Celebrate the Holidays - Save a Tree!

Paper fetish. I have this thing about paper. Full pieces, scraps, and various textures—any part of paper that has a blank space on it draws my attention.

It started the day after college. I announced to my parents, who had come into town for graduation ceremonies, that I would be leaving the next day to ride my bike 200 miles up the California coast and that they were assigned the task of carting all my crap home.

After successfully negotiating with their conservative minds the virtues of the solo ride , I was met with my mothers heart stopping statement. “Why don’t we just throw all these boxes of old papers away, you won’t be needing those anymore.”


The conundrum of holiday wrapping...


I broke out in a cold sweat. Heaps of papers, fruits of my labor, all passing through many hands and eyes, the toil of my youth—now stacked in neat boxes. But it wasn’t the work that caused my heart rate to sour it was that naked, unused side of each sheet that pulled me in. Each small piece of tree still had half a life to live. How could I frivolously toss these items knowing this serious truth?

Unable to articulate my dilemma to my practical mother I did some additional quick convincing and the boxes were safety stowed alongside other treasures I had accumulated during this precarious time of my life.

After a couple years of carting around the goods, I decided to confront my emotional reaction. I sorted through the boxes of paper separating fully used sheets and those that with one side still usable. The unused pile was enormous. The joy! The abundance!

The frenzy continued covertly in my short stint in the corporate world. I would come into work early and rifle through the trash to rescue half used sheets. I made small stacks for coworkers to use as scrap paper and anonymously placed them on their desks front and center.

In my racing life I spent the nervous time the day before a big event sprawled out on my hotel room floor frantically sorting through my race bag. I quietly saved brochures, flyers, and ad sheets and split them in 4’s to be used as journal paper during my stay in this country or that.

Each day I as I run in my local redwood forest I smile to think that perhaps I’ve saved a small forest of trees. Ok, maybe a tree or so anyway...

Since the initial unarticulated paper fetish of my youth I’ve gone public. One Christmas I made notepads for my family and wrapped them in the paper that could no longer be written on. In a note on the top of each pad I explained my love affair with the paper and the importance of my offering to them—save a buck, save a tree, save an enormous amount of energy, reuse your half naked paper!

I cringe each holiday when I see large tacky colored rolls waiting to be bought, used, then discarded all in less time than it takes a lumberjack to rev up his chainsaw. I’ve taken to saving outdoor magazines to wrap gifts with. Oh, the visual orgy of skiing, trail running, kayaking, mountain biking and the coveted Patagonia catalogs! I top the recycled packages with old webbing or climbing rope and carabineers. Not only does this secure a small spot of clean air in our world but I’ve been told the packages clothed in visuals of adventure and adrenaline highs have inspired others to get out more.

Come clean with the reality of wasted paper! Inspire movement for that uninitiated adrenaline junkie! Save a neighborhood tree. There’s still two days left of gratuitous shopping frenzy—start your paper fetish today!

Happy Holidays,
Terri

Girls just gotta have fun…

After a year of hard core early morning training, gear organizing, business developing, and racing in crazy tough places like the Sahara Desert, Costa Rica, and the Sierras, a girl just gotta cut loose and have a little fun.

So to cap off a year of toil with some no pressure stimulation I decided to head down to Mexico to climb a few volcanoes, and insert myself into the local scene. I joined a group organized by Marshall Ulrich; adventure racer, ultra runner and mountaineer, extraordinaire. Knowing Marshall through many years of adventure racing – I knew we were guaranteed some hard climbing, serious story telling, and a good time.


Toluca from the top. Click here to check out more photos...


Marshall worked with Mexico City based mountaineering guide and logistics guru, Cristobal Corona to organize our trip. At 62, Christobal is the picture of endurance, patience, and safe climbing.

Our group convened in Mexico City from New York, Kentucky, Florida and California and after several excellent meals and some substantive group jelling we finally prepped for our first acclimation hike up Toluca. Heading from sea level to 15,400 feet in one fell swoop was a bit of a reality check, but worth the views. Back in Mexico City post hike we indulged in succulent home cooking and lots of beers.

