Wilderness man

As we came towards the last leg of our hike back to the parking lot, I felt a sense of accomplishment, and a little sense of pride. We did it! Our first backcountry camping experience! The first thought that went through my head was, "Whew! We did it! Bears don't matter now!" In fact, we luckily did not even encounter any (either due to luck or to the effectiveness of my many bear bells and our relentless singing along the way). 

I had been secretly (well not so secretly) nervous about this whole trip. I had always wanted to try backcountry camping (where you hike in with your stuff to your site, as opposed to car camping which I often did with my family). But the thought of just the three of us (Queenie, Anna, and I) got me a little anxious. What if we ran into bears? Is our group too small to scare them off? Although I crave more wilderness experience, I've always been a little chicken when it comes to hiking into the forests. Plus I've heard that this year is a big bear year, and that our prolonged winter had left them just a little hungrier. The thought of wandering into a hungry, and thus grumpy bear kinda left me keyed up all trip long. Prophylactically, I armed myself with numerous bear bells (wanted to ensure that they know we were coming), and a bear-spray on my hip. Queenie thought I was nuts, but I did not want the chance to prove her wrong. 

But backcountry camping is quite a rewarding experience. The idea of being self-sufficient and hiking in with all our gears felt adventurous, even though it was only an one-night experience. Added to the thrill was that this was probably too early to camp, as the snows hadn't all melted along the way and thus few campers would care to show up at this time of year. Although I dearly hoped that we would arrive at our campsite with people already there (thus proving that none of them were being eaten the night before), it slowly became evident that we would be the only ones there. In the end, we did arrive at an empty campsite after 4 hours of hiking, although later on in the evening a couple did show up to share the site (as well as proceeded to steal the majority of the available firewood). 

All in all it was a pretty successful trip. All our gears worked out perfectly, our packs didn't break our backs, and none of us had to fight off any wild animals. We actually had a blast the entire way, and once our camp was well established we managed a very leisurely evening with our dehydrated prepared meals and muchos alcohol. The only regret was that the campsite was not lake-front, as I had been looking forward to waking up by the lake all hike long. That only intensified my interest in camping at the Garibaldi Lake sometime this year or the next. That would be a much longer hike, though, and we would probably have to work harder in trying to lighten our packs even more. 

In the end, sore muscles and all, we returned safe and sound back into the city. I once again remembered how much I enjoy the easiness of city life, but the odd wilderness experience from time to time makes me feel more prepared for the wilderness and I appreciate that. For the time being, though, I'll pamper myself in my lovely bed tonight, as well as our fresh-smelling, sparkling clean flush toilets. Kudos to civilization!

For more pictures of our hiking trip go to:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=258742&id=757765105&ref=mf

Wimpy biker on the bridge...

So I did the SunRun, and I learned that I probably isn't all that into running. I'd probably still do it, 'cause it's cheap and relatively easy. But maybe I should bike more, I thought. Biking is more fun, and it's still relatively easier than going swimming. 

So I took my rusty bike out. The last time I used it was when I came back for electives as a medical student. The tires were flat, of course, 

but I was glad that last time I used it I had managed to install mirrors and bell that still functions. Neat! This bike is pretty much road-ready. 

Richmond isn't a very inspiring place to bike around, and I wasn't sure where to go. I'd always enjoyed glancing over at the airport when I'm driving on the Arthur Laine, so I decided to bike over that and cross to Vancouver. It was actually hard finding the route to take me to the bridge. Bike lanes seem to disappear here and there and restart from no logical place whatsoever. 

But the harder part was going up on the bridge. It wasn't the biking, actually, or the tiny bike lane beside the cars. It was being high up off the ground, and the water of the Fraser down below. Half-way up, and I remembered I was somewhat afraid of heights. 

Indeed I've once turned back while trying to walk the Granville Bridge in Vancouver. WALK! That's how scared I can be. 

I actually paused half-way up, and pondered to myself whether I should go ahead.

 As I stood there weighting the risks and benefits of going on, I pretended to look around at the landing airplanes, didn't want to seem like I was chickening out to the drivers passing along. 

