Running – Page 4 – Karen's New York Love Affair

It’s dark in the park in Berlin

$O\'Horten$ I approached the theatre and saw there were posters along the wall at street-level, with the movie theatre entrance up a flight of stairs and the theatre towering several stories above that. The posters showed Australia—a Nicole Kidman pic whose posters I’d seen everywhere, including Amsterdam, Prague, and Berlin. Very Hollywood! But look—an offbeat poster showing a man with a moustache holding a very large dog in his arms, with the the words “Cannes Selection something something.” The movie was called O’Horten, by Bent Hamer, the director of Kitchen Stories (a weird Norwegian movie which I’d seen and loved). My kind of movie! The other posters showed a selection of horror movies, action flicks, and kids films. I left satisfied, knowing there was something I would enjoy seeing, here in Berlin. This was comforting to me—the familiar world of movies still existed in this strange place.

I ran on through the rain and came to another corner, Danziger, where there was a Mobil station set off in the Volkspark Friedrichshain. This struck me as odd, but I noted the price—1.09 Euros per litre (about $1.80 Canadian) and continued along Danziger, always keeping the park at my right. It was 35 minutes into the run now, and I was sure I was coming near to the starting point. The next corner was Landsberger Allee, and it was more commercial. The park disappeared and there was a giant sports complex called SEZ on my right. I didn’t know if anyone used it, for it was dark (closed at this hour on Christmas Eve), and the building had a lot of graffitti on it. But I saw there was a blowling alley—10 Euros—ball sports, massage. After the end of the building there was a little street going right, back towards the park, so I followed it, through a desolate area with tram tracks carved into the pavement, between bleak-looking apartment buildings, and then came to a road with a T sign.

I followed this, passing a woman walking a small dog, and came back to the park. The way led into the park now—which I had hoped to avoid—but I also hoped it would lead straight back to the starting point. The paved path was lined with orange street lights, and I kept to the left whenever the walkway branched, so as to keep the bulk of the park to my right. There were some ominous-looking buildings looming in the darkness on my left, which I later learned was a Krankenhaus (krank means sick, and this was a hospital).

I seemed to have entered a very unfamiliar area that looked nothing like the brightly-lit boulevard I had started out on. At the next turn in the path the street lights changed to white globes. The path cut between wooded hills and as I descended between them I felt I had entered Narnia. After another minute or so my tolerance for the unknown reached its limit. It was 45 minutes into the run. With each step I was increasing the distance back to Kirsten’s apartment. I lost my trust in my sense of direction that this road would lead back to where I’d started. I was afraid I’d entered the twilight zone, and everything had changed and I’d never find my way back. So I turned around and went back the way I came.

Coming out of the park I was worried I’d lose my way and be lost running around the park all night, so I was very relieved to come back to the T sign and the tram tracks. I read all the street signs as I retraced my route, alarmed to discover an entire segment of road between Danziger and Friedrichshain that I’d failed to note. The rain had stopped now, and I noticed the cheer of the apartments along Friedrichshain, lit by strings of Christmas lights. On the ground floor was a restaurant, glowing orange, each table lit with candles, a server looking out the window. Not a single patron had come to eat there on Christmas Eve, but perhaps they’d just opened and were expecting a big reservation. People got into parked cars with packages, and suddenly there was a more festive holiday feeling in the air.

It’s amazing how much more quickly the second half of a run in a new place feels, when I am retracing the journey and some things feel familiar—the movie theatre, a brick paved half-circle park entrance, the steet sign at the corner of Friedrichshain and Friedenstrasse, the pink concession stand building. Without fear and uncertainty slowing my steps I made it back to Kirsten’s in just 31 minutes!

Later I checked her map and found that in another 200 meters or so the park path I was on rejoined Landsberger Allee and from there it was just a few hundred meters to the starting point. The side trip into the park was a loop that went into the park and rejoined Landsberger farther up. Fear had stopped me from completing the circuit—which was not an even rectangle but more like a diamond shape—but I finished it a few days later, in the daylight, when we returned from our Christmas excursion to Prague. The seond time it took 40 minutes to do the complete journey from Kirsten’s to the park, all the way around the park, and back to Kirsten’s.

Looking back from the safety and comfort of my home in Vancouver, where everything is quite familiar, it seems that runs in a new place are the most fun and exciting. Everything is unknown and fresh, and it is great when things get a little scary at times. I feel a curiousity and aliveness about discovering the new place, whether in a city or in the wilderness. And running allows me to cover a good distance fairly quickly, so I can really get a sense of the terrain, and learn the land with my feet. But let me tell you, when I was afraid I was lost, in the dark in a scary park in East Berlin, I felt like a fool, not a wild woman.

