Well I feel bad just leaving this poor blog to become stagnant and dead on the internet without providing some closure. Past-Sam poured too much time into posting to let it waste. Who knows, with luck, this could become an excellent resource for some lost soul seeking information on the elusive NCCC year.
Well, just in case, let's run through the stuff I've learned specific to AmeriCorps:
-getting accepted is a chaotic process. Many people on my campus did not get accepted until 1-2 weeks before the start of the program (i.e. me). I think the campuses go in waves. The start date for my program was actually 2 weeks later than the official date, so don't lose hope if it's down to the wire. You still have a chance.
-the stipend is like 75/week after taxes
-room and board are payed for, just meagerly
-the stuff they give you to keep: 1 fleece vest, 3 cotton t-shirts, 1 cotton long-sleeve, 2 beige cargo shorts, 2 beige cargo pants, 1 pair dress cargo pants, 1 baseball cap, 1 skullcap, 1 round-brim sunhat, 1 hoodie. All emblazoned with the Acorps logo of course.
If I think of anything else I'll throw it in.
But onwards, to closure!
The last weeks at the Forest Service station went really fast. Work became a little more monotonous after we switched over to five 8-hour days, but it still went pretty fast because we often had to drive over an hour to the worksite. An awful waste of gas, I have to say.
We spent most of our time clearing floral matter from the sides of paths and roads to increase visibility. Since it was usually available due to making your shoulders really sore, I spent most of my time on the pole saw (the telescoping chainsaw-on-a-stick) cutting high overhanging limbs. I loved that thing. The last person to use it had sharpened it at an excessively steep angle, so it cut through stuff ridiculously fast. I started felling small trees with it (from a safe distance away, too!), just because it was so much faster than our regular saws. Nothing quite as elegant as making a pie cut from ten feet away.
We also spent time clearing peoples yards of flammable materials. We were pretty much the "forest servie owes you a favor" group. We went around doing defensible space (that's what yard clearance is called) for those less fortunate than us. Less fortunate in the sense that they were unable to do the menial labor because we did it first. Many a fist was raised cursing the fast work of AmeriCorps, sometimes people threw things like cookies or lemonaide at us.
Speaking of, I had the best work experience ever in our last week. We were doing clearance at this older (not old, just older) couples house, who had promised to make us lunch. We finished pretty fast, and it turned out the guy had an old milk barrel. He had laid coals in the barrel earlier, and he made us six racks of the most delicious ribs I have ever tasted.
This guy was crazy. He had survived two different cancers, and one of my teammates had remarked later that one of the cancers this guy lived through had a 100% kill rate. Or 99.9%, I spose, in this guy's case. Really, the couple reminded me of the things I love about AMERICA america. You'll see the youth of the nation bemoaning crass US culture, and yearning for Europe or something, but there is nowhere in Europe that some cowboy-esque veteran could throw you a bbq with the same feel of western romanticism. Nowhere in the world, really, though I'm sure Australia could come close. It's just those backfeelings of staunch do-it-yourself, small government, AmERican hospitality that reminds me why I love the US. And reminds me why I would really miss conservatives if they ever left. The same principles that frustrate me are the ones that state "you, the guest at this bbq, will make no movements whatsoever to do any kind of pre or cleanup work. Just sit and enjoy yourself, now hear?" So yeah, that bbq was awesome. And no, there weren't any leftovers. Between 9 of us (two missing that day), we annihilated 6 full racks, and had to be held back to ensure the hosts got something to eat.
Overall, I am really happy I did AmeriCorps. Towards the end of our service with the Forest Service, I got a bit frustrated with the level of the meniality of our work (on a scale of 1: this work is boring but essential to 10: you are currently moving pine needles from one pile to another, we had a lot of days that were 11: You are now taking something apart to rebuild it with the same materials, but in worse condition), but the people, the teammates I served with for 10 months, made it completely worthwhile. I am really going to miss my erstwhile family that was Silver 4, and I'm getting a little nostalgic just thinking about it.
I remember the way most of our lunches throughout the year, regardless of surroundings, degenerated into throwing stuff at each other. Sticks were good. Banana peels were better.
I remember Jason talking in his sleep. "Dude, my balls are on fire!" Still sleeping "Dude, now Zacks balls are on fire!" And continues sleeping.
I remember going away on our final SPIKE and being one of the last teams to leave campus, so we raided everyone's freezers and made off like bandits with frozen pizzas.
So many other inside jokes, crazy moments, and epic adventures. Even if the programs seems ridiculous, I have to say that the impact it has on its members is invaluable. I have never seen a better environment for America's youth to flourish, being independent and at the same time being indoctrinated with values that society cherishes.
Now that I'm out, I don't think anything could make me repeat it, but the experience I got out of the last ten months will shape much of the rest of my life. I mean, I can cook a full meal for 11 people with under $30. I don't see how anything else can offer much of a challenge anymore.
By the way, if you are looking into AmeriCorps/have questions, leave me a comment. It'll notify me, and I'll get in touch.
This blog is so over.
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Monday, May 3, 2010
Delayed stuff eh?
I suppose longer and longer is the catchword for the frequency of my blog posts.
I’m offline right now, we have to drive places for our wifi. Sitting in a 15-passenger government van with blacked out windows, it’s an interesting time when we park outside a local pizza parlor that foolishly gave us their network password.
If I’ve mentioned our accommodations before, I can’t remember. We’re living in a government house at the pacific ranger station, El Dorado National Forest. It’s a cozy place; one of my teammates is sleeping in the laundry room for lack of space to put a mattress.
The weeks are flying by here. Seven months ago, our first project on Catalina was an eternity of three weeks. Now, we’re moving into week four here at Pacific and I can’t believe fire season (“officially”) starts in six days.
My teammate Pat is convinced that it is the vast quantities of coffee our pro-budgeting has bequeathed us that is to blame for the temporal anomaly. Caffeine, in addition to speeding up a tired body, also speeds up your passage through time, in his theory.
I still don’t drink and don’t like coffee, so it doesn’t really apply to me. A good theory nonetheless, but once he started getting into the quantum mechanics of his theory I gave up following.
