tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-91734204246686455832023-11-15T22:18:05.624-08:00Dave Fiddles with CamerasDavehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.comBlogger29125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-91959850982607843912017-04-18T07:41:00.000-07:002017-04-18T07:43:15.535-07:00Canada Lake Expedition of 2016<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk59ETKmMMY1ljf3GXqWpDID8a_jybnaNhMRRKeLLqtBxMSJ4gKahv4QIiRbOuuX1vMy-_rF77YvNzlUowv5SjVzIeMMUkCGHfk2gZRNXXojI78a5n0jBNO7gKsfwv8ur6QhRRC1wEYzE/s1600/DSCF4511small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk59ETKmMMY1ljf3GXqWpDID8a_jybnaNhMRRKeLLqtBxMSJ4gKahv4QIiRbOuuX1vMy-_rF77YvNzlUowv5SjVzIeMMUkCGHfk2gZRNXXojI78a5n0jBNO7gKsfwv8ur6QhRRC1wEYzE/s640/DSCF4511small.JPG" width="640" /> </a></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td><td style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sobriety not really necessary for operating canoe.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Photos once again. Cruising the lake, etc.<br />
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Or for that matter, operating deck chair. Temporary Nirvana.</div>
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East-facing porch on a sunny September morning.</div>
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Steve Bannon's summer cottage</div>
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Man overboard!</div>
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Possible bikini sighting?</div>
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I am outraged, sir! What were you saying again?</div>
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Great balls of fire!</div>
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Photo by MH</div>
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Mysterious islet.</div>
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Primitive rites.</div>
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Secluded inlet, south end.</div>
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Goodnight, Irene...</div>
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Moments of Enlightenment!</div>
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Cosmic Joke for sure!</div>
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Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-74595645625369585772015-09-26T13:28:00.000-07:002015-09-26T13:28:36.127-07:00Found Weekend at Canada Lake
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Canada Lake Expedition, September
17-20, 2015</div>
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<i>Haas kicks back, majorly.</i></div>
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Cast of lovable misfit ex-cons, AKA the
Dirty Half-Dozen:</div>
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Mark Hotchkiss (known to grow a
mustache if he feels like it)</div>
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Scott Hotchkiss (wears a hat just like
a stone-cold killer would wear)</div>
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Fred Hotchkiss (something about this
guy just ain't right)</div>
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Dave Haas (wanted in three states for
assault by belching)</div>
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Dan Thomas (referred to by the inner
circle as El Bizarro)
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Dave Rockwell (related to the notorious
Hotchkiss Gang; kills with his camera)</div>
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And, appearing offstage in the role of
the Ghost of Claudius, Mark Haden, mysterious mastermind and possible
supercriminal Cosa Nostra fixer type.</div>
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<i>The cabin of fantasy, five hundred miles north of anything, accessed by floatplane only.</i></div>
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It was a fine Thursday afternoon. We
were gathered out on the dock; and we had gotten quickly into the
beer. There was a high-powered speedboat tethered in the locked
boathouse, with the rear end showing, and very soon Fred had Tarzaned
into the boathouse underwater, a long Bowie knife in his teeth
(figuratively speaking) and ascertained that the boat had the key in
it and would start. This prompted a terrible temptation and madness
in some of the company, but not all. Calls were made to Haden –
increasingly incoherent and profane calls, but Haden wisely would not
touch these proposals even with an infinitely long theoretical pole,
and no illicit powerboating ensued. We subsided into the inaudible
muttering of Inuit tribesmen chewing blubber, and more beer was
transported across the long gangplank, built on a set of bolted steel
rails stolen from a train yard a century ago. Clouds drifted by, and
an Hispanic stonemason tapped interminably on stones in the
waterfront just to our east. Each tap eroded, ever so slightly, the
plaster bust of our sanity. However, I think the primitive harmonies
of lake, cottage, campfire and freedom shored up that crumbling
sanity a little more than it was eroded and we came out of the
weekend restored, at least enough to carry on.</div>
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<i>Fred rests from his labors.</i></div>
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Every man carries within him the
trapped personalities of himself in previous stages of life, so they
say, and I believe. There is a toddler, and a boy, and a teenager,
and a young adult, all sitting back in there twiddling their thumbs
while the mature adult goes about his boring, unavoidable routine,
just waiting for death (according to the younger personalities). And
for any reasonable level of happiness, those earlier selves need to
be let out and indulged to some degree. So naturally this trip is a
yearly escape from the cage just for the teenager and the young,
unmarried adult: most rules relaxed or eliminated; personal hygiene
strictly optional; self-discipline in food or drink waived; and the
time available completely unscripted, with only the cohesion of a
small gang of adolescents with no clear leader. Once again the
female world is returned to its former status, when we didn't
understand it as we do now, and the mystery was intoxicating. I made
a toast around the campfire: Here's to our wives, God bless 'em, and
to them not being here. </div>
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<i> A rare moment of Porch Nirvana.</i></div>
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I was able to do some lengthy kayaking, and view a full spectrum of cottages from palatial to post-rustic; here are a few examples of interesting craftsmanship:</div>
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<i>Beautiful stone work, possibly unmortared.</i></div>
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<i>Railing just made for collapsing under dozens of Western movie bad guys dropping into the calm waters.</i></div>
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<i>A fugitive from the last Ice Age, hiding in plain sight, like Whitey Bolger.</i></div>
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And there are plenty of forgotten docks to be found which are clearly deathtraps, unfit to be walked on by anything bigger than a cat:</div>
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<i> </i></div>
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We did have a general goal to do some
golfing together, but in a style and manner completely lacking in
seriousness and rigor; hence as balls disappeared forever in the
Adirondack backwoods on either side of the fairways, we would curse
just for the fun of it, and get another ball. In three carts we
hustled along and kept ahead of the real golfers in their foursomes.
This was not the kind of course where you get escorted off for
wearing the wrong plus-fours – if such courses even exist anymore.
Mark was the one real golfer, and Danny showed good skills, but the
rest of us had to be content with the rare good shot which was
occasionally better for that spot. And for the kid in us, that rare
shot is the whole beauty of the game, and the score is just a
nuisance to be ignored. For the average golfer, this attitude is
necessary to prevent the famous golf-induced frustration that will
always set in, because if the score is all you crave, there are
always a huge number of players whose game you will never even
approach. Golf need not be “a good walk, spoiled.” But it
forces you to get your mind right, if you want any satisfaction at
all. A drive that lands somewhere near the fairway and a solid
six-foot putt once in a while are all I need to be happy.</div>
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Canada Lake is a fairly large,
oddly-shaped lake surrounded by hills and mixed forest, with fine
clear water and houses new and old scattered along much, but not all,
of the shore. The surrounding forest is a dense mixture of hardwoods,
pine and hemlock. Our cottage, rented very reasonably in the
off-season, is charmingly and genuinely rustic and run-down, but
still quite functional. It lends itself to the gothic imagination:
painted dark brown, with every floorboard creaking, and the whole
engulfed in hemlock, one could easily sink into a Lovecraftian dream
and imagine a race of misshapen humanoid squirrels living in the dank
crawl space with the more decrepit boats. Hemlocks and other small
trees have even been allowed to nearly obscure the view of the lake.
But the kitchen is excellently equipped with the needful: coffee
maker, modern stove, quality utensils and fine large chef knives
handy for slashing at zombies and the like.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4MKXOhVjn8v7tCv4i7OcawhKmvox85mGj_5o6nyqF1UT9-jrABdeys8dplp7d4KJaMFLxlbAKHXu53evy1eJteyflaDFUzQ0BEE6lPWUbNIm4wI0Zgq-zfm78B5smeyMFdx-o1thtJ-E/s1600/Twin+8pt+bucks.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4MKXOhVjn8v7tCv4i7OcawhKmvox85mGj_5o6nyqF1UT9-jrABdeys8dplp7d4KJaMFLxlbAKHXu53evy1eJteyflaDFUzQ0BEE6lPWUbNIm4wI0Zgq-zfm78B5smeyMFdx-o1thtJ-E/s640/Twin+8pt+bucks.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Notice the matched pair of eight-point bucks guarding the parlor.</i></div>
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There is also a large,
sagging boathouse with a completely renovated bedroom suite upstairs
(not rented by us on this occasion), and two kayaks, a canoe and an
ancient Sunfish sailboat, identical to those in which we as children
played pirates and perhaps learned the first basic requirements of
sailing on Quaker Lake, a half-century ago. </div>
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<i>The cottage of real life - a few broken windows and a million creaking boards. Oozes charm, as the agents say.</i></div>
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Unfortunately the sail on this Sunfish
is completely worn out, just waiting for the next good squall to tear
it to ribbons. The last foot for so at the end of the boom is torn,
so that the trailing edge of the sail flaps free, and in several
other spots small holes have worn through. Hence on Saturday when
the wind picked up nicely during my morning kayaking trip, and Fred
and I decided to go out sailing, the poor old boat could just barely
meet the challenge. We managed to broach it right at the dock while
hoisting the sail, which is also a clue to our level of incompetence,
but soon we were scudding – maybe a better term is trudging –
downwind, with me as captain by default, as Fred had last sailed the
Sunfish about 40 years ago.</div>
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We rounded the tiny rocky island (use
caution, real possibility of hitting the centerboard on a submerged
boulder here) a half-mile west in a few minutes and started to tack
back up the lake, and soon discovered that our upwind travel with the
terrible sail and the overloaded boat was going to be a real
struggle. Not far upwind of the island a sudden shifty gust caused
an unplanned tack, and our scrambling about caused water to pour in
over the side, and we were swamped, and drifting helplessly toward a
rocky lee shore, that much-beloved phrase so common in stories of
maritime adventure.</div>
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<i> Tiny dock on the tiny island.</i></div>
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Luckily a Sunfish can be quickly bailed out, and
we clawed our way back up the lake as the wind faded, shifted and
gusted in that enchanting manner which makes small-lake sailing so
maddening. There was much recrimination and blame cast as Kirk
blamed Spock for being drunk and disorderly, and Spock blamed Kirk
for being paranoid and incompetent, but eventually the tiny ship
warped into port safely, and beer was drunk. </div>
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Cooking was rudimentary, only slightly
more advanced than typical Neolithic or Neanderthal cuisine,
especially as the gas grill supplied was almost as craptastic as the
Sunfish sail, and had to be lighted with a long burning twig from the
campfire. Steaks and hot Italian sausages cooked in the dark kept us
alive and drinking. I am a breakfast aficionado, though, so on
Friday morning we had cheese omelets, bacon and toast with our
coffee. On Saturday morning it was Jimmy Dean sausage and toaster
waffles, etc. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0pDcosuX_Xk7uXUxMO16-1BT0ZMbZsLIEd5fyAaJrDasXzk0E43MxkwQ5PhPeVZZ6lovPkWaaKngIYGmAgfgz7WsEeaQ1SbTiM2ov1HHtanj-Zr5Kk_UXLttWhEjd_licH_si-8Yz5g/s1600/sunfish+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0pDcosuX_Xk7uXUxMO16-1BT0ZMbZsLIEd5fyAaJrDasXzk0E43MxkwQ5PhPeVZZ6lovPkWaaKngIYGmAgfgz7WsEeaQ1SbTiM2ov1HHtanj-Zr5Kk_UXLttWhEjd_licH_si-8Yz5g/s640/sunfish+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Do not take this boat out unless you are a world-class small boatman and have insurance.</i></div>
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Central to the flow of time was the
firepit, flanked by ancient wooden benches, surrounded by hemlock,
near the kayak/canoe launch ramp. We kept the fire going the first
two days, using available moldy logs and fallen sticks, and also by
the slightly questionable but traditional method of scrounging moldy
old logs than might technically belong to an adjacent property. The
last night firewood was purchased and brought in, and used liberally,
though we could still sit on the benches without broiling. Each
morning we rebuilt the fire from embers. </div>
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<i>Rustic detail.</i></div>
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The fire helps the time
flow harmoniously, and the mind is freed to remember the summers of
long ago, and the tongue freed to tell the tales that we could not
forget if we tried. Some of them, anyway. And Saturday night we got
out Fred's drum, and Mark's didgeridoo, and Haas's hilarious little
wheeeee! device, and made some interesting noises to accompany a wild
variety of classic tunes from Haas's playlist. My boyhood dream of
becoming a world-famous didgeridoo virtuoso and Tuvan throat singer
was shattered, though, as apparently I just don't have the right sort
of floobly horse-farting lips for it, and I don't have the knack of
inhaling and exhaling simultaneously, either. Oh well! Fortunately
there was no recording made of this session, as far as anyone knows.</div>
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<i>Duke, duke duke, Duke of Earl, duke, duke...</i></div>
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I drove out early Sunday with Scott,
as he needed to meet his wife in Canajoharie (Indian name, translates
as “The Jar that Washes Itself” – apparently a reference to
some pothole feature worn into the granite of a nearby streambed). I
dropped him at the Betty Beaver gas station – a name that is
self-explanatory, once you see the impressive bas-relief logo. This
just begs for a syrupy country western song in the antique style:</div>
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<i>She said she'd meet me</i></div>
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<i> At the Betty Beaver</i></div>
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<i> And I swore I'd never</i></div>
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<i> Even try to leave her;</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> In Canajoharie</i></div>
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<i> That crazy old town</i></div>
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<i> The skies are starry</i></div>
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<i> And the beer's not bad.</i></div>
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<i> Let us pray that the new management doesn't dare to change the Beaver!</i></div>
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Our early departure apparently was
highly fortuitous, allowing us to avoid seeing Tarzan without his
breechclout wading out to secure the Sunfish sail before checking
out. With any luck there exists no photo of this, if such a thing is
still possible in this horribly virtualized world we have created. </div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i>Mennonite country in upstate New York; almost a green version of Montana.</i></div>
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</div>
Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-42499209345209592212014-10-16T20:12:00.002-07:002014-10-16T20:12:47.126-07:00Cycling in Paris
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We spent the last week of August in
Paris, just as tourists, celebrating life milestones. I quickly
noticed that cycling in Paris is nothing like cycling in American
cities. A case could be made for it being the premier large cycling
city in the Western Hemisphere. This is not an in-depth study,
though. Herewith a set of photos as tentative evidence:</div>
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Art bike:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A standard step-through city-use bike
that is nearly always plain black; but someone went to a lot of
trouble to give it a brilliant, unique Jackson Pollock-style paint
job. And it gets regular use, as I found it gone some days. Maybe
it was on loan to the Pompidou.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuh6XMpgW8_p45lToY5GJUCDixvmk7BdJNeegEtl0E476oGKv3z6UFd79pGrPlu7FJJjX7_tV2EKdO3PUbPdM1hhGRIWx9M1fMk7voVck1_Bw5sS11jQNncq9jdibQ4HFriDZxVctncE/s1600/classic.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuuh6XMpgW8_p45lToY5GJUCDixvmk7BdJNeegEtl0E476oGKv3z6UFd79pGrPlu7FJJjX7_tV2EKdO3PUbPdM1hhGRIWx9M1fMk7voVck1_Bw5sS11jQNncq9jdibQ4HFriDZxVctncE/s1600/classic.JPG" height="458" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Classic:
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I include this shot of an ordinary
vintage bike just for sentimental reasons; I rode a nearly identical
bike for many years in the 80s and 90s, down to the chromed fork, top
bar cable clips and center-pull brakes, and I hated having to change.
