4.) Sixty Days and Counting, Kim Stanley Robinson.

Okay, I've finished the trilogy (I read Forty Signs of Rain a while ago; I just needed to come off of writing the book to have some reading time). What do I think?

First of all, I think Fifty Degrees Below was the strongest of the three. This trilogy is one of those extended volume books. While you could read the others as stand-alones, there
s pretty much one set of storylines carried through three books.

And now that I'm done with it? I liked reading the trilogy but I don't know that I'd reread it. Too much blogging in this book, and the tone just didn't read right for a blog. The engineering got pretty fantastic and I'm not certain I completely bought into it.

What I do find interesting is that this set is definitely a strong character/relationship trilogy with a backdrop of hard science--in this one, climate change. Integrating the themes of the politically and then environmentally displaced Khambalung with high-stakes political black conspiracy games and high-end science came up with an interesting mix. Certainly a big, big story with a number of storylines unfolding besides the high-concept global warming--Frank's musings about sociobiology (if you're interested in it, it's fascinating, if not--well, you aren't), Charlie and Anna's attempts to raise a family in a non-traditional mold, and Frank's adventures with Caroline--I'd have to go back and compare it to the Mars trilogy (or I would if I were a book reviewer or a college prof instead of a middle school special ed teacher) to see what sort of growth we might have going here...

Or not. The trilogy as a whole is well-worth reading once; I'm too close to it right now to decide on a second read.

Meanwhile, I'm off to reread Steinbeck. Haven't decided yet if it will be Working Days (the journal of the writing of The Grapes of Wrath) or Journal of a Novel (the journal of East of Eden). Or both. Whichever it is, I plan to reread the book the journal is about afterwards, with an eye toward craft.

Still unwinding from Pledges, and feeling some pressure to work on Freeriders. And thinking that this is a good summer to be thinking about craft--not just for myself but for the group of students I will be teaching next fall.

3.) Fifty Degrees Below by Kim Stanley Robinson

I'm finally getting to Stan Robinson's global warming trilogy. This is a typical Stan book; lots of information mixed in with multiple viewpoint characters. But his introspective main character in this one, Frank Vanderwal, gets involved in Exciting Developments between his work for the National Science Foundation and his romantic involvement with someone who's been surveiling him for Unknown Spy Agencies. Frank's essentially homeless, as instead of searching for a new apartment after losing his old one, he starts living between his van and up in a treehouse he creates in a Washington, D.C. park (the city itself is still in an uproar after being subjected to major flooding).

Stan manages to work in some apt descriptions of fregans as well as outright homeless sorts; I also liked the descriptions of the Zoo animals going feral within the park. It's a likable read with some outstanding moments: the flooding of Khembalung, D.C. at fifty degrees below zero, Frank in the trees hooting at the gibbons. One minor glitch--at the end, reference is made to Oregon's voting machines.

Dude, Oregon doesn't have voting machines. We have vote-by-mail, and have had that for some time. Even before vote-by-mail, it was either grease pencil or butterfly ballot. OCR machines, counting machines--yeah. Voting machines? Nope.

**********

I came home sick today. Last day of this particular ugly little antibiotic; the side effects I'm having from it are listed as normative but they were enough this morning, along with my typical cyclical migraine, to send me home. Headache? Yep. Nausea? Yep. Other gut stuff? Oh yeah. I went long enough to deal with classes that I was primarily in charge of so no one needed to scrounge up a sub, canceled my small groups, and drug myself back down the mountain. I'm feeling better now, after taking another medication (that I don't want to teach, much less drive, under the effects of), and napping. And reading.

Which is what the rest of the day will look like. I'll take the next-to-the-last dose of the Medicine From Hell, not take the last dose tomorrow so I can work, and start purging the damned stuff from my system.

Ticks me off, though. No time with Mocha today. Maybe I'll go tomorrow.

Freeriders is not too bad, after five months away from it. It's still big, and I need to punch up the conflict, but overall, I'm happy. There's not a lot of market for a 10k piece, but between the Heinlein Centennial and WotF, I could get away with it. And it could be something to extend into the Netwalking Mars mondo major rewrite I have to do.

We'll see what it looks like after I've had time to pound on it some more.

Pledges is done. It came in at slightly more than 140,000 words.

I'm going to let it sit for a while. I have two other projects with June 1 deadlines, and I need to work on them. But for the moment, I'm going to kick back and do some reading.

Yay! I started work on this one on December 24th. Nearly 5 months on this rough draft. That's a change for me--none of the Netwalk novels took that long (but none of them are this long, either).

