misadventures in adventure racing

[This picture was taken in Maui, where our group was ready to bomb down the side of the 10,000-foot volcano...happy to report NO tears shed on this trip!]

In my first mountain-biking race, I got miserably lost. My second racing attempt was as part of Team Lamprey, a three-person adventure-racing team. There, I learned the hard way that what goes up, well, keeps going up…and up…here, the do’s and don’ts of adventure-racing.

DO choose your battles. It had gotten to the point of no return. It happens in every race, whether it’s a 5K or 5-hour adventure race: tears. Happy, sad, angry, frustrated, euphoric—and usually a combination thereof—it doesn’t matter why, I can usually find any excuse to tear up. My point in this particular race was, after inching up and up and up on one of those subtle “is it just my imagination, or are we going uphill?” fire-lane road, we navigated a wrong turn, and had to backtrack—straight up again. Now, I’d kept a stiff upper lip for hours of hiking through brush and kayaking, but every girl has her breaking point. After we returned to the fire lane of hell, I knew I’d have to make a tough decision: cry or cycle? I couldn’t do both. Think about it—when you’re already struggling to breathe, adding some sniffling to the mix is not what you need.
Lesson learned: In the sob-or-cycle battle, something simply has to give. Cycle now, cry later.

DON’T memorize the course: Sometimes, it helps to be clueless about your course, because if I had really known what I was in for (which was a nifty 2,000-foot mountain-bike climb), I wouldn’t have been able to stop the tear-shedding. In the end, you see, it’s really better for everyone if you don’t dwell on petty little to-do items like how much further is it holymotherofpearl I can’t go on like this for the love of God. Instead, it’s a good time to practice your Zen and Be Here Now rather than “when am I going to get this over with”.
Lesson Learned: Channel your inner Buddha when facing an insane-in the-membrane race course.

DO pick your teammates wisely. Team Lamprey consisted of two buddies in the form of Pete and Kev. They were a perfect combo—Pete always appeared magically at my side when I was struggling but didn’t make it seem like he was doing it on purpose, whereas Kev plowed ahead and set the pace so we wouldn’t slack. Kev is the type of guy who never lets anyone see him sweat (I’ve told him before that I’m not entirely sure he’s human), so imagine my surprise to hear in the distance, up one more turn as Pete and I snaked our way up the mountain…. “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck!” Yesss, every man has his breaking point, and the course had found his.
Lesson learned: If you survived a course hard enough for typically tight-lipped dudes to feel the pain, you’ve earned bragging rights.

misadventures in mountain bike racing

Mountain biking is a sport I took to immediately. The combo of strength, adventure, and balance—hey, those years of practicing mediocre balance-beam routines actually worked!—was right up my alley.
In the 14 years since, it’s all been downhill. Take my first mountain-biking race, which I entered during my first Portland summer in 2001. Fresh from NYC, it was a way to christen myself as the outdoorsy chick I wanted to be. Armed with my new green Gary Fischer, I entered an off-road duathlon…and emerged relatively unscathed but with lessons learned:
DO follow the right course. All I know: One minute I was whizzing along, happy as a clam in mid-pack position. The next minute, I was beginning to wonder why have I not seen anyone in a long, long time? My fatal flaw: I had taken a wrong turn, and—still following course ribbons—was now somehow following the 5-mile run course (don’t ask).
Lesson learned: “Follow the crowd” racing technique doesn’t work in mountain biking races, no matter how much of a midpacker you are.
DON’T act like anything is wrong. I continue whizzing down this hill, clueless to my plight, when I come across a small water crossing. I splash my bike in and jump into the waist-height water. When I start pulling myself up the muddy slope on the other side, with the help of blackberry bushes (thank you, mountain-biking gloves!), I notice I’m not alone. “Are you still…racing?” asks a man camping nearby who is now peering down at me, while his child looks bug-eyed at the muddy monster crawling in the dirt. “We thought the race was already over!” “Nope!” I calmly reply, hopping back in the saddle with a wave and pedaling off.
Lesson learned: When you have absolutely no clue what you’re doing but you have witnesses, act cool as a cuke.
DO aim to entertain. After a panicky period known as “overthinking” my direction, I heard human voices. It was my friend Ryan cleaning up the course…one sight of me and he stopped in his tracks. “Hey, I wondered where you were—what are you doing out here?” I proceed to have a meltdown, while he calmly points behind me. Turns out, the finish line was just one mile down a fire lane.
Lesson learned: Befriend the people cleaning up the course so when you throw a mid-forest tantrum at least you’re among friends.
When I finally roll in, three hours after I began, the awards ceremony is over, and everyone is gathered for a barbecue. As a beer appears in my right hand, a towel in my left, I realize this: It may not have been the grand outdoors entrance I’d imagined, but I’d rather have a good misadventure than do well in a race. I mean, where’s the fun in following the crowd, anyway?

