Out in the World

Chasing the World Cup

From dream, to all in

I rarely sat back in the stadium chair the entire first half. Just 30 or so feet from the pitch U.S. players took corner kicks and tried hundreds of attack combinations in hopes of putting one in the net.

The second half switched sides, our U.S. defenders solidly holding the backfield, preventing Netherland’s offense from scoring. Then a Megan Rapinoe penalty kick crossed the line, releasing the American crowd’s collective tension from a 0-0 final World Cup match in front of 55,000 fans that were thinking this game may go into an even hotter, stress-filled overtime.

The now iconic Rapinoe photo that was a second on the field but took a life of its own for the rest of the tournament

Then forward Rose Lavelle’s thread-the-needle shot hit the back of the net. U.S. fans on their feet swirling U.S. National Team scarves and flags – pure elation, deafening cheering. Watching her team dogpile the World Cup first-timer’s goal in the final was so powerful – so empowering – a proud moment in a time where women’s soccer has come so far in the 30+ years since I last played. You could sense the passing of the torch to the next generation of female soccer players in that moment.

It’s nearly impossible to capture a week of chasing the World Cup, from taking an overnight flight from Portland to Paris just in time to arrive at the stadium for the U.S. vs France quarterfinal match to a week later watching our team defeat the Netherlands team in Lyon to capture its 4^th World Cup title.

Deeper connection
It’s not just that I was celebrating a milestone birthday at the World Cup – already a big deal – it’s that I was there at the beginning of this nascent idea of forming a women’s national team back in the late 1980s.

Building on post Title 9 legislation that opened up college opportunities for women, the Olympic Development Program (ODP) was launched to select the best women’s players through state and regional teams, then ultimately a national team.

It’s why now we have a more than 30+ year pipeline of players and remain highly competitive, looked up to by every women’s team in the world. We’re very lucky – and we’ve earned it – overcoming drastically uneven support between the non-winning men’s team national soccer team and needing day jobs to support professional soccer dreams.

Back then, I was in the right place at the right time. I had suspended disbelief – similar to every soccer game I’d ever played in – to even think I couldn’t make the first women’s Olympic team and then go pro. None of that even existed, but I had that confidence in my skill and decade+ of disciplined training that you need to trust and follow instinct.

But my dream would be cut short. A very narrow doorway closed when as a Washington State ODP player I broke my big right toe at a practice game just before the regional tryouts. The injury aged me out of contention. The national team at that time was Under-20 (later it expanded). That first national team would go on to win the first Women’s World Cup in 1991 was filled with greats like Mia Hamm, Brandie Chastain, Julie Foudy and more.

That kind of dream dies hard.

The awakening
I wouldn’t have gone to this year’s World Cup had it not been the local connection that got brought me back into the soccer stadium in 2007, watching Megan Rapinoe and Christine Sinclair at the University of Portland.

Christine Sinclair playing with Canadian National Team as captain

Watching them so many years later brought such appreciation that not only had I benefitted from Title 9 to even begin playing soccer when I did – I looked around the stadium and young girls had jerseys with Mia Hamm and other national greats’ names on them. They were sparked by the first team’s win more than a decade before. They too had hopes and dreams and weren’t even thinking they couldn’t do it.

The realization: I could support women’s soccer by simply going to the games – getting to know the players through their fantastic talent. Joining in with others to show our collective pride for your team. Buying and wearing team jerseys, shirts and scarves. Flying the team flag.

Going all in.

I’m now a Portland Thorns season ticket holder, thanks to good friends who also planted the seed to fly to France for this year’s World Cup nearly a year ago. Nine Thorns players went to play on their respective national teams during this World Cup. Post 4^th World Cup win, Thorns fans broke not one, but now two, and I hope many more fan records.

We’re so lucky that Portland soccer fans support both the Portland Timbers and Thorns teams. Here and at the World Cup, you now see all genders and whole families sporting female players’ jerseys at games that draw 20,000+ fans – unheard of in other parts of the country. We collectively cheer, some dreams gone and some just beginning – being fed with every game.

We’re all in.

Up the Pass

I don’t even think I can’t do it as I prepare my gear. Test temperature. Decide to pack another layer. Pump up tires. Pack bars and quick energy gummies. I can no longer carry a pack up a mountain by foot, but I can climb with just my body weight and light gear on my bike. So I do – the feeling of euphoria and exhaustion at the top worth the effort.

