I know I posted a poem yesterday. But I needed to read this poem today, and there was this poem. One of the things I love about poetry is how certain poems mean something to you at certain times. A month ago, this would have been a lovely poem, but it wouldn't have made me sparkly. This morning, it did. It brings things into focus for me (as Mary Oliver always does) and reminds me why I love the world and what I love about my own particular place within it.

Messenger 
          ~Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
    equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
    keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
    astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
    and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
    to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
    that we live forever.

Happy Thursday!

I've been thinking for awhile that I've not been doing much "English geek" stuff on my English geek blog. Not many book reviews. Hardly any poems. So, without further ado, I introduce my new feature: Wednesday Poems. Every Wednesday, I'm going to put a poem I love on my blog. Sometimes I'll have something to say. Sometimes I'll just leave you to yourself to appreciate. Your thoughts and reactions would be wonderful! Here's the first one:

Eating Poetry
          ~Mark Strand

Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.

The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.

The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.

Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.

She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.

I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.

This is definitely an mmmmmmmmm poem for me. Which is a bit ironic, considering the subject. I went to a Mark Strand poetry reading a few years ago and it was one of my life's highlights---his poems are good. I like this one because it reinforces my idea that poetry can be delicious. But it's definitely not an un-messy meal. Or at least the poems I like aren't!

What do you think about this poem?

The two years I was a teacher were hard on Jake and Nathan. Their world changed drastically, from having a mom who was pretty much around all the time (well, except for going to school, but attending college is much less time intensive than working at a school) to one who was hardly ever home, and when she was home, one who was distracted and stressed and sad. It was hardest for Jake, who was five and starting kindergarten. I had gotten the last two spots in the daycare they had at the high school I taught, but that meant that he had to go to a kindergarten in the little town I was teaching in, instead of the one all of his friends were going to. Every morning, we'd get up at 6:30. I'd help the boys get dressed with the lights down low, but it hardly helped; they were always tired. Once we got to the high school, I'd walk them into the daycare, holding one of their hands in each of mine. But inevitably, about half-way through the parking lot, one of them would stop. "I want to go back home," they'd say. Or, "Momma, I'm tired." Or "Mom, I miss you already. Can't you stay with us in daycare?"

Being a mom is a layered emotional experience. You feel things in a million different strata: how you yourself feel about the experience (me wanting to fall down in the high school parking lot and weep because I was tired too, and wanted to go home, and didn't know how I would ever talk around the lump in my throat anyway, and missing them? I miss you all the time---those words can't say how it felt, being torn out of my mother role). The way you feel about your children's feelings about the experience (me wondering why things had turned the way they did and suddenly I was required to be this mother, the one who takes her kids to daycare every day even though she didn't want to, and me so unsure about how to comfort them, and me so heartbroken at their heartbreak).  The way you feel about being powerless to make things better for them (I mean, really: why exactly did  it happen that I had to go to work, when I believed so strongly that my children needed me?). We all needed something to get us through the daycare parting.

And there was a little solution I was prompted to invent. Whenever we'd stop in the parking lot, I'd get down so I was eye-level with both of them. I'd squeeze their hands, and I'd tell them that I was giving them Momma Power. This power, I told them, flowed out of my hands and right into theirs, and then into their bloodstream and straight to their hearts. Momma Power could make them brave. It could help them cope even though they were sad or tired or scared or lonely. Momma Power was me being with them even when I couldn't be with them.

And even though the daycare partings eventually got a little easier, Momma Power became this little thing I do with Jake and Nathan. And yesterday, Jakey needed some Momma Power. Because it was his turn to give a talk in church on Sunday, and he was terrified.

In the LDS church, our children's organization is called Primary. Every Sunday in Primary, there are opening or closing exercises (depending on how each Primary is organized) which include songs, scriptures, birthday cards, and a talk. Jake's not given a talk since he was nearly four---so for almost five years. He was so nervous about his talk. I, of course, reassured him over and over that he would do a great job. But when Sunday came along, he was still anxious about it.

I left the class I was in to come and listen to his talk. I sat in the Primary room and listened to the song they were singing, and then it was Jake's turn to walk up to the stage and give his talk. He hadn't seen me come in, and he turned to the back to look for me with the look he used to get on his face when I'd leave him at daycare. Then he caught my eye. And for a second he didn't move at all, except for his face lit up. Except for the Momma Power flowing between us, even though I wasn't holding his hand. He needed my strength just for a second, just as a spark to get his own courage going. Momma Power.