Returning home I also found out that what I expected to be a minor park, covering one city block, is the oldest and second-largest park in Berlin, covering 52 hectares, and built in 1840 to commemorate the 100th anniversary of Frederick the Great’s accession to the Prussian throne. Although I couldn’t see this in the dark, it is filled with statuary, monuments, playgrounds, and delightful vistas. It is really true that we create our own reality, based on our history. And this might not always be such a bad thing—I guess I like the feeling of being afraid in the unknown, my imagination running away with me. I’m glad I hadn’t read all about the park on the web site first, and seen it on a map. It was good to discover it on my own, directly with my senses, even if I was viewing it through the filters of my history.

Wild women run in the dark in Berlin

I arrived in Berlin about 10 PM (after travelling 22 hours), and spent a lot of the next day sleeping. It was dark by the time I was ready for my first run, at about 5 PM. So my first run in Berlin was after dark, with the temperature around 0° C.

I knew there was a park at the end of my sister Kirsten’s street, about a 5-minute walk away, so I went in that direction, north along Friedenstrasse, and came to the Volkspark Friedrichshain. I decided not to go into the park but just to run around it, so I wouldn’t get lost. I headed to the left, and went about 100 yards when I remembered my wilderness training about staying found, and I back-tracked my steps to Friedenstrasse, memorizing landmarks including two round pods that I imagined were drop-off points for used clothing (but I later discovered are for recycling different colours of glass) and the cross-walk with four stretches, each with separate pedestrian signals, to traverse the busy wide street with three lanes in either direction and a tram line in the middle. On the side closest to the park there was a small pink building with a counter where someone was selling snacks, by the entrance to the park.

Satisfied that I would recognize this point when I came back around to it, I set out in a clockwise direction, around what I imagined was a square park of about one city block, like I’d seen in San Francisco and Vancouver. I could see lights through the trees where I thought the edges of the park were, and estimated that one circuit of the park would take about 9 minutes. I looked at my running watch and saw that at this point I was 9 minutes into the run.

The buildings along Friedenstrasse, in East Berlin, had seemed very massive, square and heavy—bleak and menacing. There was a massive brick church at the end of the graveyard, with a huge square tower that looked like a crematorium to me, and next to it an abandoned factory with a smokestack stretching several stories into the sky. The buildings across from the park also seemed to be very big, squat, and bleak, though they were apartment buildings. There was a lot of graffiti everywhere, which Kirsten told me was a big problem in Berlin. I wondered if it was a symptom of cultural trauma from World War II and the subsequent splitting of Berlin that had never been healed.

The park on my right reminded me of the landscape I’ve seen in Poland near Auschwitz—the bare trees with tangled branches and the low clouds overhead, as well as the feeling of bleakness. The broad sidewalk I was running on had two sections of concrete paving stones set in a diamond pattern, with a reddish cobble-stone path in between them. I imagined the smooth part was reserved for cyclists, but the walk was deserted at this time of day so I ran on the smooth section.

I came to the first corner in a few minutes, and went up to the street signs to read them, so I wouldn’t get lost. To my surprise the stretch of road I was on was called Friedenstrasse—peaceful street—Kirsten’s street had bent at a sharp angle when it met the park. The new street was Friedrichshain, which I later learned is the name of that district of Berlin—a more funky, fun, artistic, part of Berlin, with many restaurants, cafes, and boutiques. Even on this quiet residential street there was a different feeling, which I didn’t notice at first because it began to rain very heavily. I ran on, into the groove now (it usually takes me about 14 minutes to warm up.) I saw a neon sign across the street, Theatre am Friedrichshain; there were two people ahead at the bus stop. I ran to the intersection and crossed at the light, running through a wide river of rain water that had collected along the edge of the street; I wanted to see what was playing! To be continued…

Cougars and cattle prods

I’m not sure now where the idea of a cattle prod came from. It probably came to me when I was out on a run, dodging Douglas Lake cows and hoping the bull wouldn’t charge me. I looked at how big the cattle are, and thought they are actually much bigger than a cougar. So maybe if the cattle prod moves them around, it might have a deterring effect on a cougar as well.

I went to a farm supply store in Chilliwack, and learned there are different types of cattle prods—short ones and long ones! What kind should I get? This decision required some thought about being attacked, and from what angle would the attack likely come. I imagined a cougar leaping on me from where it was perched on a tree above. I imagined it attacking from the front and side. I imagined it leaping out of nowhere and biting my neck. In the end I decided I needed a short one and a long one. The long one I could use if I saw the cougar coming from the front or side. The short one, worn in a belt holster, I could use to zap the cougar if it was biting my neck from the rear.

