 |
|
There are currently, 6 guest(s) and 0 Staff Online.
|
| |
|
| Don't Be Deceived by 'Flashy Packaging' by Victoria Larson on 09/02/2010
Back to school time is a good time for all of us to think about our “continuing education.” We need to keep eyes and ears open to gain more knowledge about the food we eat. It’s a new era of food and it’s not all good news. Most of what the grocery stores carry may not actually be food. It may be very nice, flashy packaging, but it’s not good nutrition.
A non-profit organization known as the Center for Food Safety estimates that 70 percent of the processed food in U.S. supermarkets is genetically modified “foodstuff.” Most of the GMO’d foods are corn or soy based. If you are buying packaged foods, you are eating foods that have been genetically modified. Look at virtually any box of cereal.
While colorfully packaged (with BHT as a preservative in the packaging) it is not the best choice for a healthy breakfast. But you’ve read that in my columns before so I won’t belabor it.
A Frenchman, Gilles-Eric Seralini, has been studying genetically modified corn varieties. Monsanto is our largest supplier of chemicals and they have produced three GMO’d varieties of corn. Two of those kill the insects that might feed on them. That means the corn’s DNA contains insecticides. Not my idea of a good breakfast. Hopefully at least the insects know better than to eat it. The third variety of corn has been modified to resist that popular over-the-counter herbicide, RoundUp. For the record, RoundUp is Monsanto’s best-selling product.
And in case you didn’t know it, RoundUp is also a hormone disrupter. Hormone disrupters are in plastics and foods and water these days. Causing nine-year-old girls to go into puberty early and the boys to manifest breasts and the adults to “get” low thyroid. Like it’s something you “catch” that can be cured with another hormonal pill. And as a reminder, so-called “natural” hormone replacement involves the manipulation of a plant molecule also.
Now go pick up that box of cereal again and look at the ingredients. Is there any corn in it? Any soy? Any wheat? Wheat is the most hybridiezed food we eat. And we eat a lot of it. It takes years for the human digestive system to adjust to a new hybrid alone. It’s why so many people are allergic to wheat. Do you wonder how long it will take to “adjust” to genetically modified ingredients? I don’t exactly want to find out the hard way.
Most children and adults today live on supermarket foods, rather than home-grown or locally raised farm stand goods. Most kids eat processed and packaged foods. Some eat it exclusively. Many adults do too. If you think this isn’t a real problem I’ll tell you a couple of my personal “exposures” to GMO’d foods. First there was the eggplant that I purchased with the intent of using it within a few days. When I didn’t get around to it for a week, and it still looked exactly the same, I decided to see how long it would last. Ten months later that eggplant was still sitting on the counter, unchanged. That’s not normal food.
Another example included cutting into a tomato. All of the hundreds of seeds within the tomato were sprouted. All of them. It freaked me out so much that I wouldn’t even feed it to my chickens, lest that strangeness be transferred to me or my patients through the chicken’s eggs. I deal with cancer patients after all, and that’s not a patient base where you want ingestion of GMO’d foods. Of course, I don’t want any of my patients to have GMO’d foods.
It is estimated that babies are exposed to 10,000 chemicals by the age of two. My youngest grandson is two. Exposures are not just from chemicals in food but also from phalates and parabens in products like “anti-bacterial” soaps and shampoos. Then there’s the bis-phenol A in plastic toys and water bottles and the linings of canned foods. The thinner skin of babies and elders puts them at greater risk for stonger exposures. No one ever asks why the children born today are not slated to live as long as we will. There’s part of the reason.
Adults are exposed through cosmetics and cleaning products and anything plastic that you touch a lot, like your computer and cellphones. Add these exposures to GMO’d foods and we are a nation in troubled health. Do what you can to learn more. Eat less processed food. Grow more of your own. Shop locally from trusted farmers. The more you spend on good food the less you will spend on health care later.
Want to know more? As the kids head back to school, head to the library or your local bookstore. My oft-mentioned most informative books include the following titles: Bill McKibben’s Deep Economy and Eaarth (both must-reads); Michael Pollan’s Botany of Desire (the chapter on potatoes alone will change your eating habits); Omnivore’s Dilema and In Defense of Food (real food); Eric Schlosser’s Fast Food Nation (remarkably researched with insights and history); and lastly Joel Salatin’s Everything I Want To Do Is Illegal (about government involvement in food production).
So it’s back-to-school for all of us. In the meantime, eat fresher foods. Buy less, more often to keep your supplies fresh. Learn to can, freeze, dry, ferment your foods so you know exactly where they came from and how they were processed. The cost of food and the cost of medical care are inextricably entwined. Make your choices carefully and wisely.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Call for appointment: 668-1181.) |
| Expect a Cool-Down in September by Herb Miller on 09/02/2010
For the second consecutive month, rainfall has been scarce and temperatures have been up-and-down.
The first week had temperatures pretty much on average, but starting on the 13th, the summer’s second heat wave resulted in Brightwood recording 90 degrees or above for five consecutive days, peaking with 94 on both the 14th and 15th. Government Camp recorded peaks of 84 and 86 on the 16th and 17th, respectively. Starting the last week, another hot spell produced two more days in the 90s in Brightwood, followed by cooler temperatures the remainder of the month. Overall, the heat waves caused above average temperatures.
The National Weather Service reports a strengthening of the La Nina pattern discerned a month ago and expects it to continue throughout the winter. Most of us associate this weather pattern with colder than average temperatures and more than average precipitation for our area.
Translation: expect a snowy winter.
This September, the NWS expects our area to be cooler than average with precipitation about average.
During September, Brightwood has an average high temperature of 70 degrees, an average low temperature of 47 degrees and a precipitation average of 3.30 inches. Eight out of the last 10 years, had temperatures reach into the 80s, two years had highs in the 90s, and only the year 2004 failed to get above the 70s.
Record high for the month was a sizzling 102 recorded Sept. 2, 1988, compared to a record low of 32, recorded only five years ago on Sept. 24, 2005, for the earliest freezing temperature on record.
In Government Camp, the average high temperature during September is 63 degrees, the average low is 42 degrees and an average precipitation amount of 3.44 inches. Six of the last eight years had highs in the 80s and only two didn’t make it above the 70s. The record high of 94 was set on Sept. 4, 1988 and the record low of 23 was recorded back on Sept. 27, 1972.
Snow is a rarity in September, averaging out to only 0.2 inches over the long term. The earliest significant snowfall was 3 inches, measured on Sept. 23, 1984. |
| Sunburn is Bad, but the Sun is Still Our Friend by Victoria Larson on 08/03/2010
The largest organ of your body is your skin. Interestingly, skin contains immune enhancing ability. Oral supplementation with Vitamin D is important (I prescribe it in liquid form for ease of compliance — a drop a day of a tasteless emulsion) but actual exposure to the sun is where the magic happens to enhance your immune system.
A gene known as p53 is responsible for initiating the process of tanning. This gene supresses tumors. Ultraviolet light activiates the p53 gene to begin the tanning pathway. Skin cells without the p53 gene do not tan, causing conditions like vitiligo. Yet, without the gene, the skin cells cannot protect themselves from skin cancers.
What this means is sun exposure itself turns on the p53 gene which initiates tanning and the formation of Vitamin D, while also protecting the skin from tumors.
There are three major categories of skin cancers. Basal cell carcinomas usuallly occur in sun exposed areas such as head and neck, though not exclusively of course. They rarely metastasize and are 95 percent curable.
The second major category is squamous cell carcinomas, usually appearing as a red patch or a nodule and may appear in areas of the body that have had previous burns or other injuries. Sometimes these look like a mole and are capable of metastasizing to other areas of the body so you want to monitor closely.
The third major category of skin cancer is melanoma, which occurs when skin cells called melanocytes are damaged by ultraviolet radiation and begin to divide out of control. These can be fast or slow growing but need prompt attention. They usually occur in young adults and happen more often in people who have a history of serious sun exposure leading to blisters on more than three to five occasions and occuring between puberty and mid-20s.
If caught promptly, virtually all skin cancers have a high rate of cure. What we sometimes tend to forget is that the condition called “cancer” is really just another disease. While it is one that we don’t seem to have a lot of answers for, it is still just a disease — often treatable and curable, depending on location, duration of existing condition, and treatment choices.
Cancers, whether skin or otherwise, are caused primarily by chemicals, irritation or radiation. I would add nutritional causes as well due to the fact that a poorly functioning cell membrane does not allow for the ingestion of nutrients nor the excretion of waste products. All of your cells are supposed to take in nutrients and excrete waste products just like your body does. If the cell membrane becomes less fluid due to lack of proper nutrients, it is less able to function normally. The accumulations of waste products in cells may be a contributing factor to any cancer-disease.
Now I will tell you one person’s story. Raised in California at a time when no one had ever heard of sunscreens and being a tan teen was the end all and be all, this young woman foolishly and repeatedly got sunburned. Not on purpose, but baby oil provides zero protection from ultraviolet light and is, in fact, petroleum-based mineral oil, which meant and means to this day that it is a toxin to the liver.
The sunburns received by this young woman were few and far between but totalled more than five or six during puberty and young adulthood. When the woman was older and had a family, tanning time was lessened so she chose to try a tanning bed. Just once. Something about it didn’t feel natural. And we are still not sure if the light from tanning beds turns on the p53 tumor protector gene.
During times of stress, our immune systems are down anyway. During the same year as the one-time-only tanning bed use, there was a death in the family. Therefore, decreased immune system response. This woman who grew up in California and literally played in patches of poison oak had never been irritated by the plant. This time, with immune system less than optimum, a picnic in a patch of poison oak led to a rather strong reaction.
Reviewing the scenario, decreased immune function led to unexpected reaction to irritant on the lower leg, which in women is usually exposed to sunlight. Resultilng allopathic medicine barely relieved the itching and a mole on the lower leg that had appeared during puberty became more unusual.
Staying on top of the changes, she went to a health fair where free skin exams were being given. This was more than 20 years ago when the rate of melanoma was about 4:100,000 people. The hospital caught two of them that year with their free exams. The woman was one of the lucky ones.
The mole was removed — and I’m here more than 20 years later to tell the story. A life-changing story. Never again to a tanning bed. Avoidance of the sun between 10 a.m. and 2 p.m. Self care during times of stress. A healthy diet that keeps cell membranes fluid and properly functioning. Use of sunscreens during peak times of exposure. Daily dosing of Vitamin D, and regular check-ups.
If causes of the cancer-disease are chemicals, irritation, radiation, and decreased cell membrane fluidity, then I was lucky. I delved into my studies, became a naturopathic doctor and it totally changed my life. Any kind of cancer can be a turning point in life. It takes time, but eventually you may come to view the challenge as a gift. My life would not have taken the turns that it did if it had not been for a cancer diagnosis.
Now I look at that diagnosis as saving the rest of my life. It was like being given a handful of jewels that continues to twinkle and sparkle and show me a new way of living. It was a gift. A chance to re-evaluate life choices and make the right ones. To be the most authentic person for the rest of my life. To give my self to helping others survive difficult diagnoses. To live fully.
While I’d never wish a cancer diagnosis on anyone, I wish a full life for every one of you.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Call for appointment: 668-1181.) |
| A Kayak Swap; the Adventure Continues by Luke Will on 08/03/2010
July 24 report
After just over three weeks of paddling we’ve made it about 300 miles from Duluth to Rossport.
Unfortunately our dream changed shape a bit before we could actually leave Duluth and we had to leave behind our Skin On Frame kayaks that we built. They still float and work well as a kayak, just not ones intended for an expedition of this magnitude and on a lake of this size.
From now on they’ll be our “collectible” kayaks meant for eye catching cruises on urban flat, friendly water.
Now we are paddling two plastic Perception brand kayaks with much more storage and stability. In order to make that decision to leave them we had to clearly identify our main goal with this expedition, and that is to circumnavigate Lake Superior by kayak. It didn’t matter what kayaks we used to do it, just that we were doing it in a kayak.
And so we paddle on.
The first half along the Minnesota shore was hot and sunny. Burnt and ready for some shade we silently merged into Canada past the Pigeon River and into an archipelago of more than 700 miles stretching from the Sibley Peninsula north of Thunder Bay all the way up to Rossport.
We made that trip through patches of thick fog, past swimming moose with stops at far tucked away wood stove saunas and small summer communities filled with friendly and helpful people that have already made this trip memorable.
We’ll help wind up July with a full moon paddle with new friends and their voyageur canoe and a few beers. Then we’ll be paddling on to the east across the true northern section of the lake towards Pukaskwa Park.
We’ll start to get a mixture of sandy beaches and highland bluffs, along with some cascading rivers emptying into Lake Superior.
This lake has already shown us a thrilling, and scary, time and we know there’s more to expect. Only a quarter of the way to completing the circumnavigation.
We love this lake.
July 25 report
Lot’s to fill in from the last post from Grand Marais. After much sunny and scorching hot weather along Minnesota’s shore, we finally started seeing some waves and thunderstorms.
First right before Grand Portage (where we got our first cold beer at the casino’s bar) and then a couple days after, we entered into Canada past the Pigeon River.
Searched for and found our first sauna. Well, the location of it at least. It burned down some time ago.
Made a heinous crossing from Pie Island, across Thunder Bay, to the Sleeping Giant where we got caught in and rode the highest winds and biggest waves of our paddling lives.
Surfed onto the best beach we could find just past Thunder Cape. We both got tossed in the white water and ended up on the beach with an assortment of gear lying around us. Everything accounted for and nothing broken (boats or otherwise), we waited out the next two days of a wind advisory hiking the Sleeping Giant.
Finally into Silver Islet. My, what a fantastic little gem! The folks of that summer community (and winter for a lonely few) were so friendly and helpful. Lorne and Joan Saxberg run the General store and put us up next door. We tasted delicious homemade soups and Joan’s fresh “Sin” buns and pushed off with good advice from fellow local paddler Bill Climie (a big thanks to you, sir!).
On our next crossing past the opening to Black Bay we paddled by a swimming moose also making the distance. By then we were in the thick of a large archipelago that stretches from SI up to and just past Rossport which includes around 700 islands. We did the second half of this stretch through patches of fog and without an actual navigational chart in front of us — only the pictures we took of some sailors charts in SI and our trusty tourist “Circle Tour” brochure map from Lake Superior Magazine.
Still, we made it to Rossport last night where we happened to land at the public harbour which is right in front of the Superior Outfitters where our next cache was waiting for us — in a huge box, mostly because it also included our new solar charging equipment.
We met some new friends and talked about our trip on the dock last night. They lent us their truck to drive into town (Schreiber) for laundry, groceries and beer.
Tonight we hope to paddle with them and their voyageur canoe under the full moon to the sound of their traditional paddling songs. We’ll have a few beers with Ray who is hosting us at the shop and probably press on tomorrow morning.
A great expedition indeed.
(Luke updates his blog on the www.superiordream.com site, or you can wait for the next installment in The Mountain Times September edition.)
|
| Mountain Furnace is All Fired Up by Herb Miller on 08/03/2010
Rainfall for July was confined to the first three days, which were also colder than normal, but a week of summer warmth followed after the 5th.
During this period Brightwood had three consecutive days of 90-degree weather, including the peak of 94 on July 8.
Government Camp had two days reaching 87, giving some encouragement to those who may have questioned if summer would ever make it this year.
The last month alternated between cooler and warmer days, until another warm-up came during the last weekend of the month. All-in-all a nice month with temperatures averaging near normal, but rainfall less than half its average.
The National Weather Service is now convinced our area is no longer subject to the previous cool, wet pattern and in fact predicts about average — or perhaps slightly warmer — weather for August with near normal, or possibly a little less than average precipitation.
During August, Brightwood has an average high temperature of 75, an average low of 51, and a precipitation average of 1.61 inches. During the last 10 years, only the year 2000 failed to have a high reach 90.
The year 2002 had a high of 100, and the remaining eight years all had highs of at least 90. On average, two days reach 90 during the month.
The record high, which is also the all-time record, occured Aug. 8, 1981, with a reading of a scorching 106, followed the next two days with readings also in the 100s.
The record low was 36 registered Aug. 29, 1980.
In Government Camp, the average high temperature during August is 68, the average low is 46, and the average precipitation amounts to 1.64 inches.
Four of the last eight years had highs of 90 or more and the others were in the 80s.
A record high of 105 was recorded Aug. 18, 1977, compared to 96 on Aug. 14, 2002, and 95 on Aug. 17, 2008.
The record low of 32 was recorded Aug. 29, 1980, compared to the recent reading of 34 on Aug. 31, 2006. |
| Vacation Time: Stress or De-stress? by Victoria Larson on 07/02/2010
Ahh, vacation time. Whether you have an away vacation or a “stay-cation” it is time for some much needed renewal. In the United States, more than 58 percent of workers are unhappy with their work. So some sort of break needs to occur that we may renew and refresh ourselves so that we can return with some increased energy to approach the job.
Let’s start by being grateful for the jobs we do have. Then take some time while on your vacation to review your level of happiness versus unhappiness. Jobs with no chance for some sort of advancement feel dead-end. But maybe a job that doesn’t change is right for you. There is no judgment here, it’s whatever works for you. Doctoring doesn’t pay well (unless you are a surgeon) but it is very healing and satisfying work. So we do it for the health of it rather than the pay.
But if you are spinning your wheels in a job, you may need to take a long, hard look at what you really want out of life. Some jobs are so stressful that getting away for a week will hardly be enough time to get to a sense of calm. While we all inherently know that the modern world moves too fast for the soul, we rarely do anything about it.
Most job urgency is self-imposed. Most life urgency is self-imposed. I once had a chemistry teacher who was so enamoured of his work that he slept with a chemistry book under his pillow and told us we could call him at any time of the day or night. While we all thought that was pretty nerdy, he did it because he loved his work.
But do you really want to sleep with your Blackberry on your nightstand? Will the world end if you aren’t “on” 24/7? There are times when you need to be available more often. Like when your teenagers are out driving or a family member is not faring well or when a baby is due. But most of life is not that urgent. And it shouldn’t be. Ask yourself why you’re buying into the urgency?
Will one day make the difference in the sale of a building? Will two days matter to tell a cousin about the latest party you went to? We do NOT need to be available to everyone all the time. That’s what vacations are for. To get away. And refresh, relax, renew. Even children do better when their parents take breaks from time to time. Show your children that caring for yourself is important. Model the behaviors you want them to follow.
One trick to renewal is to make sure you don’t need a vacation after your vacation. Let some things slide. Give yourself some slack. Don’t worry, be happy. My best vacation ever was a 10-day trip to Costa Rica — a guided eco tour where most decisions were pre-made. The biggest decisions included deciding what to eat every day. For the record, I chose the same dinner meal every night. Corvina (fish) and hearts of palm salad. Never were they fixed the same way twice.
Yet every meal was interesting.
Other than following the hiking trails and breathing in and breathing out, I relaxed like I’d never done before. Little stress leads to a happy heart. Many studies have shown that meditation is as effective as medical drugs in preventing 50 percent of heart attacks and strokes. Getting those eight hours of sleep a night reduces your risk of heart attacks and stroke. Vacations allow for more sleep if you are not getting enough at home.
Vacations give you a chance to put your health at the top of your list. A chance to do it now, instead of waiting for something to go wrong and then re-thinking it all. Think now about how you want to live your life. Start while you are on vacation. Try the local fruits and vegetables. I guarantee every meal will be an adventure if you open yourself up to new experiences.
Find something to laugh about. Once in Belgium we were driving around looking for a specific location to have a picnic. The freeway signs were composed of place names that were mostly consonants and totally unpronounceable to the uninitiated. Throwing hands in the air we finally laughed uproariously and pulled off the freeway and had a picnic right there. Maybe not the best place I’ve ever had a picnic but one that is well remembered.
There are two things to remember on vacations and about life. 1) Don’t sweat the small stuff. 2) It’s all small stuff. It’s my old mantra all over again. Trust. Believe. Rest. Relax. And I’ve added Laugh to that too!
Have a lovely vacation and come back again.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Call for appointment: 668-1181.) |
| A 'Superior' Challenge Provides a Bigger Picture by Luke Will on 07/02/2010
This morning my paddling partner and I tried to depart on our 1,200 mile kayak trip around Lake Superior. I say tried because while the actual departing phase did happen, the first day of travel didn’t last more than 35 minutes and we ended up in a hotel room not a mile from where we put our boats on the water — instead of a campsite 18 miles up the shore like our plan called for.
Complete with a posse of family, friends, and a news crew, we gathered early and loaded our kayaks on a sandy beach protected by a thin spit of land. After the interviews wrapped up — and a dainty cup of champagne for toasts and boat christening — (we promote dry boating in a wet environment) we climbed in and set off for a grand entrance onto The Lake.
Using the iconic Aerial Lift Bridge over the Duluth canal as our official starting line we paddled through the sloppy mix of rebounding waves and growing chop, emerging past the small lighthouses marking the canal entrance. Heading straight into waves and wind from the east we casually angled left closer to shore and toward the waterfront park where we planned to meet our editors who had been filming with our cameras from the bridge.
Had it not been for my constant focus on keeping steady and upright in the waves I might have noticed the water at my heels. It wasn’t until I felt it sloshing around near my seat that I realized my feet were indeed wet and then I could tell that my boat’s unstable response was as much because of design as it was due to the amount of water not around my boat, but in my boat.
I was taking on some serious water. We quickly rafted up together and learned that my entire stern was below the water line. I was stunned. Damn.
At maybe a quarter mile out from shore in a huge lake that averages 40 degrees water temperature, I was sinking. So I started pumping. Then we started paddling hard for shore. Three more times before we got there I had to stop to pump out my cockpit.
We crash-landed onto a steep beach of small, smooth rocks in our delicate wooden framed kayaks. Standing next to our nearly swamped boats we assessed the situation and developed a plan to fix the problem. All the while members of our group, whom we’d just said goodbye to, began showing up.
I was amused when one of our editors told me of my brother’s warning to her not to bleep out the F-bombs she was certain to capture on film when they arrived at the scene. As she told me this it occurred to me that I wasn’t tangled up in a fit of anger or disgust. I was disappointed maybe, but not pissed.
We spent the next hour hauling our gear back to the parking lot and hoisting our kayaks onto roof racks, obviously not about to continue paddling. While everything up to that point had flown by, not just the morning but the entire last week and month, from the moment we recognized our mutual interest in taking a full break from the kayaks for the rest of the day, time instantly slowed back to real time pace.
Now hours later I’ve finally had a chance to relax and debrief recent happenings. It’s been a hectic time full of logistics and plan implementation, so getting a nap and some time to myself was important and naturally it led to some valuable reflection.
At the end of the day — a day where we hoped to see our first bit of distance covered in the direction that would eventually lead us all the way around the largest freshwater lake in the world — I stretched out on a queen bed in front of a flat screen watching the nine o’clock news do a story on us and our official Superior Dream departure this morning.
It’s a far cry from a tent on a rocky outcrop with the glow of downtown Duluth down the shoreline in the distance.
But honestly, while I can say I didn’t see the beginning of our adventure unfolding this way, at the same time I feel good about handling it the way we did and for the most part taking our setbacks in stride. We certainly aren’t setting out on this adventure because it’s easy and we know there will be more challenges ahead.
It’s just nice to take a step back now and then to see the big picture.
(Follow Luke’s travels on his blog: lucaswill.com.) |
| Summer Makes Halting Arrival by Herb Miller on 07/02/2010
The abundant rainfall during the last week of May resulted in a precipitation total of 10.32 inches in Brightwood — an all-time record for the month.
Government Camp also joined the water party with a total of 10.01 inches, compared to its normal 5.24 inches.
Both locations ended the month with average temperatures nearly 5 degrees below normal.