Thus far, this is my favorite project. The 4-10 schedule with its three-day weekends, the deadly PT sessions with firefighters, and all the amenities we lacked at one point or another (food, electricity, water that doesn’t taste like the kiddie pool). And within a month I could have a true fire under my belt.
A practice fire is guaranteed as long as I am not sick the weekend of June 2nd. We’ll spend a couple days cutting line, and then they light up a couple of acres of forest and let us maintain the line. Our crew boss is especially excited, because a couple of years ago they did this same live-fire drill. Except, when everyone turned in for the day, the fire jumped the line and they spent the rest of the night fighting a 13 acre fire.
A good fire year for the firefighters is not a year with a couple of minor blazes that are easily dealt with. Firefighters pray for May thunderstorms with multiple ground strikes, for early rain to promote growth and then dry winds to foster fires. A good fire year for a firefighter involves as much overtime as they can handle.
I’m a volunteer, so most of the benefits don’t apply to me. But I still want to see fire. Of course, I don’t want anyone to be injured, or endangered via proximity. I want a fire out in the wilderness where it is a necessary part of the California ecosystem, and my team and I can get a little sweaty and sooty.
I think it would be fun.
Oh and I got to go to Mexico, good stuff that.
I’m offline right now, we have to drive places for our wifi. Sitting in a 15-passenger government van with blacked out windows, it’s an interesting time when we park outside a local pizza parlor that foolishly gave us their network password.
If I’ve mentioned our accommodations before, I can’t remember. We’re living in a government house at the pacific ranger station, El Dorado National Forest. It’s a cozy place; one of my teammates is sleeping in the laundry room for lack of space to put a mattress.
The weeks are flying by here. Seven months ago, our first project on Catalina was an eternity of three weeks. Now, we’re moving into week four here at Pacific and I can’t believe fire season (“officially”) starts in six days.
My teammate Pat is convinced that it is the vast quantities of coffee our pro-budgeting has bequeathed us that is to blame for the temporal anomaly. Caffeine, in addition to speeding up a tired body, also speeds up your passage through time, in his theory.
I still don’t drink and don’t like coffee, so it doesn’t really apply to me. A good theory nonetheless, but once he started getting into the quantum mechanics of his theory I gave up following.
Thus far, this is my favorite project. The 4-10 schedule with its three-day weekends, the deadly PT sessions with firefighters, and all the amenities we lacked at one point or another (food, electricity, water that doesn’t taste like the kiddie pool). And within a month I could have a true fire under my belt.
A practice fire is guaranteed as long as I am not sick the weekend of June 2nd. We’ll spend a couple days cutting line, and then they light up a couple of acres of forest and let us maintain the line. Our crew boss is especially excited, because a couple of years ago they did this same live-fire drill. Except, when everyone turned in for the day, the fire jumped the line and they spent the rest of the night fighting a 13 acre fire.
A good fire year for the firefighters is not a year with a couple of minor blazes that are easily dealt with. Firefighters pray for May thunderstorms with multiple ground strikes, for early rain to promote growth and then dry winds to foster fires. A good fire year for a firefighter involves as much overtime as they can handle.
I’m a volunteer, so most of the benefits don’t apply to me. But I still want to see fire. Of course, I don’t want anyone to be injured, or endangered via proximity. I want a fire out in the wilderness where it is a necessary part of the California ecosystem, and my team and I can get a little sweaty and sooty.
I think it would be fun.
Oh and I got to go to Mexico, good stuff that.
Friday, April 9, 2010
Well ten+ days=one humongous blog post
I certainly have been a little blog-lax lately, but it will have to be excused on the grounds of us using up all of Camp Cedar Glen’s internet (apparently they only get a certain number of MB/month and we utilized them all), and then we had to get settled back into Sacramento.
And then I went skydiving.
So, yeah, busy time. The last days at Cedar Glen were nice. We got to name our trail the Ian Chicken trail, and we even finished building it a day early, earning ourselves a “day off” (or day of rest, due to lack of available work).
So, I want to remember howL
I’m going to do a Sam-ritual recap, really just so I remember stuff. Feel free to tag along.
-I always have to attach my watch to something when I sleep. I don’t like to sleep with it on, but I don’t like to leave it anywhere it could easily move. Preferably I wrap it around a bedpost near my head, so I can easily hear the alarm. Or I Velcro it around my nalgene (also always near when I sleep, being thirsty at night with no water nearby is one of the most base discomforts of my life)
-My bunk became an island besieged by stuff. All the stuff was very purposefully placed, and I always knew where anything was to within 1-2 layers, but with backpacks, charging electronics (I made sure to claim both the biggest bunk AND an outlet) and personal cookware, and waterbottles, and dirty clothes that did not merit a washing but sure as hell weren’t going back with the clean clothes, there was a good 2 foot barrier around my bed
-The cascade of alarms starting at 6:35. Every morning the routine was the same:
6:40-Zach’s alarm, he hits snooze
6:45-Jason’s alarm, he gets up
6:50-Zach’s alarm #2, snoozed
6:53-My alarm, I get up, and across the room from me Matt glares at me and gets up
6:55-No alarm, everyone is up with the noise. Vlad jumps down from his bunk, Steve rolls out, Pat gets up (already dressed), and Zach gets up
7:00-We gather with the girls in the adjoiner room for PT. Total silence, and once everyone is there, we file out with our hands in our pockets
-Running the trails that we built and searching the ground for mountain lion tracks. During “go for a run” PT days, I like to trail run, but no one else does. I spend the entire way up the quad-burning hill estimating my chances of meeting a human-aggressive mountain lion, and gauging adrenaline’s ability to help me fight it off. The entire run.
-Waking up half-lucid in the middle of the night scratching my poison oak like I could scrape it off my skin. The back of my leg finally scabbed over two days ago. It always took me a good 30 seconds before I realized what I was doing, and another 5 seconds before I could bring myself to stop. And of course, it was always 30 minutes before my body stopped burning with itch enough to fall back asleep.
