Palisades Hike - Mount Rainier

We had a great time this weekend, just Joy and I on a long overdue camping hiking excursion. I’d forgotten how much we enjoyed doing these. It had been a couple years since we made a trip. I packed up Thursday to get us ready to vamoose as soon as I got home Friday. Guilt set in and I removed the rocks and six pack of beer from Joy’s pack. It seemed way too easy for her to give me a little push off a cliffs edge to repay my ill advised attempt at personal merriment. Of course we didn’t make it to the campsite until well after dark. Fresh out of large quantities of gasoline or a hose to siphon some from the car, we were forced to start a fire with only sticks and matches. I have heard this can be done, but should only be attempted in emergency situations. After a few attempts and some excessive hyperventilating we achieved some success. I wouldn’t advice attempting this much heavy breathing at one time without hopes of some kind of award or a Commemorative T-shirt, perhaps accompanied with large amounts of body lotion.
We made camp and set up the tent well before midnight. This assured us an early start and a shot at a backcountry camping permit at our destination, the Palisades area, near Sunrise at Mount Rainier National park.

We got to the trailhead permit in hand about 9:30 the next morning and were greeting with exceptional September weather and a spectacular view of Mt. Rainier.


The short of it is this is a great hike that can be done in one day, or if you want to savor the moment as we did, an overnight excursion with full packs. It’s a hike of many alpine lakes, 9 or 10 depending how you count.

We awoke the next morning at 3:00 AM to the sound of a bugling bull elk with a little too much enthusiasm for that time in the morning. It was about 30 degrees and we couldn’t drive ourselves outside for a view of the stars, except through the tent door, in spite of dangerously full bladders. Suffice it to say no leakage occurred into our fancy down sleeping bags in spite of our advanced age. This was no small accomplishment. We were further serenaded throughout the trip with the EEK of pikas and the whistling of marmots who hung out very near camp. We even got some good pictures of the little beasts. On the way out we saw a huge 4 or 5 point (8 or 10 eastern count) black tail buck that would have made any self respecting deer hunter salivate like Jimmy Swagart at a hooker’s convention. Sorry, too far away for a good picture.

I’ll waste no more words nor your time. What follows is a few of the pictures with captions that describe the scene.

Black Hills Triathlon 2007

Yes, Saturday was my annual endeavor to humiliate myself at the Black Hills triathlon. After mentioning it to everyone in the family, friends, acquaintances, and co-workers no one chose to come out and see me suffer for snippets of the almost 3 hours of racing. Even my lovely devoted wife said, “ yah whatever” and went running with our running buddies, went out to breakfast and celebrated a few birthdays, one milestone 60th for our buddy Bob Lanouette (happy birthday Bob! and Becci too!), rather that be bored at the race. Perhaps my insistence in arriving 2 hours early and my annoying pre-race jitters had something to do with it. Needless to say, feeling unloved and uncared and under appreciated, I drug myself out for what, on intent reflection of my history of the race, appears to be my 18th time racing in this event in some capacity.

Luckily it’s like going to a high school reunion at this race. After all the years the old race junkies like me congregate, mingle, and reflect on their various races, exploits, injuries, cholesterol counts, and upcoming joint replacemnt surgeries over the past years. Now we lament about slowing down, gimping up and yet we still show up year after year for our punishment of swimming ¾ of a mile biking 30 and running 5 miles.

This year it wasn’t sprinkling rain at the start like last year. It was a brisk 46 degrees at 7:00 AM but the sun promised to come out and warm us up into the high 70’s by the end of the race. The water was in the low 70’s, about as warm as it gets for this time of year. It was dead calm until the pre-race meeting at 9:20 then the warming sun kicked up a substantial wind. It’s always windy on the bike ride in the flats of south Thurston County; this year didn’t look any different.

This year is the last year in the sub-geezer category, so I was in the 3rd wave of 4. I got a good start and sucked in behind Olympia’s triathlon legend, Linda Nelson. She didn’t train at all this year but she still swims straight and fast so I was amazed to see I was in the front of our group coming up on the first buoy. No anxiety attacks this year and I didn’t find myself tied up with the swimming area ropes like last year. I lost Linda and my sweet draft at the buoy and had to rely on my own navigation skills for the rest of my 22:38 swim. I watched my buddy, Bill Penn, a butt kicking 55 year old master swimmer and ironman triathlete, blow past me at the last buoy making up the 5 minute head start I had on him. Again, visions of the exact same pass in last year’s race.