This cool, wet pattern extended well into the first week of June, and with a few notable exceptions, until the last 10 days of the month when more summer-like weather returned. The cause of this unseasonable cool, wet weather was a series of upper level troughs dropping southward from the Gulf of Alaska.
Rainfall in Brightwood this June has been the greatest since 1981 when the record total of 11.10 inches was recorded.
The National Weather Service doesn’t expect our area to warm up much this July, and forecasts cooler and wetter than average weather.
But the NWS is not infallible, so maybe this is one of those times and we can have a more normal summer.
During July, Brightwood has an average high temperature of 75, and average low of 51 and a precipitation average of 1.37 inches.
During the last 10 years only 2001 failed to have a high reach 90. Four years had highs of 100 or more, including 2006 when a record of 105 was registered July 21.
The remaining five years all recorded a high of at least 90, and on average there are three days reaching that level. A record low of 37 was set in 1981.
In Government Camp, the average high temperature during July is 68, the average low is 46 and the average precipitation amounts to 1.08 inches. During two of the last seven years, highs of 90 or more were recorded, and the other five were in the 80s.
A record high of 99 occurred July 26, 1956, but the 94 just four years ago on July 21 merits recognition.
The record low of 29 was recorded July 2, 1962. |
| Hydrotherapy: It's Easy, Cheap and Safe by Victoria Larson on 06/03/2010
First there was traditional medicine. All doctors were traditional practitioners. Actually, some practioners were elders in the church. I won’t go back as far as Chinese or Ayurvedic medicine, but only as far back as the mid-1800s. Vincent Priessnitz was 17 years old when he was run over by a horse-drawn wagon filled with wood, whereby his ribs were broken. He leaned over a chair to set his ribs and did cold water treatments on himself. Ten days later he was better. And so began early hydrotherapy treatments.
Lest you think this was some odd treatment of the time. Priessnitz treated 40,000 people over his lifetime and, for the record, only 45 of them died while under his care. Though he was accused of “sorcery” and his cold water sponges were cut up by authorities, they could not find the so-called “magic” in his treatments. Hydrotherapy became popular, and when Priessnitz died his funeral procession was three miles long.
I take it he was well-liked and appreciated.
Along comes Father Sebastian Kneipp, and if you’ve never heard of him you should know that a United States newspaper did a survey in the middle of the 19th century asking people to name the top three most well-known people in the world. The U.S. President was number one and the Chancellor of Germany was number two. Number three was Father Kneipp. In the middle of his life he contracted tuberculosis and healed himself by jumping nightly into the cold waters of the Danube. Unfortunately he would sneak out of the seminary and take a buddy along and this was too much for the church. After gaining priesthood, Kneipp was sent to a very small hamlet in hopes that he wouldn’t get into any more trouble.
He became well-known because he treated 200 patients a day. Granted he didn’t have to do chart notes or bill insurance but that amounts to 30 to 40 an hour. A no-nonsense guy, he dispensed his hydrotherapy treatments like his penance. “That’ll be two Hail Marys and five hydrotherapy treatments.” The people he treated got better. The only house call he ever did was for the Pope but there may have been some political pressure there.
Benedict Lust (pronounced loosed, which means “joy” in German) also had TB. The doctors of the time were signing his death warrant, in his presence mind you, when he said “forget this.” I’m going to Worishofen to take Father Kneipp’s water treatments. It took eight months of treatments but he too was cured of tuberculosis. With the mission statement that “the human body should be well at all times” he got permission from Father Kneipp to take his hydrotherapy treatments to the United States.
In the U.S. he started up hydrotherapy resorts. Lest you think people were pampered there like today’s spas, I would have to say they weren’t. Up at 4 a.m. for breakfast of fruit and off to a few hours of exercise, lectures, massage or other pursuits. All meals were vegetarian and bedtime was 9 p.m. That part alone would have made people pretty healthy, but included in the day were hours and hours of hydrotherapy treatments. Eight hours to be exact. Could be done in 10 minute to half hour segments rather than all at once, but it still amounted to eight hours of hydrotherapy. With cold water. Still the people got better.
Historic hydrotherapists like Dr. Lindlahr, Dr. Ledoux, and Dr. Lust were all using Father Kneipp’s treatments. Dr. Lust went to medical school where he was teased mercilessly for his beliefs. So he started the first specifically naturopathic college in the U.S. in 1901. The school attracted PhDs from Columbia University and they trained 8,000 Naturopathic Doctors (NDs). There were many such schools at the turn of the century.
Learning under the above mentioned doctors, Otis G. Carroll became a proponent of the hydrotherapy treatments of Kneipp. Most of the United States was being represented with locations like Youngborn in New Jersey and another in Tangerine, Florida where hydrotherapy treatments were the order of the day. But the northwest was not being served, so upon graduation, Dr. Carroll came to the northwest and added his own spin to hydrotherapy treatments. He believed that better health came through better digestion and his belief was “if the treatment fails, you’re doing something wrong.”
Dr. O.G. Carroll taught Dr. Harold Dick who was a graduate of the National College of Naturopathic Medicine. Dr. Dick added herbs and nutrition to his hydrotherapy treatments but still felt that the hydrotherapy was the strongest protocol. He was unassumedly humorous and I used to enjoy watching tapes of him when I was in school. Dr. Dick taught Dr. Jared Zeff who started teaching at the National College right after graduation and up until 1998.
I was Dr. Zeff’s student and on his last day of teaching, I vowed to carry on the traditional medicine as well, a task I’d actually begun my first few months in school at what is now known as the National College of Natural Medicine. I knew the power of hydrotherapy from first hand experience. The story of how I became such a strong believer is interesting.
My husband was a writer and had gone on a promotional tour for his books where he was signing autographs and shaking hands for hours at a time. When I picked him up at the ariport I was somewhat surprised when he allowed me to carry his bags. He was a regular kind of guy and not usually likely to let me do so. Also, he usually liked to be in the driver’s seat when we were both in the car, so I was surprised a second time when he said I could drive.
I was pondering this while listening to him describe his trip. It was on the drive home when he said the only problem was this red line running up his arm. I glanced over to see the line up to the middle of his upper arm. I was raised in the same world you were and that meant blood poisoning and a trip to the ER. I hesitated but went straight home, the whole time asking myself if I really believed in Naturopathic medicine. After all, I was only four months into Dr. Zeff’s teachings.
Only a half hour from the airport, upon reaching home I immediately put him into a very hot bath with a bowl of ice water for him to put his hand in. I gave him two homeopathics and this being a weekend went out to call the doctor on call (an ND). The on-call doc told me to do hydrotherapy treatments and give him the two homeopathics I’d already given him and call in an hour if he wasn’t improving. By the time I got back to bathside, the line was down to his forearm and by the time he got out of the bath it was at his wrist. We were out of the woods.
No trip to the ER, no panic, no insurance to bill, no money spent. Relief was not only in sight, it was swift and total. I was now hooked on hydrotherapy too. Dr. Zeff will always be my mentor. Other doctors in my profession are my mentors too. I was just at a talk where our featured speaker was 89 years old. She just retired from her practice last year because she broke her back. For the record, she drove two hours each way each day to go to school, while raising six kids after her husband died.
The funny thing about the weekend presentations was that I was one of the speakers. My colleagues and I were all wondering how we got to be the elders of our profession! Especially since not a one of us feels at all old. And fortunately or unfortunately, not a one of us acts our age either. In fact, I feel better now than I did when I was half my age. To top it off, my grandkids all think I’m nine years old (somewhere in the middle of their ages) and they will often ask their parents if “Nana can come over and play.”
Hydrotherapy is easy, cheap, and safe. Naturopathic medicine is also easy if you decide to participate in your own health. Price depends on how sick you might be and how compliant you are. Safety far outreaches a faceless box that doesn’t ask about you as an individual. And that’s the explanation for why I’m so hooked on hydrotherapy and natural medicine.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Call for appointment: 668-1181.) |
| Gray Hair: Stress or too Much Midnight Chocolate Milk? by Luke Will on 06/03/2010
On a recent night with the nearly full moon glaring in through every window, seemingly on all four sides of the house, I was not meant to sleep just yet. And so at one in the morning I stirred myself up a glass of chocolate milk and slid out into the front yard with the dog. We moved down the walk, passed the hammock that has found its place for the summer, by the lilac hedges that weeks ago signaled the changing season, and into the middle of the street I grew up on.
It was the perfect time of night on the perfect kind of night. Late enough to go collar-less but not so to eliminate the deep throttle of a biker shifting into second gear on the nearby highway that splits through town.
In my flip-flops I meandered down a cross street casually eyeing the rabbits that Tischer was not. To my dismay, she was more interested in turning back at the alley that leads home, having become one of two things in the past six months of urban living: either bored or, ironically enough, afraid. I took her out of her element and possibly her livelihood, to this affect, but I can’t blame her for that. I did the same thing to myself.
And right then, with that on my mind, something odd happened. I felt a single hair on my head – thick, curly, and brown as ever – turn gray. And if that weren’t bad enough, like dandruff under a black light, I sensed the new convert reflect along with the rest of the dispersed crowd under the brilliant moon.
Grays have been popping up on my head for the better part of a decade now, their frequency and length directly proportionate to the number of times they get pointed out to me and to how long I think about it after said observation. They remind me of aging and how my forehead burns when I wear a visor now and my achy knees.
If you removed all my non-gray hair you’d see what would amount to a really scraggly version of a reverse bowl cut. OK, so it’s not that bad. But at that moment, I resolved to understand why the grays are invading. Maybe, I thought, if it was for a good reason I wouldn’t need to dwell on it.
The earliest ones I once upon a time blamed on an old girlfriend. The very first one I ever found, which happened to catch the light just right as I was looking in the mirror, I looked at her and said, “you did this to me.” She laughed and we broke up seven months later, or something like that.
But perhaps they come well earned from more important things than lost love or lost bets? Maybe the handful of silver stems on my noggin come from the very details that make thrilling stories? The stories epic enough to enthrall my listeners but have still allowed me to be here to do the enthralling.
Or could the number of gray hairs on my head just be a direct result of overloading on carbs? Or drinking chocolate milk after midnight? Or maybe it’s tied to something more meaningful, like karma or my soul.
Could it be from stress? If so, the only suspense for me of late has been over hand building my own kayak so I can paddle it around Lake Superior. It’s enough to make you take it seriously but not enough to spark a gray uprising.
The theories were flying all around me but I couldn’t accept any just one.
There standing under the glow of an orange streetlight, wondering how it was even triggered given the lack of darkness, I encouraged her towards me to finish our walk. As she eased in my direction her stride was reassured at the call of a loon carrying over from the lake.
It was a moment of familiarity that quickly ushered away my bothersome mood over Tischer’s transformation, and mine. What it left me with was a clear summer night free of bugs, just me and my dog and the moon to guide us through the neighborhood.
(Follow Luke’s travels on his blog: lucaswill.com.) |
| May Snow Blows Over by Herb Miller on 06/03/2010
The first week of May was cold and wet and Brightwood recorded a 2-inch snowfall on the 5th, the first time ever to receive measurable snow in May. Government Camp added 10 inches of renewed snowdepth as well.
A week of warm weather started on the 13th, giving encouragement that summer was on the way. But cold, unsettled weather returned for the rest of the month ending with temperatures averaging more than 3 degrees below normal. A late-season storm produced high winds causing numerous power outages on the 19th. The Hoodland area lost power for nearly 12 hours following a peak gust of 19 mph reported at 9:32 a.m. by the Brightwood weigh station. Government Camp had a peak gust of 28 mph at 11:48 a.m.
The big news with the National Weather Service is their report that the El Nino conditions have dissipated and will not be a factor in their forecast. Our area is expected to have a cool start for the first part of June, followed by a warmer period later in the month, resulting in temperatures averaging about normal for the month with average precipitation.
During June the Hoodland area has an average high temperature of 68, an average low of 48, with 4.08 inches of precipitation. Two of the last 10 years had highs of 100, four years reached into the 90s, and only one year failed to get above the 70s. The record high for June is 100 recorded the 26th in 2006 and on the 28th in 2008. During the last 10 years, lows have dipped into the 30s during five years with the record low of 35 recorded June 11, 1981, closely approached only two years ago when a low of 36 was hit on the 15th.
During June, Government Camp has an average high of 59, an average low of 40, and a precipitation average of 3.88 inches — including 0.6 inches of snow. During the past seven years highs reached into the 80s on four occasions and into the 70s three years.
Only one year had a low falling into the 20s when a reading of 29 occurred in 2008, the same year 3 inches of snow fell on the 10th. The record high of 92 was read June 17, 1961. The record low occurred June 3, 1963 with 23 degrees. Record snowfall was the 6 inches measured June 5, 1995, followed the next day with another 5 inches. Latest snowfall on record was the 2 inches measured June 23, 1993. |
| MOUNTAIN WEATHER/APRIL-MAY by Herb Miller on 05/02/2010
To the delight of many skiers and snowboarders, wintry weather returned during the last four days of March, extending beyond for another eight days into April.
For the record, Brightwood ended March with precipitation totaling an even 10 inches, nearly 2.5 inches above average. Government Camp added 20 inches of snow, ending March with a snowfall total of 36 inches and a precipitation total of 9.56 inches.
Additional snowfall during early April resulted in a snow depth of 42 inches on April 10, compared to only three inches March 29.
Even with greater snowfall totals in the higher elevations, fears of a severe water shortage next summer have eased considerably. Following the wintry period, weather more typical of April took over with sunny periods appearing between the rain drops.
The National Weather Service routinely issues its outlook for the coming month on the 20th, followed later by an end-of-month revision. The current revision included the wording: “Unfortunately … the flow pattern has changed,” and went on to forecast cooler than average temperatures for April over the entire west coast, contradicting their earlier forecast of warmer temperatures.
No meaningful explanation was made to explain why their earlier forecast was so far off base, other than to assert late season sometimes affects the El Nino influence.
For May, less reliance is given to El Nino — now weakening — and more reliance is made on other forecasting tools which predict warmer than average temperatures with above average precipitation for our area.
In May the Hoodland area has an average high of 63, low of 43, with 5.65 inches of precipitation. During the last 10 years, highs have reached into the 90s four years, the 80s four years, and twice into the 70s. The record high of 99 was recorded May 6, 1987, followed the next day by 98. Freezing temperatures have occurred during five of the last 10 years, the season’s latest being 28 on May 17, 1998. The latest snowfall was a trace on May 6, 2002.
In May, Government Camp has an average high of 53, low of 35, and 5.24 inches of precipitation — including 6-plus inches of snow. During the past seven years, only 2004 failed to have a high reach above 60. Two others had highs into the 80s and the other four reached into the 70s. The record high of 93 was attained May 31, 1986. The record low was recorded way back in 1954 with a reading of 18. Record snowfall was only a few years ago when 13 inches fell on May 11, 2000. |
| WHAT PRICE TAG CAN WE PUT ON OUR HEALTH by Victoria Larson on 05/02/2010
Before the Industrial Revolution all industry was fueled by biomass. That means virtually all humans worked. Human work is fueled by the input of food. Most people grew their own food or traded with those who grew for them. Farms used animals to help produce the biomass (food) for the humans and for the animals. Animals need food fuel in order to work too. Homes were heated by wood, another form of biomass. A fairly balanced system of energy input, energy output.
Along came the Industrial Revolution and the balance tipped. More “work” could be done by machines. It seemed wonderful and in many ways it was. But over time it slanted our view of gainful work. Energy input no longer closely matched energy output. We would all get rich and have lots of leisure time.
What went wrong? Are you rich? Do you have lots of leisure time? I know some of you do, but the majority of our population is feeling pinched.
Elliot Coleman (his latest book is entitled The Winter Harvest Handbook) speaks at graduation ceremonies reminding his audiences that “the only species on earth that is not gainfully employed at all times is humans.” All the other species are in constant pursuit of food in order to live. We think food comes from someone and somewhere else. Like a store. In reality, your food comes from the earth. Whether you are vegetarian or not. Animals eat plants in order to live. It all comes from the earth, not from the grocery store.
Yet now we believe that we must work at some job in order to pay money to someone else in order to have the necessities of life. The necessessities of life are air, food, shelter, water and human connection. Of those five listed necessities, three are virtually free (air, water and human connection). Shelter and food are our biggest expenses. Yet in the 1930s Americans spent almost a third of their income on food. And they didn’t have much income. Americans now spend one-tenth of their income on food. Many spend more on electronic devices than on food.
That’s a big oops!
A member of the younger geneeration actually asked me how I can conduct a business without a computer. She’s too young to even know about the world before electronic devices. As if we would starve without our cellphones. Check your expenses carefully. Are you spending more on “toys” than on food? Many people are. And it just doesn’t lead to a satisfying life.
Statistically, Americans list “money” or “wealth” as a key component of happiness. Though in England, 71 percent of the citizens said that quality of life was most dependent on health (#!) and a supportive relationship was #2. In Denmark, Ireland and Italy, income level came in 7th or 8th on their list of requirements for a satisfying quality of life. France and Holland apparently didn’t rate income level as at all important.
In fact, a very interesting research report found that money “buys” happiness up to about $10,000 per person, per year. For the record, that’s considered poverty level in the United States and many, many people are living at that level. The research continued to find that an income level above $10,000 per person, per year does not lead to increased happiness (Bill McKibben, Deep Economy, 2007).
So our deep level of unhappiness does not really relate to income level. If you think about it, health is probably really number one to you too. For without health you do not have a good quality of life. That is where we Americans fall down. We were once considered one of the healthiest nations on earth. We are now 39th on that list. We are 13th on quality of life. And we are 51st in environmental sustainability.
No wonder there’s so much deperession and anxiety.
There’s a new “movement” afoot called ecological economics. Many people have dropped their standards in order to buy cheaper food in order to feed their families.
But what does “cheaper” food mean if it’s been shipped 1,500-3,000 miles to get to you? That is the average distance your food has been shipped if you shop primarily in grocery stores. Check the labels. Check the country of origin of your food.
Food shipped this far cannot, by definition, be fresh.
Now think about the “cost” of that food to the environment. Let me be more specific. Your environment. Fossil fuel brought that food to you. This food has probably been fumigated at the docks at both ends. It may have been irradiated, a practice that need not be revealed and may have longterm effects we know nothing about. What does the degradation of the environment do to your health. And what does said food do to your health.
So time to get out the shovel and spade. Grow something. You will gain physical health, time for contemplation, fresh, organic food for the price of a few seeds, and you’ll have the satisfaction of being your own boss! There are only two ways to survive the economic downturn. Earn more or spend less. You’ll be spending less on food at the supermarket, less on gym memberships, less on psychiatrists.
Your health will improve.
And just being healthier means you’ll be happier.
Though money is important to some extent, what we really need in our lives is health, connection, reality, authenticity, time in nature, grace, joy.
These things come from you and those around you and what you expose yourself to. Get your priorities straight.
And know that I”m here to help you with it. Trust, believe, rest, relax.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Call for appointment: 668-1181.) |
| SOME TENDER LOVING CARE AND IT'S BACK TO 'LOOSE DESCENTS' by Luke Will on 05/02/2010
A new season means a new mountain bike. No, this isn’t a routine for me. Actually this spring is the first time I’ve been so lucky, and it’s really only new to me.
Across beaver dams in northern Minnesota, zinging down slivers of single track in Colorado and heaving up the Crosstown Trail behind Govy I’ve been peddling the same rigid bike for nearly 15 years. I got it just before I got my drivers license.
Despite the change in my frame from an angsty teen to a borderline 30 year old, I made do without a complaint or hint of betrayal. And with the never ending saddle stem came years of dedicated use from mountain town commutes to loose scree descents.
You don’t have to believe it, I barely do.
The process by which this new bike came to be mine started with a successful bid on a police impound item — and subsequent generous gift from the winner to me. It happened last fall on my final day in Seward, Alaska. Removing the bike from its chain link cell beside the jail, we noticed some rust. When I tried to ride it I teetered mid-air, frozen in time, unable to move the pedals.
Walking it to my truck, I found the saddle quick release was seized. That wasn’t the only thing. Storing any kind of device with metal moving parts outside in a temperate rainforest will do that.
After some serious grunting I mustered just enough torque to free the front wheel. I wondered if this was a dire situation. But I was pleased to have it and hinged my excitement on a totally blind faith that it could be either stripped for parts or restored, if not by me then someone else.
Waving out the window, I drove out of town with a loaded truck and that newly acquired derelict bike strapped with bungees and P-cord between my original bike and the space booster box that adorns my roof rack. 4,400 miles later I tucked it into my parents basement for hibernation caked with splattered bugs and dust.
All winter it sat down there. And then came the first days of mild warmth amid thawing snow banks. I pulled it out into the sun and began wrenching on it, scraping myself and cursing as I slowly stripped it down to a bare frame. I saved the disc brakes and sprockets hoping they could be used later in its resurrection.
My cousin’s boyfriend is a mechanic at a bike co-op in the city and fortunately he offered to help me. With a 12-pack of beer and after hours access to his shop we worked into the wee hours of the morning dissecting, cleaning, greasing, replacing when need be, and rebuilding the bike that had traveled so far.
It turned out most of the original components were salvageable, just in need of some major tender loving care.
I rode out the back door of the shop and took some eager laps around the parking lot, hopping on curbs and soothing my new brake pads. It’s the first front suspension bike I’ve ever owned.
So where do I ride my new mountain bike? On my uncle’s farm, of course. I won’t go as far as saying that’s how we do things here in the Midwest because that isn’t true. There is good single track and otherwise around, technical and steep in some places.
But I am more intrigued with skirting his fields of corn and beans on my bike because it is so different. Not from other places I’ve ridden (though undeniably true also) but because his farm is where I learned to hunt years ago, it’s where I’ve hiked and searched for sheds and where we rode four wheelers and had family booyahs and where I’ve watched timeless World Series games, but it’s never been where I rode a bike.
Never have I flung mud splashing through that small creek flowing in the back ditch.
Never have I hooted bombing into the left behind stalks of dried corn. Never have I seen his farm on an efficient 9-speed.
Doing so has added another dimension to a piece of property rich with personal history and has furthered my connection to his place. And that is very satisfying. Even more so than my new mountain bike.
(Follow Luke’s travels on his blog: lucaswill.com)
|
| It's April the First, But No Need to be a Fool by Victoria Larson on 04/03/2010
An unfortunate story appeared in the San Diego News Network January 12. Equally unfortunately it’s also a sign of the times. If you are a computer user, you no doubt get tons of ads for “online drugs.” Yup, they’re out there. And people are buying them. Alas, you do not always know what you are getting when you do.
Witness the sad story of a patient in my first year of practice. This male patient came to me with a colorful copy of an Internet ad for a product to help with his high blood pressure. Being impatient (a contributing cause of high blood pressure itself) he wanted overnite results. He was there to ask my professional opinion about the product and to see if I thought he should purchase it online.
Temporarily putting aside the issue of giving support to your local practitioners, I read through the advertisement. For that’s what it was. A glossy, Madison Avenue “sell” of a product. The ingredients were not listed, there were no Good Manufacturing Practice (GMP) labels listed, mechanism was “promised” but not explained. I could not, in good faith nor in good practice, recommend my patient use an Internet product that didn’t even say what the ingredients were!
I gently reminded the patient of these salient facts. But more importantly, I told him that the people he would buy from online would not know anything about him. In the interest of making another online sale, they would never ask what his current blood pressure status was. Nor would they ask about his lifestyle, food choices, job, exercise regimen, mental/emotional status, or any other pertinent fact pertaining to this patient and his condition.
No one online would take his blood pressure, monitor his progress (good or bad), and most importantly, no one would ever look him in the eye and ask him how he was doing. No one really cared about the patient as an individual.
