VANCOUVER ISLAND: GOLDSTREAM PROVINCIAL PARK & PORT RENFREW

I love Canada.

Things and people are just a little bit different there. They're just enough different that it's almost like a foreign country.

One of my favorite things about Canada is that they do not celebrate all the same national holidays we have in the US. Therefore, I can travel to Canada on some 3-day weekends (like Memorial Day) and not have to compete with an entire nation for limited vacation resources.

Lorinda and I spent our 3-day weekend on Vancouver Island which is just a short ferry ride away from Seattle. The weather was cooperative so we loaded up our motorcycles with camping gear and headed north.

We camped in Goldstream Provincial Park just north of Victoria:



After we got settled, we had an excellent lunch at the nearby "Ma Miller's Pub" which is part of the historic Goldstream Inn, established in 1864:



The next day we decided to ride out to the end of highway 14, which runs along the southern coast of Vancouver Island. The westernmost point is a little fishing village called Port Renfrew, which neither of us had ever visited. The road was a fun, twisty ride along the coast. We passed through several tiny towns and had the Strait of Juan de Fuca on our left the whole time. We stopped at a couple beaches to check out the scenery (and scout for future campsites). Here is French Beach:



At the China Beach camping area, we opted for a 2km hike through the woods down to Mystic Beach. We trudged through the mud and trees in our full biker gear, and obtained this nice sweeping view of the Strait:



The 30km or so from China Beach to the end of the line -- Port Renfrew -- were pretty scary for a two-wheeler. There were lots of fun, twisty corners to travel, but there was also lots of gravel on the roadway which made us ride more tentatively than we (I) would have liked. We managed to arrive in one piece at Port, and pulled into the Coastal Kitchen Cafe to have a delicious dinner. We were pretty chilled by the sea air at this point, so we lingered for quite awhile in the cozy dining atmosphere. I'd love to come back to this restaurant one day when I am not so cold and not so worried about crashing my bike on the gravelly road. We had to psyche ourselves up for the return journey, knowing that we would only be colder and that we had several km of gravel to negotiate.



In camp that night, we slept quite soundly. Lorinda even braved the campground showers and the tepid (at best) water. Perhaps even braver, she slept in the same tent with me, and I hadn't showered since the morning before.

We decided to take a different route home on Monday. Instead of retracing our steps on the ferry back to Anacortes, we headed for the private ferry which runs in a direct line across the Strait between Victoria and Port Angeles on the northern edge of the Olympic Peninsula of Washington State. The more exposed seas of the Strait make for a much more interesting journey, and required that we literally tie our bikes to the side of the ferry deck. Notwithstanding our recent adventures in rock climbing and knot-tying, we were both left helpless when confronted by the ropes. Fortunately, I travel with a beautiful woman and it is very easy to get technical assistance from fellow riders. She's like my secret weapon.

As we left the ferry terminal in Victoria, we glanced back at beautiful downtown Victoria. Behind us is the famous Empress Hotel:



If all goes well in my training over the next few months, our next visit to Victoria will be in October for the Victoria Marathon. Stay tuned.

SMITH ROCK

Lorinda and I spent the weekend climbing at Smith Rock State Park in central Oregon. On Saturday, we worked with a hired climbing guide and learned a lot about leading and anchor-setting -- skills which are required if we want to do our own un-guided climbing. Gabe Coler of Chockstone Climbing took Lorinda and me to several 5.6 and 5.7+ routes and let us practice. Gabe has a ton of experience guiding climbs and teaching people climbing skills. He is a fabulous teacher and worth every penny. (Gabe was hobbling a tiny bit from a recent knee surgery; he referenced a "climbing accident", but it wasn't until after a little Google-stalking today that I discovered what he meant by "accident". Wow.)

Then on Sunday we set out on our own and climbed a couple routes, employing our newfound skills. We picked easy routes and then reinforced what we had learned, and had a great time! Both of us feel a lot more confident about lead climbing now. I hope we can get out a lot this summer and climb near Leavenworth, Index, Exit 38 on I-90, and The Feathers at Vantage.

