From my journal on the Grand Teton climb:  “Overwhelmed is how I felt atop the summit of Grand Teton. The exertion required to get there, and the grandeur of the view that greeted me were immense. I was humbled by the magnificence of the perch I’d managed to reach. And while the achievement was of personal significance, the powerful impact of such natural beauty served to abruptly put me in my place – I understood in one glance my INsignificance. There are few things that can so readily and with such sweeping conviction reveal what it is to be mortal.”

So now that’s off my chest, you must know the wonder of the climb has worn off. Completely. I’m in a weird place right now, lost, a bit depressed even. I can appreciate what Lewis felt after the expedition was over; mine of course on a much lower scale.

It seems the preparations to summit Grand Teton went long enough for “normal” to be altered. After a year of intense focus on the goal, I’m struggling to redefine what “normal” is post summit, post 5 and 6 workouts a week, post all that build-up.

Imagine a year’s worth of foreplay, then one great round of sex, the guy leaves for Antarctica (didn’t even spend the night) and you never hear from him again. Kinda like that.

Friends have said it’s time to start thinking about what’s next. I’m still tired, so thinking about what’s next doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. Although I must admit Everest’s South Base Camp has wedged its way into my brain more than once.

Should I pick up where I left off on the fried foods I love so much, the fast food I am/was addicted to, the chocolate, mashed potatoes and gravy, biscuits, bacon and grits?  What about drugs? I’m not above their usage. I mean pharmaceutical companies spend billions developing drugs for every malady known to man. Is this a “malady”?  I can tell you for certain, the first time I feel the slightest twinge of a hot flash, I’ll have no qualms about using them. No question. They’ll shorten my life?  Generations of women in my family have lived to be near 100. So I die at 90.

Well that was a therapeutic tirade.  I feel better. Mountain or a molehill?  It’s just a molehill. This too shall pass. In the interim, how ’bout a cheeseburger?

who needs drugs when these exist?

“One waffle, please”, I croaked. Just two steps from the door to the counter, the guy running tiny Corbet’s Cabin barely looked up when I trudged in. Ruddy skin, chapped lips and wild eyes topped off by a black stocking hat, a bright orange bulky backpack and beat up hiking boots, he saw my type several times a day.

Scott McGee, my Exum guide during the preparatory mountaineering course, recommended for the two days prior to the start of the Grand climb I take the tram to the top of Rendezvous Mountain, do some light hiking, take a book, and breathe the air that was noticeably absent at 10,500 feet,,, for 4 hours each day. “No one ever does what I tell them, but trust me, it’ll help when you get above 13,000 feet.”  “Oh, and, load up on carbs. It’ll be easy to do.  Corbet’s has this waffle thing.”

This climb was at the upper end of my physical abilities and I had, and would continue, to do whatever the experts suggested would help. Loading up on carbs would be the easy part.

“What topping?” the gentleman asked. He didn’t wait, “there’s Nutella, strawberry preserves, and brown sugar butter.”  Darn. Only two days but 3 toppings.  “I’ll have Nutella today. Tomorrow I’ll try the strawberry preserves.”  He turned to the blackened, blistering waffle iron behind him. I took another step, swung off the backpack and submitted onto a wooden bench.

I expected a waffle. Flat. And a plastic fork. What I got  was this brown edged, crunchy on the outside, dense but light and moist cake-like on the inside, slathered with Nutella and folded over,, waffle sandwich. The slight saltiness from the oiled crust, the mild sweetness of the soft interior, the hazelnut and chocolate sublimity of the Nutella all collided, then burst on my energy bar deadened tongue.

Wrapped in parchment paper, its heft involuntarily lowered my arm from chest high to waist high when the hand off was made. It was hard to eat with a smile that big.

The best thing about this culinary experience? It can easily be duplicated at home. Trust me.

Day #2. You didn't think I was kidding, did you? One more day and I'd have gone back for the brown sugar butter. Next time.

Photography Tip: strawberry preserves photograph better than Nutella.

Scott, my Exum Guide. Grand Teton in the background.

Corbet's Cabin

If you liked this post, some of my previous Travel & Taste Buds’ posts might be equally entertaining:

Oklahoma Fried Potatoes & Rocket Science

Scandinavian Almond Bread

Solo Road Trip’s Basic Food Groups (anything but basic)

For more delectable photographs and discussions of food around the world (and not necessarily at the top of it), check out Wanderfood Wednesday at Wanderlust and Lipstick.

The day the Tulsa World reporter called to tell me the story about climbing my first mountain would appear on the COVER of the Scene section in Sunday’s paper, we made the decision to cancel the upcoming trip to Spain/Morocco. My Mom’s “there’s always a silver lining” rings true.

Did you say you want to read the Tulsa World story?! It’s here.