Alas, the patient thought it sounded too good to pass up. He ordered the product online. He died two weeks later. Is there a connection? Of course no one knows for sure. But I was certainly glad that I’d charted the fact that I’d recommended against purchasing said product.
But how often does this go on? How often do you support such practices? How often have you ordered something online? Men can easily get such drugs as Viagra off the Internet — sent in plain brown envelopes for privacy sake. But all drugs have risks. What on earth did the earth do before drugs? Viagra carries a risk of sudden rise in blood pressure or sudden loss of vision. Does everyone read the package inserts that explain side effects? Sometimes I wonder if anyone reads the package inserts. Many, many drugs list as a side effect the very symptom the drug is being given for. Think about it. Who gains there?
But getting back to the San Diego News story, a patient used a product that claimed to be “natural.” Now think about it. What exactly does that mean anyway? Uranium is natural. The product was for benign prostatic hypertrophy (BPH) or enlarged prostate — a very common symptom for males over the age of 50. When the man experienced a sudden drop in PSA numbers (from 150nf/mL down to 1ng/mL) some doctors became suspicious.
Turns out this “natural” product purchased off the Internet actually contained a hormone called diethylstilbestrol (DES) which has been in use in the United States from 1938 to 1971, when the FDA finally issued a warning about the use of DES, especially in pregnant women. Anyone whose mother was treated with this drug during that time frame is at higher risk for structural abnormalities of reproductive organs, infertility, and poor pregnancy outcomes. Males are at higher risk for genital abnormalities, increased risk of testicular or prostatic cancer — this according to an article in the American Family Physician in 2004.
It was the Danish Medicine Agency that discovered the DES ingredient in the so-called “natural” medicine available to anyone on the Internet. The sale of this drug was banned in Denmark in 2008. For anyone interested in their health, this information should be readily available to you. But we are rushing through life (see last month’s column) looking for the quick and the cheap.
For the record, I use whole food supplements from companies that farm organically and have been in business since 1915. While it’s not impossible to go wrong with food, it can happen there too — just not likely, I write this by way of reminder — don’t be an April fool. Don’t be an Internet fool. Be savvy. Support your local practitioners. And above all, be well.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Call for appointment: 668-1181.) |
| Hypnosis, Golfing, and a Dead Swan by Ned Hickson on 04/03/2010
Hypnosis can make you a better golfer – unless you think you’re a chicken.
Our universe is full of mysteries.
Easter Island.
The Bermuda Triangle.
California.
And perhaps the biggest mystery:
Why I am allowed to golf.
Afew years ago, I participated in the Florence Chamber Golf Tournament. At the time, no one — including myself — realized how bad a golfer I really am. Though none of the injuries sustained during that year’s tournament were life threatening, having six golfers (two of whom were playing the hole behind me) knocked unconscious by balls with my initials on them — I thought — would become my golfing swan song.
(Speaking of which, I’d like to take this opportunity to apologize once again for the tragic death of that swan near the putting green. Had I known the difference between a putter and a pitching wedge, things might’ve turned out differently for that majestic creature.)
Because of this, I fully expected a letter from the American Golf Association (and PETA) denying me access to any course that doesn’t include a windmill and tokens for a free hot dog.
Needless to say, when I was asked back for a second year, I naturally assumed that, at some point, hard liquor had become available in the clubhouse.
As it turns out, being the worst golfer in Ocean Dunes Golf Links history actually makes me a hot commodity! That’s right! With my handicap, the only way a team I’m on can lose is if, over the course of 18 holes, I accidentally knock each of my teammates unconscious with my backswing.
Which is why I’m determined to make my next golfing experience different.
How?
By hypnotizing myself into believing I’m a good golfer.
That’s right. Thanks to golf hypnotherapist Dr. Kenneth Grossman, I will utilize the power of my subconscious to golf in a manner that is, quote:
Relaxed, self-confident and — unless I purchase both CDs — amazingly like that of a chicken.
The program, called Hypnosis for Golf (available at www.hypnosis4golf.com) comes with a no-risk guarantee that if I’m not completely satisfied, my money will be refunded “... within a period of time considered reasonable by many third-world countries.”
Like many of you, I was a little skeptical about the idea of hypnotizing myself because I figured it meant standing in front of a mirror with a shiny object and repeating:
You’re getting very sleepy.
Very sleeeee-peee
Very s-l-e-e-e-e-p—
THUD.
That was silly, of course.
Dr. Grossman is a man of science, and his method is scientifically proven to induce the trance-like state necessary for self-hypnosis. This is achieved by having the subject go to a quiet room and, for 15 to 20 minutes, watch golf on television.
If you happen to be among those who are more resistant to hypnosis, then switch to bowling. However, Dr. Grossman warns that prolonged exposure can send subjects into a catatonic state similar to a coma.
If that happens, change to something more stimulating, such as the blue screen on your auxiliary channel.
I plan to practice Dr. Grossman’s technique each day until I can approach the fairway with complete (entirely unfounded) confidence.
I’d also like to say to my golfing friend Randy, if for some reason I don’t show up, I’d appreciate it you would come over and change the channel.
(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439) |
| 1,200 Superior Miles by Luke Will on 04/03/2010
Last month I wrote about a ski decent of a Lake Superior north shore stream where ideal conditions to do such an activity typically exist during January and February, when it’s cold and snow ridden. Now, only 25 days later we here in the land of 10,000 Lakes are only a few days
away from a completely snow-less month of March, the first ever in modern record.
This spring is like no other that I can remember. The snow is already all gone, both on the boulevards and in the woods. The same rivers I was skiing on only weeks ago are now gushing with frigid melt water, leaving gawkers to eye the rising flood levels while white water kayakers are rejoicing.
With this sudden spring weather and already dry conditions I feel my mind accelerating as if summer were almost here. I have a lot to do before then. In reality, spring is only just beginning though and I have months before the solstice.
I am spending the bulk of my time working on the details for a sea kayaking expedition scheduled to depart at the end of June. My paddling partner, Greg, and I will be circumnavigating the largest freshwater lake in the world – Lake Superior – over a span of three months. At a distance of more than 1,200 miles on a body of water this vast, we aren’t approaching this adventure lightly, both in planning and preparation.
Details are still in the works but our sincere hope is to build our own boats and paddles at a traditional folk school that sits just a stones throw from Superior itself. The kayak is of a Greenland Inuit style, a nylon skin wrapped around a hardwood frame. They have been tested by time and add a compelling edge to our trip.
In addition to the boats, we have another exciting component that sets us apart from the other kayakers that have already accomplished this feat. Starting when we begin construction of the kayaks through our final beach landing back in Duluth, Minn, we’ll be filming the entire voyage with high definition cameras. We have two Minneapolis-based editors signed on to produce and edit our footage into a feature adventure documentary following our circumnavigation.
Having grown up in Minnesota and been exposed to the mystery, wildness, and beauty of Lake Superior since I was young, it has long been a dream of mine to explore the entire shoreline from a kayak. As time went on my life grew intimately close with the personality and nature of The Lake. While an undergraduate at the University of Minnesota in Duluth, I spent many hours instructing skill courses in sea kayaking and guiding waterfront tours discussing the regions natural history and Duluth lore with curious paddlers.
When I met Greg in college we quickly found that many of our motivations and interests were similar. Our common ground was boundless but the golden thread through it all was an adventurous lifestyle full of curiosity and dreams.
When college drew to a close, we reflected on just how much of an influence this Great Lake had had on us. Who we were, upon graduation, we realized, had as much to do with living, playing, and being in and around Lake Superior as it did with our academic achievements.
The Lake had influenced and taught us in a way not unlike an inspirational mentor. We were truly a product of our environment.
At that point the planning for this trip was already a couple years in the making but it has taken shape beneath this understanding. This is a chance to give back to the body of water that means so much to us. And in our eyes, one method is by way of the feature film.
It is our hope to convey the wonder and awe of Lake Superior to those beyond just the scope of the Great Lakes region and in doing so to create a stirring connection. For we believe that with connection comes value, and with value comes an urge to protect and celebrate.
This is our Superior Dream.
(You can find out more about the trip at www.superiordream.com. Follow Luke’s travels on his blog at lucaswill.com.)
|
| We're Not Driving an Ambulance; Slow Down by Victoria Larson on 03/02/2010
When the person in line behind me at the grocery store is fidgeting because I have 22 items and they only have 17, I always let them go ahead. After all, it is not a race. I always politely tell that person that I’m not in a hurrry. Then I add that “hurrying only gets you to the end faster.” That pretty much quiets people down as they ponder this truth. The older the person is, the quicker they get it. Our lives have becomed disconnected from what really matters.
Don’t get me wrong — we want things to hurry sometimes. Like that ambulance speeding by or the need to pick up the kids from school when it’s pouring down rain. But there’s no need to impatiently jingle the change in your pockets if your spouse isn’t quite ready to go to the grocery store. It’s the grocery store, not an appointment for an MRI.
Are we to be trapped in a topsy-turvy world? We plan so many activities, yet we get less done. Do you ever ponder what your life was like before all the “time-saving” gadgets came into it? Where’s all that time we were supposed to have? We’ve learned to rush, rush, rush, but waiting is just about impossible. We have instant food that isn’t (food that is) and fast foods that take longer to digest. We have instant messaging, but shorter tempers.
We have more conveniences but less time to appreciate life. We spend more money, as a nation and as individuals, than almost any country on earth, yet we get little enjoyment from the things we own. We have so many possessions that they’ve become a burden. Less than half of us recycle so we have a ton of pure junk. Our recycling bins are full, but we haven’t received a letter in years.
Our nation has more medical help available, yet we have less health care than 39 other nations. Cancer and heart disease can be helped but we’ve yet to figure out how to prevent these illnesses. Actually, we have, but we’re too busy to pay attention. We don’t have time to read, or listen, or talk with one another. We have aches and pains that might be resolved without drugs but we’re too busy to check out alternatives.
We’ve added years to our lives but not life to our years. We know how to make a living but not how to make a life. Is rush, rush, rush really a life? We’ve sent men and women to the moon, but when was the last time we walked across the street to see how a neighbor was doing?
We have tons of “communication devices” but none of these boxes will replace human contact. If 90 percent of communication is non-verbal it is hard to understand what the words mean if you cannot see the person in real life! We have more computers, cell phones, methods of communication than ever before yet we still have more discardable copies than ever before. I have a friend who has three addresses, two cell phones, two computers and assorted other gadgets. Yet I can never reach him. In fact, it’s hard to reach anyone, anytime.
Hence we end up with unclear communication. which leads to more divorce and broken homes, injured children and an emotionally devoid legacy.
Some just push away clarity in order to get the stuff of life. But that’s not getting to the real stuff of life. What is important is not what the eye can see, but your inner connection to spirit.
We have more education and intelligence, but not so much wisdom. We have so many activities that we never really see our spouses, or friends. Our “friends” are too busy to return a phone call. We work so many hours that the children grow up before we’ve noticed. We wonder why we have angst and depression and never really feel fully alive.
I have to credit most of the above insights to George Carlin. This was part of his comedy routine several years ago.
But is it really that funny?
What’s wrong with us? If you think about it, there are really only two kinds of problems in the world. There’s the kind you cannot do anything about, like the weather or your chronological age. Or there’s the other kind of problem. The kind you can do something about, like your life or your biological age.
Then there’s the wisdom to know which is which. I wish you creeping wisdom. The kind that comes to you as you slow down and listen and talk and find the life you really deserve.
|
| It's a World Filled with Fruitcakes by Ned Hickson on 03/02/2010
Every once in a while a column strikes a nerve with readers. These readers then write me to express their displeasure; they are angry, hurt, offended, or breaking in new stationery. Whatever the reason, I appreciate this feedback regardless of the fact that, in many cases, the column they’re talking about wasn’t mine.
So you can imagine my shock at getting unhappy letters from people who (a) read my column and (b) actually like fruitcake.
The letters came in response to the column I wrote about Fruitcake Disposal Anxiety Disorder (see January issue of Mountain Times), which was named in a New York Times special investigation as “The fastest-growing mental disorder in the entire world.”
“And we’re pretty sure about that,” the report concluded. “If not, then it’s right up there with ‘Fear of Clowns’ or something.”
After receiving these letters, I looked back over the column and realized that, yes — it was a little insensitive to fruitcake lovers out there. So, in response, I spent time looking into what makes a good fruitcake, compared with the kind of fruitcake the rest of us receive each holiday season. After comparing dozens of recipes and then baking four different fruitcakes of my own, I realized something important — which is that, by using a six-inch bundt pan, my youngest daughter now has a full set of tires for her Barbie Jeep.
Again, I’m not saying that there’s no such thing as a good fruitcake.
I’m just saying that if there’s an R-14, all-weather radial bundt pan out there, I’d like to know about it.
I should point out that over 21 million fruitcakes were sold in the U.S. last year, and not one of them was allowed on any flight in or out of Canada. That’s because fruitcakes have been added to the list of banned carry-on items on all Canadian flights. This is due to the X-ray machine’s inability to penetrate fruitcake, therefore making it impossible for screeners — or even Superman — to verify if they’re safe.
“Well, look at that! A fruitcake from Lex Luthor. How thoughtful!”
“Be careful, Superman.”
“Relax, Lois. What danger could there be in...WAIT! THOSE AREN’T CANDIED GUAVAS!”
Admittedly, there is a huge difference between what passes as fruitcake here in the U.S., and what the English refer to as “plum” cake. While the English version is said to be extremely moist and flavorful due to its high rum content, American fruitcake is known — like many U.S. food products — for its durability. This is particularly true of commercial fruitcakes, which are primarily used for keeping decorative tins from getting bent during shipping.
Lesley Hatcher of Panama City, Fla., who wrote in promising to change my mind about fruitcake by shipping me a homemade sample next year, is obviously very passionate about fruitcake.
Frighteningly, she’s not alone. As a member of the Society for the Protection and Preservation of Fruitcake (www.fruitcakesociety.org), she is “one of thousands” who are “spreading the gospel about fruitcake.”
(Note: After looking long and hard, I’m happy to report there’s no reference in either testament to The Gospel According to Fruitcake.)
According to Lesley, the fastest way to get someone to stop making jokes about fruitcake is to give them a piece. I’m not sure if that’s supposed to change their mind or keep them from speaking, but whatever the case, I promise to keep an open mind until next year.
Who knows?
I may end up eating my words.
Then again, I may end up with a spare for my daughter’s Jeep.
|
| Skiing in a 'Superior' Place by Luke Will on 03/02/2010
An old ski track recently filled in with light snow was evident to my buddy Focht and I from the bridge overhead. We stood on a northern Minnesota county road that crossed over the Cascade River nearly four miles up from where it tumbles into the largest of the Great Lakes, Lake Superior. On this day we had come to ski it.
Waking up that morning lakeside in an old fishing shack turned charming cabin, Focht and I watched the steam linger over a calm mood of The Lake. From surging waves the night before a thin layer of ice painted the rocky shore just feet from where the non-insulated cabin stood. We huddled around the small wood stove hot with red embers, our faces inches from the single paned window, cloaked in toasty rays from the rising sun far across the water.
After gearing up and tidying the cabin, we sauntered a few miles down the gravel road to freshen up at a large, empty restaurant on the highway waiting for business. A couple of coffees to go, only a few more miles down the pavement we spotted a well gutted but organized carcass of a wolf in the ditch. The red in its hollow eyes was vibrant, its young teeth white and sharp, with large paws compared to my own.
Thankful for the close up, we continued on to the put-in.
Our access was a tall embankment 50 feet high, a moderate slope that eased down to the river. With my pack loaded I side slipped much of it, unable to get an edge on my plastic skis. We waded through some bare shrubs then out onto the frozen surface to find a friendly layer of soft snow covering a pretty solid snow pack.
The first bend removed visuals of any man-made presence and revealed a straight narrowing section. It dropped quickly enough in elevation to keep the flow fast, exposing small rapids down the middle.
As waterways in this neck of the woods go, this time of year is typically ideal for stream skiing. Extreme cold spells freeze them solid and quality snowfall covers them like sweet frosting.
Everything that feeds into Superior along the north shore — from dainty creeks to burly rivers — travels down from the Sawtooth Ridgeline that runs the length of the shore. They range in difficulty, but commonly the bulk of them consist of a gradual descent with concentrated sections of steep drop-offs to catch up with the elevation loss. Still, in many cases these steep falls can be safely run given adequate snow, it’s just a matter of picking a good line — and sometimes the confidence in hucking yourself over an edge doesn’t hurt.
Our quick discovery of open water wasn’t so much a surprise as it was a fun hurdle, one that I approached literally. Both outer edges were passable though as I perched atop the tumbling river. It was mostly snow-less frozen seepage in front of me. Not a friendly scenario without metal edges and given the rushing water to my immediate left waiting to usher me into a black water slide with no exit. So instead, I clutched a pole and ski in each hand and jumped from one side to the other, with Focht filming my big leap.
We continued following the Cascade for the next three hours delighting in pleasant scenery and torrents of adrenaline. The biting cold was masked by almost constant movement and the distraction of our full attention toward the river.
At one point Focht fell through but quickly flopped sideways to avoid getting swallowed. Further down stream, I inadvertently bridged an open laceration in the river, throwing myself across the 2-foot gap hoping the overhanging shelf would hold.
It did.
Eventually we reached the river’s namesake, an unnavigable section of cascades strewn with fallen timbers. With fading light we climbed the bank up to a path that loosely follows the river. The hike out surprised us and soon the moon was lighting our way.
Finally reaching the road, an undisturbed sub-zero temp nipped at my bare chest as I hastily swapped out drenched layers for a cold, but dry, cotton T-shirt and my down jacket.
The one beer we had was frozen but it could have been worse, like being anywhere but the Cascade.
|
| Heart Be Still by Victoria Larson on 02/01/2010
Everybody’s heart is racing these days. We’re just going so fast through life. And heart disease is still rampant in America.
Though we’ve made incredible strides in the treatments of people with heart disease — teaching people to recognize symptoms, rapid transport to the EF, the miracle of stents and surgeries, terrific recovery care — when we’re in trouble we have access to thorough care. We’re lucky.
Yet, though we have access to great care, the rate of heart disease is not going down. In fact, heart conditions are striking younger and younger people. This is primarily becasue of increased rates of obesity and diabetes, both circumstance that stress the heart muscle. And then there’s the stress itself. And anxiety. All leading to your racing heart.
Research provides crucial information but you won’t hear it on most network news for years to come. Think about who sponsors the nightly news. That is often big drug companies. And television networks don’t want to lose their sponsors lest they lose their source of income. So pertinent health research may go unreported by the media for years.
So, you may hear it here first. Local, community newspapers don’t have big pharmaceutical companies for advertisers. I consider it my job — well one of them — to give you information that I feel you need and can use to draw your own conclusions.
The following are recent studies reported in prestigious medical journals. References are provided for those who wish to inquire further.
Treating heart problems with drugs alone will never solve the problem. A fairly recent study entitled the COURAGE trial found that aggressive treatment for stable angina (heart pain) had no better rate of success than the standard care. Rushing to “do more” didn’t change the death rate, though it surely cost more. And it may have even made doctors and patients alike feel as if they had “done all they could.”
Yet the outcome was the same either way.
This was reported in the New England Journal of Medicine, August 14, 2008.
The JUPITER study showed that the extremely popular statin drugs don’t do much to prevent heart attacks, which is presumably why they are prescribed. While this information has been reported in science magazines and the New England Journal of Medicine, November 20, 2008, I bet your doctor is not going to say “hey Joe, let’s take you off that expensive drug that may not be doing you any good after all.” That’d be the day.
In November 2008 the American Academy of Pediatrics recommended statin drugs be used on children as young as 10 years old. These kids had arteries not unlike someone of the age of 45. After further study it was determined that the cause of the problem in those children was poor diet and obesity, and not due to high cholesterol. These studies were reported in Pediatrics, July 2008, Lancet, July 19, 2008, the British Medical Journal, July 23, 2008, and the New England Journal of Medicine, September 25, 2008.
If your child was prescribed a statin drug, let’s talk further.
And the all-pervasive treatment using aspirin to prevent angina, heart attacks and strokes was found to be just as effective as a protocol utilizing aspirin with two or three other drugs in addition.
It’s those additional drugs that need to be studied further.
Recent stroke patients given three drugs had little difference in outcomes. So why are we still prescribing expensive drugs with suspect side effects to such a degree?
Naturopathic doctors now have many, many drugs on their formulary, primarily in order to help wean people off those drugs.
Whatever you do, do not under any circumstances stop any of your medically prescribed drugs cold-turkey. This can lead to a rebound effect or even death. And please do not just grab at straws from the Internet. Patients die from using things that their doctor(s) don’t know about.
It’s your heart and your choice. You can do nothing, which I don’t advise. Or you can seek the help of a professional trained in preventing and reversing heart disease. Protecting ourselves from chronic stress and anxiety is important to maintain the integrity of blood vessels, losing weight so we don’t get diabetes which can lead to heart disease, and even simple deep breathing and focusing can help protect you from the damage high blood pressure does to your blood vessels, heart and kidneys.
Exercise is an antidote to stress, Vitamin K, high in cabbage and butter (yes, I said butter, not margarine) can naturally decrease calcium deposits in blood vessels (which can lead to strokes). Nutrition, when used with high quality supplements like fish oils and prescribed vitamins (not poor quality supplements from Costmo) can provide anti-plaque, anti-stress, anti-oxidant and nutritional support to the heart and your whole body.
Blood vessel damage takes years to happen. You can seek professional advice now that may save your life. Or you can do nothing at all and hope for the best. But my feeling is, the only times your heart should be racing are when you are facing a cougar, or falling in love.
Many patients having surgery of any kind are given beta blockers to prevent heart attacks during that surgery. Yet according to the POISE study, reported in Lancet, May 31, 2008, this is simply not true.
Just because we believe it should be true doesn’t mean it actually is true.
Daunting, isn’t it?
|
| New Cell Phones too Hot to Handle by Ned Hickson on 02/01/2010
Technology is great.
Except, of course, when it explodes in your pants.
I’ve never really liked cell phones to begin with, and now that they’ve started self detonating, I like them even less.
According to a news article sent in by Susan Grigsby of Alpharetta, Ga., Nokia has launched an investigation into why two of its cell phones recently burst into flames — a feature Nokia officials say wasn’t supposed to become available until next year.
As you might expect, cell phone sales have dropped slightly as a result of these incidents.
That’s because luxuries like instant text messaging, computer games and video imaging don’t mean much if your cell phone suddenly ignites into flames, turning your morning commute into a flaming lap dance and an appearance on The World’s Wildest Police Chases.
It would be different if exploding cell phones were an optional feature, i.e., for an extra charge, you, as a cell phone customer, had the option of detonating someone else’s cell phone with the press of a button.
“Hello? That’s okay—the movie just started. What? Really? No way. And what did SHE say?”
“WARNING! Detonation sequence has been initiated! Beginning countdown! Five..! Four..!”
“Hey — you mind if call you back? My phone’s about to explode.”
While Nokia officials are blaming defective batteries as the root cause of Exploding Cell Phone Syndrome, I have to disagree.
The fact is, cell phones are simply being asked to do too much and, because of it, are having a total melt down.
I’ve had my cell phone for five years, which by today’s standards means it should be part of a traveling history exhibit for school children. However, I’ve kept it because 1) unlike newer phones, it’s larger than a Saltine cracker and doesn’t have buttons the size of Braille, and 2) it provides me with all the functions I need in a cell phone:
I can call people.
People can call me.
I can hang up on people.
That’s all I’m really looking for in a cell phone. If I wanted to play video games and exchange text messages with friends, I’d just stay at work.
Comparatively, the life expectancy of today’s cell phones is about one year.