-Getting electrocuted in the shower
-Getting electrocuted by the sink so often that I never ran water without shoes on
-Making midnight leftover-bacon runs down to the dining hall and its glorious walk-in fridges on the weekends
-Coming back to Sacramento and remembering that I had a box of thin mints still in my mini-freezer from my family’s fantastic packages
And that was Cedar Glen. It was a fun place, and it was an intro to what we are doing next (pulaskiing the crap out of hill sides for 3 months). I am sure I will miss the food.
This weekend was our “spring break,” meaning that we got both a Monday and a Friday off. Four whole days!
I mentioned a couple entries back that I wanted to try and get my skydiving certification over spring break. Namely, seven ground school course, seven jumps, and the ability to jump solo at any USPA (United States Parachuting Association) certified drop zone. Well, I did go skydiving! HAHA IT WAS GREAT
I went down to a dropzone about 1.3 hrs east of San Fran on Thursday night, taking a greyhound from Sac to Stockton, and then a Cab ride to the Byron Airfield. On the way, I learned that greyhound baggage checking has a max weight of 50 lbs, and I now carry a 60lbs backpack with ease. I also reaffirmed my belief that most people are good people who want to help, and my bag got on the bus.
At the Greyhound in Stockton, I grabbed some McDonalds (which seemed way more expensive than the last time I had it), and then hung out with the security guard at the bus stop. He said as long as I didn’t mind listening to Jesus, I could wait for my cab in his office. There was another a 20-something year old guy already in the small “bus driver’s lounge.” He was waiting for his dad to come pick him up from San Diego, and the security guard was reading to him from the book of John.
I was lucky, in that the cab driver I got was without a doubt the cheapest around. For a 30ish mile drive, he only charged me $2 a mile. We talked about all the times people had tried to rob him and pulled a gun, about skydiving, and when we got to the hangar I was going to be bumming it at, he checked to make sure I knew that no one was going to be there at 10 o’clock at night.
But again, I was lucky. Bay Area Skydiving is a classy enough place that they have pavilions, and I spread out my space-blanket ground tarp, brushed my teeth, and crawled into my bivy-sacked sleeping bag. Fifteen minutes I listened to the wind and tried to pull the corners of my Ameri-issued sleeping bag down farther, when a furry creature stepped on my sleeping bag and headbutted me in the face.
The next day, I found out that it was the skydiving cat, and two days later I figured out why its name tag read “Beer Light.” But, seeing as his collar did read Beer Light, I assumed that he was a runaway the owners (the givers of the name) were not intently searching for. Then I did something I regretted for the next two nights. I scootched over a bit, and made a spot for Beer Light to tunnel in next to me. Thus I sealed my position as the midnight warmth giver, forever woken up by Beer Light trying to poke his head into my sleeping bag.
In the morning I packed up camp, to give Bay Area Skydiving the credit of not appearing to house hobos. The instructor, an elderly brit named Gareth, arrived on a motorcycle, having crashed his car into a hillside about a week ago. Regardless of that, I would say Gareth was overqualified as a skydiving instructor; his job in his youth had apparently been testing out parachutes. The reason you know your parachute has a high chance of opening properly? Because crazy Gareths all over the world jumped out at 12,000’ with a prototype strapped to their back.
Ground school, which I did with another guy named Mark, was mostly going over the parts of the parachute, identifying what a good and bad chute looked like upon deployment, and the body position that gave the most control in freefall (a knees-at-90-degrees, “hands-up” arch). And, of course, the method for cutting away your main chute and deploying your reserve. All the parachutes I used were rectangular ram-air chutes, picture a parasail. They can be steered by pulling on two cords (the brakes), which pull down on one rear corner or another. You do a diving swoop and turn in the desired direction. Along that line, the easiest way to die under canopy (with chute deployed) is to turn too close to the ground. The swoop that swings you out and around just swings you out and slams you into the ground.
I didn’t get to jump at all on the first day, even though we finished the ground school around 1:30. The cloud cover was too low (it’s a federal offense to jump through cloud, you can’t visually tell how close to the ground you are, or avoid airborne obstacles). But Saturday dawned clear and cool, and even though it was something around -7 Fahrenheit at 13,000, I got to make four jumps.
I have always dreamed of freefall, and since parachutes are actually pretty safe if you handle them well, my logical brain figured that jumping out of a plane=no sweat. I overlooked a pretty key detail about the skydive certification process: while you are plummeting to earth at 120mph, you have two instructors hanging onto you, who you must perform a series of skills for well enough to pass onto the next level and jump. Performance anxiety, while the air rushing by is being forced into your lungs, and your body position makes you look like a P.O.W., is a killer.
With five jumps under my belt, I can safely say that I have learned how to relax a bit while diving and enjoy the sensation. But the knots in my stomach do not loosen until I hit terminal velocity. Jumping out of a plane is the most final, irrevocable thing I can think of doing; you are completely committing yourself to trusting the bundle of cloth and string strapped to your back. When jumpers leave, they rocket backwards and down in a rush of air and noise, and the plane shakes a little as the weight rebalances. To jump as a student, you stand outside the plane in the wind and cling, waiting for your instructors to give the OK. You have to give a count with body motions, so that your instructors leave at the same time you do. And then, with two skydivers holding onto each side, you let go, turn into the jetstream, and arch with everything you’ve got.
There are hand signals that your instructors give you while in freefall, to adjust your body position and pass messages along. Possibly the most important is the extension of the pointer finger, which plainly means “PULL.” When I made my first jump, the only reason I could run through the list of practice touches to your pull cord and checking my altimeter every 5 seconds was because I had practiced the motions for hours on the ground. But when I looked to check in with my instructor, and he pointed his finger, I did something of a double take. When he reconfirmed the hand signal by shaking it in my face, I assumed I had done something drastically wrong. In my haze of adrenaline and robotic action I had not been reading the altimeter as closely as necessary, and maybe I had missed the pull height. Kind of like hitting a pedestrian in a driving test, I had completely failed. Thus, I panicked, and fumbled for my ripcord.
All I could think as I floated down was that I had totally failed the easiest level. 3000’ up is a great place to vent, because there really is absolutely nothing you can do about anything for another five minutes or so.