(I did have a better seat post.) I forget what happened to it.
Probably stolen. Nice to see someone keeping this thing going
indefinitely.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Boulevard de Magenta Bike Lanes:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I was so amazed at seeing the Blvd. de
Magenta for the first time that I was almost run down by a
fast-moving young Parisian on a bike. You will note (if you are a
cyclist) that there is a long, straight, well-marked, unobstructed,
separate bike lane on each side of the boulevard which is protected
on both sides by trees. There is a buffer zone on both sides of the
lanes where the trees are planted. Cars stay on the roads, bikes
stay on the lanes, pedestrians stay on the wide sidewalks next to the
cafés. This was not installed last week; it has the solidity of
time behind it. There is the occasional bench in the buffer zone,
and bike racks on most blocks.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It's almost as if – dare I propose
something so <i>outré</i> – as if the French consider cycling to
be a normal adult activity on a par with any other, and cyclists to
be ordinary human beings rather than depraved thrill-seeking
children!</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I'd dearly love to see a comparable
photograph of any street in any major U.S. city. Anyone? </div>
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Bikeshare in Paris:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Named Vélib', it is ubiquitous,
heavily used, and ridiculously cheap, considering that the first half
hour trip is free, and there's no limit on the number of trips per
day. A person could quickly become familiar with the locations of
the stations and work it to be completely free after paying the
yearly fee of 29 Euros. This would be a huge savings over any other
form of transportation besides walking. There are other rate
options, such as the one-week rental of 8 Euros, making sense for
able-bodied tourists. According to the Wiki, in 2011 the system
averaged almost 86,000 trips <i>per day. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">The
bikes are grey, either bland and soulless or tastefully chic, your
choice, and I witnessed a wide variety of people using them, in all
kinds of attire, almost never with helmets. This system was
initiated in 2007. I would have thought that it would be closely
studied and imitated by every city worldwide when planning their own
bikeshare systems; but that would be painfully logical. To blazes
with you, Mr. Spock, you pointy-eared pedant! We'll go to hell our
own way, thanks.</span></div>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Bullitt
Clockwork:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
A bakfiets with
disc brakes and a Fifties-style modern art cocktail lounge.</div>
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Delivery Trike:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Give a man a
brand-new, heavy-duty machine, maybe with one of those
electric-assist front wheels, and what's the first thing he does with
it? That's correct: he makes bets on how big a thing he can move
with it. In this case it appears that the limit has been reached.
<i>Merde!</i></div>
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Derelict:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
I saw rather few
abandoned bikes compared to the average American city; of those, most
had been heavily scavenged. So this stood out as an oddity: a
typical step-in town bike, sitting there long enough for the tires to
go flat and the pigeons to coat it with guano, and yet it is still
fully equipped. Alternatively, it might be an art installation. This
is Paris we're talking about. Art lurks everywhere, like young love,
ready to ambush you and play you for a fool.</div>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The “Fastlife”
Fixie:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Elegant, sleek,
stylish, yet inexplicably crowned with a torn up ruin of a seat.
Minor disguise to discourage theft? Victim of sabotage? Something
to do with protesting the evils of globalization? Or a police search for contraband <i>cigarettes electroniques?</i> </div>
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The White Foldie:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Notice the
integral welded rack and the seat with the springs, which the owner
locks to the frame.</div>
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(in voce Poirot) Observe, <i>mon ami, </i>here we have the Most<i> </i>Peculiar Ménage à
Trois:</div>
In close cahoots,
an inexpensive ordinary, a bakfiets with dwarvish coffin, and a
velocipede apparently custom built for a member of some other
species. Yeti? Wookie? Steve Buscemi? I regret I could not wait for
this trio to emerge from their café.
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The Insouciant:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/null" name="tw-target-text1"></a><span style="font-style: normal;"> Raffish,
devil-may care, competent, and with a plywood platform (</span><i>plate-forme
de contreplaqué</i>) securely mounted
between the inverted bars. One imagines an impeccably Mohawked young
savage briskly striding out of the bookstore with a volume of Marxist
romantic poetry stuck in his jeans, clipping into his Looks and
warping out into traffic as if piloting an X-wing fighter.</div>
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The “Railway”:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Probably the most
typical privately-owned bike. Chain guard, mud guards, generator,
headlamp, rack, wire basket, bell, paint it black. Practicality gone
mad!</div>
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The “Gazelle”:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Poorly named, but
with many interesting features: the braking rod below the handlebars,
the integral rear-wheel lock, the full chain guard, the heavy duty
mudguard, the fancy rear light, the heavy-duty rack, and the frame
pump. Stolid, totally reliable, lasts forever. Maybe owned by a
German?</div>
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The “Sparta
Pickup”:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Alright, wipe that
smirk off your faces, wiseguys. This is the bike that that original
Marathon runner – Pheidippides, I think his name was – would have
died for if he hadn't died from running so hard. Note the super-duty
front rack, the extra-heavy-duty chromed seat springs, the doubled
top bar, the fully enclosed chain and the industrial-strength
bifurcated kickstand. If you're going for practicality, dammit, go
all the way. None of this plywood crap. Spartans – We brake for
nobody.</div>
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The “Kolkhoff”
- For Madmen Only</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> Okay,
let's take the mystique of the Practical Black Bicycle </span><i>one
fucking step too far! </i><span style="font-style: normal;"> Take your
time as you scan this magnificent machine. Your eye is irresistibly
drawn to the sex toy in the center, on which the cyclist sits and
pilots his Mystery Ship. A passenger sits in the back, his feet on
the bars (check your shoelaces!), wearing a little black bowler and
reading his newspaper; a </span><i>charmante mademoiselle </i><span style="font-style: normal;">perches
elfinly (there is so such a word) on the seat welded to the front
bar, her feet on the bars bolted to the fork and her silk scarf
waving gaily in the breeze. It would be nice if she'd tear open her
blouse and start waving a huge tricolor, but let's not go nuts.
We're trying to get to work and deliver a gross of perfect </span><i>croissants</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
in the big plastic crate in front before the expresso passes its
peak. And when we arrive, we will have a choice between the sturdy
bifurcated kickstand or the standard kickstand – unless the latter
is actually some kind of antenna that continually reports back to the
Central Scrutinizer somewhere deep under Paris. </span></div>
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Velotaxi at Work:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Velotaxis are
common wherever tourists might be found; they go fearlessly into
traffic. They come in such varied design that I don't think I saw
two alike. A fine thing I'm sure, but I wouldn't ride in one on a
bet.
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Velotaxi waiting
for a fare:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> I
have no explanation for this. Perhaps the guy just got this job last
week. Maybe he's filling in for his cousin. Maybe the round thing
behind him is a grill full of sausages. That would get my business.
But the colors! </span><i>Sacre Bleu! </i><span style="font-style: normal;">(I
picked up lots of French in a week. It's an piss-easy language.) Unfortunately this was typical
of the place: filled with outstanding works of art, gorgeous women
dressed in impeccable taste, and all kinds of monuments of great
charm and dignity, and, with dismal regularity, things that are
exactly the opposite. Ugly graffiti, ridiculous clothing on people
other than tourists, establishments selling </span><i>le cigarette
electronique </i><span style="font-style: normal;">under the moniker
</span><i>Le Crapoteur. </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Truth.
Will supply proof in my essay in preparation entitled Paris Street
Scenes. </span></div>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Yellow
Delivery:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Another very
heavy-duty practical bike with impressive racks, but at least it's
not black. Two big locks. We did not meet any of the legendary
suave and debonair Parisian thieves, but I'm sure they still ply
their trade with alacrity and diligence. </div>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Little Local Velovia:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Bakfiets for sale! I didn't actually see any of these orange wheelbarrows in use anywhere. All the ones I saw looked both more functional and more elegant. But somebody must be buying them. Pilgrims from Portland?</div>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
To Sum Up:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> Ah,
Paris. Elegant, oblivious women everywhere; small dogs lifting their
legs over the bizarre shoes of store-window mannequins. Interesting
bicycles on every block. And should you feel for some reason
deprived of the refreshing sight of beautiful naked breasts (</span><i>les
beaux seins nus</i>)<span style="font-style: normal;">, simply raise
your eyes and scan the majestic buildings for statues, and soon
you'll find relief. Just don't stumble into a busy bike lane as you
are gawking thusly; it would be terribly </span><i>gauche.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<i> Typical Parisian university students cramming for exams.</i></div>
Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-30225593847909686882014-10-12T19:09:00.003-07:002014-10-13T14:48:34.386-07:00The Iron Man of Brackney<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Hannah and I left our pond, headed
north, slogged through mud, briars and deep wet meadow to reach the
spring and cistern; I pulled out a few buckets of silt, and we left,
veering northwest, off the property, across the road and onto Scott
Van Atta's land, through young maples and old apples, the latter
locked into a doomed struggle to keep some light, growing tall and
spindly, then curving down over to reach open space at the edge of
the meadows.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Scott died not long ago. He was
about 80 and in generally fine health. He still rode his fancy road
bike with great regularity, and in the winter he snowshoed his way up
the nearby Catskills. At some time not too long ago he had a sort of
fainting spell while riding, and went to the doctor, who after
careful examination cleared him to ride again, as they couldn't find
any specific reason to forbid it. Then he had another episode while riding and
was taken to the hospital in an ambulance; he was conscious and
joking with the rescue people, and gave them contact information; that night
he died in his sleep and could not be resuscitated.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Spring-fed cistern that feeds the pond </div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I've known him at a distance all my
life; he was a childhood and lifelong close friend of my mother. He
lived in a very small house on eleven acres just up the hill from my
parents, who retired to the ancestral farm in Brackney, Pennsylvania
about twenty years ago. He was a fairly introverted person,
apparently, but did show up occasionally, and was an excellent
neighbor, always willing to help my parents out. One would not call
him a hermit, as such, but his house consisted of one room, a small
enclosure holding a hot tub, a deck along the southwest edge of no
great extent, and a modest woodshed. One might call it a shack, but
it did have electricity and a wood stove, and was well-built and
insulated. Hannah and I, walking his meadow, found his long gravel
driveway and went down it to pay our respects.<br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Just as he left it. Chainsaw, splitting tools, this winter's heat all ready.</div>
</div>
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<br />
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On our right as we neared the house
was an area devoted to splitting large rounds of wood into firewood
chunks; on the left was the woodshed, about half full of neatly
stacked chunks. The single object leaning against the back of the
house was a high-quality bicycle pump. There was no trash, litter or
clutter of any kind. There were no windows except the entire
southwest wall: an expanse of glass facing the beautiful hills
surrounding Quaker Lake. Under the deck behind a low door I could
see, through a gap, a large gas-powered snow blower, a wheelbarrow
and a lawnmower. There was nothing resembling a lawn, though; he
must have mowed immediately around the house as it suited his
convenience. I asked Hannah if she saw any books inside; she said
no, but then said, yes, there's a stack of books apparently propping
up a piece of furniture. There was a large bird feeder on the south
side, with two heavy-duty cylinders, and it looked as if the
metal-sheathed post was smeared with axle grease to discourage those
without wings. Behind the woodshed there are eight plastic garbage cans full of rainwater.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Patton Road</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Perhaps a decade ago my cousin and I
went to visit him at home, though I can't remember the circumstances;
he invited us in and we admired the view, and it seems in my memory
we said very little, or perhaps it was just Scott who said almost
nothing. But we were all comfortable; although the visit was a
unique occurrence, the three of us are aborigines, so to speak, of
these hills, and there was none of the normal underlying tension one