That’s assuming everything goes well and you don’t go blind trying to use it, and out of sheer frustration while trying to place a call to your ophthalmologist, end up crushing it in your fist like a grape.
In most cases, this isn’t covered under warranty.
The same thing goes for any damage your phone might incur after accidentally triggering a gas-station explosion.
That’s right.
According to a recent warning from AAA, static discharge from cell phones “has the potential to ignite gas vapors, although it’s still safer than if your cell phone actually explodes.”
Because of this danger the National Fire Protection Association has offered a couple of tips to motorists. The first is to avoid using cell phones, laptop computers or portable radios while refueling.
And if you happen to be using them all at once, you’re just asking for trouble.
Be safe; at least wait until you’re back on the highway.
And most importantly, if a fire starts, don’t try to stop it. Leave the area and call someone.
Unless of course that’s the reason the fire started in the first place.
|
| 'Call of the Wild' - Minnesota style by Luke Will on 02/01/2010
The smell of reheated pesto eggs Benedict wafts out from the microwave and fills my friends kitchen. It was my breakfast yesterday at a downtown joint that lures slow moving Sunday risers in with the promise of a quaint songwriters showcase and a Bloody Mary bar, which could be a complete meal in itself.
This morning it retells our story from two nights ago.
What I take particular delight in is rekindling these stories because of a whiff of leftovers.
The adventure started with three friends pushing through sleet to The Anchor Bar, a Superior (otherwise known as the armpit of the state), Wisc. landmark.
This place is dark, narrow and draped with paraphernalia from the Great Lakes shipping industry. The juke is stocked with country music and rap — most of which is unedited, and on this night is the popular pick.
We try never to catch a glimpse past two thin wooden swinging doors into the kitchen and we surely don’t go there for the service. We go for the mouth-watering burgers drizzled in grease with a unique toppings list to pick from. I had cashews and swiss washed down with a Midwest staple, Premium Grain Belt.
With full bellies and another friend added to our posse, we drove the high bridge over a frozen harbor to a Duluth landmark, if only to us, called The Reef. With three long rooms attached end to end, a bar in the front, it used to be that you couldn’t see across any individual room. I remember it always being packed with people who I swear double fisted their cigarettes. This was before the city’s smoking ban.
Walking in now I could tell you the nail color of the lady working the pull-tabs booth from the front door. No people, no smoky haze. This could also be because it was only 6 a.m. We’re there because we were waiting for the music to start over at the Brewhouse, so we idled the evening by with ping-pong, hefeweizen and popcorn.
Add yet another friend and we’re finally off to live music, really good beer and a cozy corner booth by a window. We each sample a pint of our own picking and then settle on a glass boot filled with one of their specialties.
The boot is heavy, holding at least eight pints of beer. As custom goes, it can never be set down, must be flicked after each sip (though we couldn’t remember this so we flicked it both before and after), and in constant rotation around the table (or room, if it’s that kind of night). Afraid to let down whoever gave their credit card as the deposit, we all clutch it sacredly each time it arrives in our hands.
The night had been fun up to that point — reuniting with friends at our old favorite spots, swapping post college adventure stories and laughing over the ones that put us together in the first place.
When the guitar was finally being put away and part of our group split for bed, the remainder of us took the next most logical step. We made our way out back toward the ice-covered shoreline of Lake Superior.
Standing in a light drizzle with waves crashing over the bigger boulders we looked down the waterfront toward the iconic Lift Bridge as it faded in and out of the orange street light fog that had settled over the water.
It probably would have happened without words, but as we shared our thoughts standing there with each other, I think our eyes spoke the real message.
An irregular tradition in its own right, I was not surprised at what we were about to do as we hurriedly shed our clothes onto the rocks, not even moments later when we splashed into the freezing lake.
Soon after, I was warm again riding shotgun next to a pair of cross-country skis, a box of cassette tapes and our beautiful friend behind the wheel.
We kept the morning alive burning cedar in a chimney on the deck.
By the time the sun was up I was just drifting off, even though a warm breakfast wasn’t far away. And thus, my association with pesto eggs Benedict.
|
| This Cockeyed Smirk by Luke Will on 01/01/2010
Long after darkness pours over frozen White Bear Lake I slip out the back door with my slender skis tucked under an arm. It’s late for this coasting neighborhood and most activity has made its way to warm and lit living rooms, so I leave Tischer’s leash at home. Together we jog through a plowed grid between snow covered concrete curbs and just beyond the twinkling reach of front yard trimmings.
Quickly we reach the top of a slight hill overlooking the beach. The lake appears smooth white in the night but for a dozen dark moles – ice fishing shacks – dotting its complexion.
Tischer pees and the steam from it lingers in the frigid and windless air. I step into my bindings and point my tips towards the far shore, softly easing over the brink.
Not far out onto the ice we find a snowmobile path to follow. From a single sled that probably just hours ago was screaming across this snowy expanse, its center track laid perfect corduroy, though I am skiing against the grain.
Progress settles into a rhythm, legs shifting like a slow cross-cut saw. Tischer prances on my right, separating me from the docks that don’t even reach the drought-inflicted water’s edge. Most were left up this winter with festive bulbs strung to the end, as much for decoration as to identify their presence.
As I glide out from the shoreline I try to focus on feeling my movements instead of watching them. Tonight I came pole-less – just my warm layers, skis, and dog – hoping to improve my kicking technique and balance. So I scrutinize the stars overhead rather than my feet. I don’t have much to watch out for on this wide-open uninhabited suburban lake, except for the occasional ice fishing hole. But those have probably frozen over and even if they haven’t pose more of an issue for Tischer’s canine legs than my 210cm back country skis.
Following our adapted ski trail I eventually scratch across bald ice underneath a bridge connecting an island to the mainland and Tischer slides wildly, like an ice cube on linoleum. Rounding a point we enter into a shallow portion of the lake populated with reeds and deeper snow. Strides get a little stickier here as I hit patches of uncovered earth and ripped up vegetation, but a new arm of the lake opens up before us.
At the fringe of further exploration on a gorgeously cold night, this is where we stop. Watching my dog’s breath float away from mine, I can just barely see the white tips of my beard. There are times when you push onward into harsh winds and uninviting circumstances and then there are times when you turn around on a clear and welcoming night simply because you want to, because you can.
I once read somewhere that you should do something outside of your comfort zone everyday. To me it means using fear to overcome, managing emotions for function, and to learn the tidbits about yourself that allow you to successfully live the other components of a day.
Today, mine was the bridge; dark, man-made, with secrecy like a frozen cave – these are scary characteristics to me. In my gut I knew that I would likely be fine, perhaps it was the unknown that frightened me more than any potential risks I understood.
And still, here I stand just the other side of what my comfort zone had been. Suddenly the air around me is a vivid mixture of adrenaline and whole-hearted satisfaction and my frosty mustache hairs bristle slightly with the cockeyed smirk that my mouth forms.
Maybe tomorrow I’ll cover new ice, or maybe next week. But I’m not interested in that right now. Instead, I’m savoring what lies out before me, but especially what is behind me. Tischer comes and sits up against my legs and I feel as though I’m sharing this moment with her.
As we turn around I have a choice. We can take the long way back, tracing the island all the way around and avoid the bridge altogether. Or we can return on the exact trail that got us here. I like that idea. |
| The Flu Won't Just Fly Away by Victoria Larson on 01/01/2010
Don’t you always just forget whether it’s “starve a fever, feed a cold” or the other way around?
Actually, we’ll get into treatments in a bit but first some history. The famous pandemic flu of 1918 was also known as the Spanish Flu and it truly was a pandemic. We’re not out of the woods yet so I thought I’d give you a little history before we talk about some treatments.
The first case of this flu was reported on March 11, 1918 at Fort Riley in Kansas. Fort Riley was a military installation with 26,000 men in attendance. It was a time of war, a time of disruption, a time of stress nationwide, in fact worldwide. By noon on that day 100 cases had reported to the camp hospital complaining of fever, sore throat and headache. By the end of the week that number jumped to 500.
These were our “doughboys” and they were sent to Europe to fight against Germany. The first round of troops was 84,000 and within another month another 118,000 were sent over. They were carrying the flu virus of 1918 to Europe. War conditions are never conducive to health and the rates of illness ran high. The flu of 1918 hit hard and it hit fast. Interestingly, it is reported that those most affected were between the ages of 18 and 45 years old. Not the very young or the elderly population.
Noah Webster wrote A Brief History of Epidemic and Pestintial Diseases in 1799. In his tome he noted that most epidemics happened after periods of severe cold or during the moist weather of spring, fall or winter. He noted, somewhat oddly, that many epidemics occurred during years of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions. He even stated that the appearance of comets was greater in years of pandemics.
While not verifiable, it is known that there were 44 episodes of epidemics of influenza in America and Europe from 1174 to 1647.
Maybe there really was something to his observations. I don’t know.
However, not everyone who contracted the flu got extremely sick. Fifty million people died of the flu worldwide, and 600,000 of these were Americans. Naturopathic doctors in America did well in treating their flu patients. Their loss was less than 1 percent, so maybe they were on to something. The NDs of the time encouraged simple regimes of fasting, castor oil packs and hydrotherapy. For the record, we still recommend these. Another good aspect of these treatments is that they are free or virtually free.
But treatments including fasting make us think “deprivation” and we Americans don’t like to be deprived. Castor oil packs cost very little but they do require time. We Americans never have enough time. Hydrotherapy treatments require effort and we Americans tend to want the magic pill. Yes, there a pills that help — and homeopathics and liquids and all sorts measures. But the tried and true, since 1918 with great success, still remains fasting, castor oil packs, and hydrotherapy.
Fasting doesn’t mean you cannot eat, but fruit or vegetable juices are better. A dose of activated charcoal is a good idea too. If you are already feeling too poorly to fast, then just take clear soups. I have dozens of single serving doses of immune building soups in my freezer. That way I’m already prepared and not wondering what to do next. If you feel well enough to eat, choose light meals. Oatmeal without milk, fresh fruit bowl, lightly steamed vegetables.
Castor oil packs are remarkably cheap, but try not to purchase the stuff that looks like motor oil at the pharmacies. Get a higher quality castor oil from your Naturopathic Physician, and again, be prepared. Soak a cloth in the castor oil, heat it gently, apply to the liver area (under the right breast) and leave on for a minimum of an hour. Use a hot water bottle to keep the area warm. You can keep your castor oil pack in a plastic bag in the refrigerator for use over and over. It will turn brownish over time as this is a terrific detoxifier.
And for the record, I will never ask a patient to take castor oil by mouth, especially when this topical treatment works so well.
Hydrotherapy treatments take time but cost you nothing. Great to do on kids. Babies respond extremely well. If they are congested, just put them in a hot bath. Have a bowl of ice water and some thin cotton socks waiting. Take baby out of the bath and briskly towel dry. Put a drop of essential oil on the bottom of baby’s feet, wring out the icy socks, and put the baby into a blanket sleeper and to bed. The darlings will sleep remarkably well and be decongested by morning. Works for you too, though with modifications and it’s really hard to find the footed blanket sleepers for adults.
Alternately, adults can do a similar hydrotherapy treatment on themselves of their partner. Start with a hot bath, but this time soak a thin towel in ice water. Dry off briskly, avoiding drafts. Wring out the icy towel as dry as possible. Apply to trunk area and immediately cover with a thin, warm, dry towel. Cover yourself or your patient with hot water bottle and wool blankets as needed and go to sleep. You’ll feel better in the morning.
Most importantly, you regular readers know my rule — if you are not considerably improved within three days, call your doctor.
May you get through the flu season without even getting ill, and if not, may you recover quickly. But if you do get sick, come see me so we can work on your immune system. Because you do not have to get sick at all. Better to look forward to the springtime and health and wellness as it is the way things are supposed to be. Be well.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Call for appointment: 668-1181.) |
| Renouncing My Title: 'Fruitcake Grinch' by Ned Hickson on 01/01/2010
Journalism can be a dangerous profession, even for those of us who never actually leave our desk unless a “situation” develops, such as the sudden and unprovoked arrival of free donuts.
On several occasions, I have found myself in harm’s way as a dozen employees stampeded into the break room (which, according to the Fire Marshal, has a “maximum occupancy level of two, as long as no one is using the commode”).
It is at those times, while being crushed between fellow employees grappling for the last maple bar, that I am reminded of just how dangerous my job can be.
But it doesn’t end there.
No.
Not for those of us with the courage to SPEAK OUT against what is wrong with the world.
Or, in my case, what is wrong with fruitcake.
As you may remember (and judging by the number of fruitcakes that have been appearing on my desk, at my home, or through the window of my car, many of you do), it was last year around this time that I drew the wrath of fruitcake lovers everywhere after suggesting that untold numbers of people (source: Dan Rather) suffer from Fruitcake Disposal Anxiety Disorder.
To refresh your memory, FDAD occurs when the recipient of said fruitcake has feelings of anxiety over how to dispose of their gift in a way that is (a) respectful, without (b) inadvertently raising the terrorist threat level.
I say this because, unlike its English counterpart, which is said to be moist and delicious, American fruitcake is known — like many U.S. food products — for its durability.
This is especially true of commercially produced fruitcakes, which are primarily used to keep decorative tins from getting bent during shipping.
My flagrant disregard for fruitcake rubbed a lot of people the wrong way. Particularly those who were already on edge after waking up from the holidays in a rum-induced fog. I was besieged with e-mails and letters from readers like Lesley Hatcher of Panama City, Fla., and Dale and Yvonne Pretzer of Florence, Ore., who promised to change my mind about fruitcake by sending me homemade samples this year.
I had no reason to suspect this would actually happen, and that I would receive enough fruitcake to finish the retaining wall in my back yard. If I had, I would’ve also flagrantly disregarded beef tenderloin, and any Scotch over 30 years old.
But a promise is a promise. I said I would sample everything with an open mind and, in the event of a sudden fruitcake epiphany, seek immediate medical attention. After which, I would issue a formal apology to the fruitcake lovers of the world.
Just as soon as doctors had me stabilized.
Due to the volume of fruitcake I have been consuming, this process has taken longer than expected since I’ve spent most of the last few weeks hung over and picking candied fruit from my teeth.
However, I’m willing to admit I may have overstated things when I called fruitcake a “threat to humanity.”
The same goes for what I said about launching fruitcakes into space as a defense against alien invaders.
The truth is, I may have to renounce my title as “Ned Hickson: The Fruitcake Grinch,” as given to me by the Pretzers. I’m not saying I’ll be joining the Society for the Preservation of Fruitcake any time soon. Only that I’d be willing to put myself in harm’s way should we experience an unprovoked fruitcake attack again next year.
Which brings us to our next topic: My flagrant disregard for live-shipped Maine lobster …
(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439.) |
| Costa Rica: Fast and Exciting by Luke Will on 12/02/2009
I returned to Costa Rica for most of last month to surf the warm Pacific waves and spend some hammock time in the shade. To fill in a time that embodies the shoulder season between fall and winter when the skiing has more rock hazards than tree wells and the paddling is stormy.
With simple living in mind and a cheap ticket, we ditched the grey tint of Chicago and headed 2,200 miles straight south. First we scored a room only a block from the beach that had two beds with a thin sheet each covering an even thinner mattress. Next we acquired surfboards that caught good waves, fit perfectly in the corner when unused (which was mainly while we slept), and waxed them with a block of Sticky Bumps that was found in a pile of driftwood.
The market was a few hundred yards down the only dirt road running through town, parallel to the beach. We’d swing in for mangos, bananas and yogurt when returning from our morning run and surf session everyday, routinely with only my trunks and flip flops on, and a couple hundred colones in my hand.
After breakfast I’d crawl into one of the hammocks that adorned the red tiled porch in front of our room. Sometimes with a book, other times working on one of three wool hats I was crocheting for the winter that awaited us back in the states. And sometimes just to watch the Howler Monkeys dangle loosely from the trees above.
From there we often ventured out into the heat of the day to challenge the scorching sand with a bag of lemon plantain chips and a bottle of water. In the company of deep tide pools filled with cool water, there were many combinations in this small surfing village that complimented each other nicely.
The only two that I found not to my liking include the cockroach scampering across my cheek as my eyes hovered on the verge of sleep late one night and the uncomfortable taste of horse meat over a bed of rice (we only found out it was horse during our third meal of it when one of our neighbors walked by our dinner table and neighed loudly).
This small surfing village is as colorful in tropical surroundings as it is in its inhabitants. From Rastafarian likenesses leading the way to the reggae night beach party to the strung out gringo screaming out at all hours of the day from the concrete house next door, we were surrounded by fast Spanish and sandy feet. It was a foreignness that intimidated and excited me.
And now, back in Minnesota, I find myself reclined in a padded leather chair in the soft light of the upstairs den, wishing someone or something would take me back.
Take me back to just beyond where the waves curl over onto themselves, to that zone where heavy swells begin to grow tall and where the imploding surf is carried away on towards shore, leaving only the hush of open ocean and me bobbing in it.
Back to the last few moments of sinking light when I’ll skip the next set of good waves to witness the sun quickly disappear beyond the Pacific. Ah yes, sunset from The Outside. Lined up in a Milky Way of other surfers stretching along the fringe of the break, feet swirling below the board, eyes fixed toward the west.
One by one the numbers fade as tanned bodies catch their last smooth face of the day toward the social mass of spectators on the sand. Back to the beach where there’s a slack line strung between two palms and my Argentinian friends are selling deliciously warm empanadas, fresh from their kitchen.
A warm Costa Rican sunset among friends, a surfboard under one arm and a nourishing dinner in hand — please take me there.
|
| Want a Boost to Your Healthcare Dilemma? by Luke Will on 12/02/2009
More than 40 years ago the U.S. Department of Agriculture did government funded research on reducing the cost of healthcare in America. One outcome of this research was the finding that MOST healthcare problems in our nation would be reduced just by eating better. People, this is not me saying this. I’ve already been saying this for many years. This is your Department of Agriculture saying this, a lifetime ago for some of you.
It’s simple stuff. If you eat better (sleep better, think better, play better, love better, de-stress) you will need less medical care. It’s the old story. A lot of your healthcare is in your hands.
Another part of the above mentioned study, done 40 years ago remember? is that the highest death rates were found in areas where the soils are depleted of nutrients. Depleted soils are mostly deficient in minerals. Minerals are catalysts for every reaction in your body.
The “food experts” would have you believe that a tomato is a tomato no matter where it’s grown. If you’ve ever had a home-grown tomato you know that this is not true. Taste alone belies that belief.
The U.S. D. A also found, 40 years ago, that people who are undernourished are more prone to infection — be it bacterial, viral, fungal, or parasitic. This is a big “duh.” First the medical profession pushed for antibiotics for everyone. Antibiotics do not resolve viral infections such as the flu, H2N1 or otherwise. Your immune system heals you and your immune system depends on your nutritional input.Good quality supplements are good, nutrition is better. I find it odd that no one stands in line at my clinic for advice on how to resist the flu. Yet people stand in line for their vaccinations.
But there’s more from the study done so many years ago. It was found that all (their words not mine) arthritic conditions were associated with improper nutrition. Too much sugar, alcohol, wheat, toxins (my words). Medical community’s answer to arthritic pain? Drugs. And some more drugs. Dull the body’s own mechanisms. Not that there aren’t situations where these may be appropriate short-term, but do you want to be addicted to pain killers for the rest of your life?
Do you know that 56,000 people per year in the United States alone die from taking over-the-counter pain killers? I’m talking about the stuff you take for your headaches, backaches, pre-menstrual cramps. And I’m talking about people taking these OTC meds as directed, not abusing them. As directed on the label. You don’t want to be one of those people do you?
If drugs don’t work for people, surgeries are suggested, pushed even. Who benefits from the high-tech procedures? Think about it. Studies show, and I’ve reported these in previous columns over the last ten years, that often X-rays, MRIs and other imaging do absolutely nothing to change the outcome of things like low back pain. At least six different studies in Lancet have shown this to be true. Yet we continue to push for the imaging. We, the patients. And we, the doctors. Yet it’s been shown to be of little benefit. So who benefits? You can figure it out.It’s not the patient.
Even with heart problems it has been proven that there is no alteration of death rates from heart attack whether the patient was given high-tech diagnostics or not. This according to the New England Journal of Medicine (August 2008). See, we, all the kinds of doctors, know this. Yet some still push for aggressive procedures. The patient wants aggressive procedures. Yet the outcome is the same, with or without the money spent. Your money.
What’s been proven to be a fairly fool-proof approach to heart care? Good nutrition, exercise, de-stressing your life, proper sleep, elimination, attitudes. All the stuff we each have control of in our own lives. More studies are being done all the time. All proving the same outcomes. Yet we continue to have blinders on about healthcare. When are we going to hear it inside our heads? When are we going to wise-up?
Unless there is an injury or a frank fracture or unusual disease, back pain is healed by simple nutrition and exercise and proper supplementation. The stuff your insurance, if you have it, doesn’t cover. So we’re back to where we started. You are in charge of your own health. With the help of practitioners who get you through the morass of technical input you too can heal your life. It takes work, but it’s a heck of a lot cheaper than the alternative. And you just might get better for once.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturapathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Appointments, massage and pharmacy pickup available by calling 503-668-1181.) |
| Don't Get Gripped by the Grippe by Luke Will on 10/31/2009
“Grippe” is a somewhat archaic word for the all-around flu, or influenza. The American pronunciation would be “grip” as in a strong hand-hold, but I much prefer the more erudite, French pronunciation of “greep.”
I figured everyone’s tired of hearing about the flu, so let’s just call it by its older name and see if we can get some perspective.
Influenza is an Italian word referring to the flu (OK grippe) as “an acute viral infection involving the nasal mucosa, pharynx, and conjunctiva.”
In other words, eyes, nose, and throat, though we know that ears and joints and gastrointestinal tract can be involved too.
The seasonal flu that travels world wide every year is usually caused by the Type A virus, but we all know there are other strains so widely, but not deeply, reported in the news. There’s Asian flu, HongKong flu, Spanish flu, and Russian flu, though all of these do not surface in the same given year.
There’s also avian flu, equine flu, feline flu, goose flu, and swine flu. Some of these cross over between species. They are all viruses. Viruses do not respond to anti-bacterial treatment yet every year some people go to their MD demanding an antibiotic for the flu.
And they say it works to make them feel better.
That simply means that they had some sort of underlying bacterial infection somewhere in their body that was “alleviated” with the antibiotic.
Endemic flu occurs continuously within a given population but does not manifest as an epidemic or a pandemic occurrence. Epidemic is when the flu appears suddenly in proportions not expected, otherwise referred to as
an outbreak.
Pandemic is a full-blown occurrence of disease in a wide distribution of the population.
Now did you catch that part about endemic flu that exits continuously in any given population? In other words, it’s all around us most of the time.
So how come one person gets the flu and another doesn’t? Why doesn’t everybody get sick? Why do some get sick all the time? Why are children and elders more at risk? Why do some people die if they are severely infected?
All stuff that won’t be on the news.
But the answers are really pretty simple. The healthier you are the less likely you will get very sick from the flu, if at all. God gave you a built-in immune system, that if taken care of should see you through all but the most difficult of exposures.
Keep your immune system intact, and viruses won’t be able to get a foot-hold, so to speak. Over-ride your immune system and you’re letting your own innate infection fighting system off the hook.
A lazy immune system won’t keep you healthy, A healthy one will. But what if you’re not sure?
If you are one of those people who gets everything that’s going around, you need to work on building that immune system with proper living choices. If you are a teacher or a doctor and constantly but mildly exposed to the viruses, you usually won’t get so sick if you are taking care of your immune system.
