Get Outside!

Get kids outside. Take them out and let them wander around in the woods. Let them canoe across a lake. Let them backpack through a mountain range. Give them a map and compass assignment. Give frustrated youth an opportunity to challenge themselves in the natural world.
Have you ever heard of a school shooter who’s hobbies are kayaking, rock climbing, and fly-fishing? If that seems absurd – and it does seem absurd to me – we might be onto something.  I don’t think that those hobbies can create a school shooter. There’s just something abut the natural world that defuses anger.
I know this because the outdoors helped saved my life. An outdoor diversion program for troubled teens started the process when I was sixteen. Camping and hiking and climbing helped me mature further as a nineteen and twenty year old. And now, as the director of a high school outdoor program, one of my student leaders said recently that “the outdoor program saves lives.”
That’s not me. That’s nature. Kids need the outdoors.
Help the young people. Get them outside.

Peter Brown Hoffmeister wrote this in a post on his personal blog-firstly intended for the Huffington Post-concerning school shootings. My girlfriend, Natalie, sent me this article a couple weeks ago. I asked her why she sent it to me and if she thought I played too many violent video games (read the full article here for a better understanding of his view on violent video games). Her response: "Reminded me of your writing style."

I became curious about Mr. Hoffmeister. I enjoyed the piece Natalie sent to me and I felt encouraged to be find a similar writing style. Hell, even the blog was white lettering with a black background. I quickly found a cease to the similarities for Hoffmeister was much more experienced, much wiser, and exponentially a better writer. More importantly, I discovered that Hoffmeister was a deep thinker with a good deal of wisdom to share. From the sounds of it, the statement that "the outdoors helped saved [his] life" isn't just a bullet point to prove a point but an homage to an enduring principle in his life. Hoffmeister is an avid rock climber among other than things.

The National Park Service has provided a perfect opportunity to do just what Hoffmeister suggests and get kids outside. This week from April 22 to April 26 the National Park Service is waiving entrance fees to all National Parks. According to the NPS every American is within 100 miles of a National Park. So get to it.

Now, I considered kidnapping my nieces and nephew to add to the fun. (Secretly, I just wanted to become a junior ranger). But the truth of the matter is adults need to get outside more too. Hoffmeister points out that there is just something about the outdoors that just defuses anger. Couldn't this train of thought be applied to problems within the home, large and small? And to our own personal problems?

As for me, I have plenty of personal problems that I feel could be helped by natural world. It may not solve my problems, granted, but it will offer clarity and peace of mind. Fortunately for me I live in the state with the second most national parks, California. The only state to have more is that precious preserved frontier, Alaska. I consider myself even more fortunate for growing up in the state that comes in number three: Utah. Not to mention, I visited Denali National Park in Alaska one summer.

This is not intended to be a puff piece about the National Park Service. Rather it is a call to get outside. Something I need to do more. Something I need to do a lot more. I once relished in the simple hike or outdoor adventure. Somehow that all got away from me. It still evades me more often than not. The natural world inspires, invigorates, and energizes. And yet I give in to those things which dumb me down, depresses me, and demotivates me.

Coupled with the recent good weather and National Park Week I am once motivated to explore. The San Francisco Bay area has five options. I hope I can get to them all.

Science

In 1799 a voyage of unprecedented importance set sail from Spain. This voyage carried the travel enthused scientist Alexander von Humboldt. According to Humboldt's early biographer, F.A. Schwarzenberg, Humboldt had five curiosities he dedicated the voyage to:

1. The knowledge of the Earth and its inhabitants
2. The discovery of higher laws of nature, which governs the universe, men, animals, plants, and minerals
3. The discovery of new forms of life
4. The discovery of territories hitherto but imperfectly known, and their various productions
5. The acquaintance with new species of the human race--their manners, their language and the historical traces of their culture

Schwarzenberg accuratelty subtitled Humbodlt's biography What May be Accomplished in a Lifetime. The list of Humboldt's accomplishments goes on and on. And yet, not many of us are familiar with this accomplished explorer and scientist. We are more familiar with the savage conquistadors and explorers that exploited the land and its inhabitants rather than celebrating and learning about them.

32 years later, the HMS Beagle began its famous voyage carrying a man who would later go down as the "Father of Evolution." Although, most of today's population has no familiarity with Humboldt, Charles Dickens was certainly inspired by him and his expedition. In a prophetic profound letter Humbodlt responded to Darwin, "You told me in your kind letter that, when you were young, the manner in which I studied and depicted nature in the torrid zones contributed toward exciting in you the ardour and desire to travel in distant lands. Considering the importance of your work, sir, this may be the greatest success that my humble work could bring." How truly profound! And how many individuals have been inspired since from Darwin who was inspired by Humboldt!?