misadventures in triathlon

I’ve never been what one would call a water person (unlike my dog Luey, pictured here). I was the type of kid who was afraid to take a bath after watching Jaws (yes, you may cackle openly at this fun fact, I don’t mind). Needless to say, then, triathlon just isn’t my thing, because you have to do that S word: swimming. But that hasn’t stopped me from trying some tris, and—because most adventures with me end in misadventure—getting in over my head. So if you’re not a swimming superstar, and you’re thinking of testing the waters with your first triathlon soon, learn from my mistakes before taking the plunge yourself.

DON’T stay in the pool. Training for my first triathlon in 1996, I dutifully dipped my toes into a lap pool several times a week. I trailed along behind a master’s swim team practice. I got form advice. I was dedicated. All of that training went out the window, though, when I first put my goggled face in the river water on race day. And discovered to my horror that I couldn’t see an inch in front of my face.
Lesson learned: Lap pools and murky brown rivers are very different creatures.
DO take your time. The starting gun went off, and I dashed into the water with all my fellow age-groupers. Which is really stupid, if you think about it. I mean, all that sprinting for 10 seconds did for me was make me out of breath—as soon as we started swimming, everyone promptly passed me anyway.
Lesson learned: Sprinting and then swimming is not a smart combo.
DON’T ignore the course. While desperately trying to a. catch my breath and b. not put my face in the water, I arrived at a brilliant solution: the backstroke! I flipped over, calm as a cuke, and started swimming on my back. I was in my own element when out of the corner of my eye I saw a kayak bobbing next to me. “You’re going the wrong way!” the race marshal pointed downstream at all my fellow yellow-capped swimmers, who were most definitely going a different direction than I was. (I was the lone swimmer who was attempting to cross the river rather than swim the length of it, you see.)
Lesson learned: The backstroke is an excellent cure for pesky problems such as breathing and seeing, but you still need to watch where you’re going.
As my fellow yellow cappers got further and further ahead of me, and pink caps from the wave behind us started coming in strong, I got a newfound determination. Operation Get Me the Hell Out of This Water. With a combination of doggie paddling and breast-stroking (both superior forms to see, catch your breath, and see where you’re going), I managed to finish the ½-mile swim.
I’d like to say that I learned from my mistakes and got smarter, faster, and braver in future triathlons, but I didn’t. In fact, I regressed. My next tri was held in Central Park (where the swim portion was in an outdoor pool that was so shallow, you could run the swim portion, much to my spectating sister’s amusement). My third, and last, was held indoors at my NYC gym. I hung up my goggles shortly thereafter, and haven’t set foot in a lap pool since. Sometimes, it’s best to stick with what you know—and for me, that means any sport where land is firmly underneath my feet.

misadventures in book publicity

Yes, I'm so green that I take pictures of the Green Room...this is from WGN studios in Chicago. I'm a total nerd...but ISN'T IT COOL??!!

It's fitting that on the last night of 2009, I had a nightmare about book publicity. In my dream, I was running late to an interview, and I didn't even know what station I was supposed to go to, or for that matter, whether it was radio or TV. When I woke up, I laughed (after reassuring myself that I wasn't late to anything except sitting down and writing this blog, which has taken me over two months to finish--I blame book exhaustion). The reason it's fitting is 2009 will go down in history as The Year of Book Publicity Misadventures. Four bookstore readings, three radio interviews, two TV segments, and more than one meltdown later, I come prepared with advice. So if you have a book on the horizon in this decade, heed my words before you pitch yours...