He shook his head. And then he squared his shoulders, turned around, and went to the stage. Gave his talk (it was about the beatitudes) with not even a quiver in his voice. And before he went back to his seat, he gave me his radiant smile. Jamie, one of my friends who works in the Primary on Sundays, was sitting next to me, and as I watched Jake walk back to his chair, I could hear her sniffling. "What's wrong?" I whispered.

"It was just so sweet," she whispered back, "how he looked for you and once he knew you were here, he was OK. It was as if you made him brave." She felt it, too---Momma Power. Which really doesn't have anything to do with me. I'm just the catalyst. Jake still did his talk on his own. Jamie does this too, as do all moms---act as the starting place, the strong and reliable stone each child starts from. And, you know, as horrid as those days of daycare separation were, I am grateful we got Momma Power out of them. Somehow, just giving it a name makes it seem more real.

And I hope I'm always able to give him a little bit of Momma Power whenever he needs it.

You know what they say about addictions. You end up addicted to something and you look back and think---wait a minute. How did that happen? I mean, I'm the girl who's clueless about any pre-1990 t.v. (well, except for MTV, and really, all I watched regularly even then was 120 Minutes). People start talking about the Partridge Family or the Brady Bunch and I just sort of glaze over. The only t.v. show I ever watched regularly was Little House on The Prairie.

But somehow? Somehow I've become a t.v. addict. I could blame it on Kendell, who got me hooked. It started with only a little bit of escapism: E.R. (Have I mentioned that I have never missed an episode of E.R.? Not one.) But then it ballooned. Remember The Profiler? Ooooh, and then there was the X Files. Friends. Law & Order. CSI. I fought so hard against Survivor. (Darn Neleh!) And now. Now it is Grey's Anatomy. Which everyone in the t.v.-addict world knows premiered tonight.

Oh. My. GOSH!!! It was good. It was so good. Kendell might be miffed at me, because I watched it without him. (Which I'm fairly certain is the sign of a true addict, right? I mean, there's social t.v., in which we cuddle a little bit and pause to talk over ideas and Kendell rolls his eyes when I start to cry. But then there's solitary t.v., which involves only a cold Fresca, a Baby Ruth, and a comfy blanket. Oh, yeah. I've stepped over the line.) I couldn't wait. COULDN'T.

And I decided that I have fallen in love with the character of Callie. What she said to Finn about it being high school with scalpels? So good. And when she said "I'm the girl sitting in the back of the room chewing on her hair"? Oh, yeah. I wanted to know what she was cooking. Maybe even have a bite (even though I was full with my rendition of Molly's Corn Kettle Polenta). And tell her that it's not just doctors. I think in some ways none of us ever leave those high school insecurities. You enter the halls of high school and you get branded, and it never really fades, does it? (Well, at least, I know my brand is still there. But maybe I am odd.)

So, there I was, sitting alone in the basement, wishing someone would bring me more Fresca. Literally talking to my screen about that baby. Why is adoption never mentioned in cases like that? Someone explain! Loving Addison; she is working out her own redemption here. Loving what Finn said. Loving what Derek said. Loving how Dr. Bailey came undone, unbuckled her Nazi persona, and wept. Loving that Christina was crying on Dr. Burke's bed, and wondering what she would say.

When DAMN if my DVR didn't cut off the last three minutes. THREE MINUTES!!!!!!

I'm sure someone could recap it for me. But dang it ( pardon my expletive up there!), I don't want a recap. Come on! Does my DVR not know that I am an addict? A junkie? That I neeeeeed to know what happened---need to see it with my own eyes? I want to see it! My friend Kelly told me that they are re-airing the premiere on Friday. Which is only less than 24 hours away, right?

But what a long day tomorrow will be as I wait for my fix!

Just Kaleb and me, sitting on the front porch in the last warmth and light of the day, the Bigs at soccer and Kendell in the house recuperating from his six-day-long trip to Virginia for work. Just me and Kaleb, until the cat walked around the corner of the house and jumped up onto the porch.

"Hi, Keeee!" he said. Just casually. Like stringing two words together is no big deal---like he does it all the time. Like that wasn't the first time he used two words together.