Darwin didn't get everything right. Our knowledge of the world is evolving exponentially. So much of that knowledge is based of his work and the work of those he inspired and the other scientists that were arguing the case of evolution along side him. Who would have inspired Darwin if not Humboldt? Who inspired Humboldt? Who and what is inspiring us today?

*If you are viewing this page on an Apple device you may not be seeing the two YouTube videos above. IF you are interested they are fragments of speeches made by Neil deGrasse Tyson about how we have stopped dreaming.

Writing

Writing is an art. A writer is an artist. Anybody that has ever done arts and crafts with me knows I am not an artist. Anything sticky, such as glue or tape, does not bode well with me. I manage to get it stuck on my fingers, in my hair, anywhere other than the place it actually needs to be. Same goes with paint, which is why no one asks for my help when painting. I'm not sure I could keep within the lines in a coloring book. A task, I'm sure my nieces and nephews can do effortlessly. Fortunately, I am able to laugh at myself and the project. A disconcerting attribute for those taking the project seriously.

Back to writing. I fear my attempts at writing mimic my attempts at other arts and crafts. Words probably don't end up where I want them. Thoughts aren't connected. And the end product does not mirror what was on the box. 

The difference lies in the fact that I actually want to be good at this writing thing one day. My gingerbread houses can remain crooked and paint jobs messy but as for my writing I hope it is understandable, meaningful, colorful, and good. Truly though, I am not even sure what I mean by that. When I typed those words images of Martha Stewart perfectly put together projects came to mind. I don't necessarily want such perfect pieces of work where the edges are smoothed out and the colors don't run together. Let there be rough edges and a messy run of ideas. Ultimately, I just want it to be readable.

In pursuit of this writer ideal I have briefly explored books and articles concerning writing. The best to date is Stephen King's On Writing. His best advice is simply, "If you want to be a writer, you must do two things above all others: read a lot and write a lot." Similarly, Malcolm Gladwell, in his book Outliers, argues the same point for excelling in just about anything. Gladwell suggests that a 10,000 hour rule applies for success. That is, to excel at a task on must perform said task for around 10,000 hours. Achieving 10,000 hours at any task takes up to 10 years, according to Gladwell, concentrating on the task for 20 hours a week.

Seems daunting. Fortunately, I enjoy reading and there are millions of books I need to get to. The daunting part is the writing. Not because I don't like to write but because I fear it. This fear, as many fears, come from my lack of confidence in myself. At times I feel the fear and hesitation comes from the lack of purpose. Obviously, I need to overcome these things if I am to get my 10,000 hours (I think I found my purpose!).

Stephen King also points out the hierarchy of writers. At the bottom of the pyriamid are the bad writers (yes, there are plenty of bad writes he blatantly points out). Up a level are the competent writers. On the much smaller level above competent writers are the really good writers. And at the tippy top where only a very limited number of writers are included are the genius writers, "divine accidents" as King called them. His opinion on the hierarchy is both troubling and motivating depending on where one falls: "While it is impossible to make a competent writer out of a bad writers, and while it is equally impossible to make a great writer out of a good one, it is possible, with lots of hard work, dedication, and timely help to make a good writer out of a merely competent one."

My hope is that I am a competent writer. My hope is that I have it in me to work hard and dedicate myself to this craft. My hope is that my first hopes will produce the hope I stated earlier to be considered a good writer. My hope is that timely help doesn't take too long.

This blog is going to serve as one of those avenues to writing a lot, those audacious 10,000 hours. I realize that it may sometimes feel like my other art and craft projects, out of control. In that, it has its purpose. I don't have an editor. I don't have a proofreader. I just have little old me. In an effort to remove hurdles that would scare me away from writing, it will remain as is. For sake of this blog I write and then I post. I rarely reread and I rarely have more then the one draft. You could say its my thoughts and ideas in its roughest and rawest form. It also makes my blog sound cooler than it really is. Raw and rough really just means bad grammar and sentence structure.

In short, expect to see me posts. If you really don't want to suffer through my ramblings, wait 10 years or so and by then I may have produced some real art. By then I may call myself an artist. Until then, I'll just read and write.

Highway 1

There's a fancy Taco Bell on the beach down the road from me on Highway 1. The other day I was on a day off so I decided to drive down there and get one of the new Cool Ranch Doritos tacos. It was a nice day so I thought I would sit there at this too-fancy-for-its-own-good Taco Bell, eat some tacos-made with who knows what-and maybe get inspired and do some writing. I sat on the beautiful patio of this beach Taco Bell eating my food, uninspired, urging to drive on.