DO get there on time. For some reason, the big headliner of many a nightmare for me (see above) has been that pesky punctuality thing. I have good reasons for keeping one eyeball firmly on the watch. Of the three in-person interviews I had for this book "tour", only one of them came fret-free: My Portland TV interview, to which I was calm as a cuke as Sue the Subaru guided my way through the early-morning darkness to the station only a few miles away. Nothin' to it. My Portland radio interview wasn't as smooth sailing. My first glimpse of a problem was when I reassured myself "I'll figure out how to get there" because I had been there before. Bad idea. Bad, BAD idea. Because this radio station happens to be located in the evil empire known as South Waterfront. Evil not for the neighborhood itself--it's pretty cool, actually--but the fact that you cannot get to it via normal channels. Instead, you must immediately take a hard right after the bridge exit, jog to the left, do a U-Turn and then a figure-eight across four lanes of traffic--or something of that sort. I jest slightly, of course. But suffice it to say, I did many of these driving configurations while remaining frustratingly far from the station. And because the neighborhood insists on being so evil, if you miss the exit it's not like a "I'll just park and walk" situation, because there's a handy four-lane highway separating where you are and where you want to go (a highway I actually eyeballed for hightailing it 'cross at one juncture, until I saw that it's cut into a hill and there's really no way to plonk yourself miraculously on the other side, ack!). Put it this way: I left two hours early in order to drive 10 miles, and I arrived just in time. You ever see Chevy Chase in European Vacation when he's in that round-about in London? Yeah. (I'll leave you to imagine my mental state for that panic-filled hour). The following month, I managed to book a Chicago TV interview. Which would occur at 11 am. Upon looking at my flight times that morning from Denver, I realized that left me a grand tally of one hour from wheels down to "lights, camera, action". I promptly e-mailed my mathematician, Chicago-dwelling dad who practically pulled out a mathematical equation about how I would indeed get there on time (despite many reassuring e-mails pre-trip, he admitted to me that he was nervous all along, ha!). BUT, in a beautifully choreographed travel morning, it was to be. Between two notoriously snow-delayed cities (this was November, after all), my flight was right on time and my Denver trip was miraculously sandwiched between two huge snowstorms. Even my bag was patiently waiting for me at the terminal by the time I walked through O'Hare's long hallways to get to baggage claim (I mean, when does THAT ever happen?). I caught a cab immediately, and despite exactly one minute of Chicago traffic gridlock, I managed to waltz into the station early (okay, I wasn't exactly waltzing as I had three bags in tow, but work with me).
Lesson Learned: Sometimes, the time gods look upon you even when you're about to shit your pants.


DO turn things up to 11. It was my first in-studio radio interview on a popular afternoon drive-time show. I'd pictured lots of laughing and slyly nodding to each other and crazy stories. What I didn't factor in, however, was confusion and madness in all directions. Half the time (okay, I'm being generous with myself--actually, it's more like 75 percent if you're really getting exact about things) I didn't know what the hell was going on. To wit: While my headphones were mysteriously muffled, the radio hosts seemed to be listening to something. I looked to my left, as she doodled on a piece of paper, nodding. To my right, the other host was updating their Facebook page yet still seemed to be listening to something. After looking around, I decided to toy with this little thing called a "volume button." Just as I turned it up, I realized that yes indeedy, the hosts ARE listening to something, and they're called lis-ten-ers. I turn up the volume just as the caller ends her question and the host asks me what I think (luckily, she picks up on my clueless look and immediately asks me another open-ended question about the book). Other random tidbits circling in my brain throughout the entire interview included: whether we were "live" or not and therefore whether I was allowed to chat with the hosts, whether I was supposed to talk to the callers, and how long I should jabber on for when I was actually asked a direct question. After that, I decided to channel my inner Derek Smalls (of Spinal Tap), who decided his role in the band was as a "preserved moose" (i.e., don't speak unless spoken to). Let's just say it was a good thing it was radio, otherwise my furrowed brow would have been a problem-o.
Lesson learned: When you have no earthly clue what in tarnation is going on, just stay put and shut up.