Children and elders have under-built and over-used immune systems, respectively. They need to be pampered a little. Good food, plenty of rest (the body only heals while sleeping), and decreased stress. Not so much sugar, wheat, dairy, or, in the case of adults, alcohol. Not so much stress.
Those with underlying disease states are at higher risk because their immune systems are already working hard to keep them healthy.
Any gastrointestinal symptoms (upset stomach, diarrhea) can indicate need for further professional help. In foreign countries what people die of is dehydration. If you cannot keep anything down, or in, and the body evacuates everything, you will need help. That’s why severe cases are immediately put on IV fluids to stabilize them.
You could be prepared for the worse and come out ahead in the long run.
Going out for pharmacy when you can hardly move is not likely.
Waiting until you might be gripped by the grippe is not smart thinking.
Being prepared for the possibility is.
My patients have been building their immune systems since the summer with supplements and tea and all the help that everyone should have on hand.
But you could do that too. It would be so much cheaper to invest in preparedness than to be transported to the ER because you have been gripped by the grippe!
See a natural medicine doctor to build your immune system and get ready — just in case — but especially if you haven’t done so yet.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturapathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Appointments, massage and pharmacy pickup available by calling 503-668-1181.)
|
| Another Campfire and the Aromas of Home by Luke Will on 10/31/2009
Tonight I stood around a slow burning fire with my brother and our dad. The backyard in which I grew up in was quiet. Looking up, following the swirling smoke, the sky was aglow from the big city lights to the south. The burning wood scraps offered a subtle heat, the rest of me being warmed by my down vest with one cold hand from holding an iced beverage.
I thought back to the fires I would have on decent fall nights outside the cabin in Govy. The freshly split fir from stacked rows in the basement burned quickly on an overturned garbage can lid in the driveway. On those nights, the neighborhood was quiet too but the only brightness in the sky came naturally.
When the moon was half full or more I would lean back against a lopped off stump and trace the jagged tree tops, a fine line dividing earth and sky from my vantage point. When there was no moon I stood with my back to the fire and pointed to the constellations I knew through a large gap in the canopy directly over the roof.
No matter how big or small I kept the fire it bestowed steady warmth, which I suddenly realized the moment I stepped away from it. Cold was the night when the last small flame vanished and I called to Tischer for a walk down the empty road under the mountain’s looming silhouette.
I was always alone around those fires. Tischer was hardly any company except when she’d briefly return from scrutinizing the duff layer for odors of mice. In my dreaming mind I had many familiar faces with me of course, and often it was those faces of the very company I found myself in tonight.
The three of us reminisced about our canoeing trip a few weeks back and talked about winter camping this coming season. We mentioned how beautiful the night was and brought up the value of having a snug bed to crawl into. Then we joked how easily identifiable my old man’s retirement tendencies have become in the past year, after he had already swept the back sidewalk twice since lighting the fire.
For a while we sat in silence, each staring into the embers with our own thoughts. Mine was how it felt good to be home.
I’ve had many in the recent past, but this one is my first. It’s the only place where you’ll find my height marked with a pencil in the kitchen entryway and it’s the only place that I’ll always open the lower cupboard looking for the crackers, but now it’s where the plates and bowls live. I’d expected to see snacks there for twenty-some years.
There is much more that is different these days. Now when I get up in the morning dad is sitting in his chair by the front door with coffee and the paper, his life free of the early morning commute to work. Old friends have growing families while the old neighborhood doesn’t necessarily look that old anymore.
But even for all the differences, this place is for the things I know will not change.
I told a friend a short time ago I think sometimes that I leave only so that I can come back — so that I can recreate that feeling of walking through the front door and appreciating the presence of those I’ve gone some time without, to grasp that peerless feeling of coming home.
It’s thinking about these things that standing around a fire is great for. The flames may dance and erupt hastily but time can easily slow to a deep breath on a cold night. When we talk about what was with lit eyes and take a moment to embrace what is.
Just now, as I crawled into the outgrown bed in my old room to write this, I reek of smoke. And it just occurred to me that a lot of the words that lead into much of my thoughtful scribbles, most of which don’t go anywhere but between the cover of my journal, come in the presence of the familiar aroma of campfire smoke. |
| Playing God -- Be Very Aware by Victoria Larson on 10/02/2009
A chemist named Fredrich Wohler accidentally discovered that he could take an inorganic substance (ammonium cyanide) and synthesize it into urea (a compound occurring in urine as a result of protein metabolism). This was in 1828 and led to the introduction into society of tens of thousands of human-made chemical substances.
Though ever-present in our lives now, there were other chemists, and now even physicists, and certainly religious leaders, who believe there is an inherent “vital force” in living systems that cannot be duplicated in the laboratory from inorganic substances.
After all, this all kind of sounds like “playing God” and “creating life.” And it is all so precariously close.
The prevalence of these “magic” human-made chemical substance is so pervasive that women still ask if I offer natural hormone replaces (NHRT) — so-called “natural” hormones that are manipulated molecules ‘created’ in the lab, not unlike the human-made chemicals that we now have tens of thousands of in America alone. Similar to genetically modified organisms (GMO’d).
The history of synthetic chemical production, first in Germany and then in Britain, led to the introduction of industrial chemicals, aniline dyes (used in the manufacture of synthetic drugs), and the aromatic hydrocarbons, which are derived from coal tar sources and probably the aroma part is not that pleasing.
While the Industrial Revolution was occurring in Britain, the United States quickly increased production of chemicals by a factor of sevenfold between 1900 and 1939. That’s a lot but nothing like the huge increase in production of chemicals during and just after World War II. Graphs show a pretty big jump in chemical production, and use, between 1940 to 1950 but the increase from 1950 to 1980 was by a factor of 900 percent.
The use of agricultural insecticides, herbicides, and commercial fertilizers increased rapidly after WW II as well.
And people tell me they don’t care if their food is organic or not. Well, I care. The overload of synthetic chemicals in every man, woman and child on earth is dizzying. Yet some continue to purchase chemicals in lieu of just saying no.
I won’t argue the point of so-called good chemicals versus bad chemicals, but only increase your awareness of the fact that we don’t need them all.
Let’s look at the pharmaceutical industry alone. And yes, it is big business. Fifty of the largest firms in the world provide two-thirds of pharmaceutical drug sales. And 90 percent of the world production of pharmaceutical products is supplied by the top 100 firms world wide. The largest producer of medical drugs is the United States. And despite companies offering free drugs, we otherwise have the most expensive medical drugs on earth. Somebody’s making big money here, but I don’t think it’s you or me.
For many, drug expenditures constitute a large percentage of medical expenditures. In 1980 2,452 new drug products were introduced world wide. Some of these were simply the same drugs re-named after their patents ran out. There is simply no evidence that more drugs means better health care. We have tens of thousands of brand name drugs available to make us healthy (?) and yet almost 65 percent of us are obese and many more have other health threatening problems.
Interestingly, in the Scandinavian countries, there are fewer than 3,000 medical drugs available to patients. Yet the Scandinavian people do not show a larger percentage of health problems than we have in America. In fact, Danish citizens have been rated as “the most satisfied with their lives” in the worldwide population.
Ask yourself how many people you know who are healthy, happy, and energetic?
My perspective is skewed as people put off going to a doctor until there’s something really, really wrong with them. Wouldn’t we all be better off getting a health assessment rather than waiting until we need disease care?
Give it a try and you may save money and be healthier and happier to boot.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturapathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Appointments, massage and pharmacy pickup available by calling 503-668-1181.)
|
| Save Water: Fix the Leaky Light Switch by Ned Hickson on 10/02/2009
The great thing about shows like Extreme Home Makeover is that they inspire ideas on how to improve your home.
The bad news is that people like me then try to implement these ideas without the benefit of a trained professional.
The result is our bathroom currently has a commode with hot running water and a wall heater that can only be turned on by unscrewing the third bulb in our vanity mirror.
I’d like to point out it wasn’t my idea to take what had been a simple plan to increase the space in our bathroom and turn it into a major remodel.
However, after one teeny mistake, my wife insisted on a total makeover — which brings us to our first home improvement tip:
The Importance of Bearing Walls.
You will discover that there are certain walls in your home — possibly even in the bathroom — which should not be removed because, as it turns out, portions of your home will collapse.
As important as bearing walls are to your home’s infrastructure, they aren’t marked as such and, as a general rule, look just like other walls in your home. Which is why anyone who accidentally removes one, thereby inadvertently causing the total destruction of an otherwise functional bathroom should be forgiven for this oversight.
So, let’s assume the worst happens, and you find yourself standing in the middle of the downstairs bathroom while surrounded by the upstairs closet. And let’s assume your wife, in a show of support, still hasn’t insisted on hiring a professional. Such as a hit man.
The next step is to rebuild the bathroom — and your marriage — as quickly as possible. To do this, you’ll need organization and a basic knowledge of plumbing and electricity.
If you don’t possess this knowledge, don’t worry! You will quickly gain it through practical experience, i.e., connecting the wrong wires and practically electrocuting yourself.
Through this process of trial and error you will eventually be able to flush the commode without causing the outlets to spark.
The first step, however, is to clear the area of debris. Depending on the extent of damage to your bathroom, you may be able to do this quickly and easily by shoveling the debris directly through the floor and depositing it under the house.
If a hole doesn’t exist, feel free to make one.
If your spouse catches you, feel free to crawl inside and seal it up behind you.
Once the room has been cleared, it’s time to rebuild. Start with the bearing wall. Aside from its structural significance, it will symbolize the emotional healing process you are trying to foster with your wife — and help avoid the need for a physical healing process should the bathroom be out of commission for more than 24 hours.
Next comes plumbing and wiring, which, I’d like to point out, should never be done at the same time.
Sure, it may be faster and easier to run new wiring through an existing water line. But take it from me: If your pet occasionally drinks out of the commode, it’s not worth the risk.
The same goes for any other shortcuts that could turn your morning bathroom visit into what looks like an episode of Dance Fever.
That said, I hope this advice has been helpful. Feel free to contact me if you have any questions.
I’ll be happy to answer them as soon as I fix this leak in the light switch.
(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439) |
| Out of the Arctic, Warm Again, Dog hair and All by Luke Will on 10/02/2009
It’s roasting hot outside, temperatures that I haven’t endured for over a year, and I’m stretched out on a couch under a blanket in a cool shade-filled room at my friend’s house.
Tischer is at ease on her side by the foot of the couch, happy to be free of the truck’s shrinking confines. We both are.
The truck bed platform I sleep on is coated in dust and dog hair from four months of living and traveling.
I’ve been tempted for quite some time to connect the dots of mosquito carcasses and bloody skid marks on the canopy’s ceiling, which when laying on my back, is less than a foot from my eyelashes.
Apparently the cab stinks of rotten feet, which I was informed of while giving a ride to someone comfortable enough to tell me. I can’t smell it and now wonder how long it’s been that way?
I suppose it’s my house and not room enough to host cheese and wine tasting parties so who cares as long as I don’t?
I just discovered a pair of unwashed long underwear that I’d worn on a paddling trip earlier in the summer but hadn’t seen since. They were under the driver’s seat next to a pair of chopsticks, an empty Gatorade bottle and some clean socks.
I only looked under there in hopes of finding the invitation to the wedding I’m in town for — without any luck.
Every item in my food crate is covered with a thick representation of the many gravel roads we’ve been on and it leaves me swiping my finger across cans and boxes to check expiration dates before dinner — though honestly I’d probably eat it anyway.
I’ve painted the picture of a chaotic slum, but I swear it’s not really that way. If you saw me nestled in a forest campsite or making my way down the road, I think I’d blend in with everyone else out there.
I know I’m not the only one who cooks on their tailgate and has a stocked pantry within reach of the camp stove.
Living in your vehicle demands some level of organization and I’ve been able to make it the last four months without too much frustration so I must be at least at the bare minimum to function the way Tischer and I do.
But that’s good enough for me. Having it down or not, I am road weary and ready to find a permanent stall for an extended chunk of time — I’m thinking six months or so.
I can tell Tischer is over it too. She taps at the back window of my cab with her paws much more frequently now, telling me she was ready to get out seven exit ramps ago.
Until recently the only other time she’s actually cried out from the back of the truck was two years ago and I sadly wasn’t able to pull over fast enough.
But since we’ve left Alaska she’s done that a few times and after I whip the rig to the shoulder and run back to release her all she wants to do is stroll through the trees and stretch.
That’s a clear signal to me and I am happy to use her as a gauge for my own well being too.
Luckily I’ve got a plan. Shortly we will be Minnesota bound and when we arrive we’ll join my dad and brothers on a canoe trip.
It’ll be different than sitting in the truck. Tischer can swim along side of the boat and romp on shore. And instead of pushing a gas pedal, I’ll be enjoying the rigors of human-powered travel.
It is a good existence to live the way that the back of my truck allows, but one that I can still only handle in moderation.
I’ve learned that after three seasons. Because sooner or later I begin to hover on the edge between thriving and just getting by, and just getting by will never be good enough.
(Follow Luke’s travels on his blog: lucaswill.com.) |
| Health Care Debate More About Disease Care by Victoria Larson on 09/09/2009
All the talk about health care is not really about the care of your health. The big discussions, meetings, and arguments are about disease care.
Americans want disease care. We already have what is probably the best emergency care system in the world, and we should be most grateful for that.
But health care? Who’s responsible for your health? If Americans took better care of their health, from birth to grave, we wouldn’t even need so much disease care.
Think about it. Ever hear someone complaining because the doctor didn’t “take care of them?” Well, what did you, the patient, do to take responsibility for your own state of health?
Of course, along the way, we will find conditions that truly are beyond the scope of each citizen to deal with and that’s part of life. But the average person has so much control over their own health.
You, and only you, control what you eat and what you drink, what you breathe and what you think.
Being a wholistic practitioner, I think everything relates to everything else. So history and medicine and common sense combine to give us some insights. Let’s look at how our “health care” system got to where it is today. Here’s a most interesting example of the power we’ve put into hands that are “out there” rather than in our own hands.
In the 1950s if you had chest pains (angina) you would have had a procedure done by your cardiologist that involved opening up the chest cavity and tying off an artery.
It was considered a successful operation.
But one day in 1955, a cardiologist in Seattle, Leonard Cobb, MD and some of his colleagues were wondering how this procedure actually worked.
They did the procedure as usual on half of the heart patients and did a fake procedure on the other half without anyone knowing who was in which group.
Presumably this was legal then.
But here’s the part that totally surprised patients and surgeons alike. Almost everyone felt better. Whether they had the real artery tied off or whether they were just opened up and closed up again!
The sad thing is the procedure only worked for a short time anyway and both groups eventually did not have a good, longterm outcome.
Was the procedure bogus? For half of the people, yes. But it brought the same relief, albeit temporarily, to both groups.
A similar experiment was done as recently as 1993. Dr. Moseley, an orthopedic surgeon, was having doubts about the much touted knee surgery for arthritis. So he found 180 patients with arthritis in Texas who would subject themselves to the surgery as an experiment.
The patients were divided into three groups. One group got the usual treatment of anesthetic, incisions, scopes and cartilage removal. The second group got the same procedure only no cartilage was removed. And the third group got the anesthesia and the incisions, but nothing else was done and they were closed up to look as if they’d had the same procedure as the other two groups.
What do you think was the outcome?
Patients were followed for two years with monitoring of pain levels. All, repeat all, of the patients involved in the experiment reported reduced pain levels!
The results of this experiment appeared in the New England Journal of Medicine on July 11, 2002. Somehow this news did not filter out to the public. It would have caused quite a stir. And a big loss of income for some.
It so embarrassed the medical profession that it was kept quiet.
Most health care information is kept pretty quiet if it works. Why is that I wonder? Do you ever hear people in public places talking about their wonderful surgeries and the drugs they’re taking for relief of symptoms? Americans love their drugs and surgeries!
But do you ever, ever hear anyone telling you how they found a better lifestyle, less pain, more happiness, from taking charge of their own health, exercising and eating right, praying, laughing, dancing, loving?
You don’t hear anyone talking in public places about how good their lives and lifestyle are, do you?
So start your own healthcare plan at home. Think about what you eat and what you drink, what you breathe and what you think. Get the toxins out of your life, drive less, eat more vegetables, sleep eight hours, meditate, pray, relax every day.
If you think any kind of disease care program in our nation is going to solve all our problems, you are wrong. Time to get real. It’s in your hands. And mine.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Appointments, massage and pharmacy pickup available by calling 503-668-1181.) |
| World's Biggest Threat: Giant Rabbits by Luke Will on 09/09/2009
As a journalist, I’m trained to recognize even the most subtle signs of trouble.
A misspoken word.
A reluctant glance.
A horde of slobbering rabbits.
Thanks to my training and experience — and several highlighted newspaper clippings sent in by concerned readers — I have painstakingly pieced together what I, as a member of the conservative media, believe is undeniable evidence that rabbits are planning to take over the world.
How? By radiating themselves and producing offspring roughly the size of Volkswagen Beatles. You’re probably thinking this could never happen.
At least not outside of New Jersey.
But at this very moment, according to a recent BBC report, rabbits living near a nuclear plant in Caithness, Scotland are under surveillance after EPA officials discovered what they described as “bunnies hopping in and out of solid waste pits.”
In addition, investigators found rabbit feces that, for months, had been mistaken for “small piles of Trix cereal.”
According to the report, the UK Atomic Energy Authority has been told to use any means necessary to fix the problem and keep rabbits from burrowing into the waste pits.
Some biologists, like Dr. Yam Higginsworth, warn it may already be too late.
“In my opinion, come spring, the surrounding woods will be littered with rabbit pellets the size of basketballs,” Higginsworth predicted. “From an ecological standpoint, this is not good.”
The parliament of neighboring England has demanded the Scots formally present a plan for dealing with the threat before the Queen’s scheduled annual holiday in the Scottish Highlands this October.
“Suffice it to say, the Queen of England will not vacation anywhere there is a chance — however remote — she will have to fight a giant rabbit,” warned the Queen’s bodyguard.
Former president George Bush expressed his concern, based on “What I still believe are giant jack-o-lopes,” said Mr. Bush, who offered evidence in the form of a postcard from Texas depicting a man riding a jack-o-lope on the high plains.
Residents of Scotland see the world’s escalating concern over the threat of giant, frequently fornicating radioactive rabbits as unfounded. As one man outside of a pub in Edinburgh put it, “I’ve been seeing giant rabbits around here for years.”
On Monday, the first draft of Scotland’s plan is expected to be completed.
“We have every confidence that Scotland will devise a comprehensive, effective plan to deal with this situation,” said one insider.
“But even if they don’t, we’re still sending Charles and Camilla.”
(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, Or. 97439) |
| Ready to Leave Alaska, Saturated with Salt Water by Luke Will on 09/09/2009
Back near the shores of White Bear Lake, in the home I grew up in, there is a blown-up picture sunk into a wood paneled wall of an image I will never shake.
It is wider than I am tall and far enough off the floor that as a child I had to look slightly upward to see it, not that it was hard to miss. The scene was an autumn depiction of mountains.
I recall standing an arms distance away from this picture in my parents basement with my eyes fixed on the whole scene and I can vividly recall feeling exactly what I was seeing.
I felt the touch of golden aspen on my skin and I could smell the cool mountain air being carried by on the fall breeze.
I remember a chill creeping up past my elbows thinking about what it would be like if I were steadily ascending the steep chute above the tree line and then in the same breath the warmth of the sunshine wrapping around my body, perched high above what I assumed was an anonymous Colorado valley, even though I had yet to set foot anywhere near the Rockies.
In recent years as I continue to zigzag around the western states of the lower 48 my mind has drifted back to it whenever a temptation to debrief my path persists.
Often, it’s when I am alone in the presence of beautiful scenery, coasting through between a yellow and a white line, tunes turned down softly and Tischer sniffing the air between my cab and the back canopy.
I remember it in part because I sometimes desperately try to find the origin of my ways; the source from where this life I lead began to take shape.
Other times, I merely enjoy visualizing the distance I’ve come since I first set eyes on that piece of art whose work I don’t know.
I have to believe I’ve asked where that print came from, or at least how my folks came to have it occupying that dark corner of their dungeon basement wall.
But if I have I can’t remember their answers.
In place of that curiosity I keep intending to ask them if someday I might take it as my own. I can see a perfect blank spot on a wall of my future gear room, in a home I am years away from purchasing, next to photos of me paddling among ice bergs and surfing Costa Rican waves.
Being a man of the seasons, my spirit soars more than ever during these coming days of late September and October, when this image becomes reality.
The mountains haven’t always occupied the horizon, though in recent years I’ve gotten better at making sure they do.
And it will be so again this year when the leaves start to turn and snow starts haunting the high peaks, but for the first time since college it won’t be on Mount Hood.
I won’t be back for my huckleberry bushes or my Crosstown Trail runs and just thinking about this feels weird.
But in truth, it’s not a weird feeling at all. It’s everything but weird.
It’s the same feeling I get when I reminisce about flyfishing in Yellowstone and when I remember campfires along Lake Superior.
And it’s the very same feeling that fills my soul thinking about standing in front of that picture with wide eyes, dreaming, wondering, and excited about my future.
It’s a feeling I know quite well actually.
And so as comes regularly with seasonal work, I’ll soon corral Tischer in from the Alaskan wilds and load my soggy kayaking gear into my truck and home. It won’t be long before I remember what this summer was to me, the fantastic places I paddled and the characters I met all because of a common recreational interest.
It leaves me with the same curiosity, one that seems to fill the corners of my life.
This lifestyle, and certainly Alaska, is good for that.
Now the part of my brain that triggers that nostalgic feeling will be saturated with the salt water of Resurrection Bay.
Along with my cell phone.
(Follow Luke’s travels on his blog: lucaswill.com)
|
| Your Liver or Your Life - You Are Forewarned by Luke Will on 08/03/2009
Healthcare people like to debate the importance of various body parts. If you didn’t have your lungs you couldn’t breathe. Without a heart you wouldn’t last long either.
The brain controls it all and it is now generally accepted science that all cells of the body have membrane receptors that respond to the brain’s signals. So everything is important.
For the sake of brevity, I will not enter into the debate, but only just focus on one portion of your functioning anatomy that is much-ignored.
The liver.
Do you know where your liver lives? It’s just under the ribcage on your right side. Tucked up under the liver is the also-important gall bladder.
Your liver detoxifies everything you eat, everything you drink, everything you breathe, and everything you think. Suffice it to say, it’s an important organ. And big. Other than the skin that covers your entire body, also considered an ‘organ’, the liver needs to be big in order to conduct all those functions.
The all-important liver does protein, carbohydrate, and lipid (fat) metabolism. It governs the manufacture of bile salts (to aid in the lipid metabolism) and excretes that bile with the aid of the gall bladder. Your liver detoxifies all drugs, whether prescribed or over-the-counter, alcohol, toxins you breathe in (like exhaust fumes from the car in front of you), and any chemicals that touch your skin, are on your food, or get breathed into your body.
Your liver removes old red and white blood cells via the Kupffer cells and is even capable of removing some bacteria. There are vitamins that get stored in your liver, including A, B12, D, E, and K. There is a protein called apoferritin which combines with iron to form ferritin, the stored form of iron in your body.
In addition, your liver is involved in the activation of vitamin D. This process involves first the skin, and then the liver and kidneys participate in synthesizing this important vitamin. There is much talk about the need for more vitamin D. But perhaps it’s not just the lack of exposure to outside light that’s making people deficient, but the clogging of the liver itself.
Exposures to toxins compromise and overwork the liver. If you breathe car exhaust, use phosphated laundry soaps, synthetic cosmetics with methy parabens and glycols, if you drink water out of plastic bottles or heat foods in the microwave in plastic containers, you are exposed to toxins. The list could go on indefinitely. We are all over-exposed to toxins.