But, as it turned out, we had just been farther from the dropzone than desirable, and my instructors wanted me to pull early so that we wouldn’t have to walk a mile back to the hangar. I passed, with instructions not to panic, and every jump after that was better than the last. As I learned the basics of relaxing in freefall, and was finally let go of on jump #3, I got to enjoy the view, spin myself around. Pretty much everything I had been looking forwards too. And so, on my fifth jump, when I solo exited their smaller plane and tumbled out of control for a couple thousand feet, everything was cool. I have no memory of where the horizon was while I tumbled, but I did figure that if I just arched like I was sposed to, everything would be fine. And it was.
Later on Sunday the clouds came back, and even though I went up for my sixth jump, I came down with the plane. I got a ride back to Sacramento with one of the instructors (an ex-MMA Kyrgyzstani with two daughters), but with luck I will complete my certification process (jumps six and seven) later this year.
And then I went skydiving.
So, yeah, busy time. The last days at Cedar Glen were nice. We got to name our trail the Ian Chicken trail, and we even finished building it a day early, earning ourselves a “day off” (or day of rest, due to lack of available work).
So, I want to remember howL
I’m going to do a Sam-ritual recap, really just so I remember stuff. Feel free to tag along.
-I always have to attach my watch to something when I sleep. I don’t like to sleep with it on, but I don’t like to leave it anywhere it could easily move. Preferably I wrap it around a bedpost near my head, so I can easily hear the alarm. Or I Velcro it around my nalgene (also always near when I sleep, being thirsty at night with no water nearby is one of the most base discomforts of my life)
-My bunk became an island besieged by stuff. All the stuff was very purposefully placed, and I always knew where anything was to within 1-2 layers, but with backpacks, charging electronics (I made sure to claim both the biggest bunk AND an outlet) and personal cookware, and waterbottles, and dirty clothes that did not merit a washing but sure as hell weren’t going back with the clean clothes, there was a good 2 foot barrier around my bed
-The cascade of alarms starting at 6:35. Every morning the routine was the same:
6:40-Zach’s alarm, he hits snooze
6:45-Jason’s alarm, he gets up
6:50-Zach’s alarm #2, snoozed
6:53-My alarm, I get up, and across the room from me Matt glares at me and gets up
6:55-No alarm, everyone is up with the noise. Vlad jumps down from his bunk, Steve rolls out, Pat gets up (already dressed), and Zach gets up
7:00-We gather with the girls in the adjoiner room for PT. Total silence, and once everyone is there, we file out with our hands in our pockets
-Running the trails that we built and searching the ground for mountain lion tracks. During “go for a run” PT days, I like to trail run, but no one else does. I spend the entire way up the quad-burning hill estimating my chances of meeting a human-aggressive mountain lion, and gauging adrenaline’s ability to help me fight it off. The entire run.
-Waking up half-lucid in the middle of the night scratching my poison oak like I could scrape it off my skin. The back of my leg finally scabbed over two days ago. It always took me a good 30 seconds before I realized what I was doing, and another 5 seconds before I could bring myself to stop. And of course, it was always 30 minutes before my body stopped burning with itch enough to fall back asleep.
-Getting electrocuted in the shower
-Getting electrocuted by the sink so often that I never ran water without shoes on
-Making midnight leftover-bacon runs down to the dining hall and its glorious walk-in fridges on the weekends
-Coming back to Sacramento and remembering that I had a box of thin mints still in my mini-freezer from my family’s fantastic packages
And that was Cedar Glen. It was a fun place, and it was an intro to what we are doing next (pulaskiing the crap out of hill sides for 3 months). I am sure I will miss the food.
This weekend was our “spring break,” meaning that we got both a Monday and a Friday off. Four whole days!
I mentioned a couple entries back that I wanted to try and get my skydiving certification over spring break. Namely, seven ground school course, seven jumps, and the ability to jump solo at any USPA (United States Parachuting Association) certified drop zone. Well, I did go skydiving! HAHA IT WAS GREAT
I went down to a dropzone about 1.3 hrs east of San Fran on Thursday night, taking a greyhound from Sac to Stockton, and then a Cab ride to the Byron Airfield. On the way, I learned that greyhound baggage checking has a max weight of 50 lbs, and I now carry a 60lbs backpack with ease. I also reaffirmed my belief that most people are good people who want to help, and my bag got on the bus.
At the Greyhound in Stockton, I grabbed some McDonalds (which seemed way more expensive than the last time I had it), and then hung out with the security guard at the bus stop. He said as long as I didn’t mind listening to Jesus, I could wait for my cab in his office. There was another a 20-something year old guy already in the small “bus driver’s lounge.” He was waiting for his dad to come pick him up from San Diego, and the security guard was reading to him from the book of John.
I was lucky, in that the cab driver I got was without a doubt the cheapest around. For a 30ish mile drive, he only charged me $2 a mile. We talked about all the times people had tried to rob him and pulled a gun, about skydiving, and when we got to the hangar I was going to be bumming it at, he checked to make sure I knew that no one was going to be there at 10 o’clock at night.
But again, I was lucky. Bay Area Skydiving is a classy enough place that they have pavilions, and I spread out my space-blanket ground tarp, brushed my teeth, and crawled into my bivy-sacked sleeping bag. Fifteen minutes I listened to the wind and tried to pull the corners of my Ameri-issued sleeping bag down farther, when a furry creature stepped on my sleeping bag and headbutted me in the face.
The next day, I found out that it was the skydiving cat, and two days later I figured out why its name tag read “Beer Light.” But, seeing as his collar did read Beer Light, I assumed that he was a runaway the owners (the givers of the name) were not intently searching for. Then I did something I regretted for the next two nights. I scootched over a bit, and made a spot for Beer Light to tunnel in next to me. Thus I sealed my position as the midnight warmth giver, forever woken up by Beer Light trying to poke his head into my sleeping bag.
In the morning I packed up camp, to give Bay Area Skydiving the credit of not appearing to house hobos. The instructor, an elderly brit named Gareth, arrived on a motorcycle, having crashed his car into a hillside about a week ago. Regardless of that, I would say Gareth was overqualified as a skydiving instructor; his job in his youth had apparently been testing out parachutes. The reason you know your parachute has a high chance of opening properly? Because crazy Gareths all over the world jumped out at 12,000’ with a prototype strapped to their back.
