Tuesday, November 29, 2016

grat.i.tude (noun)

She interrupted our dinner conversation and patted my arm,  her big blue eyes boring through me with the little golden rings around the pupils.  "Hey mom!  Mom!"

"What is it, Eleanor?"

"Remember that time when you had cancer?  And you got really sick and almost died?  And anyone else who had your type of cancer died?"

"Yes, Eleanor, I do remember that."

"But you didn't?"

"That's right, I didn't."  I raised my arm to give her a fist bump, her favorite salutation.  She simultaneously cocked her arm for a high five.  So I opened my fist and raised my arm to match her high five, just as she lowered her arm into a fist to match my fist bump.  We all started giggling, and I admitted that I'm pretty much the worst high-fiver ever.  I'm so bad at high-fiving that my brother once gave me lessons to improve my high-fives.  Look at the elbow, he said, not the hand.  My high-fives are better since that time, but clearly there is yet room for improvement.

Ian then told a legendary story about pretend high-five classes that I had to attend, and how he would help me practice so that I could pass my high-five exams.  We all put our hands up over our dinner plates and he performed mock high-five drills, high-fiving Eleanor and my hands in rapid succession.  She could barely hold her hands up, she was laughing so hard.

"Now you, try, mom!"  She wanted to see my high-five prowess as I executed my drills.

I raised my right hand ceremoniously over my right shoulder, licked my lips, and proceeded to methodically hit and occasionally miss her hands.  I arranged my face in mock concentration, furrowing my brow as I pretended to aim for her hands but actually aimed to miss just a bit.

"Mom, you only hit my thumb that time!" she chortled.  "You can't even hit the middle of my hand when you high-five!"  She was now celebrating my terrible high-five abilities, too.  How delightful to share this family inside joke with her.  How marvelous to be silly at dinner while Azalea played the piano with her instructor in the other room.  How fortunate to be full, and to take time to digest over giggles.  How exciting to laugh on an ordinary evening.  An extraordinary evening.  So many extraordinary evenings.

Tuesday, October 18, 2016


I was recently invited to write a short essay for the magazine Living Well.  What follows is are the first and last paragraphs of that article.  Please click here to read the rest of the article on the magazine's website.  I am grateful to two friends, S. and D., who were my creative editors for the piece.

My hair is always the first part of my body to know that I have cancer. With each diagnosis, I made arrangements for someone to cut it and give it a cute albeit temporary style before the chemotherapy forced it out of its follicles. The first time I was diagnosed with breast cancer, my sisters’ friend gave me a pixie cut in the kitchen. The second time, I gave my young daughters the scissors and told them to have fun. After each cut, the hair follicles ached as they were bent in new ways, springing up with foreign lightness. It is this feeling on my scalp that affirms that I am not dreaming, that the course cannot be altered, that the reality of cancer is upon me. 

I was diagnosed with stage III inflammatory breast cancer (IBC) four days before my thirtieth birthday. I had felt a firmness in my left breast for 18 months, but since I was breastfeeding my second daughter at the time, various medical professionals told me it was a clogged duct. Or something unknown, but certainly not breast cancer. When the lump persisted after I finished breastfeeding, I found a new surgeon who was willing to perform a biopsy. While he was retrieving the biopsy sample and I was still on the procedure table, he told me that the tissue looked good and there was nothing to worry about. 

Until his nurse called me at work the next day. You have cancer. Go to the clinic. You have an appointment with an oncologist. Wait as long as necessary to speak with her.

Thus began my journey with breast cancer six years ago. My daughters were merely 1 and 3 years old. 

At first I had so many questions that I didn’t know where to begin. What does Her2 positive mean? What is the prognosis for IBC? Why had no one detected the IBC? What is going to happen to me? After chemotherapy started, my brain became too cloudy to hold on to new questions that sprung up in between doctor’s visits, so I started jotting my questions down in a notebook and bringing it to my appointments. 


Now I am 2 years past my second mastectomy, and I am NED—no evidence of disease. NED is the closest medical declaration for “cured” that will ever be handed to someone with stage 4 breast cancer. Indefinitely, now, is lovely. Indefinitely stretches out before me, three weeks at a time, as the anti-Her2 drips into my bloodstream and prevents new cancer from emerging. Indefinitely includes chaperoning my daughters’ elementary school field trips, gardening with my husband, hiking with my brother, and traveling around the world to give presentations on microbiology. That which used to scare me now empowers me. Indefinitely.

