Mosquitoshire or, the Sand Wash boat ramp on the Green River (“The Portal to Desolation Canyon”) is a weekly haunt for me and the other guides and staff. We run a four to six day trip downriver every week; it’s one of the company’s most popular routes. As the company driver, I haven’t seen the famous canyon yet, but I am becoming intimately familiar with the route between Green River (the town, three hours south of Salt Lake City) and Sand Wash (Mosquitoton). Sunday afternoons, after hooking up the trailers, loading and packing the boats, we set off. It’s a long drive, but a favorite, because it’s one of the few drives that don’t involve transporting paying clients. Guides are free to sprawl and sleep on the back seats of the 15-passenger vans, read, meditate, enjoy time off to recharge before switching back into guide mode. Not I. I get to drive. And drive. At least on the trip north, I have company to keep me awake and entertained. It’s a long way up there, four to six hours from Green River, depending on weather, necessary stops, how well the van and trailers ride. Van #21, the four-wheel-drive beast with a modest lift kit is a reliable but slow ride.

Green River to Price is leg one. A long, straight, flat haul, the road to Price is often windy, sometimes stormy. Bruise-purple clouds bully their way across the sky, casting injured yellow light across the rolling desertscape, often flinging hail and bolts of lightning into the earth. Typically, I haul one trailer with two loaded boats (once upon a time, drivers had to haul two trailers at a time), though every other week or so I get a triple stack: three boats. When packed properly, a triple stack isn’t much harder to tow, but when the wind starts whipping tumbleweeds across the highway, three boats stacked high make an effective sail. Price is our dinner stop. The various aromas of Taco Bell, Wendy’s, and Burger King mingle and fill the van with their greasy humidity. Ten minutes out of Price, we turn right at the coal power plant, white steam boiling out of hourglass stacks.

Indian Canyon. Sandy, sagebrush desert and rocky canyon walls give way to damp, high alpine spring as the road climbs to Indian Pass (9,114 feet). It’s late June, but snow lingers in the dark crevices between conifers and pastel green aspens, and at the top of the pass, gray, scummy winter cleaves to avalanche-crunched trees. Van #21 groans and humps uphill at a steady 25 miles per hour. The road below the pass is a sigh of relief. The van cruises easily downhill toward Duchesne, winding through the narrow, open rangeland on the northern edge of the Ashley National Forest.

Turning right onto Main Street in Duchesne, we stop and fill up on gas, sour gummy sharks, energy drinks, and beef jerky. Last stop in civilization. Beyond are 25 miles of dirt through oil fields and then the Sand Wash itself. Dinosaur oil rigs bob their heads over black, greasy troughs. Hundreds of them, fixed in slavish perpetuity, pumping, pumping, pumping. With the windows down, one can hear the grinding drone of the generators that impel the machines to movement. Desert globemallow is in bloom, a small bush with orange blossoms like pussy willows on thin green sticks; in the distance, the plants blend together to create the illusion of a uniform carpet of bright orange: the shocking orange of emergency fencing. It’s usually close to sunset by the time we’re creeping over the ruts and washboard down into the wash and always dark when the guides pile out onto the boat ramp in their head nets and long sleeves. I’m getting good at backing the trailer. The ramp is at the bottom of an enormous plateau, and after tying the boats off and rigging the bare essentials, I drive the last 20 minutes back up the road, turn left at the airport road, and climb the 300 feet or so onto the plateau, where we camp next to the airstrip and its usually limp windsock. Before mosquito season, I relished sleeping on the edge of the cliffy mesa with just a pad and my sleeping bag. Last night I felt weak and boring, erecting my tent next to the van, but I did enjoy the extra two hours of mosquito-free sleep the tent provided. In the morning, around 7:30, two, three, or four tiny planes buzz their way across the horizon and land bouncily on the dirt runway. We meet the guests as they alight into the cool desert morning, help them organize their gear, bring them down to the boat ramp. Then, the guests and guides shove off. I wave from the ramp. Then I get back in the van. And that’s my job. Drive. Sleep. Drive. Camp. Wash vans. Drive. Swat mosquitoes. Drive. Enjoy the view.

My own jointed bones and square inches of flesh are feeling stretched taut, full of love and friendship. Full of the happy sadness and sentimentality of leaving a place one loves. Last night thirty-odd favorite ski bum friends poured into my home with arms full of food, drink, gifts, and good wishes. Chris set it up as a surprise party, but with so many friends excited to talk about my trip and share their support, the secret was never going to be kept for long. It was a great sending-off; tomorrow as I lift off from the Salt Lake airport, I’ll imagine that the plane is being buoyed by my friends’ excitement rather than jet fuel. I’m excited to leave; I believe as Muir does, that it is easy enough to live out of sight of one’s friends, but only because I know that I’m bringing their love with me, and that they’ll be waiting for me when I get back.