feels with the average human gathering.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Scott's View</div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So the mystery of the man himself
remains. Was he, as I might idealize him, a sort of Zen master or
simple Taoist sage, or, had he just come to resemble such a person
through some kind of convergent evolution? The subtraction of things
from a person's life can destroy the person, or teach him and change
him. He had lost his marriage; his four children had all moved away,
though as far as I knew they were not estranged; he did have a female
companion though they didn't routinely live together; he had little
money, or if he had it he did not use it on worldly goods, except his
bicycle. To me he always seemed quietly cheerful and content enough
not to have to speak of things general or specific. It's a much
overlooked, but nevertheless high achievement: to feel no anxious
pressure to chatter, to fill the silence, but rather, to inhabit the
silence comfortably – to enjoy rather than fear it.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRWcKGwqrPLaRI0Y2Cedxz5TrtwIKunoXcmdpYHKYxIWuSeprpdeOpSoAh-1qk5ssYmxPROpOWIREagxgPd_P6afusJ82GQ_DAS1SGSjFO3n32o5caYhF05DpBmx_nw5LFbh8j3_5emw4/s1600/DSCF3366.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRWcKGwqrPLaRI0Y2Cedxz5TrtwIKunoXcmdpYHKYxIWuSeprpdeOpSoAh-1qk5ssYmxPROpOWIREagxgPd_P6afusJ82GQ_DAS1SGSjFO3n32o5caYhF05DpBmx_nw5LFbh8j3_5emw4/s1600/DSCF3366.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
Haiku for Scott</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
The bicycle pump</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
leans against the silent shed;</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
split wood is stacked high</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-1vVzu5vu2AP5c5FlQr1APkZn7qG_cDfejRvgOEBvmBfmraFCiyTtKiPPROsnR8n3rgngoqRrKMKuicXjAFEzwSSsnq7mhSY94X0snW8S_0rUm1AO-oDid39igYCD8eM6978j7Z2PnE/s1600/Scott's+apples+1s.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV-1vVzu5vu2AP5c5FlQr1APkZn7qG_cDfejRvgOEBvmBfmraFCiyTtKiPPROsnR8n3rgngoqRrKMKuicXjAFEzwSSsnq7mhSY94X0snW8S_0rUm1AO-oDid39igYCD8eM6978j7Z2PnE/s1600/Scott's%2Bapples%2B1s.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
for the winter he</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
will not see as it returns</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
to his hills this year.<br />
</div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg_M9tMhC6YkMqENmDME93FC8us1tiHyFBMZO142JVZ7tsaDa70wmF7YNWMcRbXjgttlK1-n5FlxiNBGWmTmi8RYrrY2C3qm4l21YE57XAgXhElcdb4Y6CGyHEuyBXORWwgpIop4aivBY/s1600/DSCF3368.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjg_M9tMhC6YkMqENmDME93FC8us1tiHyFBMZO142JVZ7tsaDa70wmF7YNWMcRbXjgttlK1-n5FlxiNBGWmTmi8RYrrY2C3qm4l21YE57XAgXhElcdb4Y6CGyHEuyBXORWwgpIop4aivBY/s1600/DSCF3368.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
The great window looks</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
southwest and down to the lake,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
now an empty stare;</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
no hungry birds wait</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
on the empty feeding post</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
at the meadow's edge.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVbYjE3Lv0dVGhiu362sliNUBsE4SfICfxWoRxn_7E11iAoKJmMu0QflKKszrfNRDkxpUiJvkCeIWowOJmqr0I7s3sCwzyzY8AsF0Dqu7cWo67D_392VOk-qXueUb90yXhCrKziNIreY0/s1600/DSCF3352.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVbYjE3Lv0dVGhiu362sliNUBsE4SfICfxWoRxn_7E11iAoKJmMu0QflKKszrfNRDkxpUiJvkCeIWowOJmqr0I7s3sCwzyzY8AsF0Dqu7cWo67D_392VOk-qXueUb90yXhCrKziNIreY0/s1600/DSCF3352.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
We remember him</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
with respect and affection;</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
yet hardly knew him.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirecmMXfyiUXFs879S5hzYLN0AD1so3_fkrfcOBMVOWWTV1j0OhkQLk8wcJ_Ej8i3WOUk_qjUK-fA3Vd5cn9AaCVrGV4NoH-bh0wM55imIfDEnTF9FSwGir8MazQdjD_2G9B3QXyjpZnU/s1600/Locust+2s.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirecmMXfyiUXFs879S5hzYLN0AD1so3_fkrfcOBMVOWWTV1j0OhkQLk8wcJ_Ej8i3WOUk_qjUK-fA3Vd5cn9AaCVrGV4NoH-bh0wM55imIfDEnTF9FSwGir8MazQdjD_2G9B3QXyjpZnU/s1600/Locust+2s.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Ancient giants: locust and willow</div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
Let us imagine</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
a phantom cyclist circling</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
the beautiful lake.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH-5ptrLZ_Hsv46UKLwOq4qSBTb6mxQ7zQCm207DYviMhHdbNjDIdb0VDUAKYgK2-07MRn5Vr1FpOp491a68jhFEIGzbPQ71B3Tcw1bg8qCBGdM4ipQoyEUBXaQFk_pbICNE2HCjahgJ8/s1600/Scott+QL+2s.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgH-5ptrLZ_Hsv46UKLwOq4qSBTb6mxQ7zQCm207DYviMhHdbNjDIdb0VDUAKYgK2-07MRn5Vr1FpOp491a68jhFEIGzbPQ71B3Tcw1bg8qCBGdM4ipQoyEUBXaQFk_pbICNE2HCjahgJ8/s1600/Scott+QL+2s.JPG" height="430" width="640" /></a></div>
Scott's deck chair<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
In another month</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
the maples will conjure fire</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
and the last blooms fly;<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetUJid468FijtzPmEAbbpAEA0Di2xBugPV1R4pxVsoxdIVPaJdRp37EdN0fU23jJeRHfjYb_yaw3CW7Pf12waHYOOneKY3_JNIblFfQP6O1o1XjOsFa_DAwQ-IoLtRsbbhVrv79JsqcQ/s1600/DSCF3360.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjetUJid468FijtzPmEAbbpAEA0Di2xBugPV1R4pxVsoxdIVPaJdRp37EdN0fU23jJeRHfjYb_yaw3CW7Pf12waHYOOneKY3_JNIblFfQP6O1o1XjOsFa_DAwQ-IoLtRsbbhVrv79JsqcQ/s1600/DSCF3360.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The insidious <i>Fallopia Japonica</i></div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
I will walk the woods,</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
harvest wild apples among</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
squirrels and walnuts.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfgL0tQ3O1r9_bWqnC5jUgYxQRM3ODmzywTpktXECeSuxhfzuIPqwAnqY03tZk-Y7dGkhtt09dEoaOmBDZE5Oc0EKRyS0rIjKkJ-JiRF1-qpwEraB5lXkbSt5spEVFiHjlgxLW2oxTrF4/s1600/Locusts+1s.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfgL0tQ3O1r9_bWqnC5jUgYxQRM3ODmzywTpktXECeSuxhfzuIPqwAnqY03tZk-Y7dGkhtt09dEoaOmBDZE5Oc0EKRyS0rIjKkJ-JiRF1-qpwEraB5lXkbSt5spEVFiHjlgxLW2oxTrF4/s1600/Locusts+1s.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-2803592404003123942014-05-20T09:14:00.000-07:002014-05-20T09:14:19.930-07:00Magic Carpet Ride
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">May 18<sup>th</sup>, 2014</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Remembrance of Geoff, at Carderock.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> It was a fine spring day; the river
was high, and Carderock was a sea of mud in all but the central core,
from Biceps to the Dream. A crowd of mismatched persons of all types
gathered in the parking lot and told stories, passed around old
snapshots, listened to an old tape; trying to pin down a man who was
widely known and liked, and instantly identifiable, and yet was also
elusive, secretive and perplexing when one tried to get too close.
He was notoriously averse to having his picture taken, yet many have
surfaced, which might or might not yield clues to the man. Not
imagining I had fewer years of his company left than I had anticipated,
I was never systematic about recording his exploits or documenting
him, though I and others often thought we ought to get together and
do that. But eventually he became more at ease with my occasional
camera, as does a wild animal with the naturalist's camera trained on
its watering hole.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> We stood around and talked, lunched on
excellent potluck fare, drank lemonade in the shade, and eventually
drifted away; some of us filtered down to the X and did a little very
lazy bouldering, and lay around in casual conversation. There was a
sleepy feeling, and lack of any ambition; I had brought toproping
gear out of pure habit, but made no move to set anything up. I
thought about the difficulty of really explaining even the few easier
problems I can still remember well. A brilliant tapestry of
intricate and beautiful problems, scrolled across a quarter century,
lit by delectable sunlight, inexorably fades even as we try to grasp
and hold it. What is indelible is the good-natured feeling of our
interactions on that gray schist.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> By weird coincidence, the day after
the event Hannah ran across a set of photos in her computer taken in
the fall of 2011, of a group of us goofing off at Jan's face. I did
not remember them and don't even know who took them. One of them is
a group portrait, shown below; and it is remarkable in that Geoff is
front and center, smiling, at ease, and I think, finally allowing
himself full and appropriate membership, in harmony with humanity, so
to speak. Those who spoke of him at the event rightly stressed his
very gregarious nature, his basic love of people and his willingness,
nay, eagerness to teach and help others; I feel that it took him many
years to grow out of, or at least soften, his distrust of others and
his need to dominate any contest. I like to think this photo is
evidence of that.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGFZwwtu3IqngTweizJrL_Xqa66rV_ekbLNCtsPPDPtesx26KEWm18TgG6gqeGQEaDyyyzgSdlPzuOBMwkEyCtR19CLH_aveQY90k2W0l4CdGClu4wt1TwtA8CFkxECgJW2_y1pR55DI/s1600/Geoff+group+with+crutches.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqGFZwwtu3IqngTweizJrL_Xqa66rV_ekbLNCtsPPDPtesx26KEWm18TgG6gqeGQEaDyyyzgSdlPzuOBMwkEyCtR19CLH_aveQY90k2W0l4CdGClu4wt1TwtA8CFkxECgJW2_y1pR55DI/s1600/Geoff+group+with+crutches.jpg" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br /><span style="font-size: large;"></span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">left to right: Steve Tise, Andy
Bennett, Geoff Farrar, John Gregory, John Ely, Dave Rockwell, Chris
Mrozowski.
</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I couldn't speak at the gathering; I
knew that I would embarrass myself with a show of emotion. But if I
could, I would have said something like this, clichéd as it is:</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> My name is Dave Rockwell. At a rough
estimate I bouldered with Geoff about 500 times. All men must die. As climbers maybe we
are less squeamish about death than some, but it still stings. We've
lost a senior member of our expedition, so to speak; and a loyal
companion on the steep and rocky climb. We'll just have to continue
on without him. But we'll keep close at hand the useful knowledge
that he tried to get through our heads: which is that in fact we <i>can</i>
solve problems that we're sure are impossible. Like:</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Geoff, I can't stand up on this!
There's no foothold here!”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yes you can. Just hold your foot
like I showed you and straighten your back. Now: <i>just stand up</i>!”</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> And we did.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
</div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> L. Frank Baum specified
that Ozma of Oz crossed the deadly desert, which is death to step
upon, on a large magic carpet that unrolled in front of her and
rolled up again behind her, as she was drawn in her chariot by the
Cowardly Lion and the Hungry Tiger, and followed by her entourage.
He probably did not intend it as a beautiful metaphor for life and
consciousness itself, proceeding along over the meaningless abyss of
the physical world through an inexplicable process of continual
creation and amazement, so to speak. On this journey, our companions
and our companionship on this strange carpet are everything. The
rest is silence.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA9Zv5T3xmj26HcuI-BgvVIFXYXwVJLheE-JKnibpSUr18GfjsM_T38Ph9BsPfIfsYC6INmIB-ZSDt1D88qgTzoHSM6JuCPRL-stV1TItobAMG4XTv6p5OgVSP3Q2adH4pqHHWCfLpD8M/s1600/DSCF0734.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA9Zv5T3xmj26HcuI-BgvVIFXYXwVJLheE-JKnibpSUr18GfjsM_T38Ph9BsPfIfsYC6INmIB-ZSDt1D88qgTzoHSM6JuCPRL-stV1TItobAMG4XTv6p5OgVSP3Q2adH4pqHHWCfLpD8M/s1600/DSCF0734.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">
</span><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-10913459928612154522014-03-04T20:46:00.002-08:002014-03-04T21:13:09.910-08:00The Wobbling<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wSsCje9XnFNdmetb9mTLEwrdJ8gFThQnOVlCezcV1M4f5TPc26iKhEP0hsPer794IpdB7ajaFaK3hf0nJkWgbsQvDz3hd97GfqUpO-Qt2MKhWLcScYnwfq2_e0Bobc5fr9PLFxERZ3I/s1600/Cellini's+Perseus.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wSsCje9XnFNdmetb9mTLEwrdJ8gFThQnOVlCezcV1M4f5TPc26iKhEP0hsPer794IpdB7ajaFaK3hf0nJkWgbsQvDz3hd97GfqUpO-Qt2MKhWLcScYnwfq2_e0Bobc5fr9PLFxERZ3I/s1600/Cellini's+Perseus.JPG" height="640" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Cellini's Perseus savagely defies death, time and the domination of magic. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
There is a general life cycle common
to organic systems, from bacteria to mammals, up through evolutionary
styles, countries, empires, civilizations, and possibly even the
hypothetical/metaphorical organism Gaia herself. We all know the
stages of the cycle instinctively:
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Impregnation: fertilization/initiation
of an unfolding sequence;</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Growth: strife/exuberance/expansion to
the available maximum;</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Spinning gloriously: successful
consolidation/stabilization;
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Senescence: slightly over the hill,
contraction, decay;</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Wobbling: a period of increasingly
erratic behaviors;
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Failure: catastrophic system breakdown,
dissolution.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyF0fmel5Mif_xoSKv7xacDf0ALyq4Wi2sZIVSltEIgS5dU2Du3M__mtU9rTkjMh5UxgEcUzZPnKpVgTb40Gyba_rzU-S3Lmwfz3pfWtUVI3ubVDFvUflOnbYL4eqYnL1dciUyOeDtRSA/s1600/ciao+nun.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyF0fmel5Mif_xoSKv7xacDf0ALyq4Wi2sZIVSltEIgS5dU2Du3M__mtU9rTkjMh5UxgEcUzZPnKpVgTb40Gyba_rzU-S3Lmwfz3pfWtUVI3ubVDFvUflOnbYL4eqYnL1dciUyOeDtRSA/s1600/ciao+nun.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Ciao, nun."</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Finally, the detritus left behind
furnishes the elements that will assemble into a new organism, either
fairly similar to its predecessor, or possibly mutated into something
noticeably different, and from that zygote all begins again.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We can observe this pattern in many
forms in the history of human civilizations, but it is perilous to
try to place our own civilization's position in the cycle, because we
are inside it, and can not have the perspective and context that a
millennium or even a century will bring to future observers.