After dumping my wetsuit and donning my mountain bike shoes I sprinted up the ¼ mile hill for a fast transition. Three miles later, Bill again past me on the bike. I guess my transitions are still the best part of my race. On the bike I was pleased to see a tail wind for the first 13 miles of the ride but dreaded the eventual turn around that would change the screaming 25 mph on the flats I was able to maintain to a painful 16 mph grind into the face of the wind. I brushed a yellow jacket off that stuck to the hairs of my leg at one point. It was a déjà vu moment of getting stung in the face last year at the same race. I thought I’d scored the perfect motor pace when some old dude on a scooter pulled out in front of me fully equipped with tassels and nick knacks stuck to various parts of his body and scooter. I did my best to close the gap and tuck behind the old guy but I just couldn’t close the gap. Next year I think I’ll post my father out on the course for a much needed assist. The wind and the hills beat me down to a 19.7 mph average for the bike by the time I turned into the park. There I got trapped behind some truck doing 10 mph. My energetic hand jesters did little to dissuade her poky tour of the park. Finally a sympathetic volunteer guided her off the course and out of my frickin’ way.

I was off the bike and onto the scenic trail run course in 25 seconds. I concentrated as hard as I could on my footing, not wishing to repeat my foot breaking ankle twist last year. You know how you sometimes concentrate so hard on not doing something that you can’t seem to avoid doing it anyway. A half a mile into the run I managed to find some imperfection on one of the widest smoothest section of the trail to twist the same my ankle and nearly fall. For the next dozen steps I lurched along with my nose 2 inches off the dirt trying not to fall and roll my sweaty self in the dirt so I looked like a piece of Almond Roca. This year I avoided screaming obscenities. I was by myself at that point on the trail and we all know if Greg screams pointless obscenities in the forest and there is know one there to hear it, there is no sound. I walked for 100 feet or so and then started to jog. I could feel the bone in my foot that was broken last year but the pain wasn’t as bad. After another ¼ mile or so I was running pretty well again and passed 8 or 10 people before the finish. I got passed only twice, humbled by the fact that they were beautiful strong women but relished in the improvement in scenery as I watched them fade into the distance like mirages.

I finished strong feeling exhausted and at least a little exhilarated for pushing myself so hard for 2:37:11, 47th overall out of 188 individual racers,and 9th place in my age division our of 23. I’m hoping next years move into the 50-54 age bracket will be kinder on me. If I was just t months older I would have placed 2nd. The foot is a little bruised but I’m still walking (at least that was an improvement over last year!). I think I did rebreak it but not as badly as last year. just a little bruising over the site of the old break.

I’ve recycled a picture below of last year’s race since there was no support crew there to take pictures. My buddy Denny Brooks will posted some pictures on http://www.ontherunevents.com/finish.sht. I stole one of his to post here. I know no one really cares, but in case you’re bored and you actually read this all the way to the end . . . Who knows it could happen.

Alaskan Travel Log

Travel Journal Alaska Vacation:

Day 1: travel to the airport. Roll over accident on I5. Bitch of a commute. Inell is a trooper and drives all the way to Olympia, through the gantlet of traffic to ferry us to the airport. It took almost an hour to get out of Lacey. This was a difficult trip to the airport for Dad, who usually sets to the airport 3 hours early; he sat wordlessly in the shotgun seat, nervously wondering if we would make the fight on time. All went well and we were an hour early.

We met Bob and Berna at the airport, all smiles and nearly giddy about the upcoming flight and trip. Well, at least Bob was less Cynical than normal. I walked off and left my two paperback books at the airport. I think I caught some of Berna’s 50th disease. One was a gift, but the other was borrowed so I’ll be buying at least one replacement of a book I had barely started. At least I didn’t walk off and leave this 3,000 dollar tablet PC!