Then, tonight, this conversation, after he'd given me his open-mouth kiss and I'd tucked his quilt around him:

"Night night, Kaleb," I said.

"Nkee?" he asked. [Translation: blankie?]

"You want your blankie?"

"Yah yah yah yah yah!" So I gave him his blankie. [Which is light blue. And satiny on one side. I am trying to forgive the guy in church last weekend who said to Kaleb, "Dude! That's sure not a very manly blanket, is it?"] And then he had one more question.

"Ba ba?" [Translation: yes, I know there is no longer any milk left in that bottle. I would still like to hold it. You know I like to cuddle my empty bottle.]

"You want your bottle?"

"Yah yah yah yah yah!" He rolled onto his side, bottle tucked into his armpit, blankie against his cheek.

"Are you ready to sleep now?"

"Mommom." And a yawn. [Translation: good night, mom! I love you! See you in the morning!]

Gotta just adore one-year-olds!!!

and I let the fish go. (Kudos to you if you know what poem that is from!)

A few days ago, Sophia posted a blog challenge: tell what memories or emotions you have associated with certain colors. I've had that line in my head ever since, and so in an effort to remove it from constant repetition, I present to you my Personal Color Symbolism:

Purple was my grandma's favorite color. So for me, purple is connected to unconditional love, the soft, tented skin on old hands, the scent of moisturizer and coffee, and a feeling of being completely and totally safe. When someone asks me "what's your favorite color?" it's generally a toss-up between purple and green. It's the second most-common color in my flower beds (pink is the first), a great color for scrapbooking, and It's also the color of my kitchen.

Blue is a color I've learned to love. Of course, this is a cliche, but I associate blue with my boys. Jake's blue is navy, Nathan's is summer-sky blue, and I am still discovering Kaleb's. One of my top-ten favorite poems has the word blue in it nine times. And blue is another frequent color in my flowerbeds.

Green is right up there with purple as my favorite color. To me, being outside surrounded by green is one of the best ways to find peace. So for me, green is a very calming color. It's second only to blue in cardstock-quantities on my scrapping shelves, so it is definitely a color I reach for often. I've recently discovered an affinity for the color lime, which previously repulsed me. I'm also intrigued by the green inside of an avocado, how it transitions from light to dark in a nearly-perfect gradation. My favorite gemstone is the emerald, my most-desired European destination is Ireland. And I love the synonyms for the word green: aquamarine, emerald, grass, kelly, pea, beryl, sap, apple, moss, sea. Especially beryl. I love that word.

I really want to like yellow. I admire yellow rooms. I love sunflowers. I like the theory of yellow---cheery and warm. But it's close to the bottom of my favorite-colors list. Still, there might not be anything better than yellow newborn-baby clothes. You know that butter-yellow color that makes the clothes seem softer? Oh, yeah. As in this picture:   (That's Kaleb at about five days old, btw).

I love orange. It's a fall thing for me: there's just something about ripe pumpkins and just-turned-orange oak trees that makes me feel content. It's associated with creativity in my mind, for some reason. When Haley was little, as soon as she could talk (and she was a precious one who talked before she could walk!), she loved orange. She said it "uh lange" and it made her so happy. She had her favorite orange outfit, not to be confused with her favorite overalls, which were orange. She'd constantly want to color with the orange marker or crayon or pencil. But then she turned five and started kindergarten, and one of the first things she learned, somehow, is that girls are supposed to have pink as their favorite color. I'm still sad that she's abandoned orange for pink. However, it is still Nathan's favorite color. He can't get enough of orange t-shirts, and when he was in his "swishy pants" phase (during which jeans of any kind were an abhorrent torture technique), he went through three pair of orange ones. And just last Friday, when we went on our special night, he bought an orange N at the scrapbook store!