Do you know how long you will live? Neither do I. There are no data to inform my prognosis. The survival rates are poor for Her2 positive cancers, pretty awful for IBCs, and positively abysmal for stage 4 cancers. But one of my anti-Her2 drugs has only been on the market for a few years, so there are no data on long-term survival rates for patients who have been treated with this drug. I am generating the data with each breath. Because of this, no doctor can project how long I will live. That makes me not so different from most people. And we all have so very much living yet to do.

--excerpted from "Don’t Be Afraid To Be Your Own Advocate" by Heather Allen, published in Living Well Magazine in October 2016.  [I did not give my piece that ugly title!  I had much more creative titles that the editor apparently didn't appreciate.]

To read the full article, please visit my article at Living Well Magazine. 

Be well!

Friday, October 7, 2016

Advocacy overload

The same person who presented me with the opportunity to write an essay for Living Well magazine hooked me up with a few more projects near the end of September.  I gave a live interview at the local NBC studio regarding cancer survivorship and patient advocacy, and I recorded a public service announcement for a local radio station for breast cancer awareness month.  It was all quite a lot of fun!  I can't remember ever being in either a TV or radio studio before, and both were different than I expected.  The TV studio was spacious; the radio studio was closet-like.

TV interview on breast cancer awareness

Video interview on breast cancer awareness recorded at the radio studio

I have copies of the radio PSA clips, but I'm not sure how to post them.  I suppose you'll just have to listen to the radio this month and hope you hear it.  :)

Tuesday, August 30, 2016


August was a month of great fortunes.  The PET scan was once again all clear, with a minor exception of a possible blood clot in my neck.  A neck ultrasound revealed that it was nothing, and so I go on living as a NED person -- no evidence of disease.  The great fortune of being NED is sometimes overwhelming, but it's a burden I'll happily bear.

Additionally, I was invited to write a short essay for the magazine called Living Well.  I'm presuming that it's for an October breast cancer awareness issue or something.  They want to publish a small series of essays on the diversity of breast cancer:  one written by a doctor, and two written by patients.  They targeted one patient with early-stage disease and one patient with late-stage disease.  Remarkably, I am the patient with late-stage disease they invited to write a piece.

At first I felt that it was a bit disingenuous for me to write the late-stage disease piece because I am not living with late-stage disease.  I am living with a late-stage disease diagnosis, but not the typical manifestations of late-stage disease.  It turns out that that is what they were looking for:  someone who could put an atypical face on late-stage disease.  The person certainly could be me.

So, I wrote.  The first page of stuff was crap.  I had trouble knowing where to start.  Perhaps I'll turn it into a blog post, lol.  Then it started to get better as I wrote the easy stuff about the timeline of my journey.  Then I thought of a pretty sweet introduction, so I went back and rewrote the beginning.  Then I rambled as I discussed the second cancer, and it was just feeling like a whole lot of cancer treatment (maybe because it was a whole lot of cancer treatment, lol) so I cut some details.  Finally, I thought of a poignant ending and finished it up.  I solicited feedback from two of my writer friends, edited the piece, and sent it off tonight.  Woo hoo!

It was quite fun, really, and didn't take that much time once I let go of the pressure associated with writing a real-live article rather than a blog post.

Another cool thing I did this month was a tiny bit of activism.  I was invited to sit on a panel discussion of safe routes to school in my town.  I was invited because apparently I organized the first Walking School Bus in my town.  This sort of cracked me up because I didn't even know I was doing it.  I just wanted to walk my kids to school every day, and I figured that some neighbors might be interested, too.  So two years ago I started lightly coordinating about 4 neighboring families, and we all walk to school together.  Sometimes if a parent is sick or has an appointment, they just send their kids with the group, myself included.  We used to text each other at 7:30 am or so ("walking today?" or "running late!"), but now there is no question and everyone just shows up at the designated corner at the designated time.  We have anywhere from 1-4 adults with 2-12 kids, and we walk pretty much rain or shine.  In 1986 this would simply be walking to school, and it would be normal.  Today it's a Walking School Bus, and I'll go down in the history books as organizing our town's first.  Lol.

