For teenage Americans, the first car is a right of passage.  It represents independence.  Freedom.  Maturity.

I still remember the day I met my first car.  It was a summer day in 1998.  I’d had my license for a few months, but until that day, I’d been forced to borrow my mom’s car whenever I wanted to drive somewhere.  All that changed in an instant.

My dad pulled up in a dark red 1986 Ford Thunderbird Turbocoupe and gave me a chance to take it for a spin.  Sure, it was 12 years old, and yes, the paint was a bit weathered, but it was a car!  My car!  And it had a turbo!  I loved it.

My 1986 Ford Thunderbird Turbocoupe

Over the next few years, that Thunderbird would ferry me to adventures, get me to and from college numerous times, and serve as a guinea pig for my efforts to become mechanically inclined.

Even though it had the sporting aspirations of a turbo, in reality it wasn’t very fast.  The back seat was elfin (though that didn’t stop us from squeezing up to four people in there), and the body forced a never-ending battle against the cancer of rust.  It was wonderful all the same.

After three years and 28,000 miles, I sold it to a guy who answered a newspaper ad.  How quaint.

Stats

• Dark red 1986 Ford Thunderbird Turbocoupe
• 2.3 L turbocharged inline-4
• 3-speed automatic transmission
• 155 hp / 180 lb-ft torque
• Coupe body style
• 171,000 miles when acquired (ca. June 1998)
• 199,500 miles when sold (ca. June 2001)

Being nearly eight hours of driving from the nearest major cities, Sleep Giant Provincial Park is understandably little-trafficked.  I hadn’t been to Canada in a while, so last weekend I decided to check it out with a short backpacking trip.

The 94 mi² park, named after the humanoid appearance of a large rock formation, occupies most of a large peninsula jutting into Lake Superior. Scenic Highway 61 along Minnesota’s north shore is the most direct way to get there, and since I like road trips almost as much as I like backpacking, that suited me just fine.  The drive made me appreciate just how far north the park is located; for those familiar with the area, driving from Minneapolis to Silver Bay still found me less than half way to my destination.

Cross the border, go through Thunder Bay, hop on the Trans-Canada Highway for a stretch, and you’ll eventually reach the park.  The nearly deserted park.

I encountered only a handful of mountain bikers and day hikers on the trail — no other backpackers.  That’s a real shame.  The park is well-maintained, the scenery is beautiful, and the wildlife is abundant.

I hiked for a while before deciding to stop.  I was the only person in my chosen backcountry campsite.

I had a great view of the lake from my tarp lean-to.

My tarp home. Far better than a tent.

Ditto for dinner.  I cooked out on the rocks, Isle Royale looming across the horizon in the distance.  (Three years ago, I stood on Isle Royale and shot a video that looked out over the lake towards Sleeping Giant.  Last weekend, I got the chance to gaze back.)

Cooking on the rocky shore of Lake Superior in Canada

Exploring the shore and staring into a pleasant campfire rounded out a relaxing day.  Not even a light rain that night or the patter of deer running through the forest in the dark could spoil the experience.  I mean, in the haze of interrupted sleep I first thought that the deer were bears, but that fear passed quickly.

The next day brought closure to my brief stay.

I’m not sure if I’ll ever return to Sleeping Giant, but I certainly wouldn’t mind going.

There are three requirements for achieving mastery of a subject.

First, one must get started.  This is as difficult as any other step.  It can take a significant amount of activation energy to put something in motion.

Second, one must practice.  This includes application and refinement of one’s skills.  It includes study and reflection.  It necessitates a considerable investment of time.

Third, one must be coached.  Learning in total isolation is nearly unprecedented.  The coach may be called many things: mentor, trainer, or advisor.  The coach must himself be a master of the art; that is necessary but not sufficient.  The coach must also be able to analyze, critique, and teach.  If the coach is a professional, his services may be quite expensive for the student.