Tomorrow I start revising Freeriders. Then the big question becomes--Writers of the Future or Heinlein Centennial? It could go either way. What do you all think?

I ended up going by myself--DS complained of not feeling that well, and being tired. Of course, by the time I got home, he was off doing his own thing. Whatever. The conditions were such that he probably wouldn't have enjoyed it, anyway, at his skill level.

So it was snowing up at Timberline--temperature right at freezing, a little below, and a rain/snow mix blowing hard. I did two runs and went in to have my skis waxed, because I was spending too much time fighting them. They weren't sliding, they were grabbing, and even though the conditions were such that the snow was grabby in places, the skis were grabbing in areas where they shouldn't have been. It was powder, but heavy, wet powder--the famous Cascade Concrete in all its glory.

The rental shop guys told me 20 minutes, and admired my pants. We chatted a bit; then I went and chatted with the student teacher from school who was working Skier Services, had a snack and a cup of tea, then went back out. Oh yeah. The skis were working better; still grabby at times but I was confident that it was the conditions at this point and not the skis. If anything, I was a wee bit too slick at this point because I was going faster than I really wanted; no falls, however, so no harm done.

My last runs, however, were dead solid perfect. I got the rhythm going down Jojami and cruised down the steeper portions getting the rhythm just right. Today Jojami was the sweet run; didn't hurt that I saw an eensy-beensy chipmunk running around on the snow and up a tree. There might be a lot of snow there but the critters have decided it's time to come out.

I could have gone longer, but I was tired, thanks to this lovely medication I'm on this week. Next week. Maybe. Not even the Mile was open today--whiteout conditions, wind, ugly stuff. I'm beginning to wonder if I'm ever going to get a chance at Palmer again this season.

2.) Big Boned by Meg Cabot.

Perfect piece of light reading for a Saturday afternoon when reaching the end of a long fantasy novel. Nothing to interfere with my perceptions and planning, just a light, funny mystery story.

Recommended for those days when you want something mellow.

1.) The Joke's Over by Ralph Steadman.

Okay. I really wanted to like this one, y'know? I've been a fan of Hunter Thompson's writing for many years, ever since I first read Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail 1972. I was more interested in Thompson as a journalist than as a drug-crazed Gonzo writer because much of what he wrote about politics, even when he went off into the creative fantasies, resonated with me. Hell, I could see a lot of it in action around Oregon politics, whether I was in Eugene, Salem, Portland, or even Wallowa County....

But Steadman's book is too long by far, and the whining gets to me after a while. He tries to copy Thompson's gonzo style but doesn't quite nail it, and while there are legitimate resentments, there's also not enough strength in the writing to counterweight the bitterness that comes out. Too bad, because he describes a lot of the calculation and planning that HST brought to his writing and his writing as a business while engaging in a larger-than-life party style. This side of HST gets overshadowed by the image of a hard-partying, hard-drinking and drugging Gonzo writer and it's a major mistake to overlook that aspect of HST, in my opinion. The bits and pieces I've come across about HST talking about writing have left me thirsting for more and makes me wonder what kind of interesting Bad Craziness would have come out of a writer's workshop with HST where you talked about the writing and not the drugs.

However, there wasn't enough of that in this book to keep me reading it. Failed halfway through. Next!

Kind of a laid-back day after going to the White Bird 4 x 4 ballet last night. It was quite excellent--the Eugene Ballet company put on a rather depressing, dark modernistic piece based on accounts of the stoning of a young couple in Afghanistan. Good technique, but too damned much flailing of the arms. The most dramatic scene was the way the stoning was handled. As the couple rolled across the stage, the other dancers mined an elaborate stone-throwing process, in unison. The couple collapsed closer and closer together until they rolled off of stage. Dramatic, depressing, and a bit repetitious. The Oregon Ballet company put on a brighter piece, showcasing the talents of its best dancers with music reminiscent of their retro "Eyes On You" piece. Colorful, dramatic, and quite technically good. But, as I saw the San Francisco piece showcasing its powerful male dancers, I realized that OBT really needs stronger men to match its powerful females. If OBT had more Artur Sultanovs....OMIG! It is coming along under Chris Stowell.

(Needless to say, I was impressed by the skill and strength of San Francisco's male dancers. Powerful, strong dancers with precise movements and BIG AIR jumping, with that lovely little float that makes it all look effortless. But that's years of training and development of skill at work)

The show ended with a sequence from Pacific Northwest Ballet, very funny and light, good technically but I think OBT has stronger performers.