I also went to Montreal for a work conference where I heard about some amazing microbial ecology. I hadn't attended this conference since 2010, and it was scrumptious.  I have over 20 pages of typed notes (nerd salute!) and wish there had been two of me to catch the other great presentations I necessarily missed by being confined to one seminar at a time.  Also, this conference has one of the best conference dinners of all, with a DJ to spin some crazy beats and get the mad scientists dancing.  At 9pm the dance had yet to start, but my buddy A and I decided to change that.  That's right, with our labmates we opened the dance floor and got that party started.  A crowning achievement, to be sure.  

Thursday, August 4, 2016

Are you there, blog? It's me, Heather.

At least twice a month I think of something that would make an interesting narrative for a blog post, and then I don't make the time for a blog post.  That ends now.  Thanks for being here when I need you, blog, and for not being offended when I neglect you. 

I've arrived at another PET scan eve, and I find myself more nervous than I have been in awhile.  I feel healthy, alive, happy.  I have no reason to suspect that anything cancerous is happening in my body.  My brain knows these things.  However, something inside of me is whispering to my brain that I may have reached the statute of limitations on clean PET scans, even though my brain knows that that is nonsense and border-line superstitious.  This thing reminds my brain that the interval between my two separate breast cancers was two years, and we've nearly reached the two-year anniversary since my last mastectomy, so the next cancer must be just around the corner.  My brain counters this voice with a resounding, "Nonsense!  Those data are statistically unsound, and also meaningless because you've continued tri-weekly treatments with Herceptin plus a drug (Perjeta) that didn't exist the first time you had cancer.  Any cancer inside of you is continually beaten down, and it will continue to be beaten down indefinitely.  Besides, there's nothing to be afraid of, it's just a little PET scan."  

Just a little PET scan.  

The brain continues.  "Silly girl, the PET scan serves an important role for someone who is living with stage 4 cancer.  The cancer could indeed flare up at any time, and that's why we do the PET scans.  To catch the emerging cancer.  Avoiding PET scans would be irresponsible at best, and negligent at worst.  Stop this fear-mongering, take your PET scan, and chillax."

Oh, brain, what would I do without you?

This conversation with my brain reminds me of another one I had back in June.  My dear friend R was visiting from Massachusetts, and we were having a normal conversation about normal things.  Somewhere in that normal conversation I said, "...when I get cancer again...".  She stopped the conversation in its tracks, and instead we discussed my choice of the word "when".  R prefers the word "if", as in, "if I get cancer again".  I reasoned with her that I used to use the word "if" when I was a cancer-free human, and I even permitted myself to use the word "if" during that time between the cancers.  I have since tried to refrain from using the word "if" when I talk about my future with cancer because it causes my heart to jump into my throat.  You see, the problem with "if" is that it comes with a truckload of uncertainty, and that uncertainty breeds fear.  I hate living with fear.  In contrast, the word "when" takes the uncertainty out of the equation and reduces my fear.  It helps me to accept the entirely probable possibility that I'll have to deal with cancer again in a big way in my life.  Indeed, I continue to deal with cancer every third Friday when I go to the clinic for two hours of cancer-fighting drips.  But this kind of dealing-with-cancer is easy to marginalize because it doesn't interfere with my quality of life.  

I learned from my conversation with my friend R that the problem with the word "when" is that it unnerves some people, including some of those in my support network.  Cancer-free humans probably take comfort in the distance provided by the word "if" because they don't have to visualize cancer or its fall-out.  That's understandable.  But those of us who've had cancer lack the luxury of distance, and we benefit from the power that comes with the word "when".  It's a small power, but important. 

I feel very fortunate to even be having these conversations with myself.  I was diagnosed with stage 3 inflammatory breast cancer almost 6 years ago, the diagnosed with stage 4 ductal carcinoma in situ breast cancer with lung metastases nearly 2.5 years ago, and now here I am with no evidence of disease.  It stuns me to think about it, so I don't think about it very often.  I just breathe deeply and express my gratitude for this day, and the next day, and the next day...    

Thursday, December 17, 2015

The weight of gratitude

It's just a random Thursday in December.  It's not an anniversary of anything joyous or tragic.  Perhaps it's the joy that my kids brought to our activities this evening, or the successes at work today, or the excellent playlist I put together on Spotify, or the family I'm missing, but my heart is really full.  And I felt like writing about it.

After work I took my student out for a beer to celebrate the submission of his first manuscript.  It's a big accomplishment in a graduate student's career, and I wanted to mark it with a social outing.  We were joined by our collaborators after we had all bashed some code in a 2-hour bioinformatics sesh.  Everyone was feeling accomplished and merry.