DON'T equate tears with crying. I'm the first to burst into tears, I just don't tend to do it in front of a rapt audience. But during one of the bookstore events, a funny thing happened. One of the contributors had an allergy attack as she waited to read her essay. Since her essay was about a friend who had died, forgive me if I'm immediately thinking "sobbing" and not "pollen". I decide to do what's called "thinking on your feet," and even though she's due to read next I swap the order so she'll read last, all the better for her to dry her tears, I think. Only thing is, by the time she actually reads her essay, I'm quite verklempt myself. Because I know what her essay is about, and I'm putting myself in her shoes--mourning her friend who died. "Want a tissue?" another contributor, Anna, asked, as we're all lined up in front of the group and I'm clearly not holding it together. Luckily, I was told of many other tears in the audience later on, but at the time all I could focus on was steadying my flow and managing to get back up behind the podium to thank everyone. Imagine my slight sheepishness, then, to discover that she just had allergies! P.S.: For the record, so did I. There's a funny thing about bookstores that always triggers it, you see, it must be the book pollen...
Lesson learned: ask about the source of others' tears before asking for your own tissues.

DO remember your lines. The thing about not having "handlers" is that you are just kinda thrown into these interviews. And I'm two-for-two in the "throw Megan for a loop right before live TV" department. Yep, the exact occurrence is about 10.356 seconds before going live--right when they actually tell you what you'll be asked. The first time, I about choked (and when I read on host's cue card, I did the old "uh, can we can this question instead?" technique). The next time, the host rattled off her questions right beforehand, and I just nodded and smiled. And then I frantically brainstormed answers until we went live.
Lesson learned: when you're asked a question, remember--and TRUST!--that you have it in your brain. And if all else fails, wing it, because no one knows the difference!

DO laugh at yourself. Even if your book is enjoying a gentle free-fall on Amazon, even when a friend tells you that you seemed nervous on camera, even when another "friend" gives you a three-star review (out of five, people! I mean, that's like someone saying "I give you a C!"), relax. Because there's plenty on the flip side: fabulous contributors, a fantastic photographer-friend who came through with a bio pic and event shots, and everyone on Facebook who has NOT de-friended you through this whole me-me-me madness. Above all, be glad you're not a literary bigwig who has to be on the book-tour trail for months on end. On the other hand, said bigwigs do tend to have "people" which might be nice. Baby steps, baby steps...
Lesson learned: No matter what you do, there will be critics. Just perfect your best smile-and-wave even if you're slightly miffed inside. Pretend you're above it and you will be.

misadventures in whitewater

I should have paid better attention at the rental desk. Armed with paddles and inflatable kayaks, my boyfriend Eric and I hurriedly signed our lives away as the store owner mumbled something about “scouting the rapids at Boxcar.” Slight prob: When you’re on the water, you often don’t realize a rapid is coming until it’s too late. So the next time you take a trip down what I now like to call "the deadly Deschutes," (hey, at least it's for a reason--there were record drownings the year we went!) take my advice:


DON’T go solo if you’re a whitewater novice. My whitewater excursions thus far had tallied a total of two—and both times, I was in a guided raft. But when Eric and I decided to raft the Deschutes on a hot July day, we thought it would be more fun to each get our own inflatable kayak than be packed in with strangers. Bad idea.
Lesson learned: There’s a huge difference between navigating the rapids in a big boat with an experienced guide versus your own tippy little vessel.

DO pay attention to rubberneckers. After getting into the river’s rhythm, we entered our first big rapid, Boxcar. I had just enough time to wonder “what is everyone looking at?” before realizing that the people gathered on the nearby rocks were there to witness rapids mayhem. I was about to be the main attraction, as I quickly overturned dramatically. Between the shock of the cold water and the panic of being dumped in whitewater for my first time, I was in short supply of breath—and common sense. In short, I freaked. I flailed my arms. I tried to grab rocks that whizzed by. “I! Really! Don’t! Like! This!” I announced to my spectators.
Lesson learned: When an audience has formed on the rocks, that’s your cue to scout things out before you hit the rapids.

DON’T become a yard sale. Since we hadn’t anticipated being dumped into the water, we cluelessly didn’t think to secure our belongings with a rope. After we lost my hat and Eric’s shoe, we battened down the hatches.
Lesson learned: Be prepared to offer up anything to the water gods that aren’t firmly attached to your person. And bring a knife while you’re at it in case you get caught in the rope.