Red is a color I wish I looked good in. My sister-in-law Cindy wears a lot of red and she always looks good in it---but me, not so much. I'm always drawn to it in the store, but when I try on anything red, I'm always disappointed with how it looks on me. I don't use it much in scrapbooks, either---not sure why! However, ever since I fell in love with Anne of Green Gables in the fourth grade (thanks, Mom, for that Christmas gift!), I have adored red hair. I've sometimes even had red hair.  My Grandma Elsie had red hair (so I'm told...by the time I came along, it was white), and so I always thought that since I have the genes for it, I had a possibility of getting a redheaded baby. Didn't happen. Maybe there'll be a redheaded grandchild in my future. I tease Kendell that I have a redheaded soul and that he's not going to recongize me in the next life! ;)

I love wearing pink. If I had to choose a happy color, pink would be it. It's the color I plant the most in my flowerbeds. Florescent, rose, coral, blush, pale, bright, heathered, faded, deep: I've never met a pink I didn't like! But, although it is my happy color, it is also a sad color for me, because I always wanted, wished, and hoped for one more baby girl to indulge in my pink obsession. So when I walk through the Baby Gap or Gymboree, I feel like I put on a pair of pink blinders so I just don't allow myself to see anything pink.

Black is my color of choice when it comes to clothes. When I was in high school, I went through a serious and extended Goth Girl phase, and while I grew out of the spiked, harsh hair, the black nail polish and dramatic makeup, and most of the drama of the attitude---I'm still most comfortable in black. On any given day, I can usually pull together an all-black outfit. It probably sounds silly. I just like wearing black; it makes me feel unnoticeable---and thus safely armored---all at once.

Since I started this post out with someone else's words that I can't get out of my head, I'm going to finish it that way, too. These are just snippets of bigger pieces that keep running through my head. Someone tell me they're as lovely as I think they are!

"I word old wounds. As usual, they hurt/less." ~Marilyn Hacker

"Making words, we give the private contemplation of each organ to the others, and to others, organize sensations into thoughts."  ~ Marilyn Hacker

From the end of the earth will I cry unto thee, when my heart is overwhelmed: lead me to the rock that is higher than I. ~Psalm 61:2

God is my salvation and my glory: the rock of my strength, and my refuge, is in God. Psalm 62:7

And, finally, the poem I took my title from is Elizabeth Bishop's "The Fish." Read it if you get the chance!

When you wake up, you somehow feel the change. Maybe because of how you sleep so deeply when there's a constant rain lullaby playing against the bedroom windows. Or the color of the light, grey and pearly, seeping through the blinds. But you know something's different. So you go to the place with the very best view in your house, where ever you see the mountain the best. And there it is: the mountain, with snow. If you're lucky, it's early enough in the morning, and so you step outside, the cold, wet cement a stinging slap against your bare feet you only notice on the periphery of your senses because you are devoted completely to the smell. The scent of snow from the top of the mountain, and it's early enough to not be tainted by car exhaust. For a second, the view is all image: blue sky, white mountaintop, red lower half, with green pines in the shadows and filling in the gaps. The smell lingers, sharp, like salt after too much sugar. And you realize:

fall, with all its colorful, fragrant vagaries, is here.

Now that school's back in, we've instituted a new thing we've wanted to consistently do for a while now. Nathan dubbed it "special night." It's a night when one of the parents takes one of the kids to dinner. We decided to start with Nathan, and tonight was our night. He decided to go to Brick Oven, an Italian/pizza restaurant by the BYU campus. This restaurant has divine pizza and even better pasta. Plus, the rootbeer? THE best!

Since we didn't get out of the house until 7:00, and 7:00 at Brick Oven equates to a 45-minute wait, I decided to run some errands with Nathan. We went to Roberts and Pebbles in my Pocket, and he was such a trooper with hanging out at two scrapbooking stores! Then we headed to the restaurant. He got pizza, I got pasta; he shared my salad and then we shared a dessert (the "cookie monster," which Nathan picked out---two warm chocolate chip cookies with ice cream, whipped cream, caramel, and chocolate sauce).

And all the time, we talked. School, friends, soccer. He told me about the fight he had today with his friend Zach. He asked me about Seth, the boy in his class who is autistic, wondering what autistic means and sharing that he'd stood up for Seth when a boy in another class made fun of him. We giggled and teased and were silent. It rained the whole time, and as we ran from the car to our different destinations (both of us in hoodies, with hoodies definitely on!), he held my hand tightly.

It's not that I ever forgot. But this night reminded me how much I love this kid. He is funny and talkative and curious. And sweet. Also fierce and protective---and kind. I've always thought of him as my blue-sky kid. You know how a gorgeous blue sky makes you feel, sometime in early June before the heat is stifling but the blue is that perfect color? That feeling---that's what Nathan makes me feel like. He was my "surprise" baby and every day I am thankful for whatever serendipity brought him to me.