I waited until I gathered enough courage to go on. I can do it, I actually verbalized to myself. I even practiced some box-breathing maneuvers as I paddled my way upwards. I tried not too look down at the water, and focus on the road ahead. I found myself shifting closer and closer to the car lanes, actually, fully aware that the probability of being crushed by the cars far out-weight the probability of catapulting over the high railings and falling into the water. Yet, I didn't mind the cars. Nono, they were not as scary. 

Yes! I made it over. I breathed a faint sigh of relieve. It actually took me a long time to feel settled even after I got onto solid ground. And then I realized that I was in a predicament - to go home, I could either take a bus back over the bridge, or to risk my life again to bike back. Crap. I'd hate to spend the money on the needless bus ride. Not to mention it would take forever to get a bus on this holiday. 

Eventually, I spent some time to calm myself on marine drive as I biked around and check out some of the really expensive houses. When I was ready, I biked back, trying those relaxation techniques once again. This time I hit the apex fairly quickly, and I stood there, this time truly because I wanted to look at planes. Then I gently biked down. The worse was behind me. 

It was fun biking around today, despite the near death experience. (Oh yes it was). I felt somewhat healthy, and somewhat less ashamed of myself by not exercising routinely even though I preach it in my work. I guess I can try to build this habit every year, usually only to lose it again come Winter. But that's fine. Busy people like us are usually stuck in the perpetual cycle

 of always trying to build a habit of exercising, then lose the habit, then try again. But that's life, and eventually it might stick. 

Creepy way to start the days...

I've almost forgotten that I actually like psychiatry. Well, part of it anyway. 

Two days into my psychiatry rotation at St. Paul's Hospital and I've never felt this sick to start each day. As we sat across the table over our 8:30 am rounds, I patiently listened to accounts after accounts of violent behaviors on the ward from the previous night. Large, angry, often unpredictable and emotionally labile men enclosed in a small contained space, feeding on each other's psychoses, being contained mainly by medication or what little trickle of reason left in them. Half of them have criminal pasts, forensic investigations, and various accounts of violent acts when they were out on the street. Today, as I interviewed this one patient who openly admitted to having killed some random stranger in one cold and lonely night, I felt sick to my stomach. I remember that I had never sat face-to-face with someone who had killed a man. The scariest part was that in-between episodes, these people are almost downright normal. Their random acts are often dictated by their illnesses, and I feel skeptical to believe that even if their diseases were properly managed by medication and close observation, that they will ever be considered "safe". The human mind is a powerful thing, and at extremes, it is the most dangerous weapon we have got. 

Of course, I see this mainly because St. Paul's happens to house a selected population with its inner city focus. A large part of psychiatry deals with the much milder but very unfortunate souls who are otherwise functional and productive vehicles of society. And even the extreme patients that I see on this ward are mainly the victims of their poor neuronal mishaps. Had they not been disabled by their own minds, they might have grew up to be lawyers or accountants. The diseases have failed them. Science have failed to save them. And very often, the social and medical system is failing to support them, allowing them to spiral into a black hole of dysfunction and often become sociopathic. How does one break the cycle? How does one cure them? Can the diseased mind ever be cured, or simply contained and controlled? 

It's really heavy, working among these people. I can appreciate how many staffs who work in psychiatry after a long time can appear often a little on-edge. Today, even though I didn't see too many patients, I felt already keyed up and mentally tired. I'm beginning to appreciate that I probably made the right decision in regards to not pursuing my one-time consideration of psychiatry as a career. It's really amazing what these people do day in and day out. As for me, perhaps I like to mix it up a little, and enjoy sometimes an emotionally lighter day. I still very much enjoy the process of the psychiatric interview and the mental and word games I engage in with my patients. But I don't want to get into the habit of constantly trying to identify pathological behaviors in the people I see each day. It makes me feel that everyone in the world are pathological, forgetting sometimes that the range of normal is very large and that we should celebrate our often odd but quirky different behaviors.