Hokay. Enough ballet neepery!

I'm almost done with Pledges. Next week at the latest. I'm winding down, and I need to write about the birth of Witmohan. I'm projecting 145-150k words. It's been an interesting time, and I realize I've had no energy for short fiction writing, much less short fiction marketing. The book has almost matched the day job for the degree of focus it's required--maybe that has affected the pacing. Last year was a different year, and by this time I had gotten through one and a half books. Maybe about the same wordage, but I think I was more productive last year. Hell, I know I was more productive, writing short stories as well. Still, I've written about 120,000 words this year so far, all of it on the book (no counting for LJ posts and work stuff), so if I maintain this pace, I'll have written about the same amount this year as last by year's end.

I also need to start work on a Seckrit Project, then revise Tranquility Freeriders for WOTF. It's long enough that I'm going to have that as my first market for that particular story.

Reading. I might as well talk about what I'm reading. Separate post for that, but let's just say that Ralph Steadman failed the IDKC test. Not recommended. John Steinbeck's Journal of a Novel, on rereading, though, is as fresh as it was when I first read it, eons and eons ago (um, like, um 31 years ago?). More on that elsewhere.

So what's everyone else doing?

Skiing tomorrow. I'll be going out for Mother's Day lunch soon (a day early) and plan to ski tomorrow for Mother's Day.

Kind of a laid-back day after going to the White Bird 4 x 4 ballet last night. It was quite excellent--the Eugene Ballet company put on a rather depressing, dark modernistic piece based on accounts of the stoning of a young couple in Afghanistan. Good technique, but too damned much flailing of the arms. The most dramatic scene was the way the stoning was handled. As the couple rolled across the stage, the other dancers mined an elaborate stone-throwing process, in unison. The couple collapsed closer and closer together until they rolled off of stage. Dramatic, depressing, and a bit repetitious. The Oregon Ballet company put on a brighter piece, showcasing the talents of its best dancers with music reminiscent of their retro "Eyes On You" piece. Colorful, dramatic, and quite technically good. But, as I saw the San Francisco piece showcasing its powerful male dancers, I realized that OBT really needs stronger men to match its powerful females. If OBT had more Artur Sultanovs....OMIG! It is coming along under Chris Stowell.

(Needless to say, I was impressed by the skill and strength of San Francisco's male dancers. Powerful, strong dancers with precise movements and BIG AIR jumping, with that lovely little float that makes it all look effortless. But that's years of training and development of skill at work)

The show ended with a sequence from Pacific Northwest Ballet, very funny and light, good technically but I think OBT has stronger performers.

Hokay. Enough ballet neepery!

Tonight, after all the BS that has been coming down, I was planning a short little hack with maybe a bit of schooling. Maybe outside. When I got to the barn, R. was there, so we ended up riding together, starting in the indoor until we got chased out and rode in the big grass arena outside. We worked all three gaits, but other than proper up and down transitions, and occasional bending work, it was a fun ride.

Miss M. picked up on my mood fairly quickly and I soon found I had a sparky QH girl with a bit of sting underneath me. Every time R cantered Trey by us, she started picking up her stride and wanting to go. At one point, we were both cantering. Miss M's ears flicked forward, then back. Then she locked on, the strides picked up some speed, and she started to drop down a little bit (when she lines out to run fast she will literally drop down about two inches as she lengthens out and gets closer to the ground. One of those horses who bellies down to run). She started to pull against the bit. She wanted to race. She wanted to be in front.

Now this is a horse who is not encouraged to race, in fact, we frequently school the opposite behavior, stay calm, stay focused, and in the arena she maintains focus nicely, not breaking stride at all when we get passed by another cantering horse. But this was clearly a day for a fun ride, and she wanted to Get That Other Horse.

I didn't let her do it. For one thing, I blew both my stirrups easing into two point (too long for galloping, and I was in English tack), for another, a previous bout of galloping on our own showed me she wanted to cut a shorter, tighter circle instead of the big fast circles she needs to work on at speed. Finally, the arena was too small and the footing too uncertain for any competitive galloping.

But if we ever get to the beach, and get her on a straightaway on packed sand--ooh yeah. We need to work on galloping under control, in straightaways and in big circles, not the small tight ones she likes to do (she would love to be a barrel racer, I think, but I'm not that fond of the concept). Just don't have the facility to do it here.

I rode longer than I planned. Good company, good conversation, and a chance to forget about the mess at work, the mess with the DS,

If you can name the fear, then you can look it in the face and tell it to go to hell.