Ground school, which I did with another guy named Mark, was mostly going over the parts of the parachute, identifying what a good and bad chute looked like upon deployment, and the body position that gave the most control in freefall (a knees-at-90-degrees, “hands-up” arch). And, of course, the method for cutting away your main chute and deploying your reserve. All the parachutes I used were rectangular ram-air chutes, picture a parasail. They can be steered by pulling on two cords (the brakes), which pull down on one rear corner or another. You do a diving swoop and turn in the desired direction. Along that line, the easiest way to die under canopy (with chute deployed) is to turn too close to the ground. The swoop that swings you out and around just swings you out and slams you into the ground.
I didn’t get to jump at all on the first day, even though we finished the ground school around 1:30. The cloud cover was too low (it’s a federal offense to jump through cloud, you can’t visually tell how close to the ground you are, or avoid airborne obstacles). But Saturday dawned clear and cool, and even though it was something around -7 Fahrenheit at 13,000, I got to make four jumps.
I have always dreamed of freefall, and since parachutes are actually pretty safe if you handle them well, my logical brain figured that jumping out of a plane=no sweat. I overlooked a pretty key detail about the skydive certification process: while you are plummeting to earth at 120mph, you have two instructors hanging onto you, who you must perform a series of skills for well enough to pass onto the next level and jump. Performance anxiety, while the air rushing by is being forced into your lungs, and your body position makes you look like a P.O.W., is a killer.
With five jumps under my belt, I can safely say that I have learned how to relax a bit while diving and enjoy the sensation. But the knots in my stomach do not loosen until I hit terminal velocity. Jumping out of a plane is the most final, irrevocable thing I can think of doing; you are completely committing yourself to trusting the bundle of cloth and string strapped to your back. When jumpers leave, they rocket backwards and down in a rush of air and noise, and the plane shakes a little as the weight rebalances. To jump as a student, you stand outside the plane in the wind and cling, waiting for your instructors to give the OK. You have to give a count with body motions, so that your instructors leave at the same time you do. And then, with two skydivers holding onto each side, you let go, turn into the jetstream, and arch with everything you’ve got.
There are hand signals that your instructors give you while in freefall, to adjust your body position and pass messages along. Possibly the most important is the extension of the pointer finger, which plainly means “PULL.” When I made my first jump, the only reason I could run through the list of practice touches to your pull cord and checking my altimeter every 5 seconds was because I had practiced the motions for hours on the ground. But when I looked to check in with my instructor, and he pointed his finger, I did something of a double take. When he reconfirmed the hand signal by shaking it in my face, I assumed I had done something drastically wrong. In my haze of adrenaline and robotic action I had not been reading the altimeter as closely as necessary, and maybe I had missed the pull height. Kind of like hitting a pedestrian in a driving test, I had completely failed. Thus, I panicked, and fumbled for my ripcord.
All I could think as I floated down was that I had totally failed the easiest level. 3000’ up is a great place to vent, because there really is absolutely nothing you can do about anything for another five minutes or so.
But, as it turned out, we had just been farther from the dropzone than desirable, and my instructors wanted me to pull early so that we wouldn’t have to walk a mile back to the hangar. I passed, with instructions not to panic, and every jump after that was better than the last. As I learned the basics of relaxing in freefall, and was finally let go of on jump #3, I got to enjoy the view, spin myself around. Pretty much everything I had been looking forwards too. And so, on my fifth jump, when I solo exited their smaller plane and tumbled out of control for a couple thousand feet, everything was cool. I have no memory of where the horizon was while I tumbled, but I did figure that if I just arched like I was sposed to, everything would be fine. And it was.
Later on Sunday the clouds came back, and even though I went up for my sixth jump, I came down with the plane. I got a ride back to Sacramento with one of the instructors (an ex-MMA Kyrgyzstani with two daughters), but with luck I will complete my certification process (jumps six and seven) later this year.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Red Ants, Downed Team Members, and Unrelation
Heading into the final week here at Camp Cedar Glen. Looks to be about 5 more days of digging trail, and then maybe one day of goofing off when we finish early (that's the hope). They do have a ropes course here, and the kinda sorta maybe suggested that we would get to use it. And soon I will get to shoot some arrows at their hay bales, as they have an archery range.
Trail maintenance is a dreary process, to say the least. Usually about five of us make up a trail team; two Pulaskis (the axe-hoe double-trouble combo) and three McLeods (the pitchfork-jumbo hoe double-trouble combo). And yes, our tools are proper nouns because they are all named after people. Some kind of famous firefighters I think. Whatever. But, in short, the trail building sounds like this (in order) slam, hack-drag, chipchopCLANG (if there is a rock, which there always is), scrape, and the final rearrangedirt. It is a mind-numbingly slow process, and we are lucky to creep along at .2mph.
But still, it's nice to see the level, new-dirt trail behind us that you could probably drive a golf cart up in dire need. We have discussed amongst ourselves we might be making the trail a wee to wide, but we seem to be unable to alter that.
In other news, we broke the camp's pole-saw today. A pole saw is essentially a chainsaw on a telescoping stick, and the team clearing the road had it all the way out to limb up an overhanging snag. Even though the snag was fairly large, they managed to cut it off quite admirably, but unfortunately, in it's rapid descent to the ground, the branch bent the drive shaft of the saw. One of the camp staff we work with assured us that pole saws are meant to break, so no biggie. He said something about a conspiracy in which the pole saw company still own sole rights to the patent, and they make them to break often enough to be reeeeeally profitable. The idea made me drool.
It's been a rough week for silver four beside the breaking of the pole saw, last week we were down two members due to injuries and sickness. Someone got a nasty virus (which no one else picked up, thankfully), and one of our female members messed up her back via overwork. Of course, the lingering poison oak is still everywhere (the worst part is when you are in the trans-dream sleep state, and you unconsciously scratch the heck out of it. You burn for a good half-hour after one of those). And I made a close aquaintance with a number of red ants today. All it takes is stepping near the ant hill you just annihilated with your Mcleod, and for SOME reason, they climb up your pants and leave large red welts. Obnoxious to say the least.
