Mollydog’s Lesson

Mollydog was always full of crazy antics on our outdoor trips. She liked to hike with 3-foot-long logs in her mouth and knock us off the trail when she passed by. She managed to sneak up to our food stash and wolf down that one special dessert item we were saving for the last day of a trip. Molly loved to sleep between Doug and me with her four legs fully extended so that we were mushed up against the outside walls of our tiny backpacking tent. She relished going for swims, rolling in the mud and then curling up in my sleeping bag.

Muddy Molly on a backpacking trip in Wyoming’s Wind River Range.

This summer, there is an inescapable void. I no longer look over my shoulder when I am hiking to keep from getting whacked, guarding my food at dinnertime is now unnecessary, there is too much space in the tent and my sleeping bag is unusually clean.

Last year on this day, our beloved Mollydog passed away.

Molly joined our small family unit when she was 7 weeks old and took to the trails immediately. For the next 13 1/2  years, we were a party of 3 and were pretty much inseparable. Molly came along on just about every skiing, hiking, backpacking, climbing and canoeing trip we went on. She would often jump in the car as we were packing up, fearing that we might leave her behind. She need not have worried– adventures were always ten times more fun with her along. There were only rare instances when Molly didn’t join us– usually when we were doing long multi-pitch climbs or traveling to an area where dogs weren’t allowed like national parks.

A young Molly heading to the river for a swim.
Backpacking in Wyoming’s Wind River Range.

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A Case of 14er Fever Requires a Lot of Water (feat. new video)

On a three-day backpacking trip this past weekend, my husband and I finished our fifth and sixth 14ers  (a peak above 14,000 feet) since the beginning of July. Most summers before this, I was lucky if I did one or two. I have definitely caught the 14er fever. Hiking these peaks has provided me with the perfect opportunity to get outdoors and challenge myself physically while still babying my abdominal muscles. Indoors, I do a battery of  physical therapy exercises that safely strengthen my core. In concert, these two activities will prepare me for the more rigorous demands of technical rock climbing in the future.

While hiking these peaks, I have been amazed at how quickly I am progressing and getting my strength back. While I walked the first one at a turtle’s pace, I am now hiking the peaks briskly and with little fatigue. All these successful peak hikes have also made me realize how well I have adapted to my ileostomy. Managing my appliance on the trail using both closed-end and drainable pouches has become second-nature. Moreover, changing my wafer outdoors, which is one of the things I was most fearful of, has proved to be very similar to doing it indoors except that I must pack out the trash (and the views while changing are more spectacular).

However, one aspect of my ileostomy that still baffles me is figuring out how much water to drink. One function of the colon is to absorb water. When it is removed, the small intestine is able to adapt and take on some of this role, but not as well. Because of this, ileostomates must drink more water to avoid dehydration. It has not been unusual for me to drink 8+ quarts of water on some of my all-day hikes. Up to this trip, I have not had any issues with dehydration. However, conditions were different on this excursion. The temperatures while making the strenuous uphill hike to camp were in the 80s which is warm for the elevation we were at. Despite drinking almost 3 quarts of water (some of which included a sport drink mix) and eating plenty of snacks along the way, I got to camp with a headache and bad nausea. Before we proceeded to empty our backpacks and set up our tent, I sat in the shade and drank some more fluids. In about an hour, I felt better. I upped my water intake over the next two days and did not run into the problem again.

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Crossing the expanse (feat. new video)

“How about going ziplining,” our friend suggested.  My first thought was, Absolutely! That sounds fun, I have always wanted to try it. My second thought was, Wait, what about my ostomy? How will my pouching system hold up to zipping through the air in a harness attached to a cable? Not to mention that there won’t be any restrooms for three hours. What if my pouch explodes or leaks? Maybe I should hold off.  

Some fears keep you alive– like being afraid to climb higher on a route because it is above your ability, or being terrified of a river crossing because you know it might sweep you off of your feet and send you into the rapids. But there are also those fears that don’t have such dire consequences. The ones that pop into our heads and stop us from doing things that would actually be rewarding and good for us.

I recognized that the fears that were trying to stop me from going ziplining were of the latter variety and purged them from my head. I knew I could go 4-5 hours before draining my pouch– even longer if I pushed it a bit and let my appliance fill up a tad more. I knew the harness would likely cause no problems and that I was strong enough for the adventure. There was no reason not to give it a try.

We signed up for a 5-stage tour through the tree tops at the Crested Butte ski resort. One of the rules was that you couldn’t carry anything in your hands, so I guzzled a bunch of water to avoid getting dehydrated. Then we met with our guides and harnessed up. Much to my delight, the bulky, adjustable one-size-fits all harnesses still worked fine with my  pouch. The upper part of the hip belt sat well above my stoma, and the harness barely touched my appliance.

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