DO stop while you’re ahead. After dumping three times, and getting relatively used to it (I even managed a couple “woo hoo!”s with paddle raised), we came upon our biggest rapid yet, Oak Springs. One minute Eric was paddling along in front of me, and the next I just saw the bottom of his boat before he disappeared altogether (turns out, there was about a 6-foot drop). Eric managed to sail over the rapids intact, but was now frantically trying to find me, hoping I hadn’t followed him. Instead, I had taken his disappearing act as a cue to pull to shore, and was safely talking to water rescue guys with ropes, as one fellow calmly explained that this rapid creates a hole that sucks people underneath the water. Oh, he also let me know that this was a special day, because rescue teams were upriver trying to recover the body of that girl who drowned last week. Alrighty then. After that, every small ripple looked like a hole existing only to pin me beneath the waves. It was time to hang up my paddle.
Lesson learned: Don’t talk to guys with ropes if you want to enter the water again.

misadventures in Canada

Twelve hosers enter the Canadian Rockies for a week with REI Adventures. Only eleven return. I kid, I kid (but I had you going for a minute, didn't I?). When you're traveling at the mercy of a couple of cannucks, you learn some things about surviving in the wilderness with others. Rule number one: never let them see you sweat. Or cry. Or leave trailmix where the animals can get them.

DO go with the flow. When we pulled into the campground, I noticed something a little off. A bright yellow fence surrounded the campground, complete with warning signs about electrocution hazards. Okaaaay, I thought to myself as they explained that it's there to keep bears out. I didn't think much about it because I was quickly distracted by something else (a shiny object, probably, it doesn't take much). The following day, my mom (my camping companion for the week) is sitting around with others at breakfast. "So," she says casually. "Did anyone happen to hear...I don't know...SHOTS fired in the middle of the night?" she inquires. "Shots? What shots?" asks our affable young friend Brett, who never seems to hear anything in the middle of the night throughout the week (the kid sleeps like a log! I blame it on his affection for loud heavy metal music). Our guides explain that...get this...when a bear is sighted in the middle of the night, a ranger leaps out of bed, shouts "hey beeaar!" and if the furry guy comes toward them he gets a rubber bullet in the snout. Hence the shots. (Unless they're making that whole thing up, it did sound suspicious!) That night around the campfire, we realized that if you put those two aspects together, it does sound mighty strange. Camping within confines of an electric fence? Shots fired in the middle of the night? Why, it's just your average vacation in the Canadian Rockies apparently!
lesson learned: those Canadians have a funny way of camping (again, I kid--I love the maple leaf, I bow down to the maple leaf, heck, I'm currently fanning myself with a maple leaf if you must know!)

DON'T leave a trace. Our second day, we drive up to the campground after a day of whitewater rafting to see someone's bag perched in plain view on the picnic table. A bag which I realize is filled with trail mix from yesterday. Because it's mine. "Whose bag is THAT?" Colleen, a teacher who is always the one to say what everyone else is thinking, asks. They all gather around to inspect it. "Oh, no worries, it's mine" I saunter up to casually claim the bag. A spirited discussion with our camping neighbors reveals why my bag is out in the open for everyone to inspect, and currently has a gaping hole in the bottom of it. Apparently, earlier that day their attention was averted from their morning coffee just in time to witness the sight of a large black crow dragging my pant leg (which used to be in the bag) down the road, so they came to the rescue. "Was there any food in it?" our guides question me. "Oh no, of course not!" I cheerfully reply and then retreat to my tent to see what the hell is in the bag. Upon entering my tent, I see a ripped plastic bag sitting on the ground, which I realize used to contain trail mix. I scoop up the evidence and whisper to my mom, who bursts out laughing. Yes, even after we heard the whole "leave no food out" speech, those shiny things distract me once again and I space it. Hey, when you're camping for five nights you tend to get a little disorganized is all I can say. I hope that Canadian chipmunk or whoever I fed is thanking me.
lesson learned: if you do blatantly disregard the rules, just pretend otherwise.