I've had two very minor brushes with cancer my very own self, just the sort of thing that drives an intelligent woman to the yearly Pap smear and mammogram. The first came after my son was born, when irregular spotting led to a followup Pap which revealed a precancerous lesion on my cervix. Luckily, it was small enough that they were able to take most of it out with the colposcopy that did the biopsy on it--and then they froze the rest of it. Lucky me, I had quarterly Paps for a year, then semi-annual for a couple of years. I'm now considered clean.

Later, I had funky calcium deposits in one breast. That one didn't go all the way to biopsy, but it's a reason I march in and have my tits smashed on a yearly and painful basis. I had two years of quarterly mammos, then semi-annual mammos. Now I'm back to yearly.

But those are not my closest encounters with the Big C in its full, malevolent glory.

My parents fully expected my mother to be the survivor, and planned their estate in that manner. My father had had a scary experience with a thyroid tumor, had gone through back surgeries, then had heart problems which required nitroglycerin. Mom, on the other hand, except for occasional gut problems, gall bladder and the like, kept chugging along just fine--or, well, as fine as you can be on heavy-duty arthritis meds like Feldene and Prednisone.

Then she had kidney problems. The kidney problems were connected to the meds. She wasn't recovering right, and I remember her telling me on the phone that she thought something was wrong.

And then my dad called. She'd collapsed in the kitchen and she was in the hospital.

I rushed down to see her, in the small hospital in Florence. I'd been laid off from work, due to union organizing, so I had the time. No kids.

It was the big C. They gave her six weeks to live, maybe longer if the chemo took. Liver cancer, they said. She had a couple more days at home, and then my father drove her to the hospice unit in Eugene. She got to see her favorite rhododendron bloom one last time. They had some private moments.

I looked up the data on liver cancer. Six months max, maybe longer if the chemo worked.

The chemo was tried once. It made her so sick that the doctor nixed it.

She lasted over two months. The last six weeks were and are a blur to me of trips between Portland and Eugene, hours spent by her bedside frantically researching and getting data about timber companies to a friend of mine engaged in a political battle while doing all the support stuff. The politics were a thankful distraction, because let me tell you, doing the vigil in a hospice unit, with all the ups and downs, is not fun. I spent time on the phone with my oldest brother in Chicago, trying to calculate when he should come and when his wife and his kids should come.

Somewhere in there, Chernobyl happened. Somewhere in there, the Oregon Episcopal School climbers died on Mt. Hood--I remember that well, it was the last story she commented on.

Somewhere in there, my son was conceived.

She died on Monday, May 12, 1986. The day after Mother's Day.

The autopsy showed both liver and stomach cancer, with no clue as to which came first.

My father's dying of cancer was slower, in some respects. He had a year to fade out, although for him the end--when he started to fail--came much more quickly. I did not sit vigil at his death--I had a four year old son by that point, and he had to be my priority. Lung cancer, caused by his lifelong cigarette habit, was the culprit.

Ten years later, our much-beloved cat developed a gut cancer. We helped him fight it, as much as we could, until he told us he was done. The tumor was the size of a tennis ball when he died.

Two years ago, one of my colleagues at school developed breast cancer. We rallied around her and supported her with food, funny gifts, and our time. She recovered, but has chosen to retire and enjoy life.

Another colleague had her bout with breast cancer ten years ago. Last fall, she had a suspicious mammogram. First it was okay, and then it wasn't, and she got the news during class. "I can't go through this again!" she cried out, in the first throes of worry.

It seems to be all right, though, although they're still checking her over very carefully and thoroughly.

Cancer is not an alien to me, needless to say.

But I will not let the fear of it turn me away from those I know who have it visit their lives.

And I will encourage those I know who face it in battle to keep up with the fight.

Keep up the good fight, Jay.

Mocha has been getting a little bit neglected when it comes to riding time of late. The schedule has been crazy, and when I'm tired, sometimes it's easier to just blow off the barn and come straight home. But she's also at the point in her training where it's an issue more of conditioning, not of keeping her broke--she is now sufficiently trained that I can go a week or so without losing training ground. Except for the occasional moments when she gets sore or cranky for reasons such as recent shoeing, getting too hyper in turnout, or the Horsey Things They Do (on the broken bone front, I've heard horrific things that happen in turnout and in stalls--an online friend lost her very sweet and accomplished Arabian stallion when he shattered his fetlock. In his stall. Overnight. For no obvious reason. Horses Do Those Things.).