Before the beers arrived, my colleague, S., started a conversation with me by saying, so, how's everything going?  This is always a loaded question for me because I never know if the person is asking about normal things or cancer things.  People often want to know about cancer things but don't know how to ask about them directly, so I have to infer from the way they ask if they're inquiring about my holiday shopping achievements or my PET scan results.  You can imagine the difference:  "How are things going?" in a light, skippy tone, vs. "How are things going?" with emphasis and gravity.  I don't see S. very often, so it was hard to distinguish what type of "how's it going" she meant.  I opted for a response of, "Really great, thanks!  I have treatment tomorrow, but last year it fell on the day after Christmas so tomorrow's a pretty good deal...".  I felt ridiculous and wished I had gone the route of discussing what Santa is bringing my kids.  Fortunately she's great and saved my lousy conversationalist self by diverting the conversation elsewhere.  I suppose the positive spin on this is that my cancer is a normal part of my upbeat existence, but I do feel badly for all of the innocent friends, family, and colleagues who fall under my cancer-accepting bus during normal conversations.  Please know that it's something I'm working on.

This brought to mind the news that I had yet another clean PET scan in November, on the Monday after Thanksgiving.  I've lost track now--is that three or four clean ones in a row?  Perhaps five?  It's a small mountain of clean PET scans.  You should know that I do not take any of them for granted, although the result of each one is a bit surreal.  In my mind I have stage 4 breast cancer, but the scans seem to be taunting, "no you don't".  Then my treatments say, "yes, you do".  Then the scans say, "no, you don't."  This argument can go on for the next decade as far as I'm concerned.  Whatevs.

Speaking of 10 years, my Medical Oncologist was on the radio a week or so ago because her research study made the popular press.  She was the principal investigator on an analysis of data from women who had stage 4 breast cancer between 1988-2011.  The part that I keep hearing on the news is that of these stage 4 patients, the 10-year survival rate for those who had surgery to remove their primary cancer was almost 10%.  The survival rate of those who did not have surgery was only 2.9%.  This news got me all excited because I of course chose to have surgery, so I have the potential to fall in with the 10%-ers.  My decision to have surgery was a big deal because none of the medical professionals could advise me on whether or not to keep or remove the breast.  All four surgical oncologists at the fancy hospital discussed my case at Tumor Board said that my case was a medical gray area, and so the decision was mine.  It was clear to me and my gut feelings that the breast had to go, and these new data seem to validate my decision.  10%!  That's a fantastic number.  As I have sometimes complained about when it comes to experiencing a rare side effect, I've rarely fallen in with the majority in my activities, so this is one time I'll be elated to be a part of the minority.  #bethe10%    

All of these thoughts were in my mind tonight as I was running the sewing machine on Calvin's Christmas present in between dance breaks with my daughters.  Azalea was choreographing an elaborate duet in the kitchen, sketching diagrams on the whiteboard for Eleanor and I to follow.  I sewed while she drew the next position, then she'd call me in to run through the dance with Eleanor.  Eleanor was my sewing buddy, pushing the pedal on the sewing machine at my instruction.  We finished both the gift and the dance, leaving all of us feeling full of creativity and productivity in equal measure.

They are such treasures, my daughters.  I am so grateful to be here to dance and sew with them.
Then Bruno Mars starting crooning over the bluetooth speaker, "You can count on me like 1, 2, 3, and I'll be there..."  I started thinking about all of the people who have been "there" for me.  I started to worry that I haven't been "there" for all of my loved ones in this year of recovery.  Have I been too selfish?  Have I spent enough time tending to the needs of others?  I don't think so.  So many people are in my heart to reach out to.  Hopefully I can improve the balance as I continue to survive.  
In the meantime, I have a few more nights with the sewing machine in my future as the Christmas holiday approaches, and hopefully the dance parties will continue in tandem. My heart is filled with gratitude for this life.

Thursday, November 12, 2015

The Enchanted Valley

This is the third post describing my hiking adventure with my brother, Ryan, in the Olympic National Park last summer (June 2015).  The first post described my first day in Seattle, and the second post described my first day of hiking toward the Enchanted Valley.  The current post describes my second day in the backcountry, when we made it to the Enchanted Valley.  

