A Bad Call


I once decided my ear canal would be the perfect "holding place" for the tooth that I yanked out during church. In 8th grade, I decided LIME GREEN eyeshadow looked good on me. When I was nine, I thought I'd be cool and quote something I'd heard in an episode of "Step by Step" to my dad ("Daaaad! I have the right to express my sexual needs!!")

These infractions
pale in comparison to the bad call I made yesterday. Yes, my friends, I am referring to the Jim Joyceian--nay--Koman Coulibalian call I made last night to climb THIS:

Exhibit A

Some of you may know that I am currently in the throes of training for a 50-mile ultramarathon in September. Part of this training entails a multi-hour trail run every weekend. Last night, as I set off along the Bonneville Shoreline Trail near my house, I ran past an offshoot that headed literally straight up the face of the mountain. Having never run this way before, I decided to give it a go. And heck, while I was at it, why not climb the mountain above?! I figured I wouldn't get my requisite 15 miles in for the day, but it would probably take just as long plus build a little more endurance.

It wasn't long before the offshooting trail expired and I was on my own. Just how I liked it! Kristi Boyce: Conquistadora Extraordinaire! Armed with pepper spray and an iPod playlist teeming with Alanis Morrissette, I headed off into the wilderness. Fifty yards later, my first obstacle revealed itself: a swatch of deep thicket with
no discernible pathway through it--not even a deer trail.

distinctly remember this thought running through my head: "A good hiker can make a path where there is none, but a better hiker will know when to call it quits." I have no idea where this mystical bit of Mister Miyagism came from. Looking back, that was probably the Spirit tell me to wise up and turn around (which I should have been attune to--it was Sunday, after all), but my prideful heart kept pressing me forward.

So into the thicket I went! Step after miserable step, I forged my way through it as best I could, pushing branches out of my way and spider webs out of my hair along the way. Finally, I emerged into the open like a butterfly shedding its cocoon. Free! Legs and arms bleeding with scratches, yes, but free!!

. . . free to see that I had reached a tiny open spot of land . . . and that the peak of the mountain was surrounded by a
another ring of thicket hundreds of yards deep.

Obviously, this was not going to work. I quickly abandoned my plans to summit and looked for the fastest way off the mountain (darkness was falling). I noticed that the mountain next to me was relatively thicket-free, but in order to get over to it I had to dip down into a ravine filled with the Brambles from Hell. Into the heart of darkness I ventured once again--more scratches, more bleeding--but I finally made it to the other side.

While this particular mountain was indeed thicket-free, it
was covered in what I creatively like to call "mountain hay" (because it's on a mountain . . . and it looks like hay). Trudging through this stuff was just as annoying and almost as painful as going through the thicket, because it filled my shoes and socks with little "pokies" that jabbed my feet as I walked. Stopping to remove them was futile, as it only took four steps for my shoes and socks to become filled with them again.

I slowly became more and more frustrated; this was
not the trail run/hike I'd been hoping for. I trudged up the mountainside toward the crest of a hill--hoping to get my bearings--only to be met with another bigger hill. I finally reached the top of that one, and saw my house: a teeny tiny speck in the distance.

With a demoralized sigh, I started down the mountain. It was extremely steep (40-degree pitch), but I made another
grand decision and opted to save time by not using switchbacks. So straight down I went. The terrain was rocky, and I couldn't quite see where I was setting my trekking poles because the mountain hay was so high. Despite this, things were going okay when PHUMP SSSSSSSSSSHHHHH. I lost my balance and slid down the mountainside for 20 feet. With newfound rocks nestling in with the pokies in my shoes and socks, I continued my journey downward with a PHUMP SSSSSSSSHHHH occurring roughly every eight minutes. Exasperated, I figured a good primal scream would help me unleash my frustration.AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!!!! I wailed. Of course, the acoustics of the mountain were such that the gratifying echo I'd been hoping for never came.

I got the strange feeling that the mountain was mocking me.

The ONLY redeeming part of the descent was scree surfing (see Exhibit B for example), which helped me get down the last quarter of the mountain.

FINALLY, two hours and innumerable scratches, bumps, bruises and bleeds later, I made it off the mountain. I was homeward bound! And gimping. I decided to call Brock and have him pick me up at the church near our house, which would shave a half-mile off my miserable return trip home.

His phone was turned off.

Blood n' scratches.

More dirt. More scratches.

A tiny sampling of what was in my socks.


  1. DANG GIRL!!! You got beat up!! But you have to at least feel some sense of pride in yourself...right?? I think you are hard core!! =D Love you!

  2. Hahahaha oh Kristi you are awesome!!!

  3. Hahaha...contrary to your other commentors, I think there's nothing here to be proud of. That was pretty dumb.


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