I'm trying to get back to a three day a week riding schedule. We've been schooling English, after the blowing through the leg fiasco, and she's doing well with that. There are days when she likes that tack better than the Western, and days she likes the Western better. In either set, we're at the point where she is carrying herself nicely, does up and down transitions well, and does a number of higher-level movements easily.

One of these years we'll make it to a show or two in English as well as Western. But for now I'm pretty happy with the girl, overall.

Right now I'm pressed for time because of work, but some catching up--last month, I put in 31k words, approximately. Pledges is nearing the end of the book, and I'm knowingly winding down. It's at 130k now, I think I'll end at about 140-145,000 words for the first draft. I think I can tighten it down to 120,000 on the rewrite--which will happen after I work on the two novellas for contests, then do the final on Netwalker Uprising and get it ready to submit. Probably next fall, at the soonest.

This book is a mess, though. I need to do a lot of continuity stuff, because I didn't plan for Metkyi, but that was a good addition after all. Right now, though, Katerin's stuck in a mourning ceremony, and she's about ready to blow.

So I'm thinking another week, week and a half, two weeks max on the novel. Then I need to write a paper for work, and edit the novellas and get them out. Short stories have come back in, but they're low on the priority list at the moment. I'm just not thinking about shorts, and at the moment, given the market and my lack of success with it, I'm just going to hold the line with the stories I have now, and circulate them until they crash and burn. Then maybe I'll web publish and see if anyone likes 'em.

I should have stayed up on the mountain a bit longer and skied more. That's less of a heartbreak than watching the Derby. But I was getting tired, after this past rough week, so I didn't want to push it.

Yesterday was half-winter, half-spring. The Mile was barely open, but Palmer was closed. It was overcast, with half-rain, half-snow showers, and clouds/fog wrapping the upper half of the mountain. The Mile was closed off to the west, and the Ski Patrol had posted fog markers on the eastern run.

Snow, though cold, was a little gloppy in places where the sun had been. I did the top of Kruser and really liked it for a practice run. I did my other two faves off of Jeff Flood, then did the Mile three times. As S., my instructor last week, said, "once you've done Palmer, the rest of it seems easy." How true, how very true. I was even bombing (for me) down that steep portion of Uncle Jon's Band without fear, working toward the smooth flow of turns without checking myself to wash out the speed from turn to turn. That's my next step for control, and that will give me more speed. Getting the hands right, especially for pole touches, and getting my upper body to face downhill while the lower body turns is key.

But I was relaxing as I skied down the Mile, consciously so, and that is a huge step.

In the evening, we went to see Dark Star Orchestra. A good time was had by all, but I stupidly drank some energy drink, which made my stomach unhappy. I was tired, despite resting after getting home from skiing, and napped through part of the concert. Then us old folks left, at 12:30.

http://m.delawareonline.com/detail.jsp?key=75534&rc=sp&full=1

According to this, she broke both the cannon and sesamoid bones, which led to her pasterns (ankles! no, horses don't have ankles!) collapsing. In both legs.

There's another link if you google it, with AP pictures which show her trying to stand up again, and her pasterns at an unreal angle. Gallant girl. She knew she wasn't supposed to be down. I don't recommend looking at it, though, because it's hard to see. They clearly had to struggle with her to keep her from trying to get up and walk away.

Damn.

Breaking both cannons is not normal, not at all.

At the gate. Recapture the Glory tossed his jockey in the tunnel. Could be an issue.

Loading into the gate now. Looks good so far, no freakouts showing...yet.

Cool Calm Man drifts in a little but doesn't interfere.

Slow first quarter.

47 at the half.

Big Brown is moving! Holy shit. He's rolling. He's opening up big time--yow!

2:01 and change. Not necessarily a fast one. Okay. Will they be able to keep--hey! He dumped his jock!

Oh shit. Eight Belles is down. Heart stoppage? After she finished, they think Big Brown spooked at her going down.

I remember that good son of Seattle Slew, Swale, who dropped dead while being rinsed off after a workout--lung or heart issue, can't remember now. Charlsie thinks it looks like a heart thing--oh geez, she broke both pasterns and they put her down. They called it "ankles" on TV but horses don't have ankles. Pasterns. Maybe fetlocks but from the description it's the pasterns.

Damn. The way she was looking around reminded me of Mocha, especially at her first show.

Riders up at last. 2:59 pm. Eight Belles looks good as she comes through the tunnel a second time. Looking for the track as they go into the tearjerker (despite the unPCness of the song, it still has that effect).