After a deep, unbroken sleep in the backcountry, we awoke a little after 7 am to the sun beginning to warm our tent.  We each crawled out of Big Agnes from our own personal door, our feet sinking in to the cool gray sand.  It didn't take us long to get busy doing some camp chores.

Ryan used the single camp stove to brew us some coffee. He has an adorable little percolator coffee contraption that is made out of some sort of metal that is entirely too heavy, but my brother isn't bothered by the extra weight in his pack.  After the coffee was brewed, he put on a pot of steel-cut oatmeal, loaded up with plump organic raisins and a scoop of brown sugar.  
This is our little cooking area in the morning light.  You can see the two-piece coffee pot with a black handle, sitting on the rock, to the left of the red fuel canister.

Our boots, warming and drying in the sunshine.  In the background you can see me down in the creek.
While he tended to breakfast, I sat on a stone in the creek and pumped water through the filter.  The sun warmed my back while the water rushed by my feet.  As Ryan had shown me, I faced downstream so that I could pump the water from a small clear pool rather than the stirred-up rapids.  We had vessels for carrying almost 10 liters of water, and we decided to fill them all up for our big day of exploring so that we wouldn't have to pump water again for awhile.  It takes awhile to pump 10 liters of water.  I still wasn't done when Ryan brought my coffee and oatmeal to the creek, so I asked him to take some photos of me pumping water, so that I could show my kids how it was done.

Here I am in Pyrites Creek, pumping creek water through a filter to make it potable.

This is the end of the tube, resting in a clear pool of water with very few visible particulates.

The thing with the red top is the pump + filter.  You work the handle up and down, sucking water out of the creek through the tube and into a water storage vessel (shown here in green + duct tape).
And that concludes the water filtering lesson because that is when Ryan fell into Pyrites Creek and broke my camera.  Since I did not bring my cell phone into the backcountry, I did not have further means for taking photographs.  Ryan had his phone, but it was less than 20% charged so we had to use it sparingly.  Thus, I have no further photos of this day (unless my brother supplies them to me...).  

We left our tent and the majority of our supplies at Pyrites Creek, just carrying water and snacks for a day hike into the Enchanted Valley.  It was about 3 miles from camp to the valley, and the forest looked much like it had yesterday but with more meadows.  The meadows were remarkably dry and a bit brown from what had been one of the hottest and driest Junes on record.  The trees, however, did not disappoint:  tall, wide, old, and fragrant.

After a quick little hike we came upon the entrance to the Valley.  It was marked by a tall wooden gate across the trail, unconnected to a fence or any further barrier.  We opened the gate to pass, and dutifully closed it behind ourselves despite its unclear purpose.  We crossed the creek on a huge log that had been carved into a bridge, with a handrail on only the left side.  The other side of the log was completely open to the water tumbling over rocks at least a story below us.  This was the most exciting creek crossing and my favorite one of the trip.  The day was warming up considerably, and I was a bit hot from the hike, so it felt good to cool off in the moist air above the creek.

Around another bend or three we had views of the chalet in the valley that is on all of the photos and postcards.
Image result for enchanted valley chalet
From google images of the Enchanted Valley
Unfortunately, the Valley looked nothing like this on my Valley day.  It was hotter than a dickens and dry as a bone.  Most of the greens were browns, and all of the breathtaking waterfalls were dried up save for a tiny trickle of white over there, maybe, or it could have been a long white rock.  The good news is that the hot and dry version of the Enchanted Valley was still beautiful in its own special way, with its majestic trees and broad meadows.  We hiked maybe a half-mile past the chalet, and considered hiking up to the pass, but I was threatening to get overheated.  After exploring the valley for a little while and munching on some lunch, we decided to head back to camp.

We made it to camp by 2pm, and I was HOT.  I was trembling as I raced to remove my boots, put on shorts and a t-shirt, and throw myself into Pyrites Creek to cool off.  The water took my breath away and quickly brought down my core temperature.  The water was too cold to stay submerged for long, so we alternated swimming and sunning for about an hour.

Now it was only 3pm, and this presented a problem.  It was far too early to start the evening and dinner routines, but we had already achieved our Enchanted Valley goals.  What should we do with our afternoon?  After weighing our options, we decided to break camp and hike out to O'Neil's camp.  O'Neil's was three miles from our current location, and 1/3 of the way back to the car.  This was therefore a reasonable plan to give us an activity for the rest of our day, and also to put us closer to the car for our hike out of the woods on the next day.  It didn't take us long to pack up and hit the trail.