This pass has become an annual tradition. A ride right from town, pedaling 15 miles and 2,000 feet up to the summit. It’s not straight up, or my back couldn’t handle it – standing on pedals, grinding. It’s fast spinning 6 miles to the gate, where our two wheels are separated from four as we start the windy climb to the summit. Just bike traffic – nods and waves from those heading down and cordial greetings and encouragement to those we’re passing on the road up.

Trees still scarred from a Central Oregon burn a few years ago. Ground-level vegetation starting to appear, sprouting from the seeds buried in ash.

Temperature dropping as we ascend. Cloud front previously kept at bay now moving in, obscuring mountaintops in the distance and the pass we’re nearly hitting as we round one of the last windy turns.

Wind turns icy. Jackets and winter gloves come on during ever-so-brief photo stop at the summit for the fast ride down the mountain, frozen feet and hands slowly thawing as we’re pedaling back to warmth, sun on the fast flat.

Going Higher

Untouched…
White River – rarely covered in my past trips
Beautiful snowfield
Those are just our tracks!
Being in the mountains – priceless
The wind quickly covered our tracks
This is the best snow hat ever!

Back on Mt. Hood. It’s a week later and the snow is still the deepest I’ve seen in years.

Giddy, we pack up our gear in the parking lot. This time we come more prepared: a light-weight shovel, pocket knife, matches, extra warm clothing, food. At least closer to the 10 essentials than last venture.

This visit we get the benefit of following a large group’s tracks along White River. Until we see them double back toward us. It’s the end of their expedition – but ours is just beginning.

We seek to see what’s beyond where we turned back last time. What’s beyond a narrow canyon, around the corner from that cornice hill we saw last week.

Curiosity pushes our snowshoes over the river’s snow bridge – an opening to the small stream below reveals the layers of snowstorms over this past week and beyond.

We pass over the cornice hill diagonally and through the steep, narrow canyon where we take one step, slide back, another and slip before digging steps with our snowshoes. We end up in an open snow field, the wind pushing snow over the surface.

Euphoria – we’re right on that place where fear, excitement and curiosity meet. Where the mountain has its own weather system, this one coming off the summit. It’s snowing hard now, the sky darkening. We’re in danger zone but taking calculated risks, checking in with each other to gauge for hairs-on-your-neck fear, instinct-for-danger fear.

We press on over the open field, following a ridge until we get to the rim of a larger river. We’ve come as far as we could without changing direction to head into further into avalanche territory. We did what we set out to do – go higher than before – and we did it. One of the best snow seasons ever!!

Endless Snow

That’s Mt Hood in distance
Behind me – where we’ve come
Bez first trip this high

Only a few have broken this trail today, heading higher onto Mt. Hood’s flanks. Following White River, crossing over it – covered in layers of snow. It’s been snowing consistently for about two weeks by now.

In all my time coming to this same spot over the last decade I’ve never seen it this deep. Never been able to cross over the river and head higher. So we do it, still following maybe two other tracks so our snowshoes still crunch as we further break the trail.

I make Bezoar follow us rather than his usual lead dog so he doesn’t completely sink. He’s so tall and at 75 pounds without snowshoes of his own he still sinks, but less so, his webbed paws usually helping a bit.

We’re going higher, but it takes effort. We switch leads to conserve and realize neither of us has many of the 10 essentials. We have food, water, extra jackets and gloves, but no shovel to dig us out if we get into more avalanche areas, not much to keep us warm if a sudden storm comes in or one of us gets hurt and the other has to hike down for help.

That, and realizing that Bezoar will never stop trying to keep up as he sinks in the deeper snow – this is danger zone. We decide to come back another day, more prepared, sans Bez, and go even higher.

Pull of the Mountains

Insatiable Bez and stick
Majestic Mt. Hood

It’s been tugging at me for weeks now, growing stronger. The agitation of the city, stress and annoyance factor rising. It’s too late to garner a friend to join but no matter – I’m going dammit – I have to. Loading up Bezoar and our snacks, water we’re off and soon on the highway looking directly at our destination in the distance. Clear skies, snow-covered beautiful Mt. Hood.

The drive is precious think time. Bez is already snoozing, resting up for our adventure. We don’t hit the snowline until the top of the pass – I hear snow is coming the next week, but for now it looks like it’s been a few days since a several-inch snow. I know exactly where I’ll find the most for snowshoeing – the two-planking will come later this season – this is a day for my dog and I – and the mountains.