The sinusoids of the liver are screaming for help. Processing the gunk we’ve put into our society is a full time job for your liver. So the question becomes, are you doing anything to care for this very important part of your physiology? What can you do?
Start by getting the chemicals out of your life. Use up what you have if you must, but don’t buy any more chemicals. Treat your liver to good clean water, air and food. And most of all, relax a little. The liver is the seat of anger in Chinese medicine and perhaps you’ve noticed there’s a world of anger out there. People are so stressed out. Is it because of all the external stress? After all, running from a tiger was probably pretty stressful too. Or is it because the liver is so clogged with gunk that it can no longer function to keep you totally healthy?
Perhaps it’s time to address these issues. Instead of turning to the cheaper food, drinks, cleaning products, etc. think about nourishing your liver and therefore your life. When you are out of balance, you are more sensitive to disease states. When you suppress anger you damage your liver. But it’s time to be gentler with yourself and others in these tough economic times. Time to save money, and your health, by making the best choices you can possibly make.
We’re all under stress right now. Maybe we don’t have a lot of control over the outside world, but we do still have control over our own bodies and our own choices. It’s the same old story. It’s about what you eat and what you drink, what you breathe and what you think. Are you listening?
(Dr.Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy. Appointments, massage and pharmacy pickup available by calling 503-668-1181.) |
| A Cold - but Quickly Getting Old - Learning Experience by Luke Will on 08/03/2009
Being in the grip of summer heaven, the words that follow might seem as unfamiliar to your eyes right now as the sound of thunder was to my ears during three years at my cabin on The Mountain.
The weather has finally, almost as though I really expected it to, turned here in Seward. It was like, as my boss likes to suggest (when referring to potential work in the sea kayak guiding world), someone flipped a switch.
Soft tan lines and salt stained T-shirts speak to the warmth and sun that helped us through the first two months of the summer guiding season on the Kenai Peninsula.
But those same rays of light have suddenly been replaced by streaks of cold rain, and if the mountains were gray you wouldn’t be able to recognize the horizon line.
I can’t even recall if I woke up to it or it silently crept in while I was staring through an amber filled pint at the Yukon Bar?
It was just here. But it didn’t feel like it would be long standing.
This was two weeks ago.
The wind and waves here deep inside Resurrection Bay have been frenzied, aftershocks from much scarier sources just outside Fox Island where marine forecasts have included 40-plus-knot winds and 17-foot seas.
Perhaps in a really deep amusement park wave pool I might be interested in seeing what my kayak does when confronted with a wave as deep as my boat’s length.
In comparison, despite my continuing belief that legend was born ahead of its allotted buffer, last summer had just one day of sun and warmth.
One day.
The entirety of every other day was filled with a dampness that would give Portland winter a run for its money. This, according to every local that was or wasn’t here throughout all of it.
Regardless of what is typical and what is reality, for the first time in a long while I am feeling wet and cold. Attribute it to the soaked foam pad that I use as a bed in the back of my pickup.
Or maybe it’s that every time I grab a piece of clothing to put on it’s chilly and wrinkled, making me feel like I woke up hung-over at three in the afternoon on someone’s front lawn?
Or, perhaps the biggest factor is the disgruntled wet dog that I share my truck home with?
Through experience and ability I’ve been able to stay comfortable out on trail for most of the last four to five years, sometimes with little more than a tarp, proper layers of clothing and hot drinks.
During that time, from hellacious hail-filled thunderstorms to blankets of sweltering mosquitoes to stumps of angry bees, Mother Nature hasn’t always been so pleasant.
I’ve slept in the woods many more nights than I’ve slept in a vehicle, but perhaps naively I thought the two previous summers of truck living would allow me to dial my systems enough to happily thrive from a tailgate in the temperate rainforests of South Central Alaska.
If I think about it though, during those last two stretches one was crammed with nothing but the hot and cloudless days of a Missoula summer. And the other was a collage of states and activities that kept me out of the truck for generous periods of time. Hardly the proper training grounds for making the leap up to Alaska.
So now, I have resorted to hanging around the small shack that serves as our office just so my damp dog and I can feel the nurture of the propane heater.
I’ve noticed longer stints at the coffee shop and overzealously enjoying boiling hot showers at the recreation center.
More doggy treats and belly rubs, both for her and I, seem to go a long way as well.
I am trying to do what I can while enduring a few slow off days. Though I hardly ever glance at forecasts more than two days out, I can’t help but search for glimmers of the season I knew weeks ago.
The last I checked, I’d better hope that the work I hope to get when the winds finally die down will distract me from the high chance of showers that lists down my computer screen.
That, or I can just stick to ensuring my down booties are dry and my hope that by writing about it, I am seeing it for what it is: A cold- but quickly getting old- learning experience.
(Follow Luke’s travels on his blog: lucaswill.com) |
| Wanna Be a Good Golfer; Get a Grip by Ned Hickson on 08/03/2009
When a friend asked if I would captain a team for a charity golf scramble this summer, it only made sense that he came to me first.
That’s because, as our paper’s sports editor, I’m naturally a great golfer. Just like I’m a great shot-put thrower, quarterback, point guard, stock car racer, extreme skateboarder, freestyle swimmer and calf roper.
In fact, I sometimes wonder where I might be today had my sports career not been tragically cut short by my complete lack of athletic talent. This discovery was made as early as first grade, when, during a dodge ball game, I was knocked unconscious and rushed to the nurse’s office after being hit by the ball.
Forty-seven times.
(And I should mention that recess only lasted 10 minutes in those days.)
I still remember lying there in the sick room and listening to Jimmy Calella swear that I didn’t even try to dodge, and Nurse Webber assuring him in a hushed voice:
Yes he did, dear—he’s just not very good at it.
So, when my friend asked me to captain a golf team, I of course said Yes.
After which I was knocked unconscious by a loose dodge ball in the news room.
OK, that didn’t really happen, but I did agree to captain the team, which meant giving myself a crash course on golfing — beginning with golf terminology. I immediately got online for help and, thanks to the power of the Internet, found myself on a pornography Web site after typing in the first term on my list:
Mixed Foursome.
For anyone else who might be looking to the Internet for golf-term clarifications, I’d also suggest avoiding scotch foursome, shag bag, hooded club, loose impediments, and (this really goes without saying) woodie.
While these are all legitimate golfing terms, try explaining that to your editor after she finds you on a Web page linked to the golf term Double-D.
(Which, by the way, means when a driver is used on the fairway after it has also been used to tee off — so THERE, Ms. Smarty Pants!)
After getting a handle on the game’s terminology, the next thing on my list was golf etiquette. I know for a lot of people, one of the things that keeps them from actually trying golf is the fear of unintentionally doing something that, as a result of not knowing the proper etiquette, gets them clubbed to death by someone with a 9-iron. That’s because, to the outside observer, things that seem to warrant a good clubbing are actually no big deal. You want to swing your club and take a six-inch gouge out of an otherwise perfect lawn?
Fine.
Want to drink a beer AND drive an electric go-cart through the woods?
Perfectly acceptable.
However, walk between someone’s ball and a small hole in the ground, and there’s a good chance you’ll be found floating in a water hazard.
The thing to remember is that you will undoubtedly make some mistakes your first time on the course, and that’s to be expected. What won’t be expected is a hollowed-out golf club that can be loaded with tees and used as a blow gun should you need to defend yourself.
But you didn’t hear that from me.
This brings us to the actual fundamentals of playing golf — which begins with finding your “natural swing.” Ask any golfer the secret to doing this, and they’ll tell you it’s all about having the proper grip. To achieve this, simply make sure the back of your left hand as well as the palm of your right hand are both facing your target.
Then, using the thumb of your right hand as a guide, wrap your fingers around one side, then do the same with your left while, very slowly, bringing them both back into a perfect arch so that your beer doesn’t spill on the way to your mouth.
After a couple of practice swigs, place your beer back in the cooler and you’re ready to tee off.
This may not improve your swing much, but it will provide you with a legitimate excuse as to why you shot a 167 on a par 72 course.
And if that isn’t enough, you can always claim that playing in a mixed foursome was just too darned distracting.
(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, Or. 97439) |
| 'Life Force' by Victoria Larson on 07/03/2009
There are some things in life that you cannot change. The year you were born in, the color of your eyes, whether you are right or left handed
.
There are some things you can fudge on. The length of your fingernails, the shape of your nose, the color of your hair. Most of the rest of who you are is under your control.
Yes, you have control over your life. Even genetics do not have the hold on you that you might think. Tons of new research shows that the DNA that carries your genetic code can be altered, for better or for worse, via nutritional support, mental support, even spiritual support.
It’s like I’ve said a million times — it’s about what you eat and what you drink, what you breathe and what you think. Sometimes I think the mental and spiritual support should come first. It seems to be where the love and respect of self comes from.
If you do not care about yourself, there is no way you will take steps to be the best you can be.
But if you truly do care about yourself, you are then freed to care for and about others, to try your best at all times, to promote the life force inherent in all of us.
That nebulous phrase “life force” is very strong in some people and weak in others.
Which is it for you? Do you have some control over that aspect of who you are?
Health and longevity are not a given, they are a choice. A gift that you earn by doing your best.
The goal should be to stay in good health for as long as possible.
We all know it’s a given that no one gets out of this life alive, but let’s put it off as long as we can.
You’ve heard of the “French paradox” wherein the people of France live longer than we Americans, yet they eat butter and cheese and cream sauces and drink wine. They also go at a slower pace than we do. They linger for hours over meals and conversation.
They enjoy life.
Among the obviousness of slowing down and enjoying life remained the question about the red wine It turns out it was not the wine per se that was giving the French greater longevity than us, but a component of the wine found in the skin of the grapes. The research has been done in such prestigious places as Harvard Medical School, John Hopkins University and University of California, Davis.
The research showed that a natural component known as resveratrol appeared to be extending the lives of mice. Research has been reported in the NY Times as long ago as Nov. 2, 2006. What they found that was rather remarkable was that this substance seemed to offset the effects of a calorie laden diet.
Mind you, resveratrol did not cause weight loss, but it did extend the lifespan from 30-70 percent.
This is big news for those who care to live a long and healthy life.
What resveratrol apparently does is switch on a genetic code that aids in organism survival. At the same time it switches off the gene that codes for diseases and viruses.
Some of the research shows reversal of heart disease and Alzheimer’s and osteoporosis.
The mechanism is through an enzyme called SIRT 1, the “anti-aging” enzyme.
Enzymes are a potent factor in health at any level and tend to be low in societies that eat a lot of poor quality foodstuffs that don’t really qualify as food (see May column).
Resveratrol provides your system with anti-oxidants and boosts the immune system and helps flush out the lipids trapped in your liver and bloodstream. Resveratrol inhibits and delays the onset of such diseases as cancer, diabetes, and depression.
All big threats in our society.
In addition to making you feel better in general, in a rather short period of time, resveratrol has the effect of protecting the collagen and elastin in your skin so you will have fewer wrinkles!
A lot cheaper and more natural than Botox injections.
The resveratrol component is found in the skin of red grapes and also in Japanese knotweed. The company I work with only uses raw ingredients from countries that don’t use chemicals in the processing of this component. That eliminates several world wide albeit cheaper sources. Like chemicals in your food, you should avoid chemicals in your supplements.
Resveratrol comes in many forms -— liquid, powder, and capsule. It is not cheap, but quality matters if we are talking about genetic expression through nutrition.
Buying off the Internet (never my choice — call to find out why) will not give you a quality product. You will not know the source of the resveritrol, how it was treated before, during, and after shipping, and often not even how many milligrams.
You won’t know if it’s in the cis- or trans- form which is important to the chemists and those of us dispensing this potentially life-changing food supplement.
When taken under a Naturopathic Doctor’s guidance, you may be able to reduce or eliminate some of the drugs or even supplements that you are currently taking, thereby offsetting the price.
And for the inevitable question of how many glasses of red wine you would need to drink to get a therapeutic dose?
For people with alcohol issues, none.
The rest of you would have to drink 49 glasses of red wine per day in order to get the therapeutic amount of resveritrol to cause an effect.
So no, that’s not the way to go.
A glass or two of red wine per day is allowed, though for many, this is too much to tolerate for other health reasons.
It depends on the health of your liver — which I will discuss in my next column.
(Dr.Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy on Tuesday, thursday and Friday. She has a shop available for your over-the-counter needs. Massage is available on Monday and Wednesday.)
|
| Don't Beat Yourself Up by Ned Hickson on 07/03/2009
Hello and welcome to another edition of our special in-depth medical feature Health Yak, which has been recognized by the U.S. Surgeon General as “extremely topical,” meaning that you should not attempt to ingest any portion of this column without first consulting your doctor.
Today we will be discussing a study that suggests as many as 16 million Americans — or roughly the number of people who never receive their appetizers during an average season of Hell’s Kitchen — suffer from periodic outbursts of anger.
I know what you’re thinking:
What makes this different from a typical outburst of anger, like when I open the air vent in my car and release a cloud of spores the size of shiitake mushrooms?
The answer, of course, is that there IS no difference, at least not until someone funds a clinical study, at which point it becomes an official “disorder” treatable by a new drug with minor side effects, such as having your liver grow to the size of Shaquille O’Neal’s seat cushion.
According to Dr. Emil Coccaro of the University of Chicago’s medical school, which, as you may recall, conducted the definitive study on the yawning habits of the Tibetan mountain yak (Conclusion: After 3,000 yawns, researchers become suicidal), what used to be known as “road rage” has now escalated into a nationwide problem called Intermittent Explosive Disorder. By definition, IED involves “outbursts that are out of proportion to the situation.”
For example: Let’s say you’re at a drive-thru trying to order a bacon cheeseburger and, for the seventh-straight time, the person taking your order insists there is no one named “Macon the Sheep Herder” working there, and to please place your order. And let’s say, in frustration, you exit your vehicle and rip the image of a cheeseburger directly from the menu board and begin gnawing on it, causing those in line behind you to drive off through the patio area.
Chances are, you could be an IED sufferer.
According to Dr. Coccaro, his conclusion was based on the results of a nationwide, face-to-face survey of 9,282 adults who were scored based on their response to highly formulated and complex diagnostic observations, such as “I’m guessing most dogs would probably introduce themselves by sniffing your face.”
Amazingly, all 9,282 participants in the study were identified as IED sufferers.
“Obviously, the disorder is more widespread than we thought,” stated Coccaro, who then added, “You got a problem with that?!”
To determine if you might be an IED sufferer, answer “Yes” or “No” to each of the following scenarios:
1) When my computer crashes, I try to remain calm by thinking about the solitude and freedom of skydiving, ascending through the clouds, and then letting my computer drop from 1,800 ft. into a lake.
2) On at least one occasion, I have attempted to affect change and contact someone in our nation’s capitol by yelling at the top of my lungs.
3) I find it difficult to remain calm when, after paying $40 for gas, I have to pay another 25 cents for AIR.
4) Because I have been told it is an important social issue facing our nation, I am frustrated by my inability to really care where there is another ‘Twilight’ book
And lastly,
5) Recently, I have been performing yoga as a way to limber up before handing out a good butt-whoopin’.
OK, tally your score by giving yourself one point for “No” and two points for “Yes.”
Answer key: If you took the time to actually answer any of these questions you are an IED sufferer.
According to the study, you should go ahead and join the millions of Americans already on some type of anti-depressant.
And if you have a problem with that, you KNOW where you can find me!
I’ll be waiting right here in the lotus position.
(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@oregonfast.net, or at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439.) |
| Up Close: Alaska Glacier by Luke Will on 07/03/2009
Flanked by my good friends and fellow guides, I was standing on the landing strip at the Seward airport staring at a glistening red helicopter against a backdrop of mountainous tones. The sky was blue and we were eager for flight. After helping the pilot strap a kayak to each landing bar, I smiled in thinking this was about to be the highest these boats and NRS straps will have ever been.
With large dry bags loaded and headsets covering our ears it was only minutes before we were sweeping across the sky directly above the small boat harbor, and then downtown. Our tour followed the rough and crumbly coast of Resurrection Bay out toward the open Gulf of Alaska.
What would take over an hour on a water taxi we covered in barely 12 minutes with a subtle headwind from the south. Rounding the final peak that separated us from our destination, the view was staggering and partially blocked by our three cameras aimed out the front windshield.
Claiming over 300 square miles the massive Harding Icefield is just beyond our horizon, nestling between some peaks and covering up others. About 40 glaciers spill out from it all around the Kenai Peninsula (picture a hand with three dozen fingers) and we have picked a rather notable one to explore.
Bear Glacier is unique because of the size of icebergs that it produces. It has a deep body of water underneath its terminus that supports larger sized bergs and allows gigantic sections to separate in tact. The glacier itself doesn’t reach the ocean anymore but the frigid lake if forms flows out to sea mixing this fresh water berg-filled lagoon with a turbulent and steep gravel beach.
We got dropped off just the other side of the outflow from this beach. In what seems like no time at all we had been hustled out of the commotion of town (if you can even call it that) and were suddenly left with only our kayaks and the invisible sound of breaking surf.
That night we sat facing a campfire and the lagoon.
This is where we first heard the glacier talk. Crumbling and sloshing with waves lapping the shoreline and occasionally a loud dumping splash, the bergs are alive, constantly melting, dripping and shifting.
It’s a really special place to see especially from the tranquil seat of a kayak. Partly because of the personal touch sea kayaks allow and partly because of how un-tranquil this place can be. Its beauty is accentuated by its extreme power and it is intimidating as hell when sitting at water level next to bergs multiple stories high.
We had been warned about the sudden dangers that accompany paddling with these behemoths, and we had believed. But it was a blind faith soon to be supported.
After lunch the next day we hiked a short distance up a waterfall. It was glorious summertime weather and we decided to baptize ourselves in the same water where ice floats. Escaping the breath-stealing lagoon we danced around our beached boats. And then we heard it.
The first splash carrying over the water got our attention, and just as we located its source a short distance away the second break occurred. An entire side split off causing a giant wave to break over a neighboring berg toward us. Instantly the unstable slab began to bob and roll all the while drifting slowly but forcefully away.
We watched in awe, our energy shooting through the clouds as we realized the rarity. When my friend turned and asked if we should pull our boats up higher, seeing no visible waves hurling in our direction I brushed it off.
He still jokingly won’t let me forget our hasty scramble to secure our gear as tidal waves threatened to pull it away from our partially clothed bodies.
After all the excitement had settled, we were treated to a perfect example of the proportions of an iceberg.
Ninety percent being under the water’s surface, you only see one-tenth the actual size floating. That can be hard to comprehend in the presence of bergs this magnitude though.
The piece that broke off and subsequently rolled ended up on its side, revealing its long slender depth. What had been the deepest part was a sparkling dark blue, the color slowly fading as it reached the top, or what was formerly exposed.
The old water line was just a sliver of the far right side.
As with many of my interactions with Alaska, it was impressive.
(Follow Luke’s travels on his blog: lucaswill.com.) |
| Notes To Fathers, Husbands, Lovers by Victoria Larson on 06/04/2009
All you guys out there, listen up. I know that going to a doctor is about as appealing as running down the street with your underwear on your head, but sometimes you actually need to get things checked out.
This month being dedicated to men with Father’s Day and all, I thought I’d speak to you guys directly. If it’s too intimidating to have a woman doctor talk to you, just imagine me in my Groucho Marx glasses and mustache. A good laugh never hurt anyone.
Let’s talk about your Prostate gland, which is about the size of a large olive, but shaped more like an opened walnut, with a sulcus (a groove) bisecting the gland. This gland surrounds the urethra at the base of the bladder. All men, even symptom-free men, should have a baseline Prostate exam around age 40. That recommendation used to be around age 50 but people are evidencing more illness and more problems as our environment spews out more threats.
If you’re over 40 it’s time for the DRE. That’s a polite way of saying “digital rectal exam.” You can figure out how doctors reach this internal gland. I know, it’s probably not the most fun thing you can imagine happening in the coming year, but then again, it’s 20 minutes that could make a difference in your lifespan. The wives, lovers, friends, and mothers out there care about you and want you to live a long and healthy life.
In addition to the physical exam, you should have yearly bloodwork done in order to monitor how you’re doing. By age 50 at least 30 percent of males have some sort of Prostatic symptoms. These include urinary problems (decreased stream, difficulty starting urination, frequency) as well as sexual dysfunction, which, for the record, is not caused by a deficiency of Cialis or Viagra, despite what the multi-billion dollar drug companies tell you.
The Prostate gland serves to provide some of the seminal fluid, but in addition it is also the first line of defense in the genito-urinary system which responds to infection and disease. The doctor performing the digital exam will be examining for texture, quality, and density of the gland. And guys, this is where size does matter. If the gland is enlarged this is called Benign Prostatic Hypertrophy (BPH) and may be due to infection, irritation, or something else. That’s why we do the exam, to rule out the something else.
Wait a few days after the physical exam before getting your bloodwork done as the physical invasion is enough to cause your PSA (Prostate Specific Antigen) numbers to increase. The Prostate specific antigen is located in normal prostatic epithelial cells and carcinoma cells so it gives us information, but not enough information to go on. Along with the PSA blood test, men need to also get a free PSA blood test, which is more specific and sensitive in showing changes in levels.
I’m a Naturopathic Doctor and not a huge fan of the drugs-and-surgery route as your first line of defense against disease states. I’m a believer in preventing problems before they cost everyone a lot of money, or a lot of lives. The allopathic medical community is coming around to our beliefs. A recent CBS news story said that most (yes, most) urologists no longer believe that Prostatic biopsies should be routinely performed when the PSA numbers are high.
It’s been known for years that Prostatic biopsy is not the “gold standard.” In fact, the British Journal of Cancer almost 10 years ago (2001) reported that Prostate biopsies result in cancer cells being detected in the bloodstream 45.7 percent of the time after the biopsy.
The Cancer Research Campaign backs this up with reports that biopsies of the Prostate gland may actually spread cancer to other parts of the body, rather than preventing that spread. Newsweek recently ran an article “The Myth of Early Detection” (April 6, 2009, p. 44) revealing that “early detection” does not in fact decrease mortality rates one iota.
Which leads us to the question of what do you do then? I often start office visits by asking patients in high risk groups “if there were a way to prevent cancer, would you do it?” Most respond with a hearty “yes.” Not all follow through though. It’s that old Rule of Eights, Plus One. Eight glasses of water per day, eight hours of sleep per night, eight servings of fresh vegetables and fruits a day — and one massage a month. The massage being especially important if you are one of those couch potatoes.
The Prostate gland requires zinc for healthy function. Zinc inhibits an enzyme that binds to the tissue causing hypertorphy (enlargement of the gland leading to BPH). Zinc is readily available in so many foods that even you meat-and-potatoes guys will find something to like in this list. I’m sure you’ve heard the claims about oysters (which stems from their high zinc status) but also include the following in your dietary regime. In order of zinc density these foods include roast beef, (at 5.3 mg) and potatoes (at 2.8 mg), but don’t forget mustard greens (2.7 mg), pumpkin seeds (2.6 mg), and kidney beans (2,2 mg).
So guys, please show the women your best efforts in choosing to take responsibility for your health. Get your Prostate gland checked out, to the tune of about 20 minutes out of your year. I promise you no one has ever died from this exam. And no one has ever died of embarrassment either. Eat a good variety of foods. Find the joy in your life. And may each and every one of you have a long and happy lifespan.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. She has a shop available for your over-the-counter needs. Massage is available on Monday and Wednesday.)
|
| Long Johns, Head Cold, Crusty Socks -- Alaska! by Luke Will on 06/04/2009
We were parked up a gravel road as far as the deepening snow would allow just outside of Whitehorse, the largest town in the great Yukon expanse. Standing next to our caravan of two vehicles, we shared bowls of rice soaked in soup and Tischer romped around us with wound up legs and a full belly.