I gave in to the urge and drove on. Which is peculiar because I spent the day before driving 12 or so hours from Salt Lake to San Francisco. Kerouac must have gotten into my subconscious. And let me remind you, I am a flight attendant now, meaning I could have done this for free in considerably much less time. And yet, I needed to get that car out here for the sake of my sanity.

Back to the point, after spending a whole day in a car the day before, I decided to embark on another car journey along a small stretch of Highway 1, also more aptly named, Pacific Coast Highway. My one regret in the spontaneity of this trip is that I wish I could have posted a poster on back my car stating, "I am a tourist. I am enjoying the view. By all means, please pass me!" I swear, the speed limit on that road should be 25 mph. 

Leaving Pacifica, no more than a couple miles from the eloquent Taco Bell,the Pacific Coast Highway turns into a one lane road driving through a forest of trees. A thick layer of trees darkening the day light line both sides of the road. To me it felt like instantly leaving a small city to entering a protected national park or a forest inhabitable for miles.

All the trees soon make sense. Free roaming hills painted in green appear beyond the trees. The highway leads on to a tunnel through the hillside. I'm both a sucker for tunnels and a sympathizer with the tunnel. One thought exclaims "I am driving through a huge chunk of earth right now. This is awesome!" The other side of my conscious simply asks "Was this really necessary?" The two thoughts don't battle long as there are beautiful views of beaches, cliffs, hillsides, and oceans straight ahead.

 That stretch of the Pacific Coast Highway from Pacifica to Santa Cruz is merely a small portion of what California has to offer. It is not in my ability to describe the views and the beauty of that drive I took that day. This is why: As in most things, the scenery only lends itself to an open mind. While I may have seen a countless number of tan sandy beaches, unadulterated coastal land for miles and miles, and rolling hills of green and cattle, another may simply see the road to home or work, or some place anywhere other than where they just were.

I didn't stop to see and take in as much as I should have. I had a destination in mind, Santa Cruz. I wanted to get there with enough daylight to enjoy it. Regardless, I did spot a picturesque lighthouse along the way that screamed at me to check out. The view of that lighthouse sitting on rocky cliffs and the introspection it inspired was worth the time and daylight it required. I was surprised to find it to be a hostel as well. Why not though? It's a view travelling vagabonds feed off of.

It is hard to fight the urge to write a string of adjectives and superlatives when describing the drive along the Pacific Coast Highway. It is simply beautiful. It is one of natures many masterpieces. Where else can you hear the roaring ocean, feel the ocean spray, and stare at rolling green hills? Nowhere were it is quite like Highway 1.

I eventually made it to Santa Cruz. From my short stay I found it to be enjoyable with an intersting crowd. The boardwalk and its rides were open and crowded. People seemed happy. I wandered around aimlessly wondering what I was more drawn to: the open road or the destination?

The sad part of the Pacific Coast Highway? Either way you go, north or south, it ends up right back in a big city where it is forgotten. Where the opportunities of the open road are neglected. Where the mind turns back to the responsibilities of work, family, and human life. Where once again, our life given source is ignored and forgotten.

Still Dreamin'

I use to dream about these days. I use to dream. What happened to the dreamer? Is it true that dreams are reserved for the young? I want to dream again.

The dreams of my youth were fantastical dreams, uninhibited by doubts and fears. Limitations weren't even considered. In those days I would watch the Olympics and dream of being a world class swimmer. I would watch a play at the local Scera Shell and I would dream of being an actor. I listened to a motivational speaker and felt I could inspire the masses. I even imagined myself a young Kenny Chesney at one point.

Dreams carried on to young adulthood. My dream of being young and rich with my own business landed me in schemes that labeled me a sucker and cost a fair share of time and money never to be regained.

College, where dreams live and thrive and die, followed this pattern of inconsistent dreams. It began in high school when I was convinced I was going to be a doctor. Hell, I even memorized bones and parts of bones in Latin for extra credit. It was a dream I actually put some work towards for once. Eventually, that dream died to be filled by other dreams. Like many sleeping dreams these dreams are fuzzy. From pre-med I went to Pharmacy to Business to Parks, Recreation, and Tourism. As with all dreams, mine had to end, my dream of higher education ended there, with a four year degree, six to seven years in the making, in Parks, Recreation, and Tourism.

I'd like to say that like sleeping dreams I had no control over these dreams. However, that is not the case, and as any good man must I have to accept accountability. Dreams changed slowly from out of reach to within arms length.