Even before we finally turn into the White River Sno-Park parking lot he’s whining in anticipation. Soon his bark is right in my right ear – deafening. Distracting him with a mini soccer ball as I pull on my gear, grabbing snowshoes and heading to the trail. He’s always insatiable in the beginning – full of energy and annoyingly finding sticks and chunks of wood to drop right in front of my path. I throw packed snow at his face – he loves to catch snowballs – but today the snow won’t be packed and it’s dissipating across his black muzzle, whiskers turning white. He loves it and wants more. Did I mention insatiable?

He’d play all day, but there’s a trail calling me. It’s worn from other snowshoers, so the maverick in me sets out to make my own parallel tracks while Bez is chasing, pouncing on the stick I just threw in the distance, then sniffing his way back. Nothing like forging your own path, the packed snow crunching under foot.

Frosty Pine tree needles, a single tiny branch jutting from a crack in a huge bolder. The discoveries are small and wonderful – a break from constant to-do lists and decisions back in town. The air thinner but clean and cold, refreshing. There’s nothing like being outside in the elements – with the right gear.

We’re both tired after an hour or so trudging up the mountain’s flank, turning to head back down the path. Again, diverting from the main trail and charting my own course through the trees. A sliver of sun crosses my path, revealing a cold frost on the top layer like hard, beautiful clear crystals, shattering across the surface in front of my snowshoes. I’ve not heard that sound before, the shattering filing my ears, a peaceful sound with no competition.

Bez is now following close behind me, his signature-tired spot – he hates being left behind, but he’s too tired to lead. Instead he nearly causes me to faceplant when he steps on the back of my snowshoes – also a classic Bezoar move.

We’re both pleasantly exhausted hitting the parking lot and packing gear away. He’s already snoozing by the time we cross the pass and head back toward town.

Lucky dog, lucky me. His companionship on all things adventure and outdoors – priceless.

Lingering Fall

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Morning air turning crisp, I see my breath for the first time. Clipping dog leash we’re off on our walkie adventure, Bezoar leading the way, sniffing out our route with a nose sensing thousands of smells beyond mine.

Passing dogwood, oak and birch trees, all dialing back energy, leaves changing – red, orange, a golden yellow. Drying out, hanging on for as long as they can before letting go, floating down to join others on the sidewalk.

It’s drier than normal this year, kicking bunches recalls memories of growing up raking big piles of dry leaves and jumping in. The youth inside my older being smiles.

Squirrels bustling, gathering, scatterhoarding walnuts. Every morning, new holes under our maple tree, nuts to take the tiny beings through winter. This morning, one placed in the heel of a front porch sneaker as I ready for our walk. Crows smartly dropping walnuts from electrical wires, splitting, bouncing off pavement as they crack into many pieces.

Just like the bustling squirrels, we scurry prepping for winter, cleaning and treating the swimming pool for the last time of the season, unfolding and pulling winter cover tight for a seven-month sleep.

Raking leaves and dead vegetation, mulching and readying the yard. Unhooking hoses, covering faucets. Last mow of season. Rain will take over from here.

Less natural light, time falls back, shorter days. More time inside. Sun is above clouds, I know it.

Football season’s in full swing. Watching these games were my time with my new stepdad, him teaching me it’s all about a series of first downs to get to the end zone. Just having games on still a feeling of family and our bonding time.

Slowing down. Wish we could hibernate for winter too.

Catching up on recorded shows, movies that have come and gone from theatres, projects that sat dormant all summer.

Fireplace warms the room. Snuggling on couch. Cat curled up on her favorite perch, dog cramming his long body into a small chair he’s claimed since a pup.

I want time to stand still – everything is perfect at this moment.

Summer Cycling in the Northwest

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The summer goes by so quickly, like the miles turning on my bike’s CatEye.

I should have recorded all the rotations, reflecting energy expended up McKenzie Pass in Central Oregon, rolling past the open farm and ranch country in the latter and Southeast Washington’s wine country. Up to Women’s Forum for a view of the Columbia Gorge with my Sorella Forte teammates.

Past alpacas, sheep, cows, horses. Sprinting to catch an orchard’s sprinkler – the cooling mist briefly refreshing a sweat-filled forehead. Up one hill, we hear brush stirring, a family of deer rush across the county road in front of us – the baby trailing just as we crank to the top.

Perfectly sunny days, the white glacier mountains of the Cascade chain standing tall in the distance. We are so lucky to be healthy and able to churn the pedals that get us out off the main roads, peeking into places we’d never see by car, never veer off the main roads to travel.