The adventure begins tomorrow…

I’ve only three weeks left of any work, anyhow. I pulled the trigger tonight on $1,000 plane tickets to Lima and Bogota to work for Awamaki, the Peruvian non-profit. March 14-May 9. Felt a bit more fluttery about the whole thing than I think I ever have for an international trip. Last night I waffled around on kayak and expedia and LAN websites, making notes about small price differences if I arrive in Medellin instead of Bogota, cruising the traveler’s forums on Lonely Planet Thorntree learning about no-go areas in Colombia, running bus routes in my head for feasibility. Looking at the map, at the surprising distance between Lima and Bogota, I recalled the 28-hour misery marathon riding from Santiago to Arica: a head cold aggravated by constantly changing altitude, legneckbackfeetarm muscles cramping as I twisted myself into a thousand different positions across two bus seats. This time around, I decided, I would splurge on the plane tickets.

Three journalists from Vermont, Chicago, and New York are staying in the hotel tonight, on a all-expense paid ski vacation underwritten by Ski Salt Lake. During the course of our conversation, I mentioned my own writerly aspirations, and gave them the address to my website. In return, they gave me some advice: join Twitter. So I did. Twitter and Facebook in one month – look at me, joining the world of the internet! Ted (or, Traveling Ted TV) is my very first follower! Taking a minute to look at his website in return, I found this simple and convincing list: Five Reasons why more Americans Should Travel Abroad. Reason #4 was my favorite: see that we are lucky to have what we have. Oh, yes. Lucky that we aren’t picking our worldly possessions out of the rubble that’s left of our house. Christchurch has been foremost in my thoughts these last few days. Here’s my addition to the list. #6: more Americans should travel in order to know cities like Chch, in order to understand the images on the news, and to have an impression of the city before the quake to balance the sensationalism and pain being broadcast post-quake.

To end on a good note:  20-36 inches of snow predicted this weekend. Life is, well, it’s pretty good.

Follow me on twitter! @susanmtraveler (I think that’s how you put it…this is new for me)

My job while I’m there will be to create a guidebook of local trails, day hikes, and longer treks that will attract more Western tourists.  Hiking AND writing?  It’s perfect.  When I read the job description back in September, I thought, this job was made for me! And then I thought, I’m going to make it happen.  I’ve been working three and four jobs since I got back to Utah in order to save enough money to make the trip a possibility, and it’s finally coming together.  Two years ago I spent four months hiking through the Peruvian Andes, practicing my Spanish and learning Quechua, the language of the indigenous mountain people.  I was lucky to meet many locals who helped me to trek far off the beaten tourist path and explore regions rarely visited but unparalleled in their history and wildness.  It was this experience, as well as my passion for writing, that I described to Awamaki to indicate my unique qualification for the guidebook job, and they agreed to take me on. I won’t be getting paid, but I will be a hired writer.  Being able to put the experience on my resume is going to be worth every penny.

Like most non-profits operating in the third world, Awamaki is constantly seeking donations of time, money, and supplies.  In order for me to participate in the program, I will be paying a one-time donation of $650.  This donation will cover my first month of room and board in a homestay (almost half of the funds go directly to the local family that will host me), project materials, and a donation to the guidebook project. It also covers the expenses that Awamaki incurs in hosting volunteers and running the volunteer program.

Now that I know for sure that I’ll be going, I’m reaching out.  I’m talking to my contacts at REI, and planning presentations to talk about my past experiences in Peru as well as seek donations and sponsorship for this upcoming trip.  I’m talking to the owner of Brighton Resort to request permission to hold a fund-raising bake sale and to see if Brighton would be interested in being a sponsor of the trip.  And I’m asking all of you to consider supporting me and Awamaki.  The program is currently requesting baby and kid’s clothes, prenatal vitamins, school and art supplies, used digital cameras for a community photography workshop, and a used laptop computer.  I know many of you readers are far from Salt Lake City, Utah, but if you have any of the above supplies and would be willing to mail them to me, I know that Awamaki will be exceptionally grateful, as will the local Ollantinos who receive your donations.

Thanks for reading, and thank you for your support.

I wasn’t going to apply.  Yes, I have a blog, but I figured, they’re looking for a personality.  Someone flashy and trendy and cool.  I, uh, I am not cool.  But then Chris started bugging me to apply.  Other friends asked me if I’d heard about the job.  A woman I’d met once, on a motorcycle camping trip, called me to say that she’d heard about the gig on the radio and thought that I would be perfect for it.  Really?  I’m just…me.  I don’t even have any flashy video software.  I took a class in college on video production, but that was several years ago, and I’m a little bit out of touch.