Are you getting an impression of how ridiculous this is? Well, it took me a few more years to reach that point. I bought both sizes of cattle prod, and for about a year I ran with them both. The small one I wore in a belt holster, around my waist. And the long one I carried in my hand. I did this for at least a year, until I realized that no cougars have ever attacked me, and I’ve never even seen one while out on a run, and it seems unlikely that any cougar ever will attack me. And although I’d never seen any cougar since that one I saw from my car, I’d seen plenty of deer. And I know that the deer are the cougar’s favourite food.

So I finally reached the conclusion that given the cougar has plenty of deer to eat, and given that I am in the middle of a large area of relative wilderness (not encroaching on cougar territory like the houses in North Vancouver), it is very unlikely that the cougar would want me for dinner. So I stopped carrying the cattle prod, and enjoyed the freedom of running without weapons! As you can see, it took a number of years for my direct experience to outweigh the strength of my fearful fantasies… (to be continued)

Cougars: pistol-packing mama!

Prior to moving to Monkey Valley I had little exposure to guns. My dad taught me and my sister Kim to shoot a rifle one summer at the family cabin on Knouff Lake. It was fun, shooting at cans on a log. Learning to watch for the kick. But since then I’d never used a gun, and probably never even seen one.

I believed people when they said I needed a gun at Monkey Valley. Being there all alone, and especially when out running by myself, it seemed I needed a gun for protection. So my mom lent me a rifle, and I enrolled in a course to learn how to handle guns safely. This course also was a prerequisite for obtaining a PAL license, which is required by anyone who owns, buys, or possesses a gun. I got the license, and I practiced shooting the rifle at a target that I nailed to a tree by the woodpile at Monkey Valley. This was kind of fun. I practiced cleaning and oiling it. I kept it hidden in my bedroom closet, easily accessible if anyone broke into the house during the night. I went over in my mind the steps involved in getting and loading the gun in the dark. It seemed that having the gun there made me more afraid of intruders, not less!

I went to a gun store on Renfrew Street in Vancouver to look at guns and get prices. I went to the outdoor sporting goods store in Merritt (the Powderkeg, now out of business due to Walmart and Canadian Tire big box stores being invited to take over from the local businesses), to see if prices were cheaper. I found out about the local shooting club in Merritt. My final piece of research was to go shooting at a range out in Chilliwack with my course instructor. This was a chance to try different types of guns and see how they felt. I had been leaning towards a pistol of some kind, which I would be able to wear in a holster while running. I found that running with the rifle was a little cumbersome!

I was excited about going to a real range to practice. In the class we never shot a loaded gun. I’d driven past the Pacific Shooter’s range many times on my way to go trail running by the Seymour River. My instructor lived in Langley though, so I drove out there and we drove to the range in Chilliwack. The day we went to the shooting range was overcast and chilly—a dreary winter day. No one else was at the range. My instructor showed me the protocols, like where to put our stuff, how to put up the targets, and what flag to raise to indicate the range was active. Then he showed me how to turn and shoot. He reinforced some of the principles I’d learned in class, about holding the gun and positioning my body. I tried shooting with his pistol. It was very black (energetically black, though actually a steely colour of metal), very heavy, very loud. And very powerful. I could see how using a gun makes someone feel powerful.

And I knew after trying it a few times that I could never shoot this gun at a cougar or any other wild animal. I felt that I would prefer to be killed than to inflict this shocking violence on a living creature. So that was the end of the gun episode. I returned the rifle to my mom. I resumed running with a hatchet. And I still kept imagining the cougar attacking me while I was running… (to be continued)

Cougars: fears in the dusk

When I first moved to Monkey Valley, my biggest fears were attack by cougars, bears, and humans. I’ve already documented some of the encounters with humans. Pretty innocuous, and nothing like my late-night imaginings of a Charles Manson-like gang bent on my murder.

So it is with cougars. Due to my enjoyment of running in the wilderness, fear of cougar attack has seemed to be the biggest danger I would realistically face at Monkey Valley. Especially since I usually run at dusk, which is when I imagine the cougar is most active! I remember hearing a few years ago (or was it six years ago now?) that a jogger was attacked on Vancouver Island. The writer of the news story made a joke about joggers persisting in wearing lycra leggings and behaving like deer, as if we are practically begging cougars to attack!

Soon after moving to Monkey Valley, I was driving along a logging road about 10 KM from my home when I was graced with the very rare sight of a cougar in the distance. It crossed the road in front of me, several hundred yards ahead, and leaped up an embankment and disappeared into the woods.

Its grace and power was amazing to behold. It sprang up a bank that was eight feet high or more, compressing its haunches and making the leap in a single bound. It was a beautiful tawny burnished goldy-red colour. Gigantic! I would guess at least six feet long. So incredibly, obviously powerful and alive. The encounter was such a brief flash, but its memory has stayed with me all these years. My impression was that there was no way I was a physical match for this creature that was bigger, stronger, faster, and way wilder than me!