Nevertheless, the knowledge of this cycle is so deeply ingrained in
our individual and collective consciousness, that we make decisions
and experience feelings every day based on our intuitive estimate of
where we are in the cycle right now. And so there is a hypothetical
but fascinating group feeling or opinion that we suppose to be out
there, that we call the Zeitgeist, or the tenor of the times, or some
such phrase. We spend a lot of effort trying to pin down that
feeling, taking polls and watching the mighty opinion stream that we
now have access to, but it is a lot more difficult to really assess
than, say, estimating the flow rate of the Mississippi at any one
time.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxj0JarDmwvMqnMMbtnVV8a4WI3e5UOmo8z_nvnTxdYTGoykmQG078-4JXCOLpf00exhRYdAFbwuGgvoJNsp9snd29fQOxBKbrqd-yHVwNlwwbjbQ7ZS17b4igZelk-A-UHHvlYgC3cK8/s1600/and+how+miserable+life+among+the+abuse+of+power%252C+cop+slave.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxj0JarDmwvMqnMMbtnVV8a4WI3e5UOmo8z_nvnTxdYTGoykmQG078-4JXCOLpf00exhRYdAFbwuGgvoJNsp9snd29fQOxBKbrqd-yHVwNlwwbjbQ7ZS17b4igZelk-A-UHHvlYgC3cK8/s1600/and+how+miserable+life+among+the+abuse+of+power%252C+cop+slave.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"and how miserable life among the abuse of power... cop slave!" Graffito in Florence 2008</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
And, is this Zeitgeist, if it were in
fact observable, of any actual use? Does it correspond to reality in
assessing where we are in the Cycle? Interesting studies have shown
tantalizing evidence that crowdsourced wisdom, when aggregated in
large blobs and averaged, is sometimes more accurate than expert
analysis. Also, in the case of such informational aggregations,
there can occur a feedback loop in which an opinion gains strength
and through its own existence causes effects that appear to validate
it, making it even stronger, sweeping many human brains before it,
but not necessarily correlating to or much affecting the actual cycle
of the civilization experiencing it. Hence various panics, religious
manias, irrational market swings, exuberant fads, and senseless
violence by the occasional feebleminded individual or cult tend to
reinforce the fear that we are now Wobbling, as the Golden Age phase
has lost much of the high-speed rotation that kept it gloriously
spinning as we danced. But are we in fact Wobbling? I refuse to
assert that we are; but here are some minor examples for your
consideration.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From Reuters, 2/9/2013: Amish Leader
gets 15 years for attacks</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“An Ohio Amish sect leader was
sentenced Friday to 15 years in federal prison for his role in
leading hair- and beard-cutting attacks on members of other Amish
communities in 2011.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Prosecutors had recommended a life
sentence for Samuel Mullet Sr., 67, who was convicted of a hate crime
in September for orchestrating attacks carried out on six Amish men
and two women. Prosecutors said the attacks were motivated by
religious disputes between Mullet and other Amish leaders.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Fifteen of Mullet's followers in
the breakaway Amish sect, from Bergholz, who were convicted of
multiple counts of conspiracy and kidnapping, received lesser prison
sentences Friday, ranging from one year to seven years.”<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiZIxGiEzG72baMdcLaWHKTXJkljZ6D1CBu9SvBPBSyMvRJx5UMWUImocc-OVlv1GPndWRH8JniYSfZCqIaDqeRlJ8dpfrklPYAKwd_rtsq1Jlw8p3HRjKxmdLBxuN0djPGaBMhlNLdqA/s1600/Detail.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiZIxGiEzG72baMdcLaWHKTXJkljZ6D1CBu9SvBPBSyMvRJx5UMWUImocc-OVlv1GPndWRH8JniYSfZCqIaDqeRlJ8dpfrklPYAKwd_rtsq1Jlw8p3HRjKxmdLBxuN0djPGaBMhlNLdqA/s1600/Detail.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Throwaway detail carvings among the mismatched materials on a church wall not far from the Leaning Tower. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
A vignette on the human condition writ
small: a dominant male seeks to extend his dominance through
intimidation; his chosen avenue of attack, the sexual vigor of his
rivals as expressed in hair, a very traditional and ancient method.
Samson's strength was sapped, when his woman cut his hair; but his
captors neglected to keep him shorn, and eventually his strength
returned long enough to bring the temple down, the legend goes.
Newly captured slaves and young army recruits are shaved to
subordinate them, to separate them from their original strong
self-image. Most small, insular tribes have rigid rules of
appearance and style, because it is a simple and highly visible means
of demarcation – members can be distinguished from non-members at a
glance – and because it serves as a marker for the effectiveness of
the dominant meme of the group in keeping tight social control. A
cadet at any military academy who fails to shave, who neglects the
current standards of clean and shiny, will soon be cast out, if
punishment fails to bring him to heel. This is all so common that it
might startle us at first that Mullet's offense could merit a life
sentence; but then we see that his actions were deemed to be hate
crimes – far worse than, let us say, the roughhousing of teenage
boys, also seeking to establish dominance, holding one down and
cutting his hair. The identical motive is not nearly so odious when
conflict over religious dogma is absent.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqED2PohuJzbktvxtJiQZrtZD3-fpARq-3LuHZDEgwgJOyubWJDzhRdHPeWZAgZsWT4AQ2FJyJE0wZ3ce3OzcBSjJAA_fRUtqOdrASoQ93uy2yWwQIFHmORqyiOAwKNq4KKaBxxRQxerY/s1600/Golden+Age.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqED2PohuJzbktvxtJiQZrtZD3-fpARq-3LuHZDEgwgJOyubWJDzhRdHPeWZAgZsWT4AQ2FJyJE0wZ3ce3OzcBSjJAA_fRUtqOdrASoQ93uy2yWwQIFHmORqyiOAwKNq4KKaBxxRQxerY/s1600/Golden+Age.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The grand Renaissance fountain in the center of Florence. The frenzies of a golden age, gloriously spinning amid the chaos of the time.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Let us try not to snicker over trivia:
that the man's name is also the name of the least stylish of all hair
styles, and that in the mug shots we see that, to a man, they would
all benefit immensely from the services of a skilled barber, because
their hair and beards are all as ugly as so many mud fences. But I
speak from the arrogant and narrow point of view of the Roman, who
loves a smooth-shaven face and a well-proportioned, elegant haircut
precisely because it marks him at a glance as the infinite superior
of the smelly, hirsute, inarticulate savages living beyond the pale.
In America we mandate not only that all ideologies are to be equally
respected, as long as they do no violence to others, but also that
hatred itself be suppressed entirely, lest we sink back into the
savage mire. But these mandates cannot change our innate drive for
dominance, and their suppression becomes just another weapon to use
upon each other.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Why though is it necessary for tiny
groups to struggle with each other? In the context of a much larger
society that is prosperous and at peace, it is nonsensical. But our
primitive habits of behavior were forged through long millenniums
when peace and prosperity was invariably destroyed, either gradually
or suddenly, and we were forced to struggle by whatever means came to
hand. Instinct will surface even in a Roman, highly educated and
indoctrinated in the idealistic hatred of hatred itself. One trigger
of such instinct might be the deep feeling that there is nowhere to
go, to escape the press of other human individuals and tribes. One
can no longer break away from your stuffy elders and head west.
Instead one must somehow create some space in the midst of the
endless crowd.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgis24cr2wDqjQZzn1NyjbfIg5jAwx34KWdN0Dm4i9JgP5uwalnPBFwxOtNKSs0LcOok6XcstUoArnTWFbXpQDlUBR6113F7O0_xKuylOPwS0e8jo20LiLdicSXEiIuuTUqcdBBG201Xao/s1600/Suckled+by+Wolves.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgis24cr2wDqjQZzn1NyjbfIg5jAwx34KWdN0Dm4i9JgP5uwalnPBFwxOtNKSs0LcOok6XcstUoArnTWFbXpQDlUBR6113F7O0_xKuylOPwS0e8jo20LiLdicSXEiIuuTUqcdBBG201Xao/s1600/Suckled+by+Wolves.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Near the Leaning Tower, Romulus and Remus suckle from their wolf mother, absorbing the weird strength that sent that obscure tribe out to dominate all others.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Also in the Post on 2/9/2013: Two more
Marines charged in urination case
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“Two more Marines face criminal
charges over a 2011 YouTube video showing members of a scout sniper
platoon urinating on the corpses of Taliban fighters in Afghanistan.
The Marine Corps announced charges against Sgt. Robert W. Richards
and Capt. James V. Clement on Friday. Two other marines have already
faced court-martial in the case. Staff Sgt. Edward W. Deptola, who
pleaded guilty in December, was reduced in rank to sergeant and fined
$500.”<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymJCsgUGiCtthwUWZ2n2cOZYYdZnXGjj5KSkXM2RG_2CcRDaLgIO-lhdjc6QdTFS3GqlS_khAWbwRzemWDs32CErH1fOzmwGl_CnnLJA3N7biX8_l3tJCvQKgoYuTugI171dgrp0cP5s/s1600/Good+Hunting.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgymJCsgUGiCtthwUWZ2n2cOZYYdZnXGjj5KSkXM2RG_2CcRDaLgIO-lhdjc6QdTFS3GqlS_khAWbwRzemWDs32CErH1fOzmwGl_CnnLJA3N7biX8_l3tJCvQKgoYuTugI171dgrp0cP5s/s1600/Good+Hunting.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hunting along the crumbling balustrade as weeds grow in the cracks. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Here again, a far more primitive
behavior, with its roots in arboreal primate evolution. Monkeys
throwing shit to discourage enemies could evolve easily into the
human custom of expressing total contempt for enemies by urinating
and defecating on their corpses. This behavior unnerves modern man,
trained to think of his own species as having some irreducible value;
when circumstances become sufficiently competitive, though, we kill
each other, and in order to be able to do that difficult thing, the
individual needs to erect a barrier against any feeling of community
with his enemy, and so the act of contempt, not only in the
physically disgusting aspect but in the disregard of all normal
social barriers, redefines the enemy as being of a different,
non-human species – a process of redefinition pursued routinely by
many other means as well. Of course the enemy becomes, not an
animal, which could be respected in some way, but a sub-human, the
wretched mirror-image of ourselves as degraded savages – an image
that we fear as a part of ourselves, and therefore seek to cast out
onto some other tribe – preferably one whose land and resources we
need. Hence are the Jews called baby eaters, and all the other
million idiotic permutations of hatred bloom in red riot. A small
boy points a finger at another child and says, “Bang.”; he is
reported by school personnel and arrested by police – another
increasingly generic news story, reflecting deep-seated fear of the
violence simmering below.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So the staff sergeant was busted down
to sergeant and fined $500. After all, as war crimes go, this was
pretty small beer. Had he instead cut the beards from the corpses
and hung them from his belt like a Comanche, perhaps he would have
merited a more serious punishment.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9rs9s5Usx7qQ7yJNelOdhPV3cSxxVYmoyTwjZvQWYMxJTtiF5mCwHZ5b54GBZXQ0jSKDqyV5uHUZh6XYfSyJku3tfNDl2rC1sU7Dl_KIlEwWjJZaEQWjV-KJlJ4GTQi_AdxXE0H_hu4/s1600/I+love+you+mum+fire+to+the+prisons.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9rs9s5Usx7qQ7yJNelOdhPV3cSxxVYmoyTwjZvQWYMxJTtiF5mCwHZ5b54GBZXQ0jSKDqyV5uHUZh6XYfSyJku3tfNDl2rC1sU7Dl_KIlEwWjJZaEQWjV-KJlJ4GTQi_AdxXE0H_hu4/s1600/I+love+you+mum+fire+to+the+prisons.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"I love you Mom / Burn the prisons"</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The other day the Post printed a
generic letter from a self-identified avid birder as a coda to the
recent kerfuffle involving research done on just how many small
animals are killed nationwide by cats, domestic and feral. The
letter writer went further than the usual demand that all domestic
cats never set foot outdoors; he also demanded that all feral cats be
killed. This is a refreshingly honest (though painfully stupid)
manifesto. It perfectly encapsulates the innate attitude of the
world's hyper-dominant predator species. The moment we were able to
utilize our thumbs to good advantage, to use projectile weapons and
clubs, we made it our policy not just to hunt game, but to kill
predators. We quite naturally wanted to maximize our own food supply
and remove ourselves permanently from the list of prey species; hence
we killed all predators but the few that we could suborn for our own
use: the dog, the cat, the falcon, the occasional ferret or mongoose.