Finally, I began to think of the application as a creative exercise.  A way to stretch my brain a bit.  Chris has all sorts of tricks to exercise his brain to stave off Alzheimer’s: shaving his face in the shower where he can’t see the mirror, deliberately using his non-dominant hand for different tasks.  Recently I’ve noticed how very right-handed I am, and have been trying to train the other half of my brain to do things like brush my teeth, zip my pants, and stir cookie batter.  So.  I made a video.  And it was fun.  I got to rifle through old pictures and video clips and try to cram my over-the-top world view into two neat minutes.  I had to think about my goals and why they made me a good candidate for the Canyons’ job.  I started thinking that maybe I did have a shot.  A few strong words of encouragement from Dad helped, too (thanks, Daddy!).

In the end, I didn’t make it.  I went on the Canyons’ website the other day and saw the videos of the three finalists.  “Oh,” Chris said when he watched their applications.  Theirs were much better than mine.  In the end, though, I wasn’t terribly disappointed.  I got something out of the process: a little mental exercise, a fun project, and a good ego boost.  And now, you all get a little something out of it, too: you get to see the video!

I brought it out into the living room and showed it to Chris.  “This is why I get so feisty about the water being left running.”  He nodded.

“I know.”  Then he said, “You know it’s not related, right, it’s not like the amount of water we use here affects how much they get there.”

“Of course.  But it’s just…I don’t know, it seems…well…” The word I was searching for but didn’t want to use was “arrogant”.

“It seems rude,” Chris supplied.

“Yes.”

I realize it’s in our culture to take things like running water and electricity for granted.  I often turn on the shower and leave the room for a few minutes while I wait for it to heat up.  Chris is right; the problem of unequal distribution of water often has geographic causes rather than social.  It’s not Portland’s fault that it gets 100 inches of rain a year.  But it does seem rude to leave faucets running without a brief thought of appreciation for the struggle that we in the first world are spared by the wonders of modernization.  Pictures like these move me powerfully, because this is what I want my own writing to do: to plant images in people’s minds that they can’t shake, that grow roots and cause small changes in habits and in thinking.

Later this morning I ventured into the mall.  I’m overwhelmed every time I have to shop there.  Perfume drips from the air vents, the florescent lights shine on the polished edges of glass storefronts and spear the air with sparkling knives of light.  Music fills the air until it’s tight and swollen.  Headless mannequins wearing carefully draped scarves and angular skinny jeans form a fashionable parade as I try to walk quickly to the sports store that’s my destination.  When I dressed this morning, I put on the same Carhartts and brown merino shirt I wore yesterday, and thought I looked cute, in an outdoorsy kind of way.  The pants and shirt are new and mostly clean, and with the addition of my ski jacket, I felt like I was as trendy as a ski bum gets.  Silly Susan.  At the mall, girls with spiked heels clicked quickly past me, long jackets belted stylishly around leggings and tight sweaters.  Copper-colored bangles, perfectly applied makeup, well-styled hair.  I always forget how far out of the norm I live.  My life is quite sheltered, despite my world travels.  I work and play with ski bums, hippies, and travelers: like-minded people.  Who already read National Geographic and have traveled outside of North America.  When I discuss my ideas of changing people’s perspectives with my writing, they nod and share their own ideas.  I find myself returning to this issue again and again.  I have such high hopes, such idealistic visions, but then I visit the mall, or hitch a ride with someone who sees the world differently than I do, and I realize that I have my work cut out for me.  I realize how many people there are who aren’t interested in change.  Who wouldn’t be interested in reading what I write, or if they did, wouldn’t be moved.  I guess it won’t stop me, though.  I’ll keep putting it out there, keep doing my thing, for myself, if no one else.  And I’ll encourage you all, dear readers, to be mindful.  Enjoy those hot showers, but don’t forget to say thanks.