In closing, I would like to recommend that anyone who looks into buying a GPS in the future NOT buy the brand that is called "Tom Tom." Often we have better luck arbitrarily choosing a direction than following the GPS the Govy so kindly supplied us. It gets us places eventually, but not untill double the projected travel time has passed.
And I am totally going skydiving over spring break. And, as an added bonus, I will be living like a hobo while doing it. The skydiving place said it would be ok for me to camp out on their lawn or nearby, since they are way away from any kind of amenities and I can't rent a car for some reason. So I will be living off PB&J and oatmeal, and oranges if I'm lucky.
But SKYDIVING! Wahahaha
Trail maintenance is a dreary process, to say the least. Usually about five of us make up a trail team; two Pulaskis (the axe-hoe double-trouble combo) and three McLeods (the pitchfork-jumbo hoe double-trouble combo). And yes, our tools are proper nouns because they are all named after people. Some kind of famous firefighters I think. Whatever. But, in short, the trail building sounds like this (in order) slam, hack-drag, chipchopCLANG (if there is a rock, which there always is), scrape, and the final rearrangedirt. It is a mind-numbingly slow process, and we are lucky to creep along at .2mph.
But still, it's nice to see the level, new-dirt trail behind us that you could probably drive a golf cart up in dire need. We have discussed amongst ourselves we might be making the trail a wee to wide, but we seem to be unable to alter that.
In other news, we broke the camp's pole-saw today. A pole saw is essentially a chainsaw on a telescoping stick, and the team clearing the road had it all the way out to limb up an overhanging snag. Even though the snag was fairly large, they managed to cut it off quite admirably, but unfortunately, in it's rapid descent to the ground, the branch bent the drive shaft of the saw. One of the camp staff we work with assured us that pole saws are meant to break, so no biggie. He said something about a conspiracy in which the pole saw company still own sole rights to the patent, and they make them to break often enough to be reeeeeally profitable. The idea made me drool.
It's been a rough week for silver four beside the breaking of the pole saw, last week we were down two members due to injuries and sickness. Someone got a nasty virus (which no one else picked up, thankfully), and one of our female members messed up her back via overwork. Of course, the lingering poison oak is still everywhere (the worst part is when you are in the trans-dream sleep state, and you unconsciously scratch the heck out of it. You burn for a good half-hour after one of those). And I made a close aquaintance with a number of red ants today. All it takes is stepping near the ant hill you just annihilated with your Mcleod, and for SOME reason, they climb up your pants and leave large red welts. Obnoxious to say the least.
In closing, I would like to recommend that anyone who looks into buying a GPS in the future NOT buy the brand that is called "Tom Tom." Often we have better luck arbitrarily choosing a direction than following the GPS the Govy so kindly supplied us. It gets us places eventually, but not untill double the projected travel time has passed.
And I am totally going skydiving over spring break. And, as an added bonus, I will be living like a hobo while doing it. The skydiving place said it would be ok for me to camp out on their lawn or nearby, since they are way away from any kind of amenities and I can't rent a car for some reason. So I will be living off PB&J and oatmeal, and oranges if I'm lucky.
But SKYDIVING! Wahahaha
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Heah we ah in Suthuhn Califohnya
There's no way I'm going to do the past week justice in this post, mostly because I'm a lazy SOB and I'm tired to boot.
But life with Silver Four has been eventful. We are now on location in Julian, California, about 1.3 hours outside of San Diego. From Sacramento, we drove a glorious (make sure you pick up the sarcasm there) 12 hours to our home for the next three weeks: Camp Cedar Glen. The camp is at 3500 feet up in a mountainish area, nestled into the slope in the watershed of tow neighboring peeks. I have no idea of the specific names, but one of the mountains nearby is named Vulcan, which I thought was cool enough.
I don't think I have ever been this uncomfortable as a result of physical labor in my life. Our primary job here is trail maintenance. There are around five miles of trails winding around the camp, which isn't that much, but from the state of things, it's likely that the last time these trails were worked on was in 2006 when the last AmeriCorps team was here. They are essentially game trails that people occasionally walk/crawl under fallen brush on. But I gotta say, I love the work. Most of it, at least. Swamping is a joy. With my teammate running the chainsaw, I dog along behind with the gas and oil cans, and throw everything he cuts down off the trail. Essentially, we are trailblazing. But, unfortunately, we are trailblazing through oceans of poison oak (literally), and I am itchy in various unspeakable places.
The number of game trails intersecting the real trail calls for truly hunter/tracker-worthy observation skills, and I get to plow off up the trails in search of any sign of grading or artificial berms. But on top of the views, the solitude (being wayfarahead of the hand crew, which is laboring along behind us to dig up and level out the trail), and the adventure, I get to wrestle with trees all day. What could be more fun than coming across a downed tree and just being able to move it off the trail with brute strength? I'm usually not one for huge testosterone surges, but leveraging 30', 200+lb trees down a mountainside blasts my muscles. Primal yells of victory, etcetera.
Really. It's freekin awesome.
If I can find time on this busy saturday to do it, I'm trying to call up the various skydiving establishments within 3 hours of Sacramento, to find myself something to do over spring break. My hope is to blow all of my AmeriCorps cash getting myself certified for walk-in skydiving. It's upwards of 1k dinero, but there is SO MUCH I could do with a certification. After paying fof/completing training, I can dive at 12000' for $50 a pop, or $25 if I get my own gear. And if I jump enough, I can get an instructors license, and if that doesn't scream summer job like the fourth of july, I don't know what life is meant for.
Seriously, just imagine what a summer spent as a diving instructor/helper would be like: strapping screaming thrillseekers to your chest and jumping out of planes. Or just jumping out of planes with groups. AND GETTING PAID TO DO IT.
I have to go hop around in excitement for a while, more next time.
But life with Silver Four has been eventful. We are now on location in Julian, California, about 1.3 hours outside of San Diego. From Sacramento, we drove a glorious (make sure you pick up the sarcasm there) 12 hours to our home for the next three weeks: Camp Cedar Glen. The camp is at 3500 feet up in a mountainish area, nestled into the slope in the watershed of tow neighboring peeks. I have no idea of the specific names, but one of the mountains nearby is named Vulcan, which I thought was cool enough.