It was a good flight with great views of the Pacific coast Range for the first few hundred miles, majestic and snow covered. Later the coast socked in as is the normal state for the rainy southeast Alaska coast.
We arrive in Fairbanks and are met by the Princess staff where we are told too not get our bags. Then we wait while they accumulate then and we are finally allowed to touch them to retag them to there next destinations. One bag goes to the boat and the other one travels with us for the next couple days. We arrive at the Fairbanks Princess Lodge and hook up with The Fuller side of our couple trios plus Dad. Dad has to fight off one grizzle bear but it doesn’t upset him much. After the long flight cooped up it probably just felt good to blow off a little steam.
The next morning we hop on a big Princess bus and are shuttled a mile or so to the Discovery 3 paddle wheeler for a river tour. They treat us with a great 3 hour tour of the Chena River eventually entering the muddy sandbar ridden Tanana River. They have a float plane take off and land next to us on either side of the boat. The guide talks with the pilot. We stop at the late Susan Butcher’s, four time winner of the Iditarod, “Trailbreaker Kennels. We talk, via guide and headsets with the trainer. He and his staff have puppies to show us and about 60 dogs. 14 dogs are harnessed to a motor-less Quad that they enthusiastically pull as a finale, around the camp at 20 mph pulling a 200 lb musher. Every dog in the place goes nuts with excitement seeing their friends getting to pull.

Down the river a bit more we are entertained by a native Athabascan woman who has a fish camp and fish wheel setup. She explains a little bit about their culture and the need to catch one chum salmon a day for the winter food supply for each of their dogs. They have fish drying and she cleans a chum salmon and readies it for drying in 33 seconds.
Later we meet with the rest of her family who demonstrate and model the fur clothes of their culture. The Sun hood is lined with wolverine which doesn’t freeze frost up in the cols. At their Chena village they have reindeer, a garden with huge cabbages that grow to 30 lbs or more; skins from bear, moose, caribou, among other. PETA activist in the group contemplate burning the place to the ground in protest, however, it is pissing rain and they couldn’t get anything to burn in the area with a blow torch and a big bucket of gasoline (Boy Scout water).

There was a unfounded rumor that their were Kings salmon in the river, noted by a few fisherman. They must have been cruise liner plants for the tourist, cause no one caught or displayed any fish. The fish wheels that were running were running empty. It’s pouring rain on us for much of the paddle boat ride. When we disembark to tour the village we are given umbrellas to make it a little more pleasant. The demonstrations are brought on board prior to keep us from getting wet.

We hope back aboard the train and then a Princess bus to Denali Princess Lodge. The weather clears and we catch a glimpse of Denali, which is better than many tourist experience. We’re happy to have had the glimpse and don’t expect much more.

The next morning we board an old school bus to take a ride with Brian, an Indiana native and long term Alaska resident for a guided trip into Denali National Park. They limit the access to a few bus companies on the park road. Brian, a tall lanky blonde with a scruffy red beard waxes poetically about the parks flora and fauna, geology and history. We stop and admire a cow moose with two calves right next to the road. They entertain us as they bounce around and eat the purple fireweed and suckle their mother until she can’t take it any longer and brushes them off. After 3 or 4 minutes they wander off into the brush and we move on. We continue on until the paved road ends 17 miles into the park. Denali is still 70 miles away, but we catch a peek of it periodically as the clouds part for a bit.

We stop on the return trip to view 25 or 30 Dall sheep on the ridges above the road. Brian brings out a spotting scope that allows us good views of the sheep and their curled horns.


Further down the mountain we stop to view two huge Bull Moose meander along a small alpine lake. My vantage point didn’t allow for very good pictures. Rick got the best pictures. These were big burly moose. They made the cow look pretty homely and gangly in comparison. It’s kind of like comparing Russell Crow with Popeye’s Oliveoil.

We return traveling through the town of Talkeetna the jumping off spot for people attempting to climb 20,320 Denali (Mt. McKinley). The next day we stop at the ranger station where all the climbers have to register. To keep their rescues to a minimum, they make them all unpack their gear and inventory their stuff to make sure they’ve got 3 weeks of food and all the necessary climbing gear. No spending money helicoptering off bonehead tourists in flip flops and cutoffs off the glaciers for them. I picked up a book on the first winter summit called minus 148 degrees and learned a whole new respect for the big mountain that dwarfs Rainier. The mountain lift’s her skirts that morning and we’re treated to some spectacular views of Denali along with Hunter (14,573 ft) and Foraker (17,400 ft). It takes close to 3 weeks to climb the highest peak in North America, and arguably the tallest mountain in the world (starts at much lower than Everest). It’s not uncommon to have July temperatures dip to -40 degrees Fahrenheit. Our friends Art Foley and Julie Smith have both climbed Denali; I don’t think I’ll be signing up any time soon. They are both much tougher than I am.