DO pretend you know what you're doing at all times. One might think that because I have actually written a hiking book, which entailed camping by myself nearly every weekend for a good four months, that I might know a thing or two about this whole tent camping situation. But if you're still reading this, you realize that no, in fact, I don't. After setting up our tent (which I was able to do with minimal help in case you're wondering, sheesh, I'm not that clueless!), we were ready to roll. That next morning, I compared notes with my mom about our sleep quality (I had alternated between waking myself up by shivering and feeling like my hip bones were making direct contact with sharpened knives myself, but I'm crazy like that). We deduced that the sleeping pads were just, weellll, maybe on the flimsy side. Yet, the little label on the pad DID say "self-inflating" so that just means it's magically inflated already, right? (Hey you, in the back? I can hear you chuckling you know!) Still I thought I'd assess the situation on behalf of my mom and I--to take one for the team, as it were. That night around the campfire, I casually inquire, "so, those sleeping pads aren't the best, are they?" hoping for a spirited discussion of lack of cush factor, but mysteriously no one piped up. Which is when Colleen (always the ever-wise teacher) said, "well, you know that you have to blow it up, right?" "Oh sure, sure, of course," I reply. That night I slink into my tent. "Mom, mom!" I whisper. "We have to blow up our sleeping pads!" We maniacally blew them up in under cover of night (it's hard to laugh and do this at the same time by the way) and sleep like babies. Cold babies. Because I was so focused on the task at hand that I'd neglected to adjust my campfire wardrobe, and after a shivering (albeit relatively cushioned) night I woke to find that all that currently donned my torso was a sweatshirt and a flimsy t-shirt. No wonder I was freezing my arse off! And furthermore...duh!
lesson learned: the ground is hard. Self-inflating does not mean that it's magically going to blow up by itself. Get a grip on yourself, girl! And put some long underwear on while you're at it, what, do I have to be your mother now?

DON'T let them see you cry. You know, when I moved from NYC to Oregon nine years ago, I considered myself to be a fearless outdoorsy chick. Summit Mount Hood, you say? Sure, I gotta check that off my list someday! Whitewater rafting? No sweat. Well, nine years of living here and experiencing close calls (which experienced outdoorspeople would call bumps in the road whereas I liken them to slight brushes with death) has turned me into a giant wuss. Thanks to a dangerous hiking fall several years ago, I've acquired a healthy aversion to scree slopes. And then there was that whitewater kayaking "incident" which makes small ripples in the water make me want to whimper. Well, this trip offered up both. First on the agenda: What my mom nicknamed (and which she was mighty proud that others started calling) The Zigzag of Death, a tiny exposed trail criss-crossing up and and across a snowy scree slope. I'm not usually the type to ask a lot of questions in a big group but as soon as I saw the Zigzag I pointed with my hiking stick at it and asked our guides, "are we going up THAT?!" We were. And we did. And I whimpered. Luckily, my new pal John turned out to be just the calm presence that I needed, stopping to wait and making me feel like we were in this together (he told me later that if he realized I was actually crying under my breath it would have freaked him out, because he was nervous too!). After conquering the ZZOD, my next task was a whitewater rafting excursion the very next day (stay tuned for a whitewater misadventures blog in the near future which will explain my white-knuckling in the white-water). I was feeling fine and putting my trust in the guides...until we pulled up to the shore to scout out a series of rapids. When I took a gander over the edge at the roaring water, I realized that had been a BAD idea. "Oh wow, you look like you're, like, afraid for your life or something!" someone commented. It wasn't entirely inaccurate. The guides mentioned that if you don't want to continue on at this point, you could go along the railroad tracks but "just be on the lookout for bears because that's where they hang out." Let's see...whitewater or bears, it was a toss-up but I decided to Stick With the Plan. Not before a nice chat with my OTHER new pal John, who had looked a little pale and silent on our journey to the river (his first whitewater experience). "Dude, what the hell??!!" I pointed a finger toward the frothing flurry of water just waiting to suck someone under. In a remarkably calm voice, he put his hands on my shoulders (or at least I think he did, but maybe I'm just making this up, I was starting to blank out!) and said "Megan, we're going to do this. Our guide knows what he's doing. We're going to be fine." Even though he was probably trying to convince himself of the same fact, his words did the trick. I climbed into the boat and paddled for my life, whimpering throughout the entire rapids (luckily the roaring water drowned out my sobs) and living to type my tale.
lesson learned: conquering your outdoor fears is easy when you go with experienced guides. Oh, and bring a pal named John who is slightly less scared than you are to help you realize that there is life at the end of the tunnel, zigzag or rapids. Furthermore, if you're going to completely fall apart, at least keep your ridiculous display of yourself on the down low, will ya?


