|
(Updated
February 18, 2002)
NEWS
RELEASE- The Outdoor Neophyte receives a photographic honor.
__________________________
"Neophyte"
= newcomer, novice, raw recruit, tenderfoot, greenhorn
Welcome to
Base Camp for Beginners!
My
name is Elizabeth Rassiga and I am the classic, 100% outdoor
neophyte.
This year’s birthday
cake will sport 55 candles and will be celebrated with husband, two
grown children, one stepdaughter and two grandchildren ages 3 and 5
years old. I am an ordinary woman and most assuredly
not a jock.
Have
you considered the outdoor experience and found it intimidating?
Decades ago a newfangled
exercise regime came upon the scene, I got dressed up in my brand new
tights, leotard, legwarmers and entered a class. As it turns out, the instructor was
a professional dancer. Her
students had learned their routines well and whirled effortlessly and
flawlessly. The class moved left while I moved right and vice-versa. Fortunately, in the tangle, I did not
fall. The instructor never even acknowledged my presence and I ended
up leaving early, never to return to that type of class again.
By contrast, I signed
up for a regular aerobics class some time later (once the sting of embarrassment
had subsided) and found the instructor gracious, understanding and willing
to work with and accommodate a person new to the lingo and routines.
All I wanted to accomplish in both cases was better fitness and
health.
This website seeks
to create a supportive “Base Camp” for the uninitiated beginner,
as well as, any woman who finds story
sharing of her outdoor experiences entertaining,
inspiring and motivating. We all have something to learn from
each other…outdoorneophyte.com wants to provide the vehicle to
make this type of dialogue become a reality.
As a way of introducing
myself to you, I’ll tell you a little story. As you read my story, perhaps you will
think of some incident in your own outdoor experience, or some aspiration,
which you could share with women as they begin to gather at “base
camp.”
Granny’s
New Shoes
In July of 1996, at the age of 50, I was
ushered through the door of a “hard core” sporting equipment
shop by a new friend who also happens to be a mountain climber, in search
of my first pair of hiking boots.
Added to the intimidation of the type of shop was its location,
only a few miles from Donner Pass on the eastern slope of the Sierra
Nevada Mountains. The boots were “gear” intended
to take me into that awesome landscape which heretofore I had thoroughly
enjoyed viewing from a car window or from the safety of almost any parking
lot on the valley floor in Reno where I’d lived for eleven years.
The
sign over the door contained the word mountaineer, I was the proverbial
fish out of water, hyperventilating and I knew it. I grew up a bookworm with over protective parents. “Outdoor” to me was the
distance between any building, the car, and the door on the next building. Chances of my walking into a shop such
as this had exactly the same statistical probability as my voluntarily
visiting an IRS office.
Once
inside my fears were confirmed.
Racks and shelves of equipment and clothing appeared constructed
from fabrics totally unfamiliar and with functions I could not fathom:
microporous waterproof/breathable coating, storm flaps with drain channels
covering zippers, Gore-Tex, Supplex, balaclava, neoprene, compression
stuff sacks, head lamps, net bug suits, shiny silver thermal survival
blankets, gaiters for boots, gaiters for necks, fluorescent climbing
rope with accompanying hardware, ascenders, slings, crampons and ice
axes. That only scratched the surface. The same urge to escape an unfamiliar environment, like the
newfangled exercise class, welled up inside of me; only the iron claw
grip of my friend kept me from fleeing.
I’ll
always be grateful that my friend kept me there, focused my attention
on buying the ugliest boots I’ll ever own (somewhere between those
worn by lumberjacks and steelworkers) and marched me up to the cash
register.
Between
July and September I tried to walk in the hills near my house almost
every day. The “ugly”
boots never gave me a blister, the high tops hugged and supported my
ankles, and the deep tread on the sole gave me, the scardy cat adventurer,
confidence trudging up and downhill.
Out of curiosity I got out my baby book and searched out my mother’s
familiar handwriting: “Elizabeth stands alone 7 ˝ months; takes
first steps March 15th; got new shoes size 2 ˝ and walks
good April 5“th (11 months old). It made me chuckle to think of adding
a further entry into my baby book: “Elizabeth age 50 walking with
red ski poles and hiking boots size 8, improving slowly.”
 The end of September the boots
and I joined a merry band of ladies for a week of hiking around Desolation
Wilderness, the mountain area at the south end of Lake Tahoe. I was near sick with worry about keeping
up, being able to hold my own and while it was far from easy for me,
I did it. The group was
wonderful, chiming in with helpful pointers, “Try and not walk
on pine needles going downhill…they are slippery”, and presenting
me with my very own “bear whistle” to ward off unwanted
furry company along the trails. They gave me the nickname Garage
Sale because in my attempt to cover “any situation”
I had so much stuff hanging off my backpack.