C'mon, horses, not hats and cleavage! I wanna see them move in the warmup.

Cool Coal Man. Head tosser.

Tale of Ekati. Jumpy in the paddock, quiet now.

Anak Nakal. Men.

Eight Belles still looks good.

Adriano--nice mover.

What? Another commercial?

Walking over to the post parade now....yow. Hats and cleavage and heat. Far cry from where I was this morning, up at Timberline. Skiing and the Derby in one day...hoped to pull it off and now it's happening.

Eight Belles looks good in the walkover. Calm, alert, not washing out. I recognize that "alert mare" look. Let's hope she keeps it up. Looks like she has big feet to go with her big body. Can't tell for sure, but if that's the case, that's a good thing. Ruffian had tiny feet for her big body and that was a possible contribution to her issues.

Talking heads are muttering about Big Brown and Colonel John. Colonel John didn't look enough on his toes for me, and Big Brown looks a little ouchy on his fours, and he has a history of bad feet. Nice build, but bad feet can make or break them.

Huh. I remember when you had to catch the Derby promptly at 2:30 to see the good stuff. It's now 2:49 and the jocks aren't even up on the horses yet. Yeesh. On the one hand, it's good to see more horse sports on TV--Rolex tomorrow, but I'd sure like to see some reining.

I think I'm giving Mocha a new barn name, at least for the moment. Furball seems to fit her perfectly.

Especially since she didn't look that hairy before the schooling session and then her after-ride roll.

So. Tonight was more of the "you shall NOT blow through my leg" English tack schooling. Instead of trying to confine her to a frame, I wanted her to focus on what my seat and leg were doing.

What I notice in the transition between tack is that she then tends to overbend in the English lateral work. She's used to an indirect rein with leverage, not a direct rein with lateral effect. However, we achieved the goal--which was softer, more responsive work. She didn't try to blow through the bit but remained soft, without leaning. We did a lot of inside leg to outside rein, which got a nice round bend that I can't quite hold as well in the curb with one hand. We did leg-yields--hence the overbending--and half-passes at the trot--more overbending! I really needed to carry my crop, but G. thinks it contributes to her getting hot on me.

And at the end, all I had to do was weight my outside seatbone and add a little leg, and she was turning. Especially off of the left seatbone. Boy does she respond to that in English.

We also did some very nice, Western-speed spins. I've gotta tell you, though, when you're spinning a reiner in an English saddle, wearing jeans without chaps, it's awfully dang nice to a.) know how to run a ballet spot and b.) have a grab strap.

At the end, when I turned her out to roll, she went down a smooth horse and rose a hairy furball with loose hairs sticking out all over. I spent a good 15-20 minutes going over her with the shedding blade and got enough hair to create a coat for a rabbit, if not a small dog, while she made all sorts of happy horsey faces.

Ah yes, the hair of spring.

I did it.

Today I skied Palmer. Albeit with an instructor, and after an hour and a half of intense lessoning, I was tired out, but...I skied Palmer.

That first pitch is steep, but I've skied stuff as steep or steeper--Uncle Jon's Band at the bottom, Slalom, Molly. It's just longer.

I ended up with the assistant director of the ski school as my instructor. We did one short plunge down Uncle Jon's Band, and then he took me right on up. We talked quite a bit, and he drilled me quite a bit, especially down Palmer--this was one session where I had to stop and blow quite a bit, because I was focusing on a lot of little skills. A big lesson, but a good one--now if I can just remember all of it. Most gratifying was the way he commented on how quickly I progressed and how much better I was skiing at the end of the lesson than at the beginning--although fatigue was beginning to sabotage everything I was learning. Muscle fatigue, mental fatigue.

But wow--up on Hood at 8000 feet. It's a looooong run, and I can see where I will need to tackle it like I did the Mile at the beginning--take it in short pieces, breathe, think about what I'm doing.

He also commented that the skills I need to work on are the skills that will take me from an intermediate ski level to an expert level. I had estimated that I was about a Level 5-6 skier--he agreed with me, and said that if I work on not fighting my skis over so much (that right tail problem!) but let them do the turning, work on separating my lower body from my upper body so that I counterbend with my shoulders and skis--keeping the shoulders facing downhill--and work on accurate pole plants with a smooth up and down motion, that I'd show a lot of improvement. A lot of stuff to work on.

But wow. I skied Palmer. Even if I don't remember much of it because I was focusing on the skills I had to do--I skied Palmer. I can do Palmer.

Wow.

A big goal attained today.