Here is a picture of Gabe and Lorinda right before we climbed up an easy 3-pitch route called "Super Slab" on the Red Wall:



The middle pitch of Super Slab involved a tricky traverse; here's Lorinda navigating her way around an outcropping which robbed her of her balance:



This southeastern-facing portion of Smith Rock offers a nice view of one of the northern bends in Crooked River which meanders through the canyon:



On Sunday, the day we did not have a hired climbing guide, we chose a simple 5.6 rated route for our first unguided lead climb. I volunteered to let Lorinda go first. I'm very generous that way. The name of the climb is "Easy Reader" and is located in a very popular, high-traffic area of Smith Rock referred to as "The Dihedrals".





Here is Lorinda preparing for her first lead climb at Easy Reader.

We reviewed together the steps necessary to safely climb the route, placing "quick draws" on the bolts, and clipping the rope into the carabiners. We triple-checked the intended anchor system so that there would be no question once she got to the top. The anchor part is kind of important. I put her on belay, and she launched into it:



Lorinda climbed gracefully and swiftly, placing draws on the bolts, and made it to the top where she established an anchor; then I belayed her down to the ground. Then it was my turn to climb the route while "top-roped" (i.e. she belayed me), clean up the gear on my way to the top, then "clean" the anchor she had left at the top; then, I repositioned the rope onto the bolts at the top of the route, and she lowered me to the ground. What a fun process! Very methodical.

We moved on to another area of Smith Rock and tried another route called "Dancer" which was graded a little tougher (5.7). Dancer proved a little too difficult so we bailed out of it, but we learned a lot in the process. Here's Lorinda enjoying the beautiful sunshine at the start of Dancer:



Meanwhile, our friend Jen was off with her hired guide climbing an impressive multi-pitch route on the other side of the canyon from us. We could see her working her way gradually up the side of this face; can you see the white and blue dots in the center? That's Jen and her guide, Aaron:



For our drive home from central Oregon, we decided to take a slightly longer path home so we could revisit some beautiful scenery we encountered last fall on our last trip home from Smith Rock (via motorcycle, which I blogged about here). I remember this part of the Oregon Scenic Byway being absolutely gorgeous and wanted a chance to stop and take some pictures. One of my favorite portions of route 126 west of Redmond, Oregon is the viewpoint near Mt. Washington. We sailed past this viewpoint last October, and finally this trip I pulled over and had Lorinda take my picture. I just love this 10,000 foot matterhorn, with forest-fire scarring in the foreground:



In a 2 day weekend we managed to drive all the way to central Oregon and back to Seattle, plus squeeze in a couple days of rock climbing. I wish I had the energy to do that sort of thing more often; but, like I said, now we have the confidence and skills to start venturing out on our own locally in this sport of rock climbing.

The weather is finally getting nice in Seattle. I actually got a little sun on my skin this week and I can feel the Vitamin D coursing through my body. Feels good. And I have a farmer's tan.

Here's a picture I took while walking home from work on Monday. I was near the Port of Seattle offices by the World Trade Center on Alaska Way, facing south. Mt. Rainier is still there, after all those months of hiding:



Lorinda and I are heading to Smith Rock, Oregon, for some rock climbing this weekend. Unfortunately, the weather isn't so great in the high desert of central Oregon. The night-time lows are hovering around the freezing level, and the daytime highs are supposed to be 69. Oh, and thunderstorms are coming tomorrow. Great.

But vacation is vacation, even if it's only a weekend.

"There is something vicious about niceness."

That quote in a PBS documentary about the Mormon church which I watched tonight perfectly encapsulates my feelings about the duplicity and disengenuousness of a religion which capitalizes on its widely perceived notions of wholesomeness.

A smiling person who stabs you in the back is more loathsome than an outright beast who makes no secret of his disdain for you.

The Mormon church is definitely the former.

There is absolutely no way I can capture all my lifelong thoughts and feelings pertaining to that church in a single, extemporaneous essay on my blog at this moment; for some reason, however, I feel compelled to expose those feelings, in whatever form, which currently prevent me from sleeping.

I clearly have many unresolved issues pertaining to my upbringing in a cult-like religious environment. I have recently decided that my teenage "coming out" from the closet of an insular religous environment is akin to "coming out" from the closet of being straight. I can only imagine what it must be like for a man or woman who grows up in an environment hostile to gays, and to be taught in the way of the straight world -- only eventually to come to term with the fact that he or she is, in fact, gay. The consequent soul-searching, doubting, reflecting, and pain must be absolute anguish for such people.