We travel a bit more by bus and train out of the park but closer to Mt. Denali to spend the night at McKinley Lodge; I think it is also owned by the Princess Cruise line. There are a bar called 20,320. Spending time in the bar is the only way I’ll remember Denali’s height.

We finally make our way via the McKinley Express railway, skirting Anchorage, spotting a black bear on the river bed. We have a nice early dinner on the train and drink moose mary’s. That evening we arrive at the little town of Whittier, a narrow little deep water bay that is part of Prince William Sound. We finally spy the Island Princess, our home for the next seven days. The water under the obscene floating hotel cruise ship monstrosities is 6,000 feet deep. The processes like pampered Kobe beef cattle into the comforting womb of the mothership. We’re issue cute little Princess Credit Cards. We quickly start to eat Princess Food. By the end of the trip we expect to piss Princess blue and crap little Princess boats that they sell back to us in the gifts shops.
We checkout our lavish luxuriant accommodations. Joy Dad and I, the consummate tightwads, are sharing what we fondly refer to as the honeymoon suit. The room is about 8 x 10 equipped with single bunk beds. I think some may have referred to it in the past as steerage. Joy quickly claims the top bunk. We have a view out the little port hole of the side of a life boat. We might not see much out the window but we’ll be one of the first out should we pull and titanic and hit an iceberg. We sail away through the night and arrive in the wee hours, 5:30 AM, at College Fjord. After being wined and dined the night before it takes a hearty soul to hope out of a warm bed to view the sights. Joy is that hearty soul. After hearing the naturalist’s narrative droning on with a steady monotone that is impossible to make out actual words down in steerage. Joy pops out of bed, tosses on some cloths and goes up on deck to see if we’re sinking. I stagger up 15 minutes later to a spectacular view of glaciers flowing down into a placid sea that reflects the clouds on a windless morning. Dad follows a bit later. The rest of the gang chooses to sleep in for some much needed beauty sleep. They finally drag themselves up on deck as we are motoring out of the fjord.

We continue on to Glacier Bay for more spectacular views rare sunny skies. Many of the crew members are on deck taking pictures as well. Many have never seen the weather so good where you have views of the glaciers and the mountains above that are normally shrouded in clouds. We spend several hours just admiring the scenery and the occasional calving of the glacier into the water. Bobby captures one of the better ones on film. The cruise ships get very close to the glacier but are no longer allowed to honk their big steep fog horns to break loose the ice for the tourist. The probably caused the swamping of a few wayward kayakers. We spot a harbor seal and eagle on the little drifting ice chunks. We even see a grizzle bear on the far bank that you could only make on through binoculars.

We make cruise out of Glacier Bay and keep our eyes peeled for more wildlife. Bob captures a good shot of what I’m guessing is either a minki whale or small humpback whale. We enjoy another fabulous meal with our waiters who are quickly becoming our close personal friends. We dine on escargot appetizers and variations of lamb, beef, and seafood.
At sunset. Joy and I go up on deck to watch the sunset. We’re treated to an incredible sunset with the wake of the ship leaving a trail back to the white glowing mountains with the orange sky reflected in the clouds above. We suffer minor hypothermia and a dieing camera battery to capture a few memories as we huddle together shivering romantically. The rest of the gang takes in a comedy show, Dad spends the evening between the Library and reading in our room.