October 8th – the day we were to fly American Airlines to Madrid for the celebration of my husband’s 50th birthday. From Madrid, the AVE train was to whisk us to Cordoba in an hour and a half of high speed panoptic viewing.

A rental car would’ve been waiting at the Cordoba train station to carry us to the Casa la Celada B&B south of Cordoba in the Andalusian countryside. The next five days would be spent puttering around Andalusia -  an Anis Distillery and a Chocolate Belen, the Rock of Gibraltar, Granada’s Alhambra, Seville, sunshine, flamenco, sherry, gazpacho – the start of 15 days of much needed R&R (an insane and slightly vulgar amount of vacation time for us LOL).

About the time the transformation into completely useless tourists doing nothing but eating, sleeping, drinking, butchering the lyrical Spanish language and obnoxiously snapping off point and shoot photographs with a professional DSLR was complete, a return trip to Madrid was slated. A flight to Marrakesh, Morocco where a car from the Kasbah du Toubkal would wind its way into the Atlas Mountains with its human vegetative cargo, was next. Three days there were to be followed by more in a Marrakesh riad at the Maison MK, back to Madrid, then home.

Andalusia is shown in yellow

So much planning, so much anticipation, so many deposits. In the end, unexpected (and recent) economic/job uncertainty won and in its wake, pragmatism.

With no fanfare, and really no sadness, reservations were canceled. Disappointed? Yes, of course.  But we’re positive people and things like this, while undeniably a set-back, won’t squelch our joy and thankfulness for the many blessings bestowed upon us. Besides, we WILL take this trip – likely sooner rather than later.

I’ve never canceled a trip. As a result, much was learned about the small print. I now know things about travel policies and industry-wide cancellation standards I would have never discovered otherwise. Some nefarious things, really. And I only say that as the cancellation was made within restrictions. Policies that take advantage of misfortunes (a canceled trip usually means some sort/level of misfortune) and neglect to consider that most people will be taking their canceled trip at another time, are prevalent. It seems bad business; then again, the hotels and booking agents have to make a living too.

Can I do anything about these policies when I rebook the trip, or another like it? No. But awareness is so empowering.  I plan to write about the lessons learned, so check back!

In the interim, join me. Let’s dream about this FUTURE trip together.

The hotel in Madrid, ME Madrid. Our stay here would have been for 3 nights, on dates interspersed throughout the 15 days.

The B&B, south of Cordoba in the Andalusian countryside is near Lake Iznajar.

I was looking most forward to the stay here. Atlas Mountains, Morocco. Next time, we've already decided to book this for an additional night - one less night in Marrakesh.

Maison MK, Marrakesh. I was drawn to this Moroccan riad because of it's romantic, escapist environment.

Enough of the accommodations!  Here are a few of the sights that still await us.

Granada's Alhambra

The Rock of Gibraltar. In myth, Hercules straddled the strait, one foot on the European continent, one foot in Africa.

Seville Spain

ALL photos, COURTESY

post summit bid work out

I decided to climb a mountain because it’s been on my list of things to do for years. And I love crossing things off a list. I’ve been known to ADD things (already done) to a list, only so I could take the immense pleasure in crossing them off.  Something about making those strike-throughs is SO gratifying. I realize that’s wacked, and wackier still is publicly admitting such.

That doesn’t really answer why I did it, does it?  I did it, because I could.  Flippant.  Okay, here’s another try: I did it because I could and another in my life, a beloved other, can’t.  Truth.

My sister has Multiple Sclerosis.  Before the disease, SHE was the adventurous one. Climbing trees and riding a bike around cow paddies and over dirt roads like a mad woman, she was one fearless child.  She’s my inspiration in life. Her spirit and passion and resolve are lava-like – hot enough to have frightened the disease into not having stripped away all her physical capabilities.

The disease is afraid of her. That’s not to say it hasn’t won in some regards.  SHE can’t climb a mountain. SHE can’t hike into the backcountry. She can’t take an Animal Tracking course or ride a bike. Some days she can’t climb 2 stairs.  And some days, she struggles to get from her bedroom to the living room.

It seems only right that because I can and she cannot, I should.  So I do.  And she’s right beside me every grueling step of these hare-brained, a bit out there escapades I relish.  When I feel myself getting lazy and making excuses for not having done anything physically challenging in a while, I sense her kicking me in the pants. She’s my mental barometer against too many bon bons and a soft city life; against taking my health for granted.

My hope is that at the end, my physical exploits will have been enough for TWO healthy, adventurous explorers whose good health wasn’t squandered on cushy hotel rooms and pointless shopping trips.

I climbed a mountain because it is my job to make up for the strike-throughs in her life not made by her own hand. Damn them all.

Two Explorers