After farming was developed we also did our best to discourage
species that 'steal' our grain; cats and small dogs came in handy for
that.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn8u1qHhYJsCS9EAt9WLv4BFjTrhVUAfRz3pNU1CB7dyl5yFghdUNEJznKBLXrBcs44m3YqYBjSnfFNPQYQAX-pvHtyFG45kGnuw9DeEI_rdeO0I3eUrHVXVhGh_2EIz2z9Qd8kDovl8k/s1600/Hyperdominant+Predator.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn8u1qHhYJsCS9EAt9WLv4BFjTrhVUAfRz3pNU1CB7dyl5yFghdUNEJznKBLXrBcs44m3YqYBjSnfFNPQYQAX-pvHtyFG45kGnuw9DeEI_rdeO0I3eUrHVXVhGh_2EIz2z9Qd8kDovl8k/s1600/Hyperdominant+Predator.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A member of the world's Hyperdominant Predator species, with his feline ally.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
This policy of total ownership of nature results in profound
changes, of course, with many unintended consequences. The bird
lover cares little for our immense destruction of natural habitat and
climate, or the chemical problems inherent to the immense machine
culture that tends to all human needs; he just wants his pretty birds
to thrive, and not suffer the 'cruel' death by predator that has
always been the lot of a goodly majority of all the birds that have
ever lived. Birds reproduce very efficiently; all they need is ample
food and suitable habitat, and they will easily stay ahead of the
predations of feral cats, or indeed all cats. Something – either
predators, or pollution, or starvation – must remove a substantial
number of offspring before they reproduce, or the system goes
haywire, with greater cruelty – the blind mechanical boom-and-bust
cycle of unbalanced ecosystems, and indeed, of civilization itself.
This will eventually apply to us as well as to birds and to cats.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFucURRqhT0dWjo3JxNlL7TVXEitMvNajyV9YRpxDBYEGylNqI_rekCMwE838SNEKep0mlj-vu0WdiLDPAPwAa38omYiqaA9PNT7At-6yKy2U88SAiLeQKvt97Du7nGB_TsIxZy8aMHHo/s1600/Sweet+little+Assassin.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFucURRqhT0dWjo3JxNlL7TVXEitMvNajyV9YRpxDBYEGylNqI_rekCMwE838SNEKep0mlj-vu0WdiLDPAPwAa38omYiqaA9PNT7At-6yKy2U88SAiLeQKvt97Du7nGB_TsIxZy8aMHHo/s1600/Sweet+little+Assassin.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Sugar - a small, affectionate female who killed five rats last spring - that we know about. She played with one rat corpse so enthusiastically that it ended up inside the piano. Were we horrified? No. We laugh every time we think of it.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
In
theory we, who consider ourselves 'sentient' and allegedly 'sapient',
could deliberately avoid this imbalance; but we just cannot bring
ourselves to do it. With infinitely resourceful rationalization we
try our best to save all those nestlings, and give birth control to
the deer, and to bring all human zygotes to term and a long life no
matter what, and excise hate from the human heart by fiat. We simply
cannot bear to face the truth, and because of that we remain afraid
and savage at heart. I still have not decided whether it is better
this way. A rational and stable society would perhaps be
unrecognizably weird after a few centuries, and perhaps all sense of
an expanding future would disappear; we would no longer dream about
interstellar flight, or faraway worlds.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTg4LdxyjcaQ_vH-FEFiX7qEK0cHmR2OA2PO2HVWnEnzmVxGyl4mFq_wYc87X58eAOJa9UsX02sIoF8sJpc8M9svZdRbLg9Ij6dSox4nExJ-Q5x2rb6uIt0C60_bkpFweYZbHW2_h3_Y/s1600/Gatepost%252C+Verrazano+estate.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnTg4LdxyjcaQ_vH-FEFiX7qEK0cHmR2OA2PO2HVWnEnzmVxGyl4mFq_wYc87X58eAOJa9UsX02sIoF8sJpc8M9svZdRbLg9Ij6dSox4nExJ-Q5x2rb6uIt0C60_bkpFweYZbHW2_h3_Y/s1600/Gatepost%252C+Verrazano+estate.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Gatepost at the Verrazano estate. The foundation stones of the winecellars were laid down roughly a thousand years ago</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Nevertheless, this is my manifesto,
however ridiculous: that scientific method should become the official
standard for all knowledge used in public policy. Not superstition,
not faith, not emotional conviction, not anecdotal rhetoric, and not
political ideology. I realize that the logistical problems of my
proposal are formidable and vulnerable to infinite political
distortion; nevertheless, the world has inched, ever so slowly and
painfully, toward this standard for roughly the past 2500 years. I
might take heart in the decomposition by attrition of the Catholic
Church, but offsetting that is the strong religiosity of America, the
nation most dependent on science to maintain itself, and also
offsetting is the decline of rationality in public education, and the
apparent ascendency of ideological bias in education both public and
private. Is anyone measuring these factors? I would assume so,
since we measure just about everything nowadays. But how can we
officially encourage rational thought and establish a hegemony of the
scientific method, without triggering the revolt of the Mullets, and
all those others who cling to their emotional mainstays no matter
what?<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofWjaS-RP2NDkkh2nUN5_TSqljpxbZLptB4yJoLEHhriBXQMLcce6wUOVWnZ9wyOt33aX-ujSl-qdvVgL-rb4VTKjfwyy0cr3BDydh630Lh_aeaXrPsnub_25yeCOi6unWOBkTzx4VEs/s1600/Ponte+Vecchio.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiofWjaS-RP2NDkkh2nUN5_TSqljpxbZLptB4yJoLEHhriBXQMLcce6wUOVWnZ9wyOt33aX-ujSl-qdvVgL-rb4VTKjfwyy0cr3BDydh630Lh_aeaXrPsnub_25yeCOi6unWOBkTzx4VEs/s1600/Ponte+Vecchio.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Ponte Vecchio in Florence, also more than a thousand years old, has been rebuilt several times after Arno River flooding; the two central supports may be original. In the center of the span is the bronze bust of Benvenuto Cellini, ready to challenge all who pass by. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
As has been amply noted by many
brilliant thinkers, a hegemony of scientific method can just as
easily lead to dystopia as to utopia. Without a clear vision for the
type of life we would like our species to lead on this earth, science
is no better steered than the rudderless ships of religion and
totalitarianism. Such a vision should place paramount value on this
earth itself, and let the yearning and striving for an eternal Heaven
go. What is a good life for a human <i>on this earth</i>, and how
could it be made possible for most of us? And this is a more
difficult question than those that can be answered by science. I'll
save my speculations on that for a later essay. Meanwhile I've got
to pay attention to the amusing gyrations of the Wobbling.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgif1-wDm59Z4nrg5sC5_THNjAn1-sLLDBRdazf-feMSLpGnqrXX55Q8BPgwggBlen0s4Byz_V2xrjttY_sVMlvvOh40sOW0NVISsFB6s1s0SjjeRxY9d-I7318TONMsgM1Y6nGd5poocU/s1600/Iron+Ring.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgif1-wDm59Z4nrg5sC5_THNjAn1-sLLDBRdazf-feMSLpGnqrXX55Q8BPgwggBlen0s4Byz_V2xrjttY_sVMlvvOh40sOW0NVISsFB6s1s0SjjeRxY9d-I7318TONMsgM1Y6nGd5poocU/s1600/Iron+Ring.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I can't think of any caption for this iron ring. It stands alone. <br />
</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>Disorder in the house<br /> The doors
are coming off the hinges<br /> The earth will open and swallow up the
real estate </i>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
- <i>Zevon/Calderon</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">The
poor guy in Florida who just got swallowed up by the earth </span><i>in
his own bedroom</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> – and his
brave, ever-lovin' brother who jumped in after him in a futile rescue
attempt; the fault of our faltering civilization, or just a natural
tragedy like any other? Every death is a sudden swallowing of a
singular, irreplaceable world inside that arching skull. How could
we not be uneasy? The wheels on the bus go round and round; and one
day they start wobbling and falling off.</span> Hang on tight, kids!<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdJW0ZO8NYDZM2aOykKtLsdVPpsH6NZwynE3yhfVrLhv9XonRyZqfDfVXUVSlo1Wu6-NcmWsUoRoew1kv1EXVhPgbhyphenhyphenUq3QU347A402ZzKjGm2be8wv_lWwhcCxB29-YVrRGctNEFB6yI/s1600/Look+into+the+Future.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdJW0ZO8NYDZM2aOykKtLsdVPpsH6NZwynE3yhfVrLhv9XonRyZqfDfVXUVSlo1Wu6-NcmWsUoRoew1kv1EXVhPgbhyphenhyphenUq3QU347A402ZzKjGm2be8wv_lWwhcCxB29-YVrRGctNEFB6yI/s1600/Look+into+the+Future.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Somewhere there in the distance lies the Future. Look hard. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</div>
Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-18401536054642092432014-01-28T19:38:00.000-08:002014-02-07T06:32:52.643-08:00<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Crag X and Purple
Horse May 26th, 2008</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The river is high, and
all things are flowing strongly and well. Many hikers abroad, few of
them even a foot off the trails. I take the first left turn into the
woods after Gus’s Gambit and wander in deep shade, minding the mud,
stalking the great heron,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyEi1KsQ-LoTWIM58GvtYZc-nN0NIsbEtWYyDOr_6RHzSEDOe4axxCSoPnksm_rXR0-fEcKfqa5_b-tDJe6_ZptCA4Wj3reQeKKhX_n3ExsWHIzziRdP5IWMjnovR9p_7h7F8_SmKk7k/s1600/DSCF7391.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMyEi1KsQ-LoTWIM58GvtYZc-nN0NIsbEtWYyDOr_6RHzSEDOe4axxCSoPnksm_rXR0-fEcKfqa5_b-tDJe6_ZptCA4Wj3reQeKKhX_n3ExsWHIzziRdP5IWMjnovR9p_7h7F8_SmKk7k/s1600/DSCF7391.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Blue Heron,
contemplative.</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">and almost stumbling over the painted
turtle planted on the path like a little boulder. Past the table
block that fell a few years back from its ancient seat on a tiny
cliff, pried by patient roots;</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0rNxqX9m4VOgXKHx7228L-YRMgmLkWtR-9vDp9LE3hL_1-VNpgMvhaihpTYt0ZO5-k5LBGmh-NJEkGYkp7ZHbaWNB0xIfR4vkLvU8tIki1CiDgIQDdXwH-AEzzIcQLKlYl6VwHUIF44/s1600/DSCF0007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr0rNxqX9m4VOgXKHx7228L-YRMgmLkWtR-9vDp9LE3hL_1-VNpgMvhaihpTYt0ZO5-k5LBGmh-NJEkGYkp7ZHbaWNB0xIfR4vkLvU8tIki1CiDgIQDdXwH-AEzzIcQLKlYl6VwHUIF44/s1600/DSCF0007.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></span></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <i>The Uncarved Block itself, at home.</i></span></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> past the tiny creek seeping into the
river, where swallowtails abound; past the still green tarn with a
mud turtle sitting sentinel just where a giant rotting trunk plunges
into the opaque liquid;</span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_GWeH3psNXy8CXyZlo0-n2wiEM26VblMSxzj9mZEteYFueaa3Yzvit7saNHUuA15pJg8NNgIhQQfXj4tq_D5gvquA9efHJi1EOsovz3bIxoyrQ8SUtOwZFliRioY3BushJNdGAz6FW5o/s1600/DSCF0057.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_GWeH3psNXy8CXyZlo0-n2wiEM26VblMSxzj9mZEteYFueaa3Yzvit7saNHUuA15pJg8NNgIhQQfXj4tq_D5gvquA9efHJi1EOsovz3bIxoyrQ8SUtOwZFliRioY3BushJNdGAz6FW5o/s1600/DSCF0057.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">and on to Crag X, well hidden now in riotous
shade just a step off the trail. </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPY_6tf8A3-_Md_3QLhWt2OFvWE1nHi6drZtUuTJAcStRPytuHWQe4gwaC121FY9e7sy7F6ZNm00-B2dIDlKlHGMnFqdyu3ew5ZOWDF_u0_yIXT2VReTj7x7Ea0ONQaOaaln3QYJBxu8/s1600/DSCF0035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPY_6tf8A3-_Md_3QLhWt2OFvWE1nHi6drZtUuTJAcStRPytuHWQe4gwaC121FY9e7sy7F6ZNm00-B2dIDlKlHGMnFqdyu3ew5ZOWDF_u0_yIXT2VReTj7x7Ea0ONQaOaaln3QYJBxu8/s1600/DSCF0035.JPG" height="640" width="426" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>The common endemic species Boulderidioticus Potomacus.</i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> As usual my first duty is
to survey the poison ivy. It is still nicely suppressed but that
cannot last long as the great mother plant draped on the central tree
is fruiting strongly - I will not say nicely. I resolve as I have so
many times before to bring a small hatchet next time. I cache my
gear and solo seven routes, leaving out only the short 5.10+ that I
have done so many times before; today I take up the launch position
several times, but each time I imagine missing the bucket and
twisting my ankle on the rocks below, so I abort; it is an absolute
prerequisite to launch that one must be able to firmly visualize
latching that bucket to the exclusion of all else. I feel strong and
adept, having energy to spare even on the hard 5.8 with the little
finger slot that is so essential to one’s momentary survival at
that point. The sun is beating down now and I wander through a few
minor problems down near the river, and soak up the healthful
ultraviolet with my shirt off; my psoriasis is on the run. Rich,
muddy memory of the years and decades gone flows through my
half-empty head. Crag X has become a central redoubt in my life’s
image bank, a reference point of undimmed beauty and perfect love of
the world, part of the star map of my spirit if you will. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQbyrvwtWT7TAsCdh-8w9OD4Fogp3xjkVUQvAHOs6ZlicQiXEcdeRgeR0XYxSX7qjQ6oJkJU-tQjM_zE2MVe-eZBa8iU79z363r81F5_TRA-UlHcKyKlfRBdd0l6cAaLuUgQjIrAfXQLg/s1600/DSCF0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQbyrvwtWT7TAsCdh-8w9OD4Fogp3xjkVUQvAHOs6ZlicQiXEcdeRgeR0XYxSX7qjQ6oJkJU-tQjM_zE2MVe-eZBa8iU79z363r81F5_TRA-UlHcKyKlfRBdd0l6cAaLuUgQjIrAfXQLg/s1600/DSCF0023.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Crag X and the
Great, Grey, Greasy Potomac River </i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> A continual stream of
hikers chatters past on the trail; none of them see me. I am mindful
that the Nature Conservancy now considers this whole area their
bailiwick, to close as they please in favor of the undisturbed
existence of certain rare species. One climber of my acquaintance
has been asked to leave on three occasions; another says the park
super told him that no climbing areas are closed. I see a few small
signs here and there indicating that hikers may not step over a
certain log. I shall of course follow my ancient paths and ways of
the past quarter century, not unlike those bears of certain highland
heaths that have worn individual footprints, rather than paths per
se, in the heather. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I bid the local skinks
and bumblebees adieu and hike to Purple Horse, stopping en route to
view more turtles on logs, accompanied by a whole flotilla of immense
catfish lazing in the shallows as, at the other end of the pond,
several gentlemen are intently fishing. At the Barn Roof I lace up,
chalk up and climb it in the usual manner, but with unusual ease and
total confidence at the top, where more commonly some uncertainty
tends to lurk, sullying one’s pure enjoyment of the little
overhang. I’ve now settled on the best sequence:
counterintuitively I place the right index and middle fingers in the
nice bottomed slot, which is more balanced and less strenuous, and
then gently rising I cross the left hand over to the </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">exit bucket on the right
and walk off. Young boulderers: please master the most efficient use of all the holds below that exit move before soloing. You could hurt your ankle if you run out of steam.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4FTovp__LWhf33NxxGXmu6w1m7M9bH8sowQj701eHC-mi_I-CPZ8k78J-xoCGcqv6pTRoAVo6dYXC64YEDYDV6utUL3WxhsL1tC7ttEvZuv0LBLVXLzo-ZNnfiyOJqoT5hnlBJ6jGNEM/s1600/DSCF7374.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4FTovp__LWhf33NxxGXmu6w1m7M9bH8sowQj701eHC-mi_I-CPZ8k78J-xoCGcqv6pTRoAVo6dYXC64YEDYDV6utUL3WxhsL1tC7ttEvZuv0LBLVXLzo-ZNnfiyOJqoT5hnlBJ6jGNEM/s1600/DSCF7374.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>The Barn Roof. Start at the shaded bush and angle up rightwards. </i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> As I am walking off and at the top of the ‘old
route’ gully downclimb, a portly gentleman of some vaguely official
capacity politely explains to me that to climb in this park, as in
the park across the river, one is required have a ‘belay line’
set up. Rather than get sucked into a boring discussion of this
foolishness I simply promise that I will do so at my earliest
convenience, and we part on pleasant, if spurious terms. According
to him a hundred grand of taxpayer money has just been spent the
previous day on two helicopter rescues of foolish river-waders; he
does concede that climbers rarely need rescue here, and
I concede that fools do dumb things, to be sure. I did not expound
on my long-held conviction that fools should be allowed, nay,
encouraged, to kill themselves with their dangerous frivolity, thus
improving the environs and reducing the national debt all at once.
