is silenced, or at least stifled for a bit. Call it mindfulness, being present or living in the moment, but it happens more than we appreciate. I know that good things, whether events, other living things or simply a landscape, creep up on me. Without speaking of them, without relishing them and giving them life, they quickly wither into the background. The trick is not being blind to them.
Merry Christmas and all the Best in the New Year
I’ve already put almost 300 miles behind me by the time the morning sun’s risen above Mt. Shasta. The gas tank’s just a bit less than half full, one of the four bottles of water is empty and the bag of jerky on the seat next to me beckons. It’s almost time for a stop.
This trip is rooted in the idea of brothers getting together at least once a year. It’s also about driving. Back when we were both underage, short impromptu road trips were about freedom, a small bit of excitement and creating memories. My ’71 Beetle was our magic carpet for many.
Longer trips came later. Our parents had moved to the Seattle area while I lived in the San Francisco Bay Area and, for a time, my brother lived in Southern California. The reason for our first 788-mile run to Washington has faded now but the thrill of the drive is alive and well. It took us 14½ hours. Stops were few. We ate in the car. While one was refueling the car the other would use the bathroom, then we’d switch places. There’s a lot more to that story, but that’s for another time.
Attempting this latest trip from Benicia, Calif., to Issaquah, Wash., would be an uneasy balance of reality and perception. And a promise to my wife that I’d exercise good judgement, stopping if there was even a remote possibility should it be necessary. The reality is that I’m not a spring chicken (or rooster?) anymore, but the idea I could do it myself – encouraged by the memory of that “banzai run” (my brother’s words) year ago – was enticing.
The plan was to visit the parents for a bit, then meet up with my brother for fishing, shooting, hiking and swimming; all activities of summer well suited for the last week of July. I would have no co-pilot, no flight attendant. Preparation was vital. The cooler would be loaded with two bottles of water, frozen the night before, aluminum bottle also filled with water, and two small pastrami sandwiches. (The old trick of lightly buttering the bread before slathering on condiments would prevent any sogginess.) Another aluminum water bottle sat in the cup holder. Everything would be within easy reach.
I woke up five minutes before the 4:30 a.m. alarm. It’s odd how that works – the body wakes up ready to go when the day doesn’t involve going to the office. I left the driveway a few minutes after the hoped-for 5 a.m. departure.
There was no competition for the fast lane. I don’t feel like I’ve made enough progress until familiar roadways are miles behind. The I-80/I-505 interchange is for me a demarcation between familiarity and mere acquaintance. Here begins long, lonely, two-lane stretches of highway that pass thirsty orchards and fields; towns that owe their existence to I-5 travelers; truck stops filled with Freightliners, Kenworths and Peterbilts (and these days Volvos); and rest areas roughly 40 miles apart. Endless power lines and aqueducts fade in and out of view.
Though “The Five” parallels the Pacific coastline, it is well inland and generally manages to skirt much of the best scenery in California, Oregon and Washington. But it’s fast; choosing I-5 is all about expediency. Much of the way, the posted speed limit is 70 mph. My first stop was 258 miles later in Weed, in the shadow of Mt. Shasta and deep in the State of Jefferson. After topping off the tank and visiting the bathroom and no lingering, the climb into the Siskyou Mountains began.
The 246-mile stretch of I-5 from Weed to Eugene, through Ashland and Grants Pass, offers a welcome change: green mountains. The downside is Oregon’s low opinion of citizens’ driving skills. Speed limits drop, generally to 65 mph but often lower for brief stretches. From Eugene to Portland it’s flat, but there’s just enough variety of terrain, vegetation and crops to make it not boring, and the rest stops are more updated, or at least cleaner. Unique to this part of I-5 is the smattering of Adult Shops (that’s the name of this chain of stores) strung along the highway, which contrasts with a fair number of religious billboards that pop up south of Salem.
Oregon goes by in a blink. It takes me about the same amount of time to drive through Oregon as it did to drive from home to the northern border of California. About midway through Oregon, one sandwich is gone, the jerky bag has been opened, and I’m down to one bottle of water. I’ve listened to nine podcasts. My pace is steady. The only stops are to fill up in Salem and at rest areas as needed.
You’d think crossing the Washington border would bring a feeling of relief, but it’s a reminder that I still have about three hours to go. It’s green but monotonous, with a patchwork of farmland giving way to retail centers and too many RV dealerships. While the “Uncle Sam billboard” near Chehalis celebrates free speech, over the years I’ve found the messages to range from mildly amusing to patently offensive. The billboard also marks the long slog through never-ending construction zones and constant traffic in Olympia, and to Tacoma.
Trusting that Google knew best, I slipped off I-5 to take State Route 900, a more interesting but generally slow alternative that cuts between Cougar Mountain and Squak Mountain on its way to Issaquah. By now, a road trip playlist has replaced podcasts. It’s clear I’m moving deeper into the Evergreen state. There’s little dead space, the open areas between buildings are filled with trees and overgrown bushes and vines. I wonder if underneath it all one might find broken down trucks, discarded 55-gallon drums and other castoff debris.
Soon I’m back in familiar territory. Decades ago I lived in Issaquah for about seven months and have visited often enough to know the route. It’s not so much about landmarks – things have changed a lot in and around town – but the curve of the road and that oddly angled intersection. I debate whether to top of the gas tank and decide it can wait; any stop would delay my arrival. Finally in town, I slow for traffic. Nearly where I need to be and Washington drivers’ tendency to abide by all speed limits becomes an annoyance.
A renewed energy arises within me as I take that last right turn. I park and open the door. Glancing at the clock, I brim with smugness. My driving time was just over 13½ hours.
Sure, it’s an irrational pride to have accomplished something that means so little. But for once, I felt that I was in control of my destiny, however illusionary that might be.