DO book an REI trip. Two entertaining and experienced guides, 12 eclectic and hysterical adventurers (well, except for that one we still think might be left in the woods, joking, joking!) made a week in the Canadian Rockies a blast. From stoic Scott (our sole fellow Canadian who mysteriously was the only one who was allowed to use the axe in the campground) to our resident fashion plate, Andrew (who always appeared ready for hiking in fresh crisp clothes looking like he had just hiked out of an REI catalog) to mellow-yellow Diane to witty Krista to the hysterical couple Jose and Michelle to the aforementioned handful (plus a cheerful and adventurous mom), it was a top-notch crew. Look for us to appear in single formation on a trail near you. I'll be the one silently sobbing to myself and accidentally feeding the wildlife.

misadventures in Florida

Let's do some math, no?

FIVE adults + TWO kidlets + EIGHT days = FIVE lessons learned. Just when you thought it was safe to go into the water...well, actually it is pretty safe, I just like saying that.

During a recent Floridian getaway, I dared to go into the deep end and emerged with lessons that will come in handy for your next family vacation.

DON'T lose your cool when you lose your shirt. Probably the second worst time to lose your bag is when you've just landed in a tropical paradise. Wearing jeans and a long-sleeve shirt and no deodorant (oh, the horror!). [First worst time woulda been that near mishap en route to my 20th high school reunion, but I digress.] Here's the thing: I had been using Eric's Coast Guard army green duffel bag. I'm not really one to dutifully write my name on my bag or anything--I mean, who's going to have another green army-like bag, like, an army or something? ha ha ha! Then we land, and I notice something curious. A slew of ARMY GREEN DUFFEL BAGS keep making their merry way down the little scooty thing. "No way!" I exclaimed, and that's when I noticed that the recipients of these green bags were all these crewcut dudes in camouflage. "What are the odds?" I eyeballed each guy each time they hefted their bags onto large carts, trying to discern if I could find a flip-flop or dress poking out of one of them. A half-hour later, we were in line to report our bags missing, which is when we learn about the decidedly lax attitude of the small Floridian airports. "Oh yeah, they probably just didn't have room for them because of the troops," he said. Uh, okay. Meanwhile, we had a boyfriend's family on the way, so I did my best to make small talk as I prepared myself (see? I'd be a good Army cadet, isn't their motto Be Prepared? Oh wait, that's Boy Scouts. Moving on...) for the task I was about to embark upon: rushing the nearest Target for a madcap shopping spree in 10 minutes flat. You can lose my bag, Delta, but you can't keep this girl from looking good on the road, I dare say! Nothing like a guilt-free shopping spree to put a spring in one's step too. Things were off to a good start...(and bag was restored the next day)
LESSON LEARNED: when you lose the shirt off your back, just buy another one! Oh, and never underestimate the omnipresence of the military.

DON'T be afraid of the water. Okay, so this is not a misadventure, more of an adventure on my part but I couldn't help mention it. You see, I have been known to be afraid of taking a shower after seeing Jaws (I just won't mention how long ago it was, ahem). But the combo of a few Coronas, a full moon, and great company in the form of Eric and his brother in law found this non-water girl taking a dip in the ocean...at midnight! Lil ol me! After that, I was hooked. Kayak fishing, you say? When you just saw a shark fin taking an interest in your fish that was dangling over your boat just yesterday? Let's do it, and why don't I dangle a foot over the edge, what the heck, I have another one! Come and get it, fishy fishy! Snorkeling? Where's that mask! Kayaking in huge waves when we see several fins around us? No problem, why they're just your friendly neighborhood dolphins don't you know. Not being one to do things half-assed, I kinda plunged headfirst into my fear. Whether it was the Gulf of Mexico effect, the hot sun, or just the thrill of swimming in saltwater, I'm not going to question it.
LESSON LEARNED: you're never too old to overcome a fear (yay me!)

DO run for cover when fireworks appear. One fear conquered, one to go. Next up: Fireworks. No sweat, I thought. Maybe it was the strong Long Island Iced Teas Eric had mixed, but I was feeling quite smug as I took my position on a beach chair for our DIY fireworks show. Who me, sit back at the house closing my ears like I normally would? Not I! It's a new, brave Megan, I thought as I dug my new Target flip-flops into the sand. The first couple of fireworks were no problem. And then the third one kinda threw us for a loop. The following two minutes were a little hazy. "Shit!" "Fuck!" "Oh my god!" came out of my mouth, and next I knew I was standing behind my chair. These little doozies I uttered came courtesy of a slight glitch in the program, whereby the firework display tipped over and was starting to shoot at short intervals toward, well, US. "Get the kids!" Eric's sister yelled. Eric covered his little nephew and I scrambled to get out my seat while keeping my eyes covered as the fireshooter from hell shot one off towards my right shoulder (hello, worst fear alert!). After the madness subsided, we for some reason kept on with the madcap display. Except now, instead of sitting smugly in my little beach chair, I was crouched behind it next to Eric's nephew, telling him "yes, that's right, fireworks are fun but they can be dangerous!" as I duck for cover. Meanwhile the other nephew is crouched behind me using ME for cover. "Hold tight guys!" I announce with each firework. Yeah, let's just say that I won't be doing that again. Ever.
LESSON LEARNED: you're never too old to re-visit a childhood fear. And to remain afraid for life.