Goaltending is one of the things that I would like to master someday.  I was a late starter, beginning only after my graduation in 2004.  I had some instruction at the beginning, but for the most part I was missing the third piece: I was self-taught.  A few weeks ago, I began taking instruction one-on-one from a professional goalie coach at a facility dedicated to training goalies (ah, the joys of Minnesota).

The most difficult part of the process has been unlearning my old habits.  Years of repetition reinforced sub-optimal behaviors, and replacing those with superior techniques is arduous.  The short-term effect has had a severe negative impact on me during games, as I find myself thinking about technique instead of reacting instinctively, and thus I find myself behind the play and open to embarrassing errors.  My hope is that the long-term payoff will be substantial.  I aim for the subconscious sublime.

This is like anything, I suppose.  It’s easier to do things the way they have always been done.  The belief in a green valley beyond the hump and the perseverance of sheer will must suffice until the new becomes the norm.

Thus, I’ll put up with the embarrassment of letting in a soft short-side goal while focusing on rebound control.  I’ll deal with the soreness of using muscles in ways I had not previously considered.  I’ll swallow my pride when I see kids a decade my junior skating proverbial circles around me in the other lanes while I’m being coached.  The frustration will be a small price for the future mastery.

The rice was at the ready this evening, as were the pot, the pan, the onions, and the broccoli.  Just as I was about to fire up the burners, I heard a frantic knock at my door.  As I reached for the handle, I expected to find my roommate locked out.

No.

Instead, I found a panicking 13-year-old child clutching his bleeding hand and asking me to take him to the hospital.  I told him to show me the injury; it was a lateral cut on his left index finger, perhaps 3 mm deep and extending across the width of his digit.  There was evidence of non-arterial bleeding.  Was it bad? Yes.  Did it warrant an immediate trip to the ER? No.

My training from various sources kicked in.  I invited him inside and told him in a calm voice to sit down.  I got out a clean towel and told him to wrap his finger and apply pressure.  As he began to calm down, I got him to give me his dad’s work phone number.  Luckily, his dad was near his phone, and even better, his dad’s office was just a few miles away.

While waiting for his dad to arrive, I talked calmly and confidently with the kid and tried to keep his mind off of his finger.  It turned out that he was my downstairs neighbor, who I had not yet met.  I’m totally out of touch with what’s popular for 7th graders these days, so we made do with small talk about canoeing in the BWCA and his playing of the trumpet.  A few minutes was all it took for his breathing to slow and his voice to stop wavering.

His father arrived not long after. They left to have the injury repaired by a professional, and I went back to my cooking.

Coincidentally, I made a deep cut in my left index finger when I was 16, and I prevailed upon my then-neighbor in a similar manner.  Karma?

I stood at the large black lab bench, and my thoughts were at once drawn to the object in the container before me.  The smell was one of a preservative, perhaps formaldehyde, perhaps something else.  Everybody in the room spoke in low, respectful, professional voices.  The sound of rain on the windows that May morning remained audible above the subdued din of speech.

I pulled the small object from its liquid-filled home.  Tan in color, hardened from its former goo-like consistency by time and chemicals.  I rolled it around in my gloved hands, feeling the bumps and folds.  I marveled at its surprisingly small size.

The brain.  The seat of consciousness.  That which makes us sentient.  Rational.  Creative.  Irrational.  Human.

I couldn’t help but ponder the history of that specimen.  It was from an adult, so it had surely experienced a significant amount of life.  It had loved, it had learned.  It had hated, it had schemed.  It had friends.  It had family.  It had, at one time, realized its own mortality, and thus considering that inescapable truth, it had made the decision to donate itself to science, to the pursuit of Truth.

The circumstances prevailed on me to maintain a detached, objective professionalism — at least outwardly — but my inner voice was free to marvel and contemplate.

Where did this brain grow up?  Was it good at math?  Perhaps it played an instrument.  Perhaps it experienced first stage-fright and later elation at a dramatic performance well done.  Did it ever marry?  Do its offspring still wander this world?

What was its final thought?  Was it surrounded by loved ones at its end?  Was it happy?

I put it back in its container.  It had a name, but now it had only a number.  It was just an object.