I don't think I have ever been this uncomfortable as a result of physical labor in my life. Our primary job here is trail maintenance. There are around five miles of trails winding around the camp, which isn't that much, but from the state of things, it's likely that the last time these trails were worked on was in 2006 when the last AmeriCorps team was here. They are essentially game trails that people occasionally walk/crawl under fallen brush on. But I gotta say, I love the work. Most of it, at least. Swamping is a joy. With my teammate running the chainsaw, I dog along behind with the gas and oil cans, and throw everything he cuts down off the trail. Essentially, we are trailblazing. But, unfortunately, we are trailblazing through oceans of poison oak (literally), and I am itchy in various unspeakable places.
The number of game trails intersecting the real trail calls for truly hunter/tracker-worthy observation skills, and I get to plow off up the trails in search of any sign of grading or artificial berms. But on top of the views, the solitude (being wayfarahead of the hand crew, which is laboring along behind us to dig up and level out the trail), and the adventure, I get to wrestle with trees all day. What could be more fun than coming across a downed tree and just being able to move it off the trail with brute strength? I'm usually not one for huge testosterone surges, but leveraging 30', 200+lb trees down a mountainside blasts my muscles. Primal yells of victory, etcetera.
Really. It's freekin awesome.
If I can find time on this busy saturday to do it, I'm trying to call up the various skydiving establishments within 3 hours of Sacramento, to find myself something to do over spring break. My hope is to blow all of my AmeriCorps cash getting myself certified for walk-in skydiving. It's upwards of 1k dinero, but there is SO MUCH I could do with a certification. After paying fof/completing training, I can dive at 12000' for $50 a pop, or $25 if I get my own gear. And if I jump enough, I can get an instructors license, and if that doesn't scream summer job like the fourth of july, I don't know what life is meant for.
Seriously, just imagine what a summer spent as a diving instructor/helper would be like: strapping screaming thrillseekers to your chest and jumping out of planes. Or just jumping out of planes with groups. AND GETTING PAID TO DO IT.
I have to go hop around in excitement for a while, more next time.
Thursday, March 4, 2010
Burning brush piles in the rain (what fossil fuels?)
The phrase on my mind today was “if only they could see me now.” Where was I a year ago today? It’s the third? Coming back from winter break I think, dragging my body back into the combine, pondering the feasibility of a state mandated education. Today, I spent half the day felling and bucking oaks with a chainsaw, and we burned enormous brushpiles. It rained most of the day, but a little bit of diesel fuel fixed that problem.
It’s just crazy. Let’s see if I can do a first-person snippet from today…if it doesn’t feel too much like writing a college essay.
Chainsaws are heavy. To let a saw eat into a downed log is a simple matter; the weight of the saw pushes the bar through the wood. But my arms feel too dense to make the face cut. The first cut in felling a tree is a pie-slice wedge, the face cut, guiding the fall of the tree when you make the back cut to release the tension and bring it down. Wielding a 30-pound hunk of roaring metal with enough finesse to cut a pie slice out of a tree takes a lot of huffing, puffing, and stops to check your work. But of course, I’m half-blind and wet, too.
No matter how many times I wipe my goggles, it’s like I get cataracts every time I breathe. A penumbra of mist constantly follows me around; my vision is a field of gray. I glance up at the tree as I cut into it, to check for movement, but all I see are silhouettes. The rain doesn’t make things any easier. I already had to change my gloves, as my leather ones (state issued, fire retardant) got so waterlogged and heavy that they would hold form around the throttle, and the saw would continue to run until I took my hand off of it entirely.
Since the tree is supposed to fall towards that side (based on the lean), it’s totally possible that the tree will settle as you’re cutting. If your saw is in the tree when it starts to lean even a little bit, the tree will trap your bar and no amount of horsepower outside of another saw will be able to free it. Besides cutting your chaps, this is the most embarrassing thing a sawyer can do. But I finally free a wedged slice from the tree. I hit the chain brake, shut off the saw, and stretched a bit.
The final cut is the fun part. One straight slice into the tree, and it falls. I give a final shout to my teammates to let them know a tree’s coming down and start the saw. I think I stop cutting too soon, because all of my trees fall slowly, letting themselves down gently as the stump pops and cracks.
I still think it’s crazy, just to look back at what I did in school (which I think more than ever was horribly implemented, but gives me less grief now that I’m gone), and all the questions I had about my future. Especially last summer, where the amount of energy I spent fretting about getting into AmeriCorps was monumental. Last year’s Sam seems pretty shallow now. Not his fault at all I’d say, just a product of his environment. That goes to say that the school and mainstream adolescent environment in this country is pretty shallow. Sure, in school I learned all about the abstract stuff that will let me build machines to manipulate matter and energy, but I’d say I’ve learned as much this year (and with only half of AmeriCorps done, too) about human life than I have in all of my preceding 18 years combined. The way people interact, the way people live, how the individual relates to society and vice versa.
Well, this is going to turn into a societal rant, so I’m going to stop here. But thus far, 19 year-old Sam is primarily concerned with getting to sleep at a decent hour and knows his place in society.
This is my last full day here at Mendocino, and I’m going to miss the industrial kitchens, giant redwoods, and noisy generators. Tomorrow we head back to Sacramento for a day, and then it’s on to Camp Cedar Glen, about 1.5 hours east of San Diego.
It’s just crazy. Let’s see if I can do a first-person snippet from today…if it doesn’t feel too much like writing a college essay.
Chainsaws are heavy. To let a saw eat into a downed log is a simple matter; the weight of the saw pushes the bar through the wood. But my arms feel too dense to make the face cut. The first cut in felling a tree is a pie-slice wedge, the face cut, guiding the fall of the tree when you make the back cut to release the tension and bring it down. Wielding a 30-pound hunk of roaring metal with enough finesse to cut a pie slice out of a tree takes a lot of huffing, puffing, and stops to check your work. But of course, I’m half-blind and wet, too.
No matter how many times I wipe my goggles, it’s like I get cataracts every time I breathe. A penumbra of mist constantly follows me around; my vision is a field of gray. I glance up at the tree as I cut into it, to check for movement, but all I see are silhouettes. The rain doesn’t make things any easier. I already had to change my gloves, as my leather ones (state issued, fire retardant) got so waterlogged and heavy that they would hold form around the throttle, and the saw would continue to run until I took my hand off of it entirely.