We cruise through the night to arrive in the morning at Skagway, population 800 with 65 miles of road. The cruise line crowd swells that number to over 10,000 most days in the summer. There are 3 or 4 in port. After a morning run through touring town Joy and I hop aboard the Yukon Scenic Railway to make a make a run past 2,865 White Pass and the Chilkoot Trail, the road to the Klondike during the gold rush. The poor, adventurous, or just greedy miners had to haul 2000 lbs of gear up the pass. Enough for a years supply. They were checked out at the top before they were allowed to continue. We pass into Canada’s Yukon Territory. The Canadian customs people check out passports on the train that is really in the middle of nowhere. We arrive at Fraser and Bernard Lake for a little kayaking adventure. It’s a bit windy so we head out with our 4 guides and a dozen or so fearless kayakers. We’ll actually some of them look very afraid but all are willing. Joy and I are the most experienced and quickly leave the crowd in the dust to meander into the calm bays and wait for the group to catch up. We sail with a stiff tailwind back barely having to paddle. The rookie guide then is apparently required as a right of passage to do a polar bear dip into the frigid waters of the lake that only lost its ice a few weeks ago. The estimate is the water temp is a balmy 44 degrees. He tries to recruit some tourist to join him. There are no takers. We sit around and swill hot chocolate and quaff Oreo cookies and watch him shiver. If memory serves me, the Full’s and Even’s spend some quality couples time in Skagway shopping for jewelry and gifts. You should have seen the gleeful look on Bobby and Rick’s faces when they heard the morning agenda. Dad took a different train ride that cumulated in a seafood feast. Interestingly the American custom officials didn’t even look at our passports. They just wanted a head count. So much for homeland security. Send this on to any terrorist you know. I think I’ve spotted the weakness in our fight against terror.
We come together for another wonderful meal. We all have frog legs. We’ll at least I had frog legs. Seemed like cheating eating frogs I didn’t catch like we did as kids. They were good but personally I would have let these little frog go to grow up a little. We enjoy another evening of shows and lounging in the Library reading while watching the scenery to by. as we head for Juneau. We watch Dan Bennett, the juggling comedian. The next morning we tour the Juneau Macaulay Salmon Hatchery with thousands of Chum salmon milling around the hatchery. Eagles and Gulls are feasting on the carcasses strewn randomly across the beach. On the wall is a mount of the former world record sport caught King Salmon - a staggering 92 lbs. We make stops at the museum and continue on by bus to a native garden and the Mendenhall Glacier, a long meandering glacier that cumulates in a lake just a 40 minutes or so outside of Juneau. An impressive water fall flows out of one side and we spot a few colorful red sockeye salmon in the little creek that is the outlet for the lake.

Next - a full day and night cruising toward Ketchikan. We take advantage of a seafood buffet and admire the fruit and vegetable carving demonstration along with the ice carving demonstration.
In Ketchikan the gang splits up. Rick and Marie go on a rafting trip and Bobby and Berna take the adventure cart tour. Joy and I do a little 12 mile bike ride with only one other tourist and a guide. With 35 miles of road in Ketchikan the road biking options are pretty limited.

We make the final push the next day for Vancouver. That night we have lobster. Dad and Bob and think tie for the most lobster eaten, both devouring eight of the little crustaceans. The rest of us suck down a paltry 3 to 5. We are treated with traditional flaming baked Alaska (serno cans on top) for dessert paraded around the room by the large staff of wait persons while they belt out the Macarena on the speakers.
It was a great trip and fun was had by all. I’d write more but it is late and God knows you don’t want to read more of my drivel. Enjoy the pictures even it the words put you to sleep. My editor is in Chicago visiting with her family so suffer with my typos and grammatical mistakes. Please don’t point them out to me; my ego is fragile and easily bruised. I make no claims to the accuracy of the chronological order of the events depicted here. If any of our cruise gang wants to correct me they can write their own damn story.

Bike Crash 1999

Bike Crash & Battered Husband Story


Well, it's time for me to confess. I'm a battered husband. We all know my wife Joy's violent tendencies. She must have snapped. Perhaps it was because I buttered her toast on the wrong side, or took the last piece of pizza one too may times, or that she realized the Victoria Secret catalog was actually addressed to me. But you should see me. I'm a mess. I've got a bruised and battered face, bandages on both elbows and one shoulder, and stitches in both knees and a collar bone that's cracked in two placed. Who would have thought you could do that much damage with a Nerf bat. Of course my macho image can't be marred by the truth so here is the company line.



My buddy Dave Rogowski and I were biking to the small town of Tenino Sunday and had just crested a mile climb and had started down the backside. Dave pulled in front to take a "pull" and I tucked in behind him. I remember looking down at the cycle computer see we were going 30 mph and were still accelerating, That's when I realized I had overlapped his rear wheel.