I believe the same is true, if not more so, for those of us who are indoctrinated in the faith of the Mormons and then, if we're lucky, ultimately seize upon that shred of free will we are granted and take the courageous step of standing up not for what we believe, but for what we do NOT believe. It is a courageous step because such a decision results in an extremely severe disconnection from one's subculture, family, and support network.

In the 15+ years since my voluntary flight from an oppressive subculture which I found so profoundly distasteful, I have periodicially tried coming to terms with two major components of my dissatisfaction: 1) the church itself, and all its irrationality, and 2) the consequences of my family's involvement in the church, and my own (and my family's) mental sanity as a result of its involvement in the church.

The first area is full of fun conversations about sacred underwear, proxy baptisms in fountains surrounded by limestone bulls, polygamy and child molestation, seagulls and locusts, BYU, mysterious plates of gold and even more mysterious translation devices, the revivalist era of early 19th century religious Americana, and the patriarchalism of a neo-socialist organization which is decidedly capitalistic. Fun stuff. Lots of beers have been drunk and lots of conversations have been had in this area.

The second area is more complicated, and far more personal. Again, many beers have been drunk and many conversations have been had in this area -- but only with those friends who are closest to me. You know who you are.

One does not shed the stain of Mormonism like one sheds the memory of a bad haircut from one's youth. I had really ugly bell-bottom jeans as a child and the ugliest bowl haircut ever. I am OK with that. Life goes on. But the effects of a world view having been pounded into a child are far more severe. I am nearing middle age and still I struggle with the decisions made by people who ostensibly cared for me a great deal when I was a child. I'm not talking about whether or not I was fed and clothed. I'm talking about something perhaps more important. I'm talking about what makes me a human, what makes me a man.

It is very easy for an 18 year old to proclaim that his parents are negligent and selfish. A decade later, it is even easier for that person to realize the myopia of his youth and conclude that his parents are merely "human". Which, as it turns out, is another way of saying they are negligent and selfish.

A dear old friend of mine with whom I bonded over the twin obsessions of secularism and an interest in the Classics of Greece and Rome, told me that she considered herself a survivor of "religious abuse", and that she was a "Recovering Catholic". This, from a woman who had once considered the convent, and ultimately ended up becoming a reknowned scholar in the Classics. I laughed at the triviality of the comment at the time, and felt a little guilty for its allusion and co-opting of the true abuse which other people suffer in non-religious contexts. But now, a decade and a half later, I have realize that she was dead serious and spot-on. I am a survivor of religious abuse. And I suppose it's high time I talked to somebody about it!

I recoil from the prospect of proclaiming my thoughts to the world, of exposing my heart to people who simply won't understand. I recently stumbled across the blog of a former Mormon who gave me some inspiration, in that she approached her lot in life with a great deal of humor and self-reflection in the ever-so-attractive manner of a self-deprecator. She reminded me that it's OK not to hide and pretend like nothing happened in my past. I believe she, I, and millions of other people like us are suffering from a sort of post traumatic stress disorder which is probably not classified by the psychiatric profession. I'm sure they have their own nomenclature: borderline personality disorders manifested by narcissism and aversion to paternal authority, along with agoraphobia and tendency towards psychotrophic self-medication.

OK. Call a spade a spade. I'm cool with that.

My discovery of her blog coincided almost exactly with my accidental viewing of the recent PBS special called "The Mormons".

This confluence of events forces my hand, and so here I am.

Which brings me back to the first of my two areas of dissatisfaction: the church itself. And, more generally, religion.

My favorite, bone-chilling moment from the PBS show was a brief comment by Harold Bloom, during a discussion of the several Mormon practices involving the promotion of an afterlife:

What is the essence of religion? Sigmund Freud said it was the longing for the father; others have called it the desire for the mother, or for transendence. I fear deeply that all these are idealizations, and I offer the rather melancholy
suggestion that they would all vanish from us if we did not know that we must die.

"Religion rises inevitably from our apprehension of our own death. To give meaning to meaningless is the endless quest of all religion. When death becomes the center of our consciousness, then religion authentically begins.

"Of all the religions that I know, the one that most vehemently and persuasively defies and denies the reality of death is the original Mormonism of the prophet, seer, and revelator Joseph Smith."

And there you have it. The nutshell. Mormons fear death to the extent that they have invented an afterlife and a formal structure for ensuring their involvement in it. Follow their rules, or be excluded from the afterlife.

Fuck 'em. They can have their afterlife. If Sartre thought Hell Is Other People... well, I think Hell Is Other Mormons.