Definitely a special night.

I've not blogged much over the past two weeks, mainly because I've been so busy. I'm knee-deep in writing my classes for Big Picture Scrapbooking and I can't begin to say how much fun I am having with this. I hope other people are as excited about it as I am! Plus, it's harvest time. I don't even have a puny tomato plant to call my own (I wish I could have a vegetable garden, but it's just not feasible with our yard, as every possible plot is too shady), but my neighbors do. I've had raspberries and peaches, so I made one batch of raspberry freezer jam and two batches of raspberry-peach. I've never tried the raspberry-peach, but holy cow is it good! I made a big batch of pancakes on Sunday and served them with jam instead of syrup, and the kids thought I was brilliant! Plus, we're right in the middle of soccer season. Three kids in soccer equates to a total of nearly 20 practices and 33 soccer games, 3 rounds of half-time fruit and water and/or post-game treats, 59 bajillion times of me saying "if you don't put your soccer cleats in the soccer bucket, it is your responsibility to find them, not mine," and uncountable loads of soccer laundry. But the kids are all enjoying their seasons, so it's worth it. Plus, it's autumn, which in my family equates to hiking season. In the past week we've gone hiking at three different sites.

All of that adds up to a really busy Sorensen family. But it's a good busy. Yesterday, I decided to make cookies for my next-door neighbor because it's her birthday. Since it also happened to be National Chocolate Day, I decided to go with something a little bit more indulgent than my regular chocolate-chip cookie recipe (which is very good, by the way!) :  Double chocolate chunk cookies. Here's the recipe---I usually double it, or at least one-and-a-half it!

Double Chocolate Chunk Cookies
24 ounces semisweet chocolate chips, separated (4 cups)
3/4 cup butter, softened
1/4 cup shortening
1 cup packed brown sugar
1 tsp vanilla
2 eggs
2 1/2 cups flour
1 1/2 tsp baking soda
1/2 tsp salt
2 cups white chocolate chips
1 cup chopped pecans and/or milk chocolate chips

Heat 1 1/2 cups semisweet chocolate chips over low heat, stirring frequently, until melted and smooth. Allow to cool to about room temperature. Beat butter, brown sugar, and vanilla until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs and melted chocolate until light and fluffy. Stir in flour, baking soda, and salt. Add chips and nuts (if using). Bake at 350 for 9-11 minutes (center should still look soft and moist).

Haley has really been into learning how to cook (well, Jake has been, too, but he was at scouts), so she helped me bake the cookies. Nathan was outside playing and Kendell was on a call for work, so Kaleb played with his kitchen toys while Haley and I made the dough. Kaleb was happy, babbling away and banging toys together, now and then going to stand in the open pantry and try to reach something enticing. We got the dough made and onto the baking sheets. When I turned around to put the cookie sheet in the oven, here's what I saw:

Visual proof of just how good this cookie dough is! I didn't even notice him playing with this container of ranch dressing powder until I turned around. Kaleb thought the dressing mix was quite possibly the best thing ever; he'd pinch some between his thumb and forefinger, eat it, then smack his lips. When I lifted him up to clean up the mess, he gave me the biggest protest scream he's ever bellowed---he was just about to give up with the whole hand thing and just lick the floor instead!

All conversations about climbing Timp must include some discussion of the snowfield. It’s infamous, this patch of snow. There are even fierce debates about whether it's a true glacier or "just" a snowfield. Call it what you will; for Becky and me it will always be synonymous with "terrifying," "awe-inspiring," and "injury defying."

The snowfield doesn’t come until after you’ve reached the summit. You’ve got two options for going back down the mountain. The first one is to turn around and go down the way you came up. Or, if your either brave or stupid (or maybe both), you can continue around the face of the mountain and descend the snowfield. We chose the snowfield way because otherwise, you miss seeing Emerald Lake up close (you can see these two ponds from the summit, as in this picture, but we wanted to sit at the edge and experience the pools). Plus, we just didn’t know.

So: we walked along the very, very top of the mountain (amazing; nearly two weeks later I keep looking at the top and thinking "I was there!"), took a wrong turn, stood on the edge of a craggy cliff, backtracked, scaled down the mountain, and came face-to-face with the snowfield. And let me tell you: sliding down this famous snowfield seemed insane. I mean, it was so steep at the top I swear it was concave. And this wasn't white, soft, powdery snow. Icy and bumpy, with the added specialness of sharp hunks of shale poking out here and there. Slide down?