Since the tree is supposed to fall towards that side (based on the lean), it’s totally possible that the tree will settle as you’re cutting. If your saw is in the tree when it starts to lean even a little bit, the tree will trap your bar and no amount of horsepower outside of another saw will be able to free it. Besides cutting your chaps, this is the most embarrassing thing a sawyer can do. But I finally free a wedged slice from the tree. I hit the chain brake, shut off the saw, and stretched a bit.
The final cut is the fun part. One straight slice into the tree, and it falls. I give a final shout to my teammates to let them know a tree’s coming down and start the saw. I think I stop cutting too soon, because all of my trees fall slowly, letting themselves down gently as the stump pops and cracks.
I still think it’s crazy, just to look back at what I did in school (which I think more than ever was horribly implemented, but gives me less grief now that I’m gone), and all the questions I had about my future. Especially last summer, where the amount of energy I spent fretting about getting into AmeriCorps was monumental. Last year’s Sam seems pretty shallow now. Not his fault at all I’d say, just a product of his environment. That goes to say that the school and mainstream adolescent environment in this country is pretty shallow. Sure, in school I learned all about the abstract stuff that will let me build machines to manipulate matter and energy, but I’d say I’ve learned as much this year (and with only half of AmeriCorps done, too) about human life than I have in all of my preceding 18 years combined. The way people interact, the way people live, how the individual relates to society and vice versa.
Well, this is going to turn into a societal rant, so I’m going to stop here. But thus far, 19 year-old Sam is primarily concerned with getting to sleep at a decent hour and knows his place in society.
This is my last full day here at Mendocino, and I’m going to miss the industrial kitchens, giant redwoods, and noisy generators. Tomorrow we head back to Sacramento for a day, and then it’s on to Camp Cedar Glen, about 1.5 hours east of San Diego.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Livin' in the Doll House
So this past weekend my team finally got a taste of living all together under one roof. Till now, whenever we go on spike we either stayed in separate tents, cabins, or rooms. But last weekend the Boys and Girls clubs had us move out of our rooms because there were actual kids coming to use the camp, honest-to-goodness campers. So we moved into one of the houses that camp owns (this one's called the doll house, there must be at least 5 just sitting empty around camp, in various states of disrepair). We spent most of last week cleaning the house out, fixing it up, and staining its floors, so it was a getting our just rewards kind of thing. Very posh.
It was interesting, but could have been cooler, because we were really only at the house for sleeping purposes. We still hung out down at the main building complex, which has the lounge (with electric lighting!) and the kitchen. A few of us still dream of a “Silver 4 House” where we all chill in the living room. Maybe one spike, but not any spike soon.
Arrgh. I’m frustrated with this camp. Not awfully so, just it’s week three of our stay here and we still have yet to find where they are hiding the board games. If they have any. Honestly, what’s the point of having no electricity if there are no board games? Cards are an option of course, but I lost my entire $5 buy-in by the second hand of poker last time, so I’m iffy on that one. I’m really not that bad, it’s just the guy I was in a bluff-off with had a higher face card (ace to my king…sigh). I’m pro.
Today was pretty fun. We splintered into three groups, and I headed off with 3 other guys to clean out the maintenance sheds. Not super fun in itself, but Camp Mendocino gets most of its equipment via donation or army surplus (apparently their official non-profit status figures in at the federal level, so they are eligible for HUGE air force dump-trucks or a military grade forklift—which was named Anthony). Plus, they’ve been a camp for over half a century, so they have a lot of cool junk accumulated, which we get to fool with before throwing out (or sometimes keeping)
They have a massive box of .22 caliber bullet casings from where there was a rifle range at the camp (now it’s politically incorrect to teach inner-city kids how to respect guns). There are two chariot (think coliseum) beds, sans wheels, waiting to be utilized. They have a large assortment of industrial grade tools—namely, wrenches that are half as tall as I am and truly a bitch to lift. The best find of the day was a piece of nameless rubber with a mini caribiner attached to it, which I have now appropriated and added to my collection.
It’s true, you can’t trust us AmeriCorps kids with anything. If given the chance, we will steal your needless junk and expired food right out from under you.
Devious little bastards, aren’t we?
It was interesting, but could have been cooler, because we were really only at the house for sleeping purposes. We still hung out down at the main building complex, which has the lounge (with electric lighting!) and the kitchen. A few of us still dream of a “Silver 4 House” where we all chill in the living room. Maybe one spike, but not any spike soon.
Arrgh. I’m frustrated with this camp. Not awfully so, just it’s week three of our stay here and we still have yet to find where they are hiding the board games. If they have any. Honestly, what’s the point of having no electricity if there are no board games? Cards are an option of course, but I lost my entire $5 buy-in by the second hand of poker last time, so I’m iffy on that one. I’m really not that bad, it’s just the guy I was in a bluff-off with had a higher face card (ace to my king…sigh). I’m pro.
Today was pretty fun. We splintered into three groups, and I headed off with 3 other guys to clean out the maintenance sheds. Not super fun in itself, but Camp Mendocino gets most of its equipment via donation or army surplus (apparently their official non-profit status figures in at the federal level, so they are eligible for HUGE air force dump-trucks or a military grade forklift—which was named Anthony). Plus, they’ve been a camp for over half a century, so they have a lot of cool junk accumulated, which we get to fool with before throwing out (or sometimes keeping)
They have a massive box of .22 caliber bullet casings from where there was a rifle range at the camp (now it’s politically incorrect to teach inner-city kids how to respect guns). There are two chariot (think coliseum) beds, sans wheels, waiting to be utilized. They have a large assortment of industrial grade tools—namely, wrenches that are half as tall as I am and truly a bitch to lift. The best find of the day was a piece of nameless rubber with a mini caribiner attached to it, which I have now appropriated and added to my collection.
It’s true, you can’t trust us AmeriCorps kids with anything. If given the chance, we will steal your needless junk and expired food right out from under you.
Devious little bastards, aren’t we?
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