This multi-geared machine I ride has been a big part of my life for the last 20+ years post back injury and recovery – a way to rebuild physically and mentally post partial disability, a way to meet new friends and extend the circle via common interest of the two wheels that we plan trips around, connect with post-ride meals and wine tasting during annual rides.

A whole world centered around quad and glute-propelled spinning tires, connected to a sturdy titanium frame that supports all my miles of discovery.

Spring – on the Verge

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It seems just as we’re oh so done with winter in Portland the signs of change emerge, almost without notice.

White and yellow daffodils lead the charge, seeming to burst through the soil and open before it’s really time, giving us hope for spring. Tulips take note, soon opening bright pinks, reds, orange, white and mixed-colored petals. Vibrant colors start competing with the bare trees, green grass soaked by winter and early spring rains.

Smiles, hope return from winter’s hunkering down.

Before you know it, tiny buds peek out the end of dogwood branches. Red, white magnolia flowers yearn to see sunlight, growing quickly, ready to unfurl to magnificence. White, pink pom-pom-like puffy cherry blossoms crowd the ends of branches, weighing down entire limbs.

Spring is really happening.

Walking under tall oak trees, collection of birds singing, conversing in the treetops. Daylight comes sooner, sunrise warming dawn’s coolness.

First mow of the season. Trees soon covered with green leaves. Berries are coming next.

We’ve made it past another Portland winter.

Floating with Spinner Dolphins

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Sun high in sky as we launch the double kayak into the teal blue waters of Kealakekua Bay. We quickly coordinate our strokes and paddle toward where the Pacific’s waves crash against a cliff. This is the pace a small pod of spinner dolphins followed my kayak during a visit more than a decade ago.

As if expecting us, we first see a set of small, angled fins in the distance, heading right for us. Then two more off our starboard side. Suddenly, a pod appears just off our port side. I count 10, maybe more. Diving, surfacing as air from blowholes sounds like the forceful exhale of a post-dive snorkel.

They’re curious, taking a look before submerging deeper. The younger ones try their hand at the jump – spinning and splashing back into the ocean. Knowing the dolphins come to the shallower bays to rest during the day, we don’t follow as they cruise away. We continue on toward Captain Cook monument, to snorkel along a reef next to the big blue. But the dolphins double back toward us, so we float and just take in this connection to nature – it definitely rates in my top five list of outdoor experiences of my lifetime.The next day, we SUP in Kailua Bay, to be out in the sun, on the water on our last full day in Kona. We’re out on the Ironman World Championship swim course, at mile 1.2 buoy when another spinner pod shows up, slowly moving in sync. We kneel on our boards and watch them swim under us, turn their silver bellies up like my tortoiseshell cat wanting attention back home.

A swimmer we later dub the dolphin whisperer sings and talks to them through her snorkel, or maybe it’s a recording? The pod collects near her as if she’s one of them. Wherever she goes they pop up, in pairs and groups. We take this in for more than an hour before heading back in – another few hours of nature TV we’d tune into any day.

Check out Nat Geo’s underwater video, with great views of the spinners in action.

Makalawena Beach

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I’m burying my bare feet in the soft, warm brown sand. It has that perfect packing consistency – not too soft and not too hard. It’s our little piece of paradise on this stretch, many feet from the crashing waves. The next couple is hundreds of yards away, in their own world. We’re all looking at the turquoise blue Pacific, letting time stand still in this pristine location.

I watch waves climb over and around a single lava boulder – my moments of Zen as I call it. We steal a nap and magazine reading as our reward for hiking in more than a mile to this spot, over mid-day radiating lava rocks from 1800s-era eruptions of one of many volcanoes on Hawaii’s Big Island.

Passenger planes fly overhead, past lava fields to Kona airport’s runway several miles south of here. I saw this spot from one of those planes days before, vowing to return to this place where many years ago I ventured out furthest into the ocean than I had ever before – where I first saw a brackish pond and an untouched lagoon I was afraid to swim across.

We were some of the only visitors then, back when the road from the highway was truly “unimproved,” washboard gravel and ruts everywhere.

Now the road is tame by comparison, smoothed out and even paved in places. I see now why its location and increased access has become even more contentious to locals. This feeling bad for enjoying paradise at the expense of a culture is challenging to me, and familiar in the mainland states as well. I’m not sure tourists and people in general really think about that as they travel, but it’s always on my mind how tourism affects the local culture.

I try to balance these conflicting ideas by respecting places we visit, packing in and out everything we bring and learning about the history.