We decided to wait for the group of hikers behind us and learn how to descend by watching them. The group was made up of a Father Figure (f.f.) (I'm guessing mid-fifties; Becky and I both have issues with needing a f.f. when we're anxious), two teenage girls, two boys (about 7 and 10, I'd say), and this other guy in his mid-twenties who didn't seem to fit in at all. "Oh yeah," the f.f. (father figure) assured us. "I've done this dozens of times. No big deal." And with that, he sent one of the teenage girls down the precipice. And then the next one.

I can't describe how fast they bumped down the mountain, screaming the entire time. The first girl stopped at the spot where the slope loses the tiniest bit of steepness, and she stopped the other one (who yelled something back up to us at the top about scraping her leg and bleeding). The ten-year-old said "Dad, you're crazy. I'm going this way," and he headed off to the side of the snowfield, where he slid/scrambled/crab-walked down the steepest part but on the shale instead of snow, which seemed safer even though, hello, take a spill on those rocks and your skin is history. The seven-year-old bumped his speedy way down. Becky was like, "hey, if that kid can do it, I can." Maybe she had altitude sickness and had temporarily lost her mind. There was no way I'd take that speedy of a trip down the snow. I've never broken anything bigger than my little toe and I prefer to keep it that way. Plus---how would I make sure my camera was safe?

And then the f.f. descended.

You think those girls went the bumpy and speedy route? Watching the f.f. was like watching a stone-filled rag doll bounce along sidewalk. He wasn't sliding---he was rolling and flipping and screaming. And not the high-pitched scream of teenage girls with perfect blonde hair. No, these were barbaric yawps. When he came to a jumbled stop by the girls, he let out the most primal, pain-filled moan I have ever heard.

As Becky and I watched the f.f. fall down the snowfield, we grabbed each other's hand and held our breath, as if we could stop the God of the Snowfield from throwing us down the ravine, too. We could hear words floating up like "shoulder" and "careful" and "*#)$*(@!(*." And we still had to get down the snowfield.

We took the route the ten-year-old took. Scrambled oh-so-slowly down the shale slope, thus bypassing the Slope of Snowy Doom. Then we faced the snow. I went down first, as Becky was far more freaked out than I was. (I kept thinking that if I could deal with the subway in New York with a terrified 11-year-old in tow, I could certainly conquer this snowy patch.) At the edge of the snow, I started to scoot. I did not slide. The image of the f.f. careening down the snow wouldn't allow any sort of speed. I bent my right knee and kept my left leg out straight, foot flexed, so my heel slowed me down and my leg could steer me. Who ever thought my leg could steer? But it could. After an agonizing ten slow minutes, I finally figured out that if you slide a little bit, enough snow builds up between your legs to slow you down. So, yeah, that is how to navigate the snowfield: right leg as gas pedal, left leg as steering wheel and brake, crotch as speed-bump maker. Finally I decided to take a chance with the trail I could see over on my right. I'd not dared it before because it looked too much like a luge track. But I discovered that it was just narrow enough that my hips prevented me from picking up much speed. Yay for four pregnancies!

Finally, we made it down the steep part. Then we had to walk oh-so-carefully down the flatter part.(Which, by the way, isn't very flat. It's all in comparison.) Meanwhile, we kept an eye on the f.f. and his group, who were very carefully navigating the snow. I mean, carefuller than Becky and me! (Although they still beat us down.) At last, we stepped off the snowfield, onto the shores of Emerald Pools.

Remember how we thought we'd linger and appreciate the lakes? Ummm, no. We never wanted to see that snowfield again. Couldn't wait to get away. Near the lakes, there's a little hut, and during busy weekends there are EMTs stationed there. That's where we discovered that the f.f. had broken some ribs, punctured a lung, and dislocated his shoulder. He had to be taken off the mountain in a helicopter. I feel really sorry for this man---I can't imagine how much that hurt. I'm not sure I'll ever forget the sight of him tumbling down the snowfield. But in a strange way, he really did do his father-figurely duty. He taught us how not to go down. I hope he's feeling better now. I hope his wife wasn't too mad at him.

And I hope his camera didn't break during his fall.