We were less than a mile from O'Neil's camp when it happened.  We saw a bear!  We may have even seen two bears. The bear was working on a project in the middle of the trail about 30 yards in front of us.  It was perched on a little dirt mound alongside the trail, tearing strips of wood from a stump.  Our view was poor due to trees blocking our view, and the bear kept re-positioning, so it was unclear if the bear was working alone or if it had a cub working with it, too.  We backed up, way up, so that we could still hear and see the bear but felt more comfortable with the distance.  We kept talking to each other so that the bear knew where we were.  We considered returning to Pyrites Creek, but I was tired.  I had walked 6 miles to and from the Enchanted Valley, plus another 3 miles to this here bear.  I was not in the mood to add mileage to both today and tomorrow's hikes out of fear of a bear.  We alternated moments of waiting and retreating, waiting and retreating, until we unanimously decided to walk around the bear.

The trail containing the bear happened to be at a location favorable for circumnavigation.  The mountain gently sloped on either side of the trail, and we knew that the trail was heading down and to the left.  So, we went off-trail and cut across the mountain down and to the left, with Ryan leading the way.  The ground was so littered with evergreen needles, sticks, and logs in various stages of decay that it didn't even seem like I was walking on earth anymore.  Instead I was sprint-hiking across the springy ground, trying to keep up with Ryan as he navigated us to the trail as far away from the bear as reasonable.   All the while we tried to talk to each other so that the bear knew where we were, but in a situation like that it's hard to think of things to say.  I ended up singing Dory's song from Finding Nemo, "Just keep swimming, just keep swimming, just keep swimming."

Eventually we reunited with the trail.  I wanted to run down the trail, to improve the distance between me and the bear or bears, but I had to settle for speed-hiking due to my pack and the fatigue.  As I settled down from the bear scare I realized that walking around the bear was a metaphor for a lot of challenges that I've had in this life.  I couldn't move the bear, and retreating wasn't a good option, so I had to find a way to proceed with the bear.  I kept walking, and I walked around the bear.  I didn't let the bear interfere with my plans.  Luckily my brother was a good partner for this decision, as he has been for so many of my difficult decisions.

Shortly after the bear we arrived at O’Neil’s and set up camp.  This campsite was nestled in the woods a bit more, but nonetheless had excellent creek access.  We placed Big Agnes under a tree and next to a fallen log, then began our evening routines of cooking and water-pumping.  This night's feast was bowtie pesto pasta with goat cheese and sundried tomatoes.  I'm telling you, you've never tasted food so good as that prepared by my brother in the backcountry.

Unlike Pyrites Creek, this campsite had an established privy.  I felt obligated to use the privy despite my proficiency at peeing in the woods, in part because there was another tenter nearby.  Unfortunately, the privy was super creepy to get to.  It was easily 200 steps from camp (judging by the step data below) at the end of a narrow trail through thick green underbrush that was as tall as I am.  Thus, going to the bathroom was an exercise in bravery, particularly after seeing a bear so near to the camp.  I ended up singing loudly to myself for each step of the harrowing journey to the privy, until I could lock myself inside.  I'd start singing again right before I unlocked the door.  This time my song of choice was the Beatles', "Hey Jude", but I always replace "Jude" with "June" because that is my niece's name.  If my rendition of "Hey June" didn't scare the bears away, nothing would--Nah, nah nah, nah-nah nah nah.

After dinner and chores we headed down to the creek to relax.  I thought it'd be nice to stay up a little later than the night before to see some stars.  We found some ideally shaped stones and fashioned them into recliners in the creek.  We kept our bodies dry on the stones while the water trekked downstream.  We had great conversations, my brother and I.  We discovered that we live by some of the same rules.  My number one rule is: optimize.  Ryan’s rule #1 of the backcountry is:  don’t make a decision until you have to.  Rule #2, for both of us:  feels better when you earn it.

Sometime after 10pm it still wasn't very dark and we could only see four stars.  We realized that it was high summer in the Pacific Northwest, so it wouldn't get truly dark until much later.  We said goodnight to the creek, goodnight to our recliners, and turned in to Big Agnes.

Day 2. 28,802 steps. I think the bear scare is represented by the shortest orange bar between 4 and 6 pm.