Linda works for an environmental consulting firm.  Last spring, knowing that I have a degree in English, she mentioned that the company was looking for a part-time editor.  At the time I was packing to hit the road for the summer, and knew I’d committed to snowmaking in the fall.  Interested, yes, but it felt like poor timing.  A month ago she got in touch to tell me they were still thinking of taking on someone new, so I sent in a resume and cover letter.  It was the most challenging job application I’d completed oh, since college, probably.  I haven’t applied for a serious, “professional” job in five years.  My food service, customer service, and outdoor/physical labor resumes are in tip top shape, but an editing resume?  Um.  Well.  Yes, I have this degree, yes I worked in a publishing house (seven years ago), yes I’ve always been very good at grammar and research, yes I’m a perfectionist and a good reader, but phew, finding solid work experience to back up all of those general acquired skills was challenging.  I spent the better part of a day compiling, wording, and re-wording my resume and writing a cover letter.  I wasn’t sure it would be good enough to get the job, but I told my parents about it, bragged to my boyfriend, and felt a warm, satisfying pride in actually doing it.  I can still complete hard assignments!  I do have some innate talents, five years out of academia!  Kari, Linda’s boss, wrote back immediately to tell me that my resume had been received and was “in the mix”.  Ah well, I thought, at least I tried.  It took another month for her to call me and offer me the job, but she did.  I was sitting in the waiting area in my local Firestone while the mechanics changed the oil in my car, and I accepted.  I started the next day.  That was three days ago, and I’ve been giddy every since.

What is this new job?  Say that Kennecott Copper Mine (the largest open pit copper mine in the world! the website brags.  I can literally see it from my house) wanted to dig another pit.  The National Environmental Protection Act (NEPA) provides laws and regulations that the mine must follow in order to do any expansion, so Kennecott would hire the company I work for to run tests, inspect the site for archaeological artifacts, and write up an Environmental Impact Statement, which I would then edit.  The writing is technical, but fascinating.  In two days of work, I’ve already learned about the history of the Shoshone-Bannock tribe of Idaho, and that one of the major issues with building a solar panel farm in the Arizona desert is the amount of water the farm would require.  I feel like I’m listening to NPR or reading National Geographic articles while working.  I love it.  I’m getting paid (well) to learn new things and use my college degree!  The best part (or, one of the best parts) is that I’ve been hired on a temporary/part time basis.  I don’t have to commit to working in an office for the next year.  Kari (who’s my boss now, too) told me they could have anywhere from zero to twenty hours of work for me a week.  I’m more or less functioning as a contractor.  And once I get the hang of the company’s style guidelines, I will likely be able to work from home, on my own time.  This is a dream come true for me.  I’m building skills and connections that will ultimately allow me to earn a living from home.  This is just the beginning.

So, a new job!  On top of still making snow at Alta (we should be finished any day now, except the weather won’t cooperate.  Salt Lake is stuck in an inversion: polluted, 35°F air in the valley trapped by high, 45°F air in the mountains.  I scrape frozen pollution off my car windshield every morning.), I’m coming up on the dates when I told Brighton and Solitude Resorts I’d be able to start work.  Weekends at Brighton, weeknights at Solitude (no housekeeping this time, just reception/bellman work at the Inn), and my daytime hours split between skiing and this new, professional editing position.  Plus, I have friends!  GIRL friends, even.  I’ve stuck around long enough to make meaningful connections with women whom I admire and respect.  And strangely, staying put seems to be helping me to achieve some of my greater life goals: writing, adventure, travel, baking… I’m writing more, and more easily, than I have in a long time.  Adventure lurks around every corner (motorcycling in Moab, downhill mountain biking, dating a man with a 10-year-old).  I’m planning my travels purposefully instead of randomly (at least for the moment).  The next trip is slated for mid-March, back to Peru, with a possible two week side trip to Colombia.  And while I still rely on store-bought bread for my own personal use, next weekend at Brighton I’ll be selling all kinds of baked goodies at the 2^nd annual craft fair.  Life is moving like a flooded river: fast, and full.  It is good.

Last year, I slid into this job at Alta Ski Resort with only three weeks left in the season.  Snowmaking in Utah starts in late October and finishes before Christmas.  Unlike in New England, where the resorts churn out man-made snow all season long, or risk their customers skiing on dirt during a February thaw, Utah resorts need only a bit of a head start, a thick base of snow to guarantee they’ll be able to open before Thanksgiving and stay open until mid-April.  I endured a great deal of mostly-good-natured derision from the five other guys on my shift last year.  They were putting in nine weeks of work for the same season pass to Alta that I was earning in three.  I would shrug and smile like I was getting away with something (because I was).  There’d been an unexpected opening on the day shift, and I was the lucky person in the right place at the right time.  I loved the job: riding snowmobiles and skis to check on the snow guns, hauling hoses and hardware, shoveling snow and chipping ice, climbing into shallow manholes to hook up electricity and water to the machines.  I was outdoors, in the snow, working with my hands, getting exercise, using interesting tools, learning about new machinery, and functioning as an essential member of a team.  And, it was almost like playing God.  I made it snow!