For nearly all my life, regardless of what dream was occupying my mind, I was always dreaming of travel and adventure. That one dream, that always persisted, sometimes more so than other times, led me to this conjuncture of my life.

I ended up with a Sustainable Tourism Management emphasis with my degree mostly because it facilitated my dreaming. I sat in classrooms with like-minded, or near like-minded, individuals discussing various aspects of travel and recreation. I took a class in which its only purpose was to discuss every country, state, and region as a travel destination. We discussed what to do, when to go, and why to go. Each destination received a rating as its value as a travel destination according to the professor, who was justly qualified as he had been to every single one of these destinations. Every country, state, and region-minus two-had been visited by this esteemed professor. I envied him.

This same professor taught a tour management class as well. I was keen to learn more. The final project for the class was a group project involving the entire class. As a class we planned a tour that could be done in the Salt Lake area. We rented a tour bus went to a couple haunted sites, a chocolate factory, and then we went on a helicopter ride. This was a dreamer's class.

Although I took classes in rock climbing, mountain climbing, backpacking, and wilderness survival as part of my degree I feel that I could have done so much more. Options were endless within the curriculum, from scuba diving to skiing. The time and money I spent into pursuing higher education killed any dreams other than finishing school.

This is what scared me about getting married, having a family, and having a career. I thought my dreams would cease. Seemingly, I was scared of getting old and the responsibilities of adulthood. The burial ground of dreams awaited in adulthood.  As I got older, I just dreamt of being young forever. I shared the dreams of Mrs. Darling and Wendy. Neverland beckoned.

Contrary to my fears of adulthood my dreams survived. Tamed a bit but alive and well. Like a teenager yearning to leave his/her small town I would watch planes flying overhead wishing I was on one, going somewhere exotic, somewhere new, anywhere really. A plane, 35,000 feet in the air, sparked and symbolized my ever occurring dream to be somewhere I currently wasn't.

Sometimes dreams take a whole lot of effort to become a reality; sometimes dreams just fall into your lap. I like to think my little dream came into fruition due to a little of each. In the last six months I have been on more planes and stayed in more hotel rooms than the average citizen will in their entire life. I have spent all day and all night in a number of airports. I start my day on the west coast, eat lunch on the east coast, and return to lay my head down back on the west coast.

The world opened up to me in a way it only opens up at the sight of money, and although I feel very rich, I have no money to speak of. Naturally, there are still limitations. Fortunately, however, these limitations invite more dreams to flourish. What is a dream without a few roadblocks to overcome?

I may not dream as boldly as I use to but by god, once a dreamer, always a dreamer. I can't imagine a me without a fantastic dream of what the future might hold. Perhaps instead of dreams I should more aptly call them delusions of grandeur. The greatest of these grandiose delusions may be that I will write something worth reading. So I continue to dream and feed the fantastical dream with words from other dreamers, those that knew how to write something worth reading, those that knew how to make characters and stories come to life.

Speaking of dreams, it's that time of night where I should be dreaming in my sleep.

**I found the picture after the fact but found it fitting.

He Hath Founded It Upon the Seas (part I)

"The Earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof; the world, and they that dwell therein. For he hath founded it upon the seas and established it upon the floods. Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord? Or who shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean hands and a pure heart; who hath not lifted up his soul into vanity, nor sworn deceitfully." (Pslams 24:1-4)

Life in the Cayman Islands has always been centered around the sea. It breeds life and community to the small nation. Industry and prosperity has always depended on its vast resources and opportunities. A God-fearing people, Caymanians are witnessing the mutiny of their seas, once reserved for fishing and the like, by outsiders and a hell-bent overindulgent master. Sorry David, Vanity is the new resident.

On slow days in Del Sol I couldn’t help but to look out the door at the port that lay just across the street and wonder what this small developed city looked like ten years ago and then twenty and then even fifty. I determined it much look like other parts of the island with thick bush and palm trees and gorgeous beaches. Sadly, I considered the exceptional costs of industry and so-called progress. And yet, without them I likely wouldn’t have been sitting there pondering on these things. Most of life is like that, I decided.

During high season Grand Cayman has a cruise ship in port nearly every day, excluding Sundays. Extremely busy days will have up to six or seven with probably an average of 3,500 passengers on board each ship. For six ships that’s around 21,000 people. The population of the Cayman Islands is roughly 50,000; roughly 21,000 people reside in George Town where the ships dock. The streets looked like the streets outside an arena after a major sporting event. A serious cause of anxiety for locals and anyone with an aversion towards crowds (including me). On a busy day in Grand Cayman the population can nearly double for a few hours.