A rusty old three-wheeler revved by us guided by a heap of denim and untamed facial hair. As warm spoonfuls chased swigs of bottled beer our attention turned toward mosquitoes the size of legend. Luckily they stumbled wildly, dumb and slow, in their large northern bodies.
I had on a newly acquired (but far from new) one-piece long john suit from a local thrift store. My last shower was seven days prior and a head cold was pounding my sinuses. But still I caught the whiff of crusty socks and chocolate chip cookies in the bed of the truck.
This is exactly how I pictured our road trip would be.
Having reached our destination, they keep telling us we brought the sun and warm weather with us. We’re obviously thankful to keep the gray and drizzle away but we can’t understand how the combination of a Mount Hood skier, a Minnesota climber and a Montana transplant can be the source of these good skies.
The three of us reunited for a season of paddling in the South Central Alaskan town of Seward. Assuming the rest of the world maintains the interest and funds necessary, we’ll be guiding fellow sea kayakers around the marvelously cold waters of Resurrection Bay and Kenai Fjords National Park in the months ahead.
When not corralling a cluster of tandem boats we’ll be exploring on our own. With quiet and delicate sea kayaks, our eyes enjoy an intimate view. We can glide into coves where tidewater glaciers reach for the surf and skirt rugged coastlines where bears and goats search for food.
And when the wind blows and the ocean swells we can ride the rollers and disappear in the troughs. Between meals watching the tide rise 14 feet from low to high.
If the summer continues the way it has begun, after the day ends we’ll circle the tailgate of my home wearing a smile and babbling about the dream we just paddled through.
Crawling onto my carpet covered plywood bed next to Tischer, I’ll realize it’s three hours later than I thought because even though it’s 1 a.m., darkness lingers nowhere. This is why I added stylish blue curtains around my sleeping bag during the first week.
As we continue to absorb the natural history and familiarize ourselves with the traditional paddling routes, our eyes grow wider and we catch each other gasping in disbelief. The Minnesota climber and I have shared adventures since college and this chapter of our travels together is raising the bar yet again, just as we have felt about each previous one.
It begins getting hard to think about what could be next? And while we pose this question occasionally in between ordering a round, it doesn’t stay on the surface long. We don’t bring it up to focus on the future as much as we do to have a reaction to where we are.
Between scoping out ski-able lines on steep peaks from the cockpit of our kayak and the view of the bay from the racquetball court in town, we are always in awe. And we should be.
By choosing our lifestyle we are rewarded with unique people that rarely come to you and landscapes that cling to regions for very specific reasons. Maybe this place is where I’ll live forever? It’s too early to tell. But I can say that it will probably be a home forever, just like Mount Hood. Sometimes I grapple with living this way, but usually only when I think too much about it. And that’s hard to do when you sleep next to a paddle on a beach. If I do someday stay put, at least I’ll have a gear room with walls covered in photos and stories of a life lived the way I wanted.
(Follow Luke’s travels on his blog: lucaswill.com.)
|
| "Call of the Wild" - a new experience looms by Luke Will on 05/02/2009
On a warm evening recently I walked Tischer down to the end of a road behind my cabin, just like I have done almost every night since I first rolled through Govy’s main drag three years ago.
She climbed up onto a stubby snow bank — that only a week ago was level with my eyes — to frisk around for fresh scents, while I ogled the alpen glow on Mount Hood.
This is our routine, though as spring takes a firm grasp on The Mountain, there are new spices to the variables. I was in short sleeves and comfortable and Tischer had on black boots (otherwise known as muddy feet), and was giddy about this.
Snow banks on Mount Hood are dwindling, providing surging rivers with the spring melt. We are swimming in a time of transition right now, when life of all kind yearns for a warmer breeze and longer periods of sunlight. And just like the rivers, I am surging with adrenaline too.
Because I love open windows when I must be inside. And because I love flip-flops. But also because I am in transition too. Not long after May Day flowers find their way to your doorstep, I will be rolling back through Govy on my way out of town, and out of the Pacific Northwest.
Tischer and I are heading for a new landscape, toward new adventures and new stories. Alaska beckons us, and has for some time now.
I will only be bringing one pair of skis with me with the thought of spring backcountry skiing on my mind. But mostly I will be trading my skis for a sea kayak for the season.
We have our home in the back of the truck, parked in a driveway or just off a gravel road. But more importantly we have an open mind and a willingness to experience the unexpected. It’s what I had when I first moved here, and what I believe I have bestowed on Tischer since I adopted her three months after I first unpacked my gear.
I hope for the best because of this. And if life turns out as good as it has from my time here, I’ll be thrilled.
If for some reason I couldn’t realize how good these past seasons have been from the pictures on my wall or the stack of columns I have written, then the remaining days left before I leave speak volumes to me.
There will be grills we’ll perch around while clutching a beer one day, Frisbees to throw the next, waves to catch after that, and softening snow to glide through under a scorching sun hoping the extra SPF wards off a burn in between.
Now I am surrounded by friends who once were strangers not long ago. They are smiling and shaking my hand. They are wrestling with Tischer, and kissing her head. We are all laughing and loving life, as it is now and as it has been in the recent past.
This is very special for me.
And after all those goodbyes are over and I’ve packed all my gear, I’ll see Mount Hood in my rearview mirror for a short time heading down the highway. Hopefully I’ll have had a time to say goodbye myself, but if I’ve felt slighted at all, that glance will wrap it all together for me.
I’ll feel good about what I’m leaving as well as where I’m heading. And this is all I can ever ask.
Many adventures await all of us in the coming season and I am happy to report that in between yours, you’ll get to keep reading about mine. But I won’t be writing about them in a cozy room on Mount Hood. Instead I’ll be sitting along the Gulf of Alaska or in the back of my truck, or maybe from the cockpit of a sea kayak.
But you can bet I’ll have a beer within reach, as always. And a picture of Mount Hood hanging somewhere nearby too.
by Luke Will/for The Mountain Times |
| Learn to trust, and relax by Victoria Larson on 04/02/2009
You are the biggest health determinant in your life. Yes, you.
It may not seem to be the case in a modern world where so many abdicate their lives. Decisions are made by others. Medical drugs are used to dull our response. We hustle and bustle and stick our faces in front of boxes when we’re too tired to think. Blackberries, computers, refrigerators, TVs, X-boxes, name your poison. They consume your time.
Years ago, during the "back to the land" movement, I cooked everything from scratch. Baked bread, made yogurt, canned, dried, and froze produce from my huge garden. Even sold produce and eggs to the local organic store and gourmet restaurants. I was single-handedly raising my baby girl on a hundred acre farm. I had 30 chickens, three goats, and a horse. As well as six dogs and five cats. I had time to read and sew and turn out a radio program about healthy living. Yet somehow I still had that illusive component, time.
Where has that time gone? Why do we need time? Time for what? Frankly people, the "stuff" we all have too much of doesn’t matter. All we get to take to the grave is memories and emotions. So what do we have right now? Time. That fleeting substance that we all claim to have too little of. It’s where we make the memories that live and die with us.
So if you live in the present moment, you do have time. You have right now. And frankly, that’s the only time you have. So why do so many try so hard to avoid the present and dull the moment? We’re afraid. We have been trained to blunt the real world of this moment. When we deny this present moment, we die a little. We deny this experience and cut ourselves off from life. It is only through experiencing this moment that we become truly alive.
Not all "present moments" are wonderful. Death, loss, change, pain, these are inevitable. But so is life, abundance, growth, and vitality. Americans have been sold a bill of goods. Take the medication, dull the response, don’t deal with the real issues. Of course no one wants to be in pain and there are times in life when this truly is the issue to deal with. But I’m talking about the reliance on medications to change the normal mechanism and responses to the demons we don’t want to deal with. Not good.
Doctors seeing 10 to 40 patients an hour have no choice but to stick their faces in the computer box in front of them and prescribe a drug to ease the patient’s disease. When they give less than 10 minutes per patient there’s no time to even look the patient in the eye, or offer a hug at the end of the visit. Yet only a quarter of those prescribed drugs are even picked up at the pharmacy. One out of seven patients cannot get their prescriptions filled due to cost. Maybe it’s time to get real with ourselves and deal with our issues.
Many, many people are managing to live a decent life without medical prescriptions. The Naturopathic Doctor attends to the cause of your complaint. We will "sit in the fire" with you. Attend to your body, heart, mind, and soul. To your level of comfort. It is sometimes unnerving to "be present" with your feelings. But slowly the demons disappear as you sort and file the thoughts in your mind. The waves of despair begin to lessen. Fears lead to change. Anxiety decreases.
The tools for this are not just herbs or Rescue Remedy, massage or hydrotherapy. The best tool is being with the current state you are in, investigating that moment, and moving with the flow of life. By participating in your emotional, mental, physical, and spiritual well-being, you empower yourself.
Empowerment leaves you feeling fully alive. In the present moment. It eases your pain, it furthers decision-making, gives you perception, feeds your vitality. So trust yourself and believe in yourself. Then rest and relax. This has been my mantra for 20 years now. Written at the top of every single test I took during medical school. Naturopathic medicine is different from standard care. I believe that if you Trust, Believe, Rest, and Relax, you will heal.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. She has a shop available for your over-the-counter needs. Massage is available on Monday and Wednesday.)
|
| After the Deschutes: The promise of beer by Luke Will on 04/02/2009
ischer up the Gorge for a few nights at Deschutes River State Park. For the cost of two micro beers in Govy I pitched a tent on a green manicured lawn next to the swift river just before it joins the Columbia River.
That first night it rained, so after the novelty of the fire wore off we settled in next to each other.
I read by headlamp as Tischer nudged closer and closer, until eventually her bed was vacant and mine was crowded. We woke to sunshine creeping in over the high canyon walls and without a cloud in the sky the assurance of a spectacular day.
I packed a small lunch and hopped onto my wet bike seat. Our destination was the old Harris Homestead just over 11 miles up the Deschutes.
We eased along our route, an old railroad grade turned to gravel bike path, eyeing rapids and inhaling the soothing odor of sage. There was no breeze, but coolness in the air that kept my long layers on while through my sunglasses the bright landscape warmed my insides.
A few backpack camping areas are spaced out alongside this section of trail too. They are identified more easily by the pit toilets than by designated sites, but offer quick access to the river and a convenient bathroom break. We stopped at each one for my curiosity and for Tischer’s thirst.
Upon reaching Harris Canyon, where the historic homestead is located, Tischer searched out a comfortable patch of tall grass to take a nap while I reached for a bag of almonds. After eating we explored the old teetering house, where weathered wallpaper still clung to the walls and a decrepit wood stove hadn’t moved since it held its last flame.
Walking just beyond this site, I stared down the trail that continued around the bend and wondered what was there. I wouldn’t find out on that sunny day, but it enticed me enough to write about it in my notebook dedicated to places I want to see.
As spring break rolled around this year, I flipped open that same notebook with the words "Take A Look Around" written on the cover. Craving the spring weather I had felt a year ago, two friends along with Tischer and I returned to the same campsite. We ate popcorn and sipped whiskey under the constellations. A clear sky on the first night is a good sign I thought.
Late the next morning we left my truck and shuttled another car across the high desert east of the river, then up a dirt road following the lower Deschutes River until it ended at Jacks Canyon campground. We tried eating lunch at a picnic table but the wind was too frigid. And then the snow came so we sat in the car.
With our late afternoon start in a mini blizzard, we ended up marching down the un-maintained trail well into the night. By this time though the clouds had mostly cleared, taking with them the snow. The ones that lingered played peek-a-boo with the almost-full moon. Crawling in and out of four different drainages (where trellises no longer spanned) under the moonlight, our dark headlamps were there if we needed them.
The next day we reached the place where I previously stood looking up the trail that we had just come on. Passing the Harris site, we walked under a bland sky where the only real color in the canyon was the lower Deschutes, our packs, and the occasional train crawling along the west contour of the river.
That night we slept in one of the wooden railcars that rest next to the trail. It wasn’t as cozy as our tents, but none of us had ever slept in a train car. And in the morning, our faith in high desert weather was validated. Sun creeping over the top and hitting the opposite canyon wall for us to watch with wide eyes.
Holding a mug of steaming oatmeal, still bundled in layers, we stood on the southeast side of the car basking in the subtle warmth. We could still see our breath. I couldn’t feel my fingertips.
The truck was waiting a short distance away and not so soon after that a beer and pizza in Hood River.
But this sunshine was enough to keep me lingering, nursing my oats.
(Follow Luke’s travels on his blog: lucaswill.com)
|
| THANK A HUMOR COLUMNIST by Ned Hickson on 03/01/2009
Being a journalist, I naturally have journalist friends who, whenever we get together, want to talk about (yawn) heady issues facing the nation and the world. This is done in a discussion format similar to “Meet the Press,” except that our debates are often interrupted by someone’s beer foaming over. Aside from that, it’s just like the show on TV. As you can imagine, our exchanges get pretty heated as each of us presents an important topic of debate.
What is our stance on Iran?
Should we overhaul social security?
How do we deal with North Korea?
Or, as I challenged:
Why does the new Bugs Bunny look like he’s been shooting steroids with Jose Canseco?
That’s usually when our debate comes to a screeching halt and I’m forced, once again, to defend my journalistic integrity by explaining the value of what I do, then underscoring it by offering to pay for everyone’s beer.
Admittedly, I have it easy compared to other journalists who must worry about gathering “facts” and finding “sources” while I, on the other hand, can “make” things up without “leaving” my desk. Which isn’t to say I’m not held to the same journalistic standards as everyone else. I can’t claim, for example, that rubbing your head in Frito-Lay bean dip can promote hair growth similar to that of a Tibetan Mountain yak.
(At least, not without some kind of corroborating evidence, such as testimony from an actual mountain yak.)
If I were to do this, I could open myself up to litigation from Frito-Lay, the state of California, and, quite possibly, every bald person smelling of bean dip.
Why?
Because each of us REALLY AND TRULY believes we’re making the world a better place by doing everything we can, as humor columnists, to stay out of the skilled-labor work force.
Let’s face it, for every culinary position a humor columnist takes up, there are at least a dozen people hurling into a commode. Countless people (i.e., there’s no time to count them before my deadline) owe their lives to the fact that I — and others like me — are sitting in a newsroom making stuff up. Imagine being stuck on a mountainside knowing that the person repelling down a rope to save you is the same person who, if they had a choice, would rather be writing about glow-in-the-dark mice.
Would you be willing to put your life in that person’s hands? Or would you take your chances that a giant Slip-N-Slide will suddenly sprout from the mountain side?
If it were me, I’d take my chances with the Slip-N-Slide, even if it wasn’t wet, and it meant sliding down half a mile of dry plastic.
The point is, we humor columnists know our place in the world. We understand the risks involved in what we do. Which is why, as a humor columnist who actually worked in the food service industry, I can say, with some authority:
You really should wash your hands after reading this.
(You can write to Ned Hickson at nhickson@thesiuslawnews.com, or the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439)
|
| WAIST MANAGEMENT by Victoria Larson on 03/01/2009
OK guys and gals. Time to get real.
We’ve gone a few months with those resolutions to do better with our health. How’s it going? Let’s find out. Get out your tape measures, we’re going to see. And guys, this is not just for the ladies. We are all at risk for Syndrome X.
Measure your waist at the waistline. Now for some of you, that’s at the indentation between stomach level and hips. For others, there may be no indentation at that level. Still, you know where your waist should be. This is for your benefit, so write the number down.
Now measure your hips, not just below your waist, but at the level of the pubic bone just atop the thighs. Write that number down.
Now divide the waist measurement by the hip measurement and write it down somewhere where you won’t lose it. On your calendar or in your blackberry. We’ll revisit this later in the year.
The resulting number reflects your Basic Metabolic Index, or BMI. For the women that number should be 0.8 or lower. For men we want 0.9 or lower. If you use a calculator, or you’re good with math, take your “answer” to the next place or two. Even going from 0.833 to 0.825 would reflect your good efforts later on.
According to articles in Lancet as far back as 2005, that waist to hip ratio is an even better measure of risk factors for things like diabetes and pre-diabetes (Syndrome X), cancer and heart attacks.
Of course, these are not the only indicators of risk factors, but it’s a place to start.
It’s a good place to start, as the predictable future looks a wee bit bleak. If you are just 10 pounds overweight, your body is evidencing some insulin resistance. Insulin resistance puts you at risk for diabetes. Diabetes is expensive and difficult for the healthcare system to handle.
The risk for numerous other disease states increases also, including back pain, fatigue, high blood pressure and high cholesterol, gallbladder disease, liver disease, osteoarthritis, sleep apnea, and ultimate mortality.
I’m sure no one reading this column has any of those conditions, or they would come in.
Currently, two out of three adults in our nation are overweight or obese. 20 million people have Type 2 diabetes. It is estimated that another 100 million have some form of pre-diabetes.
Is it any wonder that I bring this up with each and every patient. Type 2 diabetes is increasing worldwide.
This is not a wave, this is a tsunami. We have got to start taking responsibility here.
Even the New England Journal of Medicine, as far back as 2002, stated that lifestyle changes work more effectively than Metformin in the prevention and treatment of diabetes.
Their words not mine.
So talk to your doctor. Or get another doctor on your team. And keep that tape measure around for future reference. Make a belt out of it to remind yourself to not eat those Cheatos.
Work on the simple stuff first. Remember the Rule of Eights. That’s eight glasses of water, eight hours of sleep, eight servings of vegetables and fruits.
If you can just get that far, you’ll watch those waist and hip measurements plummet. No, not overnight.
But getting healthy is not a fad situation. It could take years to get those measurements down, but once you do, they’ll become your new lifestyle.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. She has a shop available for your over-the-counter needs. Massage is available on Monday and Wednesday.)
|
| NOON PATROL, BABY by Luke Will on 03/01/2009
With an unknown arrival time hanging in the night air along with the steam from my tea, I readied for bed with the anticipation of a knock on my door early in the morning. But just as I was crawling under my covers, my phone vibrated with a message: “we’ll be at the cabin by 12:30.”
With this news fresh in hand, I disengaged my alarm and grabbed the magazine showing a backcountry skier cutting through hip deep Utah powder. Hoping for the sweetest of dreams, I tried to make this the last image my closing eyes took in before clicking off the light.
I got an early start, even though I wasn’t expecting my skiing partners until noontime. So when I heard their knock as I was washing the last of the dishes, I already felt a sense of accomplishment for the day.
Having already pre-skinned my skis and loaded my daypack, I strapped on my transceiver and headed for the door. We pulled into the last spot at the end of the Skibowl parking lot next to a dirty snow bank. While tightening our boots we discussed our plan for the next five hours of daylight.
After following the filthy bank along Hwy. 26 we would climb the trail to the open northeast-facing flank. From there we could cut back and forth up to a ridge and slide back into the trees to the summit.
The day was warm but gray and the snow was heavy. It clumped to the bottom of our skis like peanut butter to the roof of your mouth, which made slogging up the slope a bit more hefty and cumbersome. Working hard in between Bill and his brother-in-law, I unzipped my leg vents in full and wore a thin long sleeve as we climbed higher.
Before we moved off the open pitch, I pulled a swig from my water bottle and grabbed for a layer to block the slight breeze that was tugging at the drops of sweat on my chest.
Catching my breath, I watched them pull ahead weaving through the trees. I caught up just as we reached the bald knob that marked the summit.
We left our skis there and sneaked down into a small stand of trees. Resting on our packs, we shared a small dose of rations: a bite of Bill’s sandwich, a couple squares of chocolate, some tangerine wedges, and a nip of whiskey from the flask.
Feeling warm and excited to turn our tips downhill, we traced the top ridge to the south, passing the tracks of others.
Exploring a few appealing options, Bill and I finally dropped in over a shallow cornice, landing in and slicing through a pleasant amount of mush.
Linking jump turns we traversed a track through another swath of trees to an opening below a rock face.
From there, with skis on our shoulders, we boot packed a hundred yards or so up to an inbounds run at Skibowl’s farthest reach.
This western run led us down a slick trail, with any trace of snow scraped away, and eventually dumped us into the organized chaos near where we had parked. Checking my watch, we determined our ascent and descent times.
As we clomped across the asphalt, we triumphed in acquiring a full day’s adventure.
We were satisfied but not exhausted. We had slept in and still got a good swallow of the good stuff. Our personal patrol of the backcountry was inspired by an active lifestyle but kept in check by a lazy morning.
The best of both worlds.
As his toast to the day and the success of our ski tour, instead of a well-placed six pack in the trunk, Bill worked on pulling his left boot off and summarized the days effort with a smile, “Noon patrol baby, noon patrol.”
(Follow Luke’s travels on his blog: lucaswill.com) |
| YOUR HEART IS AN ORGAN; LISTEN TO ITS MELODY by Victoria Larson on 02/01/2009
Your heart beats over 100,000 times per day — day in and day out, and all through the night. The average number of beats is about 72 beats per minute (bpm). But fluctuations occur. We become anxious, we have mood changes. Or maybe we exercise enough that the heart rate slows down, as it does when we meditate or pray or pet the cat.
There is a range for number of heartbeats per minute. Heart rates can vary from 50 on up to 99 beats per minute and still be considered within the normal range. It will depend on your activity level, or the lack thereof. Many people don’t realize there are other factors controling heartrate as well.
Infection can affect the number of beats per minute. So can thyroid conditions (too high or too low). Caffeine affects heartrate. So does dehydration. Simple fact, thick blood (i.e. dehydration) makes it harder for your heart to pump the blood through the heart chambers. Drink water.
When we are in a parasympathetic mode the heart slows down. This is when you are meditating or petting the cat or staring at a cooing baby. It is beneath your conscious control. It leads to lower blood pressure and increased feelings of calmness and relaxation.
Yet more often we feel the heart racing or fluttering. This is known as arrhythmia, or irregular heartbeat. Anything within that range of 50-99 bpm is still considered safe. It is when there are sustained irregular and/or markedly fast rhythms that we need to show concern.
Arrhythmia is most often due to deficiencies of nutrition and/or anxiety than any other causes. These are things we can address with natural medicine. Natural medicine is a method whereby problems are addressed at the pebble or rock stage (see January 2009 column) before they become full blown emergency room conditions.
Preventing the frequency and severity of any arrhythmia can significantly lower the likelihood of heroic and expensive and even life-threatening measures.
But it takes our involvement. It doesn’t work to just wait for the boulder that might be hanging over your head. Please give this column to a loved one to read. Treatable problems should be addressed.
Which brings us to the emotional side of heart health. It is a proven fact that every cell in your body receives chemical and electrical signals.
A less scientific description is that every cell of your body receives emotional messages. For most of us, it takes practice to hear the messages our bodies are trying to convey.
So be of a grateful heart. Find joy. Don’t stagnate but embrace whatever life brings to you. We all go through the bad and the good. Not a one of us is immune in this respect. Maybe we are not thrilled at the time of a serious diagnosis, loss, or emotional pain. But these things are all part of life. Embrace it. It’s all good.
The greater Portland area Heart Walk is coming up on May 16th. I’m very proud to announce that my daughter is the director of this American Heart Association program. If you would like to put together a team of your employees who want to get fit, walk for a good cause, and benefit not only their own hearts but the hearts of others, please contact sybil.fontaine@heart.org. I’ll see your there.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. She has a shop available for your over-the-counter needs. Massage is available on Monday and Wednesday.)
|
| THE WOMB IS NO PLACE FOR SLACKERS by Ned Hickson on 02/01/2009
Parents used to be satisfied with sonogram images of their child developing in the womb, even though, for all we knew, we were actually watching video footage of a school of mackerel on a depth finder.
"And if you look closely, you can see your baby … right … about … whoops! It’s gone. Something must’ve scared it."
