Grant's Womb

It is an absolute relief to write this blog entry today. Not necessarily because writing in my blog is so cathartic, but because writing in my blog is not writing about the mitochondrial permeability transition pore, or "mPTP" for you ignorant, ignoramouses (insert deep, echo-y hallway laugh here). As weak of a segue as that may have been, let me introduce you to my new friend, "Grant". Grant is one of those tiny people who appear frail, but when pushed, can leave a shark bite in a shark. Sounds like an asshole? Well, lately Grant has been just that. Never happy, always taciturn, and inconsistently cantankerous. But the more we get to know each other, the more we get along. I'm not going to say we don't have our fights (partly because he has kept me from my good friend, "Beer"), but by September 5th, he should be (ahem...WILL BE) mature enough to live on his own, and then I can get back to spending more time with Beer. Simply put, I am but a temporary womb for Grant, providing him with nutrients, time, encouragement, and occasional anecdotes to remind him of the little parasite that he his: the Ruth L. Kirschstein National Service Award, a.k.a., the "NRSA".

Yes, I should be working on my NRSA grant right now. But I've got 30 minutes until I meet with my advisor about my "Specific Aims" page, so what better window do I have to procrastinate and feed my soul to the binary universe. Since my last post, I have repeated an entire set of experiments in four days (which, of course, consumed a weekend), I spent quality time with my girlfriend's parents visiting from Tennessee, which included a four-day stint near Crater Lake, I chased down my ex-dog that ran away in southeast Portland while on a move with my "Ex" from Sioux Falls to San Francisco (yes, that is a little odd, but "Petey" was found), I am scheduled to "volunteer" this weekend at the 2006 Portland International Beer Fest (yes, I get to hang out with Beer briefly. And his friends), I have been sweating like hell under a magnifying glass, courtesy of the world's automobile addiction, my aunt from Dallas, TX flies into Portland today with Lance Armstrong (yes, also a little odd), there is a farewell outing tonight for Matt (*see earlier post...or don't), who is leaving tomorrow for a month-long neuroscience ed-you-kashon in Wood's Hole, MA...

And I've been working on my F*&%-n' grant. Except for right now. Yes, it's a busy time for Dustin. And that won't likely change anytime soon, as Grant is sure to overstay his welcome as my brother arrives for a 10-day Pacific Northwest sojourn on August 8th. But my brother's visit will provide a nice intermission from all the writing, especially our planned camping trip with about 8 other friends. Alas, to live busy is to be alive. "Wow, that's so deep, Dustin; so profound! Ghandi couldn't have said it better. You should really spend more time writing with such elegant words, especially about science."

Thanks, Grant.

...asshole.

An Ode To "Your Nastiness"

Finally. Last weekend I found some time to escape those nebulous, invisible binds that had ever-so-slyly constricted my serenity. I was gasping for mountain air! Summer is typically skewed in the Pacific Northwest, with July signaling the start of a three-month blue sky marathon. As you can see from the photos, I found plenty of unbounded, blue canvass (click on the photos to make them larger).

The trek began last Saturday afternoon while looking for that perfect, untrampled, new locale. I, along with my good friend, Matt, careened up a network of boulder-laden fire roads to Wahtum Lake in the Mark O. Hatfield Wilderness. Having never been there, I didn't know what to expect except, obviously, a lake. Of course, our travel to "Point B" was less than linear (for those of you familiar with Matt's keen sense of direction), eventually taking cue from some burley men pouring black liquids into roadside trucks -- you know, the people that probably know every tree in the forest. "Wahtum Lake? Why would you want to go there? That's a nasty little lake," they replied as we asked for directions. Eventually we convinced them that we really did want to go there, despite it's "nastiness," and they referred us to a turn-off 180 degrees and two miles behind us, precisely where Matt assured me that "he would have noticed if that sign had said 'Wahtum Lake'". After turning up this avenue (where the sign most certainly did say "Wahtum Lake 10 miles"), we were greeted with a new sign reading, "Warning, Storm Damaged Road". I was expecting some potholes and downed branches. What the sign SHOULD have read was "Warning, enormous bolders all over the road and teetering from above, just waiting to jump on top of your car, in combination with sheer cliffs that, for some reason, have no guard rails -- oh, and don't pay any attention to Mt. Hood, because if you look to admire its awesome presence, then the bolders don't matter because you'll drive off the cliff anyway". I realize that would have to be a pretty big sign, but somehow "Storm Damaged Road" seems a little terse.