Such views are taboo, after all. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJVD2dWidx7e1-w7lLDQNOv-9GJmHIQpKGOodrDUHSmdfR7mE7JU7GCmblLru_Gi1YzCFYXwnT9mv_ne9Cy9zsRr9jK1Yxw32Q1AwPSCb4n5ntvDvmN2y3HCeI0wII2KxjN9KElxKKM6E/s1600/DSCF0061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJVD2dWidx7e1-w7lLDQNOv-9GJmHIQpKGOodrDUHSmdfR7mE7JU7GCmblLru_Gi1YzCFYXwnT9mv_ne9Cy9zsRr9jK1Yxw32Q1AwPSCb4n5ntvDvmN2y3HCeI0wII2KxjN9KElxKKM6E/s1600/DSCF0061.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Igneous Cubism!</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> As I lounge at the base
a woman arrives: fortyish and clearly some sort of ultra athlete,
alarmingly ripped, cut and honed. She asks me to watch her car keys
as she climbs the gully - which makes no sense; the keys weigh
nothing and could be clipped to her pants. It can’t be a gambit to
make my acquaintance, as she downclimbs in a minute or two, grabs the
keys and takes off quickly for a family barbecue. I just hope she
doesn’t suffer too much later from the poison ivy at the base that
she carelessly brushes through even after I’ve pointed it out to
her. One does what one can.</span><br />
<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i>This is a remnant of the Great Lost
Sigil of the demon now referred to by the cognomen Purple Horse. It
cannot be used, having been half-melted and fractured during the
Thaumaturgical Wars of the ancient era of Mu. It can only be seen in
certain illuminations and in certain odd states of mind. It still
possesses the benign power to send the imagination off on a comet to
marvelous places. It is written in the Book of Lost Utopias that Purple
Horse attempted to bring an ultimate enlightenment, or perhaps a sort
of spiritual orgasm, to all beings through a plangent vibration in
the structure of n-dimensional strings, but when this process was
activated some few beings were simply too stupid, causing a sort of
catastrophic snapping-back in the harmony of the universe and
eventually sticking us with the so-called civilization we now endure.</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> Off through the woods and
onto the towpath: photos of canoeing fly fishermen on Widewater,
three shirtless lads lounging on the tiny rocky islands therein, a
man carrying his Jack Russell under his arm like a football, yet more
sunbathing turtles including snappers in a pond right next to the
towpath, and a huge buzzard </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> <i>"I am the Buzzard King! Look on my wings, ye mighty, and-" "Ahh, can it, Bill."</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">lazily flapping down the canal about
twenty feet in the air. And as I near the parking lot, a police car
easing down the path, flashers on and the three likely lads in the
back; alas - they have sinned against the republic by risking the
deadly, swirling maelstrom of Widewater (read, placid pond) to take
their indolent ease on those small but sacred natural islands. And
so we are ever more separated and alienated from our own world.</span></div>
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Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-70838916257405421762014-01-16T21:03:00.000-08:002014-12-18T18:37:52.424-08:00Eulogy for Geoff<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Eulogy for Geoff begun December
29<sup>th</sup>, 2013</div>
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“Stand on your feet!”</div>
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My friend Geoff Farrar was a restless
soul. He died yesterday from a (presumed) short fall suffered while
bouldering on a sunny day in the heart of his own domain, at
Carderock Park, on the banks of the Potomac River. He was 69. The
painful duty and difficult task falls to me to try to portray him
honestly; not because anyone asked me, or because I have any special
status as his friend of perhaps 25 years; but just because I feel
this obscure obligation, an impulse to give my view of his
complicated life and personality; to explain to myself why he was
important.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The ectomorph in action.</i></div>
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Putting aside philosophical blathering
for the moment, I must explain the concept of bouldering briefly to
the uninitiated, because without that, Geoff's driving energies will
seem arbitrarily peculiar. Bouldering is the practice of climbing
relatively short stretches of rock without roped protection. Above a
certain undefined elevation, climbing without a rope is called free
soloing and usually exacts a penalty of death for a fall, whereas
bouldering almost never does. For many climbers bouldering is a
pleasant pastime that conditions the body for more serious climbing,
and an opportunity to hone pure climbing techniques. But for many
others it is a consuming art form in its own right, and after the
rise of John Gill and his ilk, it became recognized that there was
far more subtlety inherent to the apparently simple act of climbing
than had previously been realized. When I arrived at Carderock
sometime in 1984 I had been lead climbing and bouldering for a couple
of years and thought I knew something about it. I am a slow learner,
though, and it took me a few more years to figure out just how little
I really knew. I don't know when I actually started hanging around
with Geoff; to me he seemed like a bizarre freak of nature,
performing impossible little tricks with annoying ease. He was
always willing to show me, or anyone else, just how he did it; but
there is a huge gulf between seeing how it is done and being able to
do it. And he had no concern for your feelings of inferiority; he
just said, you can do it too; just stand up on your feet, keep your
butt in, and believe. And once in a while we listened, learned and
succeeded; but very few ever approached his level at Carderock.</div>
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This winter, after many struggles with
arthritis and other problems, Geoff was in decent form, though not by
his own standards; I was able to match him for the most part, and I'm
ten years younger, though with physical problems of my own. A couple
of weeks ago on a nice day we played lazily on the “Welcome to
Carderock” patch, a tiny stretch of rock that has dozens of
variations of one simple problem, some of them quite difficult
indeed. I did a particular version that starts with one hand high and
the other waist-high, and felt good because it had been beyond my
abilities for a good while; Geoff then did the same version
one-handed, first with the right hand, then with the left. He had a
couple of abortive attempts due to the delicate nature of his knee
joints, but he did them both clean. Ten years ago I used to do the
right-hand version occasionally, but I doubt that I ever succeeded
with the left. The man was unnaturally strong, you will say, if you
are a boulderer and you go and try that move; but although that is
true, the real skill was in his toes, for without a high degree of
skillful footwork, the only way to do that move is to blast a
one-handed fingertip pullup, no thumb, on a mild one-eighth-inch
edge. Try that sometime.
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<i>Walking the no-hands slab.</i></div>
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***</div>
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Email to John Ely:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0.2in;">
By now you know he's died. John,
Chris and I were going to keep mum for a while out of respect for
family feelings, but now it is public.</div>
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I don't know the details, really,
and it hardly matters. He fell on the corner traverse near Cripples,
and fell in an unlucky way. I grieve, but without regret, in a
sense. He lived as well as he could; he achieved mastery of his
craft, and he accepted risk and did not fear pain or death. For him
to spend some declining years watching TV from a nursing home bed
would have been hell. Some will disagree with me, but I think his
was a fitting and properly traditional, heroic death for a man.
Doing what he wanted to do, and being who he was to the end.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I grieved very differently for our
young friend Jesse, who killed himself several years ago out of
depression and uselessness. I felt a sharp sense of loss, of wasted
life, and some guilt that I had not helped him, though I was not
particularly close to him, and no one had real warning of his intent.</div>
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Yes, freakish - though Geoff had a
long-term history of falling awkwardly, probably due to his
confidence that some fairly thin and extended stance or foothold
would work for him; his unwillingness to back down from difficulty
or confrontation. Most climbers, when working on a very hard spot,
have in the back of their mind the possibility of failure, and can
often do a last-second bailout of some sort, so as not to land
badly, or to grab some off-route hold. What he called his ethics, or
integrity, enabled him to achieve more than most mortals, at the
cost of more risk. And last year when he fell off the right-edge
face of Beginner's Crack area and bounced off the tree trunk, etc.,
he said he was scared because he had no idea why he'd fallen. I said
he should seriously back off and not push it, in general, and to a
degree he did back off, but mostly just because of the arthritis.
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***</div>
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<i>The author; photo by Geoff Farrar.</i></div>
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I could easily have been killed one
day many years ago at Carderock; bouldering alone on a very cold
day, only maybe seven or eight feet up, about four feet left of
Meenahan's, my foothold snapped off (an extreme rarity on the hard,
well-polished schist of Carderock) and I pivoted outward and around,
landing on my feet and with my hands in front of my face; in that
position my face was only a few inches from a large blade of rock
directly below. Numerous other possible fall configurations would
have been very bad. I had no warning; it was pure luck, and not my
time.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDJT1dUNP-gbIQn0yBRc9QLeB0zuMg1cHfJFO8jxKdHBiNDZmWTKYYf6Q6rhO71dcA0TKKD3l3D7_FnVI7B3plEqCteRfQKTikcSJcTHlOfZ4W0JjYmblH2KHM-clQNw2MV1M3C2wYg8/s1600/DSCN0002.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLDJT1dUNP-gbIQn0yBRc9QLeB0zuMg1cHfJFO8jxKdHBiNDZmWTKYYf6Q6rhO71dcA0TKKD3l3D7_FnVI7B3plEqCteRfQKTikcSJcTHlOfZ4W0JjYmblH2KHM-clQNw2MV1M3C2wYg8/s1600/DSCN0002.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Copperheads rely on their camo, so they don't warn you. I came so close to stepping on this guy up behind the X one fall day.</i></div>
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On another occasion, also cold and
alone, I fell from halfway up Buckets of Blood, the classic 20-foot
overhanging arête said by some to be a V7; I got away with a mild
ankle sprain. Falling there is relatively safe; but I never
bouldered that one again, having already done it twice after many
successes on toprope. And once out of hubris I decided to end my
workout by soloing Spiderwalk, the standard 5.7 oblique crack climb,
in my sneakers and wearing my small pack. The crack was damp and I
fell from halfway up, landed on my feet and bounced up and over like
a jack-in-the-box, landing on my head and arms, getting just a few
bruises. This is a bad area to fall. And the only other fall I
remember taking here was once when I was traversing Jan's Face with
my feet about ten feet off the ground. I was talking to Geoff,
joking around, and out of sheer carelessness I let my foot slip; I
landed on my feet without any injury, just slightly shaken up. Not
a bad record for some 29 years. My true stupidities were not falls,
but highball solos I did too close to my limit: Herbie's Horror,
Golden Staircase, Yellow Jacket, Swayback Layback. I don't call
stupid many other solos I did, of comparable quality, because I knew
I was master of those: Butterfly, Fingernails, the Guillotine, all
the Sterling cracks, Impossible, etc. For an experienced boulderer
there is a very sharp red line in one's head as to which climbs are
safe for that individual to solo and which are not; the young and
strong skate close to the line, sometimes crossing it to extend
their sense of mastery; eventually there is a satiation, the sense
of having proven enough to one's self, and a knowledge of the value
of life and death, and the climber stops taking that level of risk.
Occasionally the climber fails to learn these things; the hunger
continues, and eventually he is killed, still pursuing that distant
light. That is not what happened to Geoff. Believe me.