Planning to take this whole summer off and spend the money I earned as a firefighter last summer, I knew I needed to have a reliable job lined up for this fall.  Snowmaking was the obvious choice, and so this morning found me seated at a long conference table with fifteen other snowmakers, cradling mugs of coffee and sharing grins about all the fresh snow falling outside.  I’m the only woman on three shifts.  It’s ego, pure and simple, but I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t part of why I like the job.  Today was about paperwork, safety videos, meeting the new crew members, dotting I’s and crossing T’s, but it felt good to be gathered with this group of scruffy dudes, to be wearing hiking boots, a grubby polypropylene shirt, and new double-fronted Carhartt work pants (I’m a big nerd for outdoor gear; I can’t help it).  Third season in, I’m still living the ski bum dream, though it’s sometimes hard to recognize.  Today, however, it was unmistakable: gusts of wind moved the snow in sheets across the cat shop windows, chimneys smoked in the lodge across the parking lot, the still-yellow aspen trees on the mountain wore white, and there I was in the middle of it all.  Thanks be to Ullr, and let the season begin!

Rocky was a meaty hunk of pit bull and mastiff who belonged to a fellow camper, a young man from Salt Lake who’d set up camp on the other side of the bluff.  We invited him to share our fire and our beer while Rocky and Fonzie, Jeni’s dog, frolicked and tromped around in the trees along the edge of the fire.  I excused myself from the campfire and walked between the moon shadows and juniper trees.  Sand colored bluff walls shone white in the moonlight.  Spindly towers and smooth buttes displayed patchwork quilts of light gold and dark red on the horizon.  I squatted and held my pant legs out of the way, when a loud snuffling announced that Rocky had followed me and was carefully examining the puddle I was making.  “Go on, Rocky!” I gently pushed his boulder of a head away.  After using the toilet paper, I set it aside and pulled up my pants and looked back just in time to see the white paper hanging from the dog’s mouth.  “No!”  I was incredulous.  “Drop it, drop it!  No, Rocky!”  Big orange eyes looked at me lovingly, and his brow creased with worry, but the square jaw flexed, and the small, white flag disappeared into the dog’s mouth.  He chewed once, twice, swallowed, licked his lips, and wagged happily.  “Oh, Rocky.”  The moon rose in the sky; Rocky and his owner returned to their camp, Jeni retired to the tent, and I made my bed outside.  I slept for a few hours, and woke to a loud, wet tongue in my ear.  “Rocky!”  I whispered and pushed him away.  He wagged his tail.  Perhaps he was looking for more toilet paper.  He curled up at my head, leaned against my pillow and fell into a deep, snoring sleep.  In the morning, he disappeared, leaving only a few short hairs and some red dust on my sleeping bag.

Jeni and I parked her Subaru right on the edge of the bluff and drew in the dust on the back window.  Pictures of our adventure together: waves for the Oregon coast, Crater Lake, huge trees, the mountains of eastern British Columbia, rain clouds.  Cartoonish finger drawings that reminded us of the lush, dripping, green of the Pacific Northwest.  “I love it here!”  I said, sitting in the old growth forest on the edge of the beach.  I compared Vancouver to my dry, desert city and spoke disparagingly of Utah’s lack of trees and waterways.  My lungs loved the soothing humid air; my hair and skin wallowed in the moisture.  We also drew lightning bolts and black clouds: rain.  I was excited to use my gaiters for hiking, but soon remembered how miserable it is to sleep in a wet tent, or to cook in a rainstorm, or to be damp for days on end.  A huge, bright sun filled one corner of the car’s window.  “Inti!  Gracias, gracias a ti,” we prayed in Spanish to the Incan sun god as we drove south into Montana and Wyoming, where the air dried our tent in minutes when we hung it on a fence.  Buttes, towers, mesas, and the moon filled the spaces in between, and I remembered the thing I like most about the west: open space.  I love trees, glorious, life-giving beings, but I also love being able to see the contours of the land and the expanse of the sky, and being able to sleep without a tent under the arch of the Milky Way.

I drew the last figure on the back window: a balanced scale.  Both climates stir my spirit.  Cold and hot.  Wet and dry.  Forest and desert.  Balance: I need them both; one helps me to enjoy and appreciate the other.  Nearly two years in Salt Lake City made me sick for adventure and the open road, and a month of travel with Jeni helped me see the value and allure of a settled life. Balance: enjoying and appreciating everything, everything that the world, my friends, my life, has to offer, flowing between multiple interests, commitments, communities, and locations.  So, balance is my catchword and my goal for the next year, as I return to Salt Lake City for a third winter of ski bumming.  Two goals: balance and keeping my toilet paper out of reach of hungry dogs.  Gravity and levity – there’s a balance to setting goals, too.