Enter free enterprise. High end jewelry stores, low end tee shirt shops, and tourist attractions to boot have popped up all over George Town in hope to cash in on the cruise ship culture. Beaches were heavily trafficked and the town was treated as if it were the beach. Men walked around shirtless; women in bikinis; and bottles of beer and mixed drinks were carried about as if their drinkers were at home. Vanity (mixed with a high level of tacky) was a part of this ever growing culture. I just happened to be along for the ride.

Fortunately, the cruise ships were not the form of travel I embarked on for Grand Cayman. For me, I witnessed and participated in the cruise culture only while wearing my “work hat.” At the end of the day I left that hat in the store, where it belonged.

Grand Cayman has much more to offer than what can be explored in a single day. For six months I tried to take in as much as I could and I still didn’t get to see it all. Part of the reason for this, of course, is the lack of funds and time spent working; as well as spending half of that time living by myself. As far as the things I did spend my money and time on, I loved it. Grand Cayman will forever stick out as an experience that was equally rewarding, relaxing, introspective, and enjoyable. The friends and memories I made there will remain as essential pieces to this intricately woven life of Stumpe.

I Feel Funny

It's been a day of a myriad of emotions and at the end of the day all I have is my dear friend, blog, to comfort me. Together, though, blog and I can conquer the world so I'm not too concerned.

Before I get into the day itself the last week has rained upon me a wide spectrum of thoughts and emotions that collectively is best described as "bitter-sweet". I soon must leave the wonderful island of Grand Cayman and my new found friends. I will leave my job and my quaint but peaceful apartment. Yet, the thoughts of family and friends and simple luxuries denied to me here, beckon me and fill me with glee akin to a child getting a new bike. As they must celebrations and gatherings will pass and I will have to get back to work and start "building my future" in an an certain world with an uncertain future. In reality though, I look forward to it and hope I will be able to apply the changes I have made in myself here back at home.

All day today I eagerly looking forward to the time after work when I would be able to hear word from the University of Utah. As I watched the press conference (albeit late) and read the articles concerning the move to the PAC 10, I was undeniably proud to be a University of Utah alumni. Previously, I had just shrugged it off as it could have been any school. Yet today, even though my contribution has been at-best minimal, I am unashamed of my pride in my alma mater. As I do, I was trying to read the news from a variety of sources for a wide perspective of what the future will bring for the U. As I was doing so I found myself in the comment section of the Salt Lake Tribune. My high was quickly brought down. I know better than to read these ramblings but one caught my eye and I'm suddenly trapped. The comments typically made are full of ignorance, hate, and malice from both sides. Many times I want to make a comment as a rebuttal or defense, but fortunately I have learned my lesson. No one will care and it will just make me mad. I'm always game for a good argument amongst friends, and even frenemies, but these comments serve no purpose. The thing that makes me mad is that I let it effect me.

I had to go blow off steam so I headed up to the gym. My plan had been to watch game 7 of the NBA finals while running. As a back story, at first I didn't really care about the series. Yeah, I wanted the Lakers to lose but I didn't find myself paying too close attention as I don't have cable to watch it anyway. Well, I found myself emotionally involved in game 7 after some ignorant and out of place comments made by an acquaintance. Again, I shouldn't care, but I let it get to me. Celtics winning would have made him look like an idiot, so I wanted the Celtics to win. If you have ever watched a sports event with me where I have a favorite, you know I sometimes have soft, gentle conversation with the inanimate TV. Needless to say, my blood pressure goes up as well as my heart rate. Combine that with running. The game was so tight that my heart felt like it was going to jump out of my chest. Plus I think I would constantly scare the people around me when I let out a gentle yell at the refs. Upset alert: Celtics lost. I lost. Jerkface won, kinda. In the end, not that big of a deal.

By the end of the night I had calmed myself down and watched Ol' Yeller and cried. Just kidding. I had been reading and decided to stay up to see what would happen with the planned execution of Ronnie Lee Gardner. It was bizarre. I'm not trying to open a debate of whether it is right or wrong but to discuss the happenings leading up to the execution. This is the reply I left for a friend on Facebook: Weird world we live in. I watched updates via Google latest; news which consisted mostly of Twitter feeds. Mark Shurtleff (or his staff) was even updating his Twitter. Also as I waited the comments via ustream the comment board was open and live. Some people are just morbid. It's a strange strange world.

As to not scare anyone a way, I wouldn't consider this my daily range of emotions. If scientists some day find that men go through PMS (let's keep it to the emotional stuff), say, two times a year, I would believe it. I wouldn't even say it was a tough day, just interesting. And at the end of the day (which is actually on to the next day (kinda) now that it's 2:30 am) I'm tired and pretty sure I'll sleep easy!