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***<br />
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<i>Traversing leftward on the X.</i> </div>
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[another email written before the
truth emerged]</div>
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to Drew:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
On the 28th Geoff fell badly off the
traverse near Cripples, hit his head on the rail tie, and later
(8:00 pm) died in the hospital of massive head trauma. John Gregory
found him, but apparently no one actually saw the fall except maybe
Little Dave who took off. There aren't really any more salient
details that I've heard; you'll find much comment and regret on
Facebook. Paul Hess proposed that a few of us boulder tomorrow
afternoon as an informal memorial. I've driving down from PA and
won't be there before two.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kind of knocks you back when suddenly
someone with whom you've bouldered many hundreds of times in the
past 25 years just suddenly isn't there any more. Though as I've
commented already, we all knew he'd used up his allotted lives a
long time ago and just seemed to have special immunity, which always
runs out someday.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Proof that ghosts cannot be photographed; if they could, Geoff's would be seen here at "Welcome to Carderock".</i></div>
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***</div>
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Facebook comment by Clair Wright:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
soloing and bouldering high above nasty
rocks is all very nice, fun and cool and whatever until someone
falls, breaks his/her skull and has to be found by another someone
who will remember it for a long time (forever)...we owe it to the
people around us to take a minimum of precautions.
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Dear Clair: Bullshit.</div>
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***<br />
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<i>Gathering of the tribe.</i> </div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
January 1<sup>st</sup>, 2014 </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Carderock. T-shirt: Alligator Farm.
Song of the day: Romeo is Bleeding.
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We gathered to boulder and remember
Geoff. Present were John Gregory, Chris Mrozowski, Drew Frye, Matt
Kull, Paul Hess and family, Dave Nugent and family, Tony Lorenzo,
Barry Forrest and some others, not well known to me. It was
informally publicized, and I apologize to John Cubbison, Steve Tice,
John Ely and anyone else who might feel left out. It was a beautiful
sunny day in the high 40s; there were a few toproping teams as well.
We did a few easy problems and talked of this and that. Curiously,
when I was talking about my last session with Geoff and how he did
the Welcome Problem one-handed, left and right, I managed to grunt up
the high right-handed version – without use of the thumb, no less.
I had not expected ever to be able to pull that one again. Was it
because the rock was excellently dry and cool, hence sticky, and my
right arm in good shape and well rested? Or should we perhaps
sentimentally imagine Geoff's shade standing behind me, telling me to
just believe, and press the shoe into the rock just so? At any rate,
as I was bouldering a small rock appeared in my chalkbag, a favorite
trick of Geoff's, and no one admitted to it – a graceful little
joke for the occasion.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLuc1GPCM8WosnAXjO9AvgsTIXoGd3fS4coz4Cp3ygJB0OhNXWMHvoddkxRqrydD3uxHLpbyMe86lOXwzY9zXXWjzCeNFIETAzUaNbQxNwZX5kwyzJpypeEps92WE2-BtZg6i6Pqu-a94/s1600/DSCF1636.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLuc1GPCM8WosnAXjO9AvgsTIXoGd3fS4coz4Cp3ygJB0OhNXWMHvoddkxRqrydD3uxHLpbyMe86lOXwzY9zXXWjzCeNFIETAzUaNbQxNwZX5kwyzJpypeEps92WE2-BtZg6i6Pqu-a94/s1600/DSCF1636.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Youngest potential member.</i> </div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
John gave me the exact details of his
horrendous find, as follows: he (John) was walking downriver past
the Nubble Face when Dave DiPaolo ran around the corner toward him.
John said “Hey -” and DiPaolo said nothing at all and kept
running. John walked around the corner and found Geoff lying with
his head against a rock and the railroad tie, directly below
Cripples, his head horribly injured. His legs were stretched out
towards the roots of the tree just downstream. At first John
actually did not recognize him. No one had seen what had happened –
except perhaps DiPaolo, who the police are currently trying to find.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzoGhimq3RUkbFMMnKnwvREYptGj8oiSBeBa2VgtJgXIZg0NaPk9UUYf2YBhi_mF_jLnVVw8VtJkFvf8cBlnfbZyD-5EFnL6OKaBs-or3yeqTWvhMz0r1-LawHyDXvHWzS2zDGtH0eNvc/s1600/DSCF1634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzoGhimq3RUkbFMMnKnwvREYptGj8oiSBeBa2VgtJgXIZg0NaPk9UUYf2YBhi_mF_jLnVVw8VtJkFvf8cBlnfbZyD-5EFnL6OKaBs-or3yeqTWvhMz0r1-LawHyDXvHWzS2zDGtH0eNvc/s1600/DSCF1634.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We tried to construct some sort of
scenario from the little we knew; and nothing popped up as any
stronger than anything else. Had he been bouldering just above this
spot and slipped, it seems unlikely that he would have fallen to that
spot and with such severe head damage. But perhaps he was a bit
higher up? Unlikely - there was no bouldering motivation to be
higher right there. Odds are very low, though not zero, that he made
some sort of mistake and just slipped. Perhaps he experienced a
serious medical 'insult' and fell very badly as a result of being
unconscious? Another possible scenario, not any stronger, is that
DiPaolo ran at him from downriver and strongly shoved him down as he
ran by, for whatever reason; he could have caught a heel on the tree
root. And perhaps DiPaolo smashed him hard with an elbow, breaking
his jaw and spinning him down onto the rock. That would only be
feasible if the kid was on PCP; Geoff was bigger and stronger, though
not faster. What would be the kid's motivation? He is a magically
gifted climber, but otherwise has a very bad reputation, and
generally appears addled. Geoff tried for years to turn him around,
to no avail. Geoff might have represented to Dave all the
condemnation for his monumental failure to become an adult, even
though Geoff did not take a condemnatory approach, for all that he
habitually needled all of us. But drugs sap our humanity; horrible
things happen routinely. We can't make any judgment at this time.
Trying to read the mind of Little Dave is a fool's errand.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_t4cVBIuoQsSPglhMALIVDuDmxJ4Nok-ciFi9oftl-BWQns4CGahioKDCR6dooL-9vTDTD2HtnEG_bXwN_acTEj_8wZRNRurbwMqb8BMcvdhTQ5wkV25VqK7tP3MUAMrq_GG1vPeWs4/s1600/DSCF1654.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP_t4cVBIuoQsSPglhMALIVDuDmxJ4Nok-ciFi9oftl-BWQns4CGahioKDCR6dooL-9vTDTD2HtnEG_bXwN_acTEj_8wZRNRurbwMqb8BMcvdhTQ5wkV25VqK7tP3MUAMrq_GG1vPeWs4/s1600/DSCF1654.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Geoff is also missing from the no-hands slab.</i></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Regardless, it is a sort of
existential insult that Geoff is so suddenly dead in so benign a
setting. He still had plenty of strength in his ridiculous hands and
arms; he still knew every last inch of his terrain; he had survived
so many dangers and injuries and unwarranted risks in the past that
we all assumed that it would take some extreme effort on the part of
the Fates to actually snip the thread on his life – perhaps some
great natural disaster, or a rare and horrible wasting disease of the
type that he often liked to think he was contracting. Maybe some
bizarre mutant meld of Lyme, West Nile and leprosy that would finally
erode his excessive vitality over a decade or two. That would have
given us time to get used to the idea that he might be gone some day.
As it is, we all stood around complaining about the suddenness and
the lack of a satisfying explanation. We're stuck here in this
hackneyed but unavoidable situation, forced to see that death is real
– something we quite rightly ignore as much as possible so as to
live reasonably well. Thoughtless persons in this situation
sometimes blame the dead person for causing these unpleasant
feelings; perhaps if we all just invariably took “a minimum of
precautions” no bad things would ever happen, and if we all avoided
all risk all the time, everything would be so ducky, except that we'd
shoot ourselves for sheer boredom, thus negating the whole effort.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpkaHFuqaVt8eNx_Zrijm8ezhEjdab8fjX7nqSy9r5O9rnaLDPHhsPjVp-bcrp_elanKtgpyBvwv81GB5mswQ9bK20V746clpQZErpO1ixKmLCNG_owRezziZAcqcw-fPleJthKDma3Wo/s1600/DSCF1658.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpkaHFuqaVt8eNx_Zrijm8ezhEjdab8fjX7nqSy9r5O9rnaLDPHhsPjVp-bcrp_elanKtgpyBvwv81GB5mswQ9bK20V746clpQZErpO1ixKmLCNG_owRezziZAcqcw-fPleJthKDma3Wo/s1600/DSCF1658.JPG" height="426" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>This group, like a fallen dolmen, shows nothing of the missing man.</i> </div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It is customary in a eulogy to mention
everything good that can be said about a person and pass over the bad
in silence. Speaking ill of the dead feels petty or vindictive, and
probably unlucky. A curse from the dead man might migrate through
the living minds that knew him, somehow. All the same if I am to
paint a portrait of Geoff it would be absurd to leave out his
cantankerousness, his obstinacy, his outsized competitiveness, and
the mean streak that could surface on unusual occasions if you were
to seriously challenge his prejudices or political convictions, such
as they were. Some found it hard or impossible to get past his
challenging attitude and his habitual needling, but most of us could
eventually see the underlying good nature that more and more seemed
to be skinning over the scars of the young, abrasive tough guy who (I
assume) had been raised in a very hard school so long ago. He had a
tender spot for squirrels and chipmunks, such that they trusted him
and would climb all over him to get the peanuts; but he'd kill a
black snake or anything else that might threaten them, without
hesitation. One year there was some evidence that someone in his
neighborhood was abusing the squirrels, and I still believe that it's
a damned good thing Geoff never found that person; although he didn't
make his threats explicit, we could tell just from his attitude that
there would have been some mayhem.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi63uQ6m1ZEqHZBIdgke_NemI6rKTU18T2L5-B25a9QVCYBNgwo19-A1icctxE5dgpOkYNGQ9RRpImslz3ogwoXe53jV7j7ju6G4jQUM5hgVGAhdPugsNw5yeEt_4UfMuA8hscXM03milc/s1600/Grey+Eagle.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi63uQ6m1ZEqHZBIdgke_NemI6rKTU18T2L5-B25a9QVCYBNgwo19-A1icctxE5dgpOkYNGQ9RRpImslz3ogwoXe53jV7j7ju6G4jQUM5hgVGAhdPugsNw5yeEt_4UfMuA8hscXM03milc/s1600/Grey+Eagle.jpg" height="640" width="480" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The Grey Eagle (or Vulture?) on his crag. Either way. best not to cross him.</i></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I can make no claim to knowing Geoff
in depth or detail; I knew him only from Carderock, really. On rare
occasions I got him to go with me up the river to a few other cliffs
on the Maryland side; we never did any lead climbing together, or ice
climbing. Once I met him, probably twenty years ago, while riding my
bike on the W&OD trail; he gave me a few riding pointers, of
course, and went on. And of course, he was not wearing a helmet. We
occasionally went out to lunch together – Wendy's, or a standard
big diner, or a certain sub shop, until one day he was sure he'd
gotten a bad sub there. I am alright as a trencherman, as they say,
but he always ate twice what I did, and jealously guarded his
mountain of fries, and enjoyed bickering over the tip. He had a
large fund of stories of his younger days, but after his knees made
it too tough to ride his bike, his life was centered even more
strongly around Carderock; his claim of being there every day ending
in 'y' was not too far off. His endless stories notwithstanding, he
told me little about his family, education, work or personal
feelings.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTE3hRL_oWgM53E_PqFA-hnTNdgwO2E7TtN3xTHwgTY7_NJLfMj1M-aDnp79La58ogvouoVlI0LFznG2yhwZb9X3Z6IZr2miSy7AX7s8TRML6T9cUnmBzS6pi-akVmSvIa2lnMMRKy0k4/s1600/2007_1130carderock0048.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTE3hRL_oWgM53E_PqFA-hnTNdgwO2E7TtN3xTHwgTY7_NJLfMj1M-aDnp79La58ogvouoVlI0LFznG2yhwZb9X3Z6IZr2miSy7AX7s8TRML6T9cUnmBzS6pi-akVmSvIa2lnMMRKy0k4/s1600/2007_1130carderock0048.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>He wasn't fond of having his picture taken. He'd probably find this whole essay pretty annoying.</i> </div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Carderock Park may seem to the casual
visitor like a nondescript little set of cliffs, nicely wooded and
set right up against a lazy little channel of the Potomac, with
heavily used trails, a decrepit bathroom that is finally locked
forever, it seems, and a motley crew of characters sort of hanging
around, dabbing chalky fingers at the smooth, quirky schist faces,
gabbing amongst themselves and occasionally appearing to climb a few
feet up or sideways, then coming down and discussing the activity in
minute detail. This is the tribe of boulderers, of which I might be
called a dishonorary member, because I do a lot of other sorts of
climbing as well, including toproping, which is an activity that is a
little too much like work for the true boulderer. The toproper must
bring ropes, anchor materials and a belayer of some sort, and he
tries hard to knock off many listed climbs of the hardest ratings he
can manage. Then he notes it down in his little guidebook. I'm one
of those guys too. But the boulderer just drifts along in the
afternoon, doing whatever takes his fancy; he sometimes works a
particular problem until he is tired or his fingers are bleeding, and
then Geoff comes along and shows him exactly what he is doing wrong.