We rolled into the campground, immediately grabbed our packs, and hiked the short quarter-mile trail down to the lake. And let me tell you: I have NEVER seen such a nasty little lake. With one look, you would swear that you've discovered where all the US Congressional legislation ends up -- along with that missing gaggle of bucolic bulls. Wahtum Lake is indeed the nastiest little lake I've ever seen. Just look at it! But we decided to stick it out since we had finally found it, and I was finally feeling those constricting binds relaxing. Despite a crowded parking lot, the trail and campsites (which were nothing more than padded grass and a circle of ash-covered stones) were rather empty. We claimed a nice piece of lake-side real estate and decided to contaminate the lake further with our beaded sweat and dirty nailbeds. YO! So the lake isn't just nasty, but COLD! I suppose snowmelt from Mt. Hood is a few degrees below room temperature, but...alright, I'm not complaining. Maybe "refreshing" is more apt than "cold".

Now that we were refreshed, it was time to hike. Somewhere. Uhhhh...that way. Trusting my keen sense of direction (and Matt's keen sense of smell), I figured we had a good chance of finding our way to Chinidere Mountain AND our way back to camp. This two-mile hike was steep and full of obnoxious trees EVERYWHERE! I swear, if it wasn't nasty lakes, it was obnoxious trees blowing in the wind, dropping nuts and things...and growing...but again, we made it this far so we figured we should check out "Point C." Now it's time to lose the hyperbole for just a moment, because "Point C" was remarkable. Unforgettable, to be more precise. In my nearly three years as an Oregonian, I have yet to trump the view atop Chinidere Mountain. I was able to count five mountain peaks of the Northern Cascades, including Seattle's mammoth, Mt. Rainer. There, unlike Bono, I did find what I had been looking for: a solace sojourn apart from data, qualifying exams, and my life of heresy some call "Science." I was -- now in agreement with Bono -- simply, "one". And then Matt made a cell phone call. Partly because he wanted to share the moment with his lovely, yet absent girlfriend, and partly because "I just switched to Singular and they're so awesome, dude, I mean, look, I get three bars even in the forest!". Yes, somehow, we all still love Matt for those moments, despite any mountain mantras being interrupted by the incessant rattle of his rock drum sticks against his rock snares and rock toms. Anyway, hiking makes me hungry. Back to "The Nastiness"!

Somewhere between Matt deciding whether to eat an entire pound of beef or just 2/3 pound, I cracked open the first lake-chilled Deschuttes Twilight Ale and began my usual nuts-and-berries feast. Two vegan pizza burgers and a half-bag of trail mix later, it was time for my staring contest with the fire...that we didn't have. With Oregon on our side, we quickly found enough wood (ahem, small trees) to ignite some moonlit flames. There were beers drank, a bottle of wine imbibed (by...the bears!), 46 songs of jazz and blues critiqued (iPODs + Camping: who could have guessed such a harmonious marriage?). All we were missing was Ang Lee for the sequel. OK, OK...there were NO sheep, I promise!

The sun came knocking loudly on my tent the next morning and the lake, in all its nastiness, was begging for companionship. DAMN that's COLD! I mean, "refreshing". I later devoured some delectable eggs and a cup of non-bleach filtered, micro-roasted Z-Beans, French Roast, slow-drip coffee. The rustic woods never tasted so good! Before uprooting camp, I explored neighboring campsites to consider returning to Wahtum Lake with my friends and brother this August. It took little consideration. After another hair-bending traverse back down the "Storm Damaged Road" and a "minor" problem with Matt's breaks smoldering to a near-fire, we reached "Point D," which looked exactly like "Point A," but somehow felt like an entirely new place -- a place where I could breath. I attribute that effect to the charm (and polluting, toxic hallucinogens) of "Wahtum Lake, Your Nastiness".