Previously I had imagined the cougar as little bigger than a coyote, and nothing to really be afraid of. But now that I’d seen with my own eyes its size and physical power, I knew that it could kill me with ease, if it chose to. I’ve spent a lot of time contemplating the size of the deer, the cougar’s favourite prey, versus the size of me. Only a few pounds difference, most likely. And the deer run a lot faster than I do!

One of the ways to deal with fear is to find out the truth. I did some research on cougars, reading up on them in Mammals of British Columbia, and learned that their territory can be as big as 100 square miles. I hoped that this meant the chance of my being in the exact spot as the cougar at the same time was very slight. But this didn’t really help assuage my fear. And one spring, Bob Ross of Merritt’s Tri-Ross Construction, who with his son Brent has done a lot of construction work for me at Monkey Valley, found cougar tracks in the mud by the barn. I examined their large size, and was struck with fear again. Clearly I was living in the cougar’s territory. There was no denying the potential for an encounter… (to be continued)

Wild women run in the dark!

The West is the place of darkness, black, the night. I wonder if night owls enjoy hanging out in the West part of the wheel, and early birds prefer the East.

For just about as long as I’ve been running (since I quit smoking for the first successful time—lasting three years—in 1996), I’ve run at night. Not always, but when life’s demands take up all the daylight hours. People have various reactions to this, but it’s usually a mixture of shock and concern. Fear of the unknown, I think. With one boyfriend, it was a surefire way to know he cared for me (and engage in some negative merging). All I had to do was mention a night run and he’d freak out!

Running at night has an entirely different feel to it, whether in the city or in the country. In the city, I find it is way more peaceful to run after dark, when people are at home and asleep. The humming vibration of the city settles at night. Even those I might encounter out walking their dogs are shrouded in darkness. It is easier to ignore them, to stay in my own inner space. There is an unspoken agreement among the night walkers, to respect the privacy of the darkness.

The meditative space of night running is something I love about it. There’s not much to look at, so the feel of the running becomes the rhythmic back section for reverie. It’s easy to sink into an altered state of awareness, imagination, inspiration.

Last night I ran in the misty mountain darkness of the Lower Seymour Conservation Reserve. Listening to Led Zeppelin (what is and what should never be, the battle of evermore, when the levee breaks) on the drive out there helped set the mood for entering a magical land of darkness. I parked on Lynn Valley Road, due to the ridiculous parking restriction of 6 PM in the LSCR parking lot. Crossing the wooden footbridge that arcs high above Lynn Creek, I entered the darkness of the woods.

It took about eight minutes of gravel trail running through the woods to get to the LSCR parking lot. As I first entered the woods thoughts of mountain lions crossed my mind. For some reason they always do on this stretch of road! Dressed all in black, maybe I could pass for a bear. But my roar just wouldn’t have the power to convince! Anyway, with this lame strategy in place, I continued on to the LSCR parking lot and from there onto my favourite loop trail, down the Twin Bridges Trail to the Seymour River, following the river North along Fisherman’s Trail, and then up the bun-burning Homestead Trail back up to the parking lot.

I’ve done this loop at least 100 times over the past five years or so—probably more. I’ve done it walking in the dark with a friend, so I know which parts are the blackest. I wasn’t worried about losing my way or falling into a pit or off a cliff! I could just let my feet and belly find the way as I sensed into the deep mystery of the night. It is hypnotic, the way a luminous white sheen fills the air on the trail in front of me. This effect is heightened when there is a mist like last night.

I was just enjoying this luminosity, and the rhythm of the running, as I ran down the long easy stretch of Twin Bridges Trail. Then suddenly I heard a sound like a chicken crowing, about chest height, in the trees ahead and to the left. It was so loud and close, I stopped for a moment. My mind translated the sound into a human imitating a chicken, trying to attract some kind of night bird! It didn’t feel totally threatening, but I was definitely startled. The call was such a definite pronouncement, I said “Oh, really. Are you sure about that?”

Only silence answered, so I continued on. I realized as I replayed the sound in my mind it must be an owl call. It was a new sound for me, accustomed to the call of the great grey owls at Monkey Valley. Although it had a hooting quality, the range and pattern of notes was more complex. I’ll have to look it up in the bird books when I get home, and see if I can find out who was greeting me in the darkness of the misty autumn woods.

Like the music before the run, this encounter supported the magical feeling of running in the night. It was a blissful run right until the end, an hour later, back up the paved access to Lynn Valley Road. Wild women run in the dark!

Taking a night walk (or run) is always a good way to explore the territory of the West. Try it!

P.S. For those who might be feeling confused right now, I keep an apartment in Vancouver as well as my home at Monkey Valley. This was a Vancouver night run, in the North Shore mountains.