DON'T under-estimate the sun. I'm not a foodie and don't really like to spend much time on preparing meals. But when I am tasked with an occasional dinner, as Eric and I were halfway through our trip, I then morph into a master chef of sorts where I become a little obsessed. Bread? Of course we'll have bread, but I must make it from scratch! And why stop at one loaf, I'll make three--of course, that means I'll need a 5-pound bag of flour! And yeast! I'd heard some vague notions of a store nearby so I just tried to casually saunter away before anyone noticed. "Just going to the store!" I announced. His mom called after me, "do you want to use the car?" "Oh no, I'm fine, I'm fine!" and shut the door before anyone could protest. Dum de dum, I set off on my way. Couldn't be more than a few blocks, huh? No problem. Whooshies, it's pretty hot, whew. Did I put sunscreen on? Okay, can't be far now. Hmmmm, where's this place again? Must be the other direction. A few blocks later, I stop in a nail salon for directions. They tell me that a mile down the road, there's a market. A mile, hmmm, I can do that. A little farther than I was planning, but no problem. Well, you know how you keep going and the more you go the more determined you get? A mile later, I come upon said "market" and realize it's little more than a convenience store. I ask if there's a grocery store nearby. They say there's one a mile further down the road. My little saunter becomes more of a death march. Once at the store, I'm starting to feel slightly delirious. And I realize I don't even have my phone to call anyone to pick me up. I decide to scrap everything else on my list except for the flour (all 5 pounds of it!) and yeast. And sunscreen. My death march home continues. I keep reminding myself "I'm built for endurance, I've run 14 marathons, I just hiked 30 miles a few weeks ago, I can do this" and then I resort to my last-ditch effort: singing 99 bottles of beer on the wall out loud. Twice. And thinking that a cold Corona sounds mighty nice about now. I realize that this sounds (and probably looked) absurd, and I would normally agree with you--I mean, 4 miles is nothing, right? But I had sorely underestimated the noontime heat. When I got home Eric took one look at my pale and sweaty mess that was now myself, panting as if I'd just sprinted home, and he ordered me into a shady section of the pool. Of course, the whole family decided to come back from the beach at that moment and got to see for themselves what a giant idiot I was. "Uh, Megan? Next time you take the car, okay?" Eric's brother-in-law said. A later Google search revealed that yes indeedy, I had a mild form of heat exhaustion, well, that's a new one for me to check off my list! But damn it if we didn't eat bread that night, and it's never tasted so good!
LESSON LEARNED: Florida June noontime sun is not the same as Oregonian June noontime sun. Take the car.

DO listen to your neighborhood back-cracker. A week after I returned from Florida, I declared to my dog "I've had enough of this madness!" It was hard to sit still without shooting pains radiating down my side, so I thought I'd pay a visit to my favorite back doc, who has been cracking, twisting and bending my back for the past year to soothe an ongoing problemo. "Hmm...you're all twisted here. You said you were on vacation--did you happen to lift anything heavy, like a bag?" My mind went immediately to the time that I proudly dragged our heavy kayak up the beach by myself to lock it up by the stairs, instead of waiting for someone to help me. Why? Don't ask. I have this strange fascination with a nifty little game I call "fun with strength." Need that jar opened? Here, pass 'er over. Heavy bag lifted? I got it, I got it! So as my doctor is demonstrating how to carry a heavy bag and distribute weight evenly onto my dainty discs, I'm nodding and furrowing my brow as if I'm really paying attention, meanwhile I'm thinking "nice one, Megan, way to go. Dipshit."
LESSON LEARNED: playing "fun with strength" leads to a trip to the doctor, and that's just downright embarrassing. Will you ever learn?