An instant latter I was flipping head over heels across the pavement. I remember thinking this was really going to hurt when I finally stopped. I was not disappointed. I came to rest in a cloud of dust in the middle of the ditch. I lay there for a while and did a self-assessment. I was bleeding pretty well out of both knees and had significant road rash on various other parts. My fancy new biking shorts were torn up pretty badly on the right side and the skin underneath was a nice crimson red, which is the wrong color for me. I'm an autumn color guy and reds don't go well with my complexion. I tried to get up. Dave strongly discouraged this. After the attempt I agreed he was wiser than his years. My shoulder hurt way beyond the pain from my road rash. I just sat in the ditch like PigPen in the dirt and looked at my crushed helmet and waited for the paramedics who Dave had called from the house next door. Six cars stopped to see if I was OK and one called 911 on his cellular. I did manage to hobble to the ambulance where they cleaned me up a little and determined I wasn't in any danger of croaking.



My folks were called and came and drove me to emergency. But don't worry, my bike is fine. Joy would have come but she was out shopping for a new Nerf bat. Seriously, she has been great. Since I'm one armed, she has been a great help, along with the pain medication, and I'll be up and riding again in a few weeks.

Classic biking log from 2003

It was a good week for us. We’ve been the workout couple. Joy’s been putting in a number of double or triple workouts. She’s been weeding, shopping, and fixing great dinners. Boy having her off in the summers sure is tough on me. After more than 14 hours of exercise this week, it was a little tough to overcome the severe pinpoint gravitational suck of the couch, which has the tendency to stick my sorry post workout ass to the spot. I’ve been trying to use cold Corona’s to counteract the phenomenon to little affect. It seems I hit the couch and turn on the Tour de France and the adhesive like vortex renders me immobile for several hours. This week I’m going to try more limes in my beer. I’m convinced the extra fruit in my diet will make me the efficient dutiful husband my wife has always desired.

Saturday I got a few errands done, I’ll not bore you with the details, but suffice it to say I had to redeem myself a little so I didn’t look like a completely worthless slob in comparison to my hyperactive wife. Joy thinks the trick was to do the errands and home maintenance chores before the workout. Personally, I still think the order I did them had no affect. I’m sticking to the more fruit in my beer theory.

Later Saturday we were to rendezvous for a swim at the local club after a 1 ½ hour bike ride. It was raining a little off and on, but it was warm. I decided to go a little longer than the 25 miles I’d planned. I figured I’d cut the swim a little short. My extended route, however, was a tad longer than I thought. It ended up being 43 miles. When I got to the club there was no one in the parking lot. They were closed for their annual staff picnic. Joy had been waiting for me in the parking lot for 1 ½ hours before she had given up and had gone home to worry about me and try and figure out what route I might have taken to see what ditch she should be looking in.

You might be thinking to yourself, “what a stinking little weasel.” That would be an uncanny coincidence, for while I was biking I actually found a stinking little weasel lying inert in the middle of the road. Most of you would have wheeled right by the little feller without as much as a second thought. I, however being somewhat strong of leg but addled in mind, thought . . . Wow, Cool! I’d better do a quick 180 and check this out. I was thrilled to find he was FRESH. Lucky for him I found his dead little carcass before some big truck had squished him into road pizza and ruined him. I did blow into his face a couple of times in a feeble attempt at weasel CPR. Then I poked him a couple times to make sure he wouldn’t revive in the back pocket of my cycling jersey. I was sure that would be a bad thing.

Call me a romantic, but I knew bringing home a stinking little weasel would redeem me in my wives eyes after causing her all that worry. So just when Joy was about to say, “Where in the Hell have you been!” I could pop out my prize and she’d forget all about my poor route planning and lack of a phone call.

When I finally limped on home and sprung my little surprise on her, she just looked at me funny and said, “You, my friend, are a weird sick puppy.” Sick Puppy is one of the many endearing pet names she has for me. So I knew I was OK and my plan had worked to perfection!

Now that I’ve convinced you all that my last bike crash has knocked me half a bubble out of level, Joy came close to matching me by yelling, “Hey take a picture of your weasel before you do anything with him. The thing I was about to do was to skin him out and add his hide to my little collection of mole pelts I’ve been collecting. He’s going to make a nice racing stripe down the middle of my moleskin hat.

Being the dutiful husband, I took the picture. Rather that a cold post mortem autopsy type picture I let my creative juices (well maybe just juice) flow. A few little props, a couple of rubber bands and the chicken hat off an M&M dispenser and behold, a work of art from the Sick Puppy himself.


And some of you think I just make this stuff up?