The doctor would then print copies of these images, which we carried in our wallets to share with family, friends, and anyone unfortunate enough to make brief eye contact.
At the end of nine months, the only real expectation any of us had for our child was that they come out headfirst. Laughably, we actually felt it was enough for them to grow from a microscopic egg into a full-fledged human child within nine months.
Those babies, of course, were total slackers.
Thankfully, today’s fetuses are on the fast track to success with the help of new "Prenatal Education" Systems.
These products are specifically designed to "maximize" a child’s time in the womb — time which, until now, was frittered away on eating, growing, and using Mom’s bladder for step aerobics.
The philosophy behind this new trend is best summed up by the makers of the BabyPlus prenatal educational system, whose official marketing slogan is:
You’re never too young to learn.
In fact, you don’t even have to be born.
As a parent who learned of this opportunity much too late, I say why even TAKE THE RISK of stunting your child’s intellectual capacity by wasting valuable time and waiting until you’re actually pregnant? I suggest you start reading a thesaurus to your ovaries right now. Think of the pride you’ll feel when your child emerges from the womb and, with full command of the English language, announces to everyone:
Slap my behind and I’ll sue you.
The above scenario may be an exaggeration. But it illustrates an important point, which is that our entire judicial system could eventually collapse under the weight of frivolous lawsuits brought on by talking babies.
It’s not that there aren’t obvious benefits to exposing your child to sounds while it’s still in the womb. Like many parents, I too placed headphones on my sleeping wife’s abdomen to see if our baby reacted to Pink Floyd. I feel the exposure broadened his musical appreciation, even though my wife still blames me for causing our son to cover his ears and inadvertently prolong her pregnancy for an extra week. However, accidentally frightening your unborn child with rock music is one thing. Enrolling them in a 16-week "Prenatal University" program is another.
This program, which was developed by a California-based obstetrician, promises to intellectually enrich fetuses using a special microphone and strict conversational regimen aimed at stimulating the developing brain.
I don’t know how long this program has been available, but, from what I can see, so far it hasn’t had much of an effect on California.
The truth is, at the rate my 11-year-old daughter is learning, she’s still going to be smarter than I am by the time she’s 12.
The bottom line is that I’m not sure how smart our children really need to be before they come into the world.
Maybe there’s a reason the umbilical cord doesn’t come with an intercom system?
(You can write to Ned Hickson at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR. 97439, or visit his Web site at www.nedhickson.net)
|
| THE WOODS COME WITH A 'PATIO' by Luke Will on 02/01/2009
Their curiosity propelled excited questions while we huddled around red plastic sleds in the basement. As they drilled holes along the outside rim and wove a length of rope through them, I talked about building snow shelters as these ordinary hill cruisers transformed into gear-hauling pulks.
Once finished I demonstrated one method for loading and securing our equipment in them, a burrito style wrap in a blue tarp. Simple and sleek, they would allow us to travel efficiently with little more than a daypack hanging from our shoulders.
In the morning we were headed for the woods. My goal was to give this handful of college students an introduction to winter camping skills and provide them with a positive first experience of sleeping outside in the snow with below freezing temperatures.
The food was all packed upstairs in a plastic bin that would serve as our kitchen. Pre-cooked elbow macaroni, dried broccoli cheddar soup, baggies of bannock mix, containers of hot chocolate and tea, bagels, peanut butter, a log of summer sausage and enough cheese that would normally last me a week at the cabin.
Next to the bin layers of wicking, warmth, and weather protection were cinched down in stuff sacks. Effective clothing like fleece, wool and wind proof jackets held the near promise of comfort in what otherwise could be a cold and harsh environment.
If my reassuring was getting through to them, they understood that the basics to thriving in wintry conditions are firmly planted in dressing and eating right.
Hitting the trail head on a full stomach, I saddled Tischer with her pack containing nuggets and a fleece blanket. I carried a recently finished small sleeping bag for her in with my two bags. With her leading, the rest of us made our way along the forest road on packed snow, pulks in tow.
When we hit the edge of a lake I talked about ice awareness, from my years growing up in The Land of 10,000 Frozen Lakes. The surface was smooth and covered with only a dusting of snow. If only we had our ice skates for these perfect back country conditions.
We traversed the main body and slipped into the southwest arm of the lake. Hiking up into the fringe of the forest the group decided on a site for the night. We dug down through a few feet of snow for a kitchen and gathering area. Tents were pitched in three individual clearings surrounding the camp and a front "patio" was dug at the vestibule entrance of each.
As the few waning hours of sunlight carried on we explored and played. I regaled them with stories from my past trips, like when I stretched out inside a snow shelter one night, playing cards, cozy as could be while the wind whipped at 30-below outside. And about hearing wolves howl or watching the northern lights dance across a dark sky.
It then occurred to me that I didn’t need to paint this stunning picture about what winter camping was like or why it’s a rewarding effort to make. They were on the verge of realizing that for themselves, if they hadn’t already.
Around the campfire that night, the six of us sat close on a half circle bench with Tischer tucked in between. Smoke mixed with the steam from hot drinks and we satisfied our cold hunger with heaping bowls of pasta and cayenne bannock.
Just before bed I wrangled the group away from the firelight down to the surface of the lake. There the southern half of the sky was crystal clear, revealing constellations like reflectors. We spotted the ones we knew and helped the others locate them too. And as one by one they retreated to their sleeping bags, I offered bits of wisdom on staying warm during the long dark hours ahead.
When just Tischer and I were left, I coaxed her back into her bag near the fading fire. Reclining back I got lost staring at the silhouette of my feet against the glowing bed of coals.
I smiled at the distinct smell of cold wool soaked in campfire smoke. And hopefully come morning, they would too.
(Follow Luke's travels on his blog: lucaswill.com)
by Luke Will/for The Mountain Times
|
| JANUARY: BE A LITTLE 'BOULDER' by Victoria Larson on 01/03/2009
Remember that old game of rock, paper, scissors? The rock crushed the scissors. The scissors cut the paper. The paper covered the rock. And it was all in fun, you know, unless your friend slapped your hand or your brother punched you. That game served as a sort of metaphor that was supposed to get us to pay attention, decipher clues.
I have another version for you. Let’s say you get hit in the arm by an errant pebble. You might look down and see no damage and do nothing. After all, it was just a pebble and it didn’t really hurt, so you ignore it.
Later you get hit in the chest with a rock. Now that hurts. But you look at yourself again and decide that since there’s no laceration, no bruising, and it doesn’t hurt too much that you’ll once again do nothing about it.
But, by ignoring the subtle and not too painful clues, you now find yourself standing under a boulder. Now it’s time to do something.
Many people look at their health this way. While there’s a lot to be said for the old adage "if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it" there is also a lot to be said for paying attention. Your body is talking to itself all the time. Your brain tells your body what muscles to move, when to breathe (all the time please), and when you need food or water. At the same time, your body reports back to your brain on how each part is functioning.
What an amazing thing it is to live in this body we have.
Sometimes we don’t pay attention though. Then the body works overtime to give you clues. Maybe it’s pain or maybe it’s weight gain or maybe it’s just something so minor and niggling that you just keep going because you don’t have time to deal with it.
Not taking the time to deal with the body’s messages could mean that you have a lot of time on your hands later. Have you seen the cartoon where the doctor says to the patient "well if you don’t take the time to deal with this now, you’ll have plenty of time when you’re dead."
Not exactly the funniest joke to me when I see the majority of people just ignoring what’s going on with them.
Contrast that attitude with the patient who, let’s say, breaks an ankle in three places. But because she doesn’t make a living if she doesn’t go to work, she does everything to heal. She eats the best healing diet possible, uses healing supplements, uses homeopathy, acupuncture, sound healing, and prayer. She does movement protocols, hydrotherapy, and even has her three-year-old grandson do healing touch.
Guess who had the fastest healing ankle the surgeon had ever seen?
The surgeons like me. The patients we share heal quickly and without complaints or much pain. The patients tell their surgeons what they are doing to heal and they usually hear the same refrain: "Whatever you’re doing it’s working, so keep doing it."
I consider that a very nice compliment.
The part I don’t understand is why people wait until the boulder hits them, or the surgery, or whatever, to do what’s right for their own health.
If you knew you could prevent cancer, would you do it? Are you doing it? If you could prevent diabetes, would you do it? Are you?
Every symptom is a pebble or a rock. So if you’re not digesting well or you have headaches or constipation or aches and pains or even just a poor attitude, something isn’t functioning right.
It’s as simple as that. It’s your choice.
Remember, there are only two kinds of problems in the world. The kind you can do something about, so you do it (illness states). Or the kind you can’t do anything about, so you let it go (weather). But don’t mistake the two.
The majority of diseases are caused by incorrect choices. So your body gives you clues. Something hurts or doesn’t work right or your lab numbers are off. What do you do. Ignore it? Do something … for a while? Or is it time to make changes.
January is a good month to make changes. In my book, today is a good time. It takes a lot of practice to get better at living. Start living a new life now. Don’t wait until you’ve got a boulder hanging over your head.
|
| MINIMIZING EMPTY-HEADEDNESS by Luke Will on 01/03/2009
With the smell of a bonfire wafting in the night air and Tischer pulling on her leash, I stood on the Loop Road through Government Camp staring up at a tall conifer draped in colored lights. It looked to me like someone, with a hot tottie in one hand, had loaded a cannon with strands of various colored lights and aimed it at the tree.
I have never seen a more random array of lights and yet the display seemingly fits this village perfectly.
After that I started to notice the other lights in the neighborhood, such as the large bulbs strung from the eaves of a cabin just down the hill. They paint the snow bank like a fruitcake and I often take a break from my nightly walk to stand out front and soak up the holiday warmth. It led me to wrap my own front pillars in place of the porch light.
But it wasn’t until after a series of frustrating events attributed to my own empty-headedness that I realized a different kind of value in these lights.
As I trudged back up the hill after the finale of these events, I smothered urges to curse at the moon. Instead I summoned all the self-pity and anger that I normally might wallow in, and forced it into a laugh.
I’ll be honest, that one laugh helped about as much as a lone shovelful of snow does when clearing my front steps. That is to say, not much. But with hopes of turning my sour note, I kept laughing. And as I walked up my driveway and into the glow of my lights, their purpose transcended the reasons I had strung them in the first place.
Despite the black and white of a winter night where I was up to my hips in despair, this color persisted. And suddenly I was more than some goofball walking alone in the dark laughing hysterically. I was a goofball with the understanding of what this color meant.
I mused about my life and where I placed value. Above everything else, what was important? I saw it as this: If my life were in black and white, what would be the color?
Color in a black and white world is more than possessions and physical earnings. It is the truly beautiful sights you lay your eyes on, it’s the company you share, it’s the feelings you get and the regrets you don’t have.
I stirred up a quick list.
The color in my life is the tail-wagging dog waiting for me just inside the front door of my cabin with a perm-a-grin on her face. She doesn’t understand off street parking and tow trucks but she knows quite well the affection we share and fun we have together.
The color in my life is resting on my front steps next to a skiing buddy after skinning up the Alpine Trail to the top of the Palmer snowfield to watch the sunset.
It’s being able to focus on what I have instead of what I don’t. It’s my memories and my stories. It’s the support of family and friends.
The color in my life is the freedom I have to pursue my passions and interests without objection. And it’s my ability to laugh at any cost.
Now a month later as we welcome the beginning of another year, I am more focused on these colors than any shade of black or white. They make the daylight brighter and the future even more intriguing. A future that starts now.
Normally I’m not one to use a new year to rectify aspects of my lifestyle, even though I have obvious room for improvement. However, the root of this column has presented a fresh New Year’s resolution:
I will make every effort to minimize my empty-headedness— be it through better planning, wiser use of time, and improved organization.
But like gym memberships and promises to drink less, can I stick with it? The next 12 months will tell.
Until then, what’s the color in your life?
|
| FRUITCAKE: OUR LAST LINE OF DEFENSE by Ned Hickson on 01/03/2009
Recent studies show that mild depression after the holidays is not only common but, in many cases, is the result of FDAD — Fruitcake Disposal Anxiety Disorder.
On one hand, your fruitcake was a gift and therefore deserving of some measure of appreciation. On the other hand, it has already become a chew toy for the neighbor’s pit bull. This often leads to feelings of anxiety long after the holidays have ended, particularly when you see "Buster," still intoxicated with rum, struggling to dislodge the sugar loaf from his tightly-clenched jaws.
So, as a service to our readers, we assembled a group of psychiatrists to help provide insight into dealing with FDAD. At a cost of more than $200 an hour, we held an informative, three-minute discussion to create the following self-help guide:
I’m OK—You’re OK. But Give Me a Fruitcake and I’ll Kill You.
According to our experts, the first step in dealing with this anxiety is understanding where it comes from. To do that, we must go back to the very first fruitcake, which historians agree was baked by Dick Clark in 1609. Subsequently, this same cake was dropped from a tall building each New Year’s Eve until 1972, when, after 364 years, it developed a crack and, as a safety precaution, was launched into space.
This was done despite protests from scientists, who warned that the loaf could eventually crash back to earth and lead to mass extinction.
Or, at the very least, cause the next several generations of humans to ask, "Is it just me, or does everything STILL smell like #@$% fruitcake?!"
Experts say this has led to a new generation of people who not only distrust fruitcake, but see it as a genuine threat to humanity. For these people, we offer the following four-step guide to controlling their fruitcake anxiety.
Step one: Make a list of your fruitcake’s good qualities. The key is to start with what makes fruitcake unique. For example: Its indestructibility. You may not like fruitcake, but you have to respect the fact that cockroaches will be eating it long after humans are being imported to other galaxies on alien party platters.
Make a list of your fruitcake’s good qualities. The key is to start with what makes fruitcake unique. For example: Its indestructibility. You may not like fruitcake, but you have to respect the fact that cockroaches will be eating it long after humans are being imported to other galaxies on alien party platters.Step two: Incorporate fruitcake into your daily activities. This is easy once you stop thinking of fruitcake as food. In the same way that Tofurkey is slowly gaining acceptance as an environmentally safe adhesive, fruitcake doesn’t seem so bad once you’ve started using it to block open the garage door. Or as a counterweight on the gas peddle while your car warms up each morning. The point is, if it’s good enough to serve as a "bunker buster" for our military, it’s good enough to serve as a doorstop in your family’s home.
Incorporate fruitcake into your daily activities. This is easy once you stop thinking of fruitcake as food. In the same way that Tofurkey is slowly gaining acceptance as an environmentally safe adhesive, fruitcake doesn’t seem so bad once you’ve started using it to block open the garage door. Or as a counterweight on the gas peddle while your car warms up each morning. The point is, if it’s good enough to serve as a "bunker buster" for our military, it’s good enough to serve as a doorstop in your family’s home.Step three: Consider turning your fruitcake into a treasured heirloom by getting it engraved and then giving it to someone. Just add your name and date, and you can pass this special keepsake on to someone else at the next available birthday party, wedding, house warming, Earth Day celebration, etc.
Consider turning your fruitcake into a treasured heirloom by getting it engraved and then giving it to someone. Just add your name and date, and you can pass this special keepsake on to someone else at the next available birthday party, wedding, house warming, Earth Day celebration, etc.And finally, if after following these first three steps you’re still unable to control your symptoms, go directly to Step four: Investing in a ticket to Mantiou Springs, Colo., for the annual Great Fruitcake Toss. Each January, this event draws hundreds of people from around the world for the sole purpose of showing off their fruitcakes and then catapulting them as far as possible.
Sure, this may sound stupid.
But some day this might be our last defense against invading aliens.
|
|  Ned Hickson
Stranger danger includes dragons
As you’ve probably heard, the executive editor at the San Francisco Chronicle was attacked by a 7-foot-long Komodo dragon during a special behind-the-scenes tour at the Los Angeles Zoo. As a result, officials are now going to "re-evaluate" the special visiting privileges reserved for major donors.
(Without question, feeding yourself to a seven-foot lizard definitely falls into the "major donor" category.)
What does remain is the question of how zoo officials, who utilize these types of fund raising devices as a way to purchase dental floss for their Komodo dragons, will find ways to attract major donors in the future. While there are certainly lots of other, safer animal exhibits that could be toured by big spenders, the danger factor — and story-telling value — drops off considerably once you leave man-eater realm.
Being at a dinner party and telling how you stared down a Siberian tiger, then narrowly escaped its claws, is definitely more impressive than recalling the time you held off a hungry Toucan with nothing but a tranquilizer gun and a box of Fruit Loops.
The same goes for tales of survival that have anything to do with ovulating ostriches or outrunning giant, spitting tortoises (even if what you were wearing was labeled dry clean only.)
The fact is, these stories are a lot like microwavable pork rinds; lots of sizzle, very little pop.
It’s a situation that has fund raising officials scrambling for new ways to reward their major contributors; the trick being to find an acceptable balance between offering donors danger without also offering them as dinner.
As you can imagine, brainstorming sessions have produced a number of ideas, all of which are top secret. However, through an inside source, I was able to obtain a list of titles for some possible "special visit" activities.
Among them:
— One potato, two potato, three potato, Roar — Share your Big Mac with a Razorback — Can You Find the Piranha in the Sauna? — Crouching Tiger, Hidden Exit. — Jack is nimble, Jack is quick—but Jack is still asking for a much bigger stick.
The truth is, there’s no need to waste time coming up with new ways to thrill big contributors. All officials need to do is take a closer look at the dangers an average attendee confronts during a routine excursion to the zoo.
Just consider how frightening it is to walk past the guy who bends and contorts balloons into animal shapes. It’s like maneuvering past someone twisting multi-colored explosives together; one false move, and the chain reaction could blow the fur off a mountain yak.
Ever run out of food pellets while you’re in the middle of the petting zoo? The only way out is to be air lifted — and then, only after your hair and shoes have been eaten by goats.
I’d just as soon skip the details about the monkey house, but let me just say to any honeymooners out there that, if you walk by it at the wrong time, they won’t be throwing rice.
Which gives me a thought: If zoos were to stop providing special privileges to major donors, they could skip this monkey business in the first place.
(You can write to Ned Hickson at the Siuslaw News at P.O. Box 10, Florence, OR 97439, or visit his Web site at www.nedhickson.net.)
|
|  Victoria Larson
Holidays are stress-increasing times for most people. Yet there are some people who breeze through, singing all the way. Dancing on the rooftops with the reindeer. Maintaining equanimity throughout the season. How is that so?
Just as some people get every illness traveling through the home, office, school, there are others who simply don’t get sick. We’re all exposed to the same stuff. Same bacteria, same viruses, same fungi, all the "bugs." If it were the germs that got us, the sickest people would be the doctors.
But that is not the case. Simple logic tells us there must be something else going on here. And so there is. Holistic, natural-medicine doctors have long believed that each person is a sum of the whole: body, mind, spirit. Now there are actual studies, done by scientists, that show we are indeed the sum of all parts. You are not just a collection of pieces.
People who are angry or impatient or ungrateful tend to get illnesses more than their opposite counterparts. We need to have a connection between the brain and the heart and the body. Anger, even continuous impatience, leads to constriction. Your mind becomes unforgiving. Your heart pumps faster. Your muscles tighten up and you hurt.
This is why forgiveness is so important. It leads to greater health, not just better piece of mind. The "softer" emotions of gratefulness, and honor, and gee whiz, let’s not forget simple politeness, keep your heart flexible, your muscles less tense, your mind more at ease.
The longest journey may be from the head to the heart to the body. Yet it is a journey that is within your control.
Life is, for the most part, a journey to enjoy. The destination is not the goal here. There’s no escaping the final act, but why rush there? This holiday start by embracing what’s good in your life. And don’t tell me there isn’t anything. Have you seen the full moon lately? What about the smell of fog? Did you hear the church bells? Can you still walk? Sing? Dance? There’s good all around us. Let’s not forget that.
But by all means, take it easy on yourself. Do that, and you are more likely to take it easy on others. Laugh at unavoidable delays, If you’re anxious, whistle while you walk. If you don’t get outside, time for a walk. Alone to look at the sky, or with someone to release your thoughts. Not ranting, but with cognizance and wisdom. Or at least wisdom-seeking.
Do it for the children. Think about others. Reframe your thoughts to include taking good care of your self as well. You will reap the benefits of better health, better thoughts, and a better holiday. And so will those around you. You deserve it. But if you do get sick, that’s what I’m here for. Not just treatment, but the hug that heals everything. Happy holidays to each and every one of you.
(Dr. Victoria Larson, a Naturopathic doctor, practices in Sandy on Tuesday, Thursday and Friday. She has a shop available for your over-the-counter needs. Massage is available on Monday and Wednesday.) |
| Just another day in the month by Luke Will on 12/30/2008
One day last month Tischer led me down to the Post Office in Govy for our semi-weekly mail pick-up. I found a package waiting for me. It was in a priority box and from my friend Westy up in Seattle. He works for an advertising agency and frequently sends me goodie boxes filled with outdoor magazines the likes of Backpacker, Ski, and Surfing-all of which his office break room is stacked high with.
Thanks to him, now my night stand is also stacked high.
Back at the cabin, I took a seat on the front stoop with the unopened box in my lap. On the verge of opening this gift, I tried to savor the unexpected anticipation. Then I tried to imagine what volumes were waiting for me inside. Who would make the list of best ski town bars? What tips would top thru-hikers have for me this time? Where is this winter’s best surf destination?
I couldn’t wait any longer. Prying open the sealed flaps, a black camera case laying on a bed of bubble wrap stared back at me. I was bewildered at this. Not at all what I had expected.
Opening up the case I found a digital camera with two batteries in the front sleeve. Huh. The bubble wrap underneath protected three bottles of beer. Ha huh.
In place of a note I discovered one picture saved on the memory card. It was of Westy smiling at the camera, holding a piece of paper that read "Hi Luke."
He knew that I had ruined two digital cameras this past summer on paddling trips and currently didn’t have one at my disposal. He also recognized that beyond me just wanting one, being able to photograph my adventures would greatly assist my newly energized writing aspirations.
Now I have no idea what the history of this camera is, and mostly it doesn’t matter. Purchased, found, bequeathed? His generosity is the point. About all I do know is he knew a camera would help me, and so being within his means, he sent me one.
Sitting on that step and holding the camera, I was really touched. I felt important and remembered. No offense to Tischer, but I really wasn’t alone on this mountain. I know in the back of my mind that as often as I reflect on my friends they do the same of me, but an action like this brings it to the forefront.
The randomness of it made it even more meaningful. It wasn’t my birthday and there wasn’t a Christmas tree standing before me. It was just another day of the month and my friend had thought of me. As cliché as it may sound, generosity knows no season.
He is just as good of a buddy as he was before, but his unselfishness validates our friendship and why he is a great mold of the people I try to surround myself with. Not because he gives me things but because of the time he takes out of his life to offer advice, ideas and support of other people’s life endeavors.
I let it sink in a little bit longer. Then after placing the three beers in my fridge Tischer and I meandered over to Trillium Lake. It was a beautiful late afternoon. The sun was closing the gap on the western horizon while we walked the 2-mile lake loop from the dam. Nearing the trails end we stopped by the water.
Energy infused Tischer and she bolted in and out of the water and around me. I watched and enjoyed her antics before looking up at the reflection on the glassy water. Mount Hood pointed right at me. The white tipped bottom gave way to a grayish base, which dissolved into the green horizon. The surface of the lake was an unblemished canvas that captured the scene with perfect detail.
It would be an understatement to simply say it was picture-worthy. I’m just fortunate enough I had a camera to take one with. And I was thinking of Westy when I did.
I also made sure to toast him later that night while clutching a cold one.
(Follow Luke’s travels on his blog: lucaswill.com) |
|
|
|
|
|