In
November, the boots flew to Borneo, the third
largest island after Greenland and New Guinea. They trudged, in driving
monsoon rains with mud literally knee deep, through primordial rainforest
along the border  of
the sultanate of Brunei and along part of the Headhunter Trail where
only a hundred years earlier Kayan war parties had made their way into
the area. We pulled off
leaches, watched for king cobras, and marveled at phosphorescent insects
in the inky night. My husband
became a perpetual motion machine, from dawn until dusk, trying to evade
dark clouds of sweat bees, which took a particular liking to him.
Our last night in the jungle was spent in a longhouse, eating
soup made from a fat, pasty looking grub (it had a fragrant scent and
tasted even better) and sleeping on traditionally woven mats, as guest
of the Penan people. There the boots and I parted company. Sometime,
while we slept, they disappeared never to be seen again. Head hunting
was officially banned in 1936… almost certainly the grandson of
a head-hunter warrior now wears my first boots; I’m content to
think of them fording rivers which can rise and fall 15 feet overnight,
crossing deadfall the size of a mini-van and stepping their wearer on
and off the longboats which routinely shoot whitewater rapids, the highways
of Borneo.
April
Fool’s Day, 1997, five months later, my second pair of boots took
me to the Himalayas in Tibet on a two-month long mountain climbing expedition
to the sixth highest mountain in the world (Cho
Oyu). I was the only
trekker on the climbing team and the entire time I was on the mountain,
living at 18,500 feet altitude, I wondered, ”Is trekker spelled
with one “k” or two?”
My mountain climbing friend said that I had gone from not owning
a football to being in the Super Bowl.
Certainly I was in the Super Bowl of outrageous landscapes!
But
that’s another story.
The
three years following proved no less exciting.
“Granny’s
going to take a walk”,
doesn't mean the same thing any
more!
I hike is no
longer a simple subject and verb; rather, it has become poetry which
allows me to experience the romance of travel, the magic of fellow travelers
and exotic cultures, and perhaps, most importantly, a way of listening
to my own inner self. Outdoor
adventure is, in a very real sense, a form of meditation which separates
us from normal chatter and responsibilities, to a place in which we
can experience ourselves.
Since I now have these
experiences, am I still a neophyte? Absolutely! Nor
would I want it any other way. Each new trail I walk is a brand new experience, opening
up vistas and insights, which I would not have, had I not passed that
way. The fear of risk in
adventure and the unknown is far surpassed by the fear of not experiencing
what I know to be out there. I am compelled to WALK ON! and content
to do so with the naiveté of a neophyte…because it makes the experience
even better.
From my perspective,
I am blessed that the outdoor experience came so late in life,
like a true love. While
I may not have the physical capacity of a 20 year old, I have resolve,
and a burning curiosity, which keeps my boots moving forward.
How do you spell outdoor adventure?
Have you never thought
about it, like I never did? Or,
have you thought about it and just never had the opportunity?
If you could close
your eyes and reappear somewhere outdoors, where would it be and what
would you be doing? Hiking,
biking, rowing, doing photography or writing?
What has happened to
you that has scared you, thrilled you, or amazed you on outings?
How has outdoor adventure
helped you to evolve as a person?
What was the funniest
thing that ever happened to you on an adventure?
What has been your
greatest reward on an outdoor adventure?
What handy-dandy tips
or lesson would you share with a neophyte?
My tip is: always travel with pictures of your
family and postcards from where you live to share with locals. People are as intrigued by us as we
are with them even in different parts of the United States.
___________________
This past fall, after
hiking 160 miles along the Tibetan border in the Kingdom of Bhutan,
I picked up a book of folk tales retold by Kunzang Choden. She makes the wise observation that
the Bhutanese believe a story must be unraveled, released, and heard by another person or evil
spirits will steal it away into oblivion.. When I read her thoughts, I realized
the Bhutanese have a point. You have heard one of my little stories;
now, it’s your turn. Don’t
let the evil spirits steal your story into oblivion.
We’re here at
base camp waiting to hear from you.
If you can scan in pictures with your story…even better.
Click now on Your Stories and then Email
me to send your own story. Additionally, if you are visiting this website
I'd appreciate your comments in an Email.
A final thought:
If you are also an outdoor neophyte,
try calling yourself that out
loud. It is a disclaimer that will permit
you to ask questions, walk into “hard core” sporting shops
with impunity, and allow other people to become genuinely excited about
sharing what they know with you!
Try it…
The best is yet to
come,
Elizabeth
|