Next day we drove to Amecameca, near the base of the National Park that housed our next target, Izta (Iztaccihuatl), aka, The Sleeping Lady—17,342 feet. After some shopping, and a peruse through the open market to take pictures of pig heads, guts, and other various local, fried, delicacies we prepped for our next venture.

Izta is juxtaposed to the active Popo (Popocatepetl) Volcano. There is an ancient legend that says Izta and Popo were once lovers, but were turned into mountains after displeasing the gods. Izta was made a dead mountain (hence her prone position), and Popo was given eternal life—a curse of the highest magnitude in that forever he must gaze upon the extinct form of his beloved Izta. They say he’s pissed off at this raw deal—thus his continuous rumblings. To me, Izta looks like she’s had too many tequila shots, and when you climb her, you feel the same.

After sleeping higher to acclimate, we started our climb from the huts in the park at about 13,500 feet and a few hundred feet below the dead Ladies feet. From various points on the ridgeline you have a superb view of the angry Popo. Popo was steaming when we were there end of October, apparently prepping for his recent spew.

In a snowstorm we hiked up to the Lady’s feet then along various knees, bellies etc., to reach the summit at the tip of her breasts. I had some crampon difficulties and had to traverse a bit of a knife-edge with only one boot geared up. Made for an exciting descent in some strong, biting winds.

Whoever told us this climb was “just a hike up” was doing some serious crack smoking. This Lady was a bitch. 16 hours later of an out and back scramble along the predominantly rocky ridge and we were at our hut. But not before a little excitement as one of my cohorts and I decided to try and take a “creative” way off the base of the mountain. It looked reasonable and quick from our vantage point, but turned into a dangerous bust…. Marshall rightly didn’t like us gettin independent on him but a few beers back in Ameca and all was forgiven. My inherent adventure racer mind got the best of me…woops.

Eat, drink, shop, climb. Repeat. Repeat. What more could a girl ask for on a pleasure trip! (ok, so I can think of one thing…)

Next stop, the quaint town of Tlachichuca and a climber’s oasis—the abode of Joaquin Limon. Joaquin owes and operates what would be equivalent in the U.S. to a climbers hostel. Clean rooms, smiles, hugs, incredible meals, and a jarring ride in his 1966 Dodge truck up to the climbing hut at the base of your Pico de Orizaba summit bid, are all part of your minimal fare. With a view of the ~18,405 foot mountain from Joaquin’s roof, and family style treatment on the eve of Day of the Dead—I’d add the Casa Limon experience to any complete Mexican climbing trip.

Orizaba was a visual orgy, but you had to earn the view. The tough piece to this mountain is that once you hit the glacier, it’s a steady 35-45 degree climb to the summit with no breaks in grade. We roped up, and being a frequent urinater, I vowed to get crotch zippers before my next trip.

Some more power shopping enroute to Mexico City and we were ready to cap our 3- peak-bagged-trip with some focused celebrating. Cristobal hosted dinner at his home with a steady flow of hot food, wine, beer, tequila and cigars. A few of us were feeling feisty post dinner and wanted to check out the City nightlife but were advised against it. “Mexico City is very dangerous place”, says our host. Marshall was inclined to agree and decided to wash his hands of our antics.

So we headed back to the hotel and inquired with the hotel owner of a good place to check out the local scene. He not only advised us, but, decided to join us. So our already lit little party ventured out.

Dancing in a dirty, fleece, Patagonia top and jeans, when all the local chicks are decked to the hilt isn’t socially optimal but a girl gotta do what a girl gotta do. Several shots of tequila, a couple Cucaracha’s, and many dances later to The Doors, Led Zeppelin, and Rolling Stones and we headed back to the hotel only to find our host’s car tires were flat. “No Problemo”, was his response to the situation, and we limped back on the metal rims just in time to catch our flight back to reality. What a perfect ending in a completely non-perfect country, to a perfectly fun week!