So he goes and does some easy no-handed balance problems for a while,
or just sits on a log and kibbitzes the topropers. The park is
beautiful at any time of year, if you visit it often enough to
appreciate all the changes; there is idyllic peace available to
anyone who lets his mind drift, disengaged from the ordinary
machinery of life. Geoff was a constant human factor at the park; in
subtle and not-so-subtle ways he regulated the flow of the place
without intending to place his stamp on it (except with regard to his
actual bouldering supremacy). If people threw things off the cliffs
or into the river he would chide them; if dogs were undisciplined he
would chide their owners; if topropers used unsafe belaying technique
or really bad anchors he'd let them know – as would some of the
other experienced tribesmen. He monitored crime in the parking lot
and questionable practices by climbing-school classes. He would
welcome every stranger with a grade-school joke, and demand to know
why they hadn't brought climbing shoes. It was his domain, and he
came by his cognomen of Carderock Geoff honestly. And now it is our
domain; we must regulate the flow and protect the idyllic peace.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>The Cripples Buttress in winter.</i></div>
<br />
<br />
It is a little harder to describe to
the non-climber the endless intricacy of the actual bouldering at
Carderock. Suffice it to say that it is a maze and a mosaic whose
mathematical potential for exercising the human craving for
puzzle-solving is vastly disproportional to its size and appearance.
In practical terms it is unlimited, because life is not long enough
for anyone, even Geoff, to master every possible problem and
variation. After bouldering there a few years and learning the basic
sets of variations for the major problems, the boulderer is trapped
and and cannot leave, but also is somewhat bored and begins to make
up his own variations, some of which become popular, and are built
upon by others. One might write a thousand-page guidebook with lots
of pictures and diagrams and arrows; but this would take a huge chunk
out of one's bouldering time and be absolutely useless; these things
can only be shown in person, really.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Fe_-fvjUFGsblLBbxF4LpfT1YLcZseT3emqidOCJ5ZjKwqA7cnO687ewDj_xTFbeDc39I6HlO7-Z4rotGLk8EBqkTB9jfSHHlkDuDq_31peT2tKyvO_MSKtzOA3pXtvutD57MRMjVT8/s1600/2007_1130carderock0018.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8Fe_-fvjUFGsblLBbxF4LpfT1YLcZseT3emqidOCJ5ZjKwqA7cnO687ewDj_xTFbeDc39I6HlO7-Z4rotGLk8EBqkTB9jfSHHlkDuDq_31peT2tKyvO_MSKtzOA3pXtvutD57MRMjVT8/s1600/2007_1130carderock0018.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Notice if you will the purely nominal bouldering pad.</i> </div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
January 13<sup>th</sup> 2014</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Apparently now the mystery of the
manner of his death is solved, and in the most horrible of the
possible scenarios. DiPaolo has been arrested and charged with
manslaughter; he has admitted to hitting Geoff with a claw hammer; he
claims Geoff assaulted him by choking him, and that he “found”
the hammer lying near him on the ground, and used it in self-defense.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Of course this claim is ridiculous.
It is murder pure and simple, assuming that the actions of a
drug-addled addict with almost no apparent inner life can rise to the
level of deliberation and intent. I have no interest in establishing
the legal definition of this crime, and not much more in trying to
untangle the psychological causes of the event. My feeling of slight
relief gained by the knowledge of how Geoff actually died is strongly
offset, however, by my sadness for the fate of Little Dave. I'm no
bleeding heart; but there is tragedy in the way this kid slowly was
lost to us, and how despite the company of older climbers of good
character, and Geoff's persistent efforts to somehow turn him around,
he just failed to thrive, failed to grow up, and became a petty
criminal. No bridge was established between us. He treated me with
ordinary courtesy, and never showed a trace of arrogance with regard
to his marvelous climbing ability; but we never had a conversation of
any substance whatsoever. It became a staple of Carderock to greet a
pal with the remark, “Saw Little Dave the other day.” Pal
replies, “Oh yeah, how's he doing?” “Whacked out. Worse than
before.” And we would agree that it was a damned shame but we had
no clue what we could do to help him. And now he's gone – never to
return to the little peaceable refuge here by the riverside. Even
when or if he gets out of prison, his presence could not be tolerated
here; to speak poetically, even the rocks would reject him. But I
take for my guide here the line of the Old Man: Even if a man is not
good, why should he be abandoned? I took this picture of Little Dave
with his scruffy little dog Caesar. For a while, when he would bring
Caesar down to the cliffs, we thought that perhaps if he could care
for a dog, maybe he could care for himself.<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
***</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
I am an irregular diarist, but I found
many excerpts, looking back, that help me round out my sense of
Geoff, and give a fuller picture of Carderock. These are unedited
except for the occasional excision of tedious irrelevancies. But don't worry, I left plenty of them in.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From the archives:</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">July 11<sup>th</sup>,
1998</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Gary showed up
unexpectedly about noon, in a good mood and wanting to do a quick
climb, so he and Eamonn and I went down to Carderock with a toproping
rig and Hannah's shoes. The first thing we saw was Geoff Farrar
belaying some guy and talking with Angie, who looked very fit. We
went over to Beginner Crack and put up our rope, and Eamonn swarmed
up it with no real difficulty, no hesitation and no complaining - he
did beautifully, and we told him so. After that he sat and whittled
while we did the Diamond and several other versions of the easy face
to the right of the crack. Geoff came by and razzed me for using a
rope, and bouldered up next to me and past me as I was trying to do a
version with no good holds worth mentioning, and he grabbed my feet
and shook them unmercifully, and then stepped on my foot on his way
up; it sounds like asshole behavior, but definitely was not, as
everybody laughed, knowing we are friends.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">January 15<sup>th</sup>,
2000</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> ‘Little
Dave’ and his father showed up and we had a nice jabber about
glucosamine and all our terrible injuries and basically how
<i>god-damned old </i>we are.
The kid has soloed <u>Serenity</u>
three times, and fallen from the top of the Spot; his father seems
resigned, or unconcerned. He is from northern Italy, the Dolomites
and so forth, and climbing is in his blood and the blood of his
ancestors I would guess. At any rate I was not about to criticize,
having kept my own life on certain occasions at Carderock merely
through chance and not because I deserved to live. After I soloed
<u>Herbie’s Horror</u>,
onsight and without even an atom of prior knowledge, and entirely
alone as well, I lost all right to tell other soloists what might or
might not be sensible for them to attempt. From a ‘normal’ point
of view this is simply a mental disorder; but I no longer subscribe
to a ‘normal’ point of view, if I ever did.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">May 29<sup>th</sup>,
2000</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I forced myself this
afternoon to go down and boulder after two days of cold, damp
weather. As I walked in the sky was broken and dense, with the
occasional fugitive gleam, and so was my spirit: I felt odd and
shaky, and knew I should start very cautiously. After successfully
traversing all the way from Golden Staircase to Trudie’s Terror,
including not using the major hold on the first problem, and figuring
out a traverse from the Block to Butterfly, which I can’t remember
ever doing before, I suddenly felt much better, although I still
didn’t plan to do anything high and hard. Walking towards
Impossible, I was spied by Geoff and of course he had a marvelous new
problem on the X for me, and we immediately fell into our usual
relationship of master and student. But first he had to conclude a
short lecture to a young couple on the proper method of making a
toprope anchor. They were the only other people there, not counting
a fisherman and his small son, and the guy had set up an anchor on a
tree with a simple square knot, essentially; and he had much of his
rope braided up in a daisy chain for some obscure reason. Apparently
he had lots of free time but didn’t want to get any actual
instruction.</span><br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <i>A shadow falls across Merv's Nerve, Butterfly, Flutterby and Serenity Syndrome. No Geoff in picture. Strangeness.</i></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">March 1<sup>st</sup>,
2001</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">“<i>These
are the days of miracles and wonders,</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>this is a long-distance
call.”</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i> -</i>Paul
Simon</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Fifty degrees, sunny,
light breeze.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> At one-thirty I walked
down and sat to put on my shoes; all was quiet and peace. Young
David shambled up and out like the resident specter; said he had just
fallen, not seriously, but enough to make him want to go and do
something else. An odd and perhaps tragic character: brilliant on
the rock, always dressed in moderate gangsta, hair dark and utterly
unkempt and uncombed, nearly natural dreadlock, with the unfocused
thoughts and diction of a longtime doper; seemingly simple and mild,
he has soloed Serenity Syndrome - more than once. This simple fact
lays bare the immense complexity and inherent self-contradiction of
the human being. [Not him in particular; I meant all of us.]</span><br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">March 3<sup>rd</sup>,
2001</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sunny, 65 degrees.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The long-lost Gary
Greenstein dropped by in the morning, and in the afternoon we went to
Carderock for a workout. We did this and that on the Nubble face,
got a bit warmed up; he has not climbed in many moons and didn’t do
much, though still in excellent basic shape. Then we went over to
8-Ball so that I could confirm my triumph and show it off, and of
course we met Geoff who gave us both the excellent tutorial on
several fine problems and variations; I managed to repeat it after
some floundering, and then we did all kinds of cool stuff on the
wedge boulder and so forth. John Gregory and Tony Lorenzo were both
there and we all chaffed around a bit which was fun; Tony is now one
of the old regulars although he may not know it. My fingertips are
hot; all part of the new strategy: boulder more, lift lighter, eat
less, ride farther. For the elbow tweak Geoff recommends one aspirin
with food every four hours for two weeks or so, and no extreme
bouldering. I can do that; I can take aspirin on a schedule, but as
for not bouldering hard, I’m sorry - it ain’t gonna happen.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">March 28<sup>th</sup>,
2001</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">55º F., sunny and calm.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> A leisurely exercise
session from 1:30 to 3:00 p.m.; the place gorgeously deserted except
for the laconic presence of Little Dave, who shambled up as I was
downclimbing the easy jam crack next to Butterfly, and began
traversing from Trudie’s leftward on the greasy-smooth rock. He
seemed to casually ooze across the rock, a shapeless cloud of Rasta
hair and brightly-colored rags; with no apparent effort crossing
Fingernails, Merv’s, Butterfly, Serenity and Jackhammer. I tried
to follow, knowing I could not, but I did do several of the moves.
In my old Merrills nothing edges really well, as stiff as they are; I
use them to save wear on my more favorite shoes.</span><br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">May
14<sup>th</sup> 2001.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> A cool day of intermittent sprinkling
rain. Geoff and I arrived almost simultaneously, and we had the
place entirely to ourselves for quite a while, and did a surprisingly
large amount of good bouldering. At Whiplash we both did that, and
Sex Dispenser, and Geoff did his signature mantels, and we did the
corner traverse left to right, and the main traverse both ways, and
the shoes were sticking well in spite of the high humidity. The rock
and the wooden-beam wall both had numerous clinging dragonfly nymphs
in the process of molting into their magnificent flying-machine
forms, and we could see it happening right in front of us.
Mosquitoes were also here and there, conveniently available to
nourish the young predators. A party of four young men arrive to
toprope.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> After a couple of hours
we went to leave, but Geoff insisted on taking me on a walk to find
the Poison Hemlock, a bushy plant not related to the hemlock tree,
that had been pointed out to him by a botanist. We never did
definitively identify it, though we went down the canal a long ways
and then back by way of the river trail, where the nettles are now
fantastically lush and tall. The river is still rather high, but the
day was cool and still; we looked for copperheads also but saw none.
When we got back to the cliffs we critiqued the young mens' anchor,
seeing it as our duty, and there was much jovial cameraderie as
usual.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-size: large;"><i>Nubble Face loitering; goofing off deluxe.</i></span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">November
13<sup>th</sup>, 2001</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Curious, when reading
over my Carderock diary - I always encounter the same few people, no
matter what day of the week it is; one or more of the usual Carderock
ghosts: Geoff, Matt, Tony, Little Dave. Perhaps I tend not to write
down those occasions when I saw no one, or no one familiar; certainly
there have been plenty of such sessions. But perhaps I’m a member
of a granfalloon, or whatever Vonnegut called his linked groups of
people - a small group of ghosts that haunt this beautiful rock and
know and love every wrinkle, crack and smudge.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <i>Pay attention. It's right here.</i></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">December 2<sup>nd</sup>,
2001</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">55º F., partly
cloudy </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> My first visit to
Carderock driving the Beige Whale, successor to the beloved Shelly
Winters. As I parked and got out of the car a cop car drifted by,
and Geoff walked past, saying, sorry, they’ve banned old guys from
climbing here, and went over to talk to the cop. I went on down and
did a few easy routes, felt a bit shaky on Triple-A crack start
version, managed to traverse right from Serenity to the base of the
easy crack - very tricky... Then I ran into Geoff again and he put
me through my paces at Jan’s Face. Did a very nice start to the
Flake on the first try: do not use the right layback hold or the
little quartz nubbin for the right foot; instead use a very small
face hold for the right hand; other holds as usual. Actually feels
more positive than the standard method, to me - provided one can
actually cling to these minuscule holds at all. Then we hung around
the X and did a lot of crazy stuff with a younger guy, excellent
boulderer; got an excellent workout, actually sweating in my thin red
fleece shirt; finally down at the Nubble Face we did one or two
ridiculous items, which I could not complete, and I called it a day
and went back home to watch the Redskins lose. Marvelous stuff, but
as Geoff said, it becomes impossible to remember how all the
variations go.</span><br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">March 21<sup>st</sup>,
2002</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> At Carderock a class of
kids was toproping and rappelling; relatively well-behaved
twelve-year-olds, competently instructed and supervised. Feeling a
bit old I did this and that, none too elegantly, and then saw Geoff
with his pad, and we had an amusing bouldering session, showing off
for the kids. The kids were astounded that we would casually solo
stuff that they could not even start, and luckily the instructor,
known to Geoff, was not the kind of guy to let it bother him. After
we’d answered about fifty questions the class left, and we did a
few more thin, nasty moves on the X, to complete the stripping of
last month’s skin layer from my tips. Finally Geoff and I just
talked about biking for quite a while; I had not realized that he had
given it up altogether eight or nine years ago due to bad knees.
Apparently biking at a noncompetitive level would not be acceptable
to him, and so he does nothing particularly aerobic; but he is the
classic ectomorph and will never gain any weight to speak of. I’ve
known him seventeen years now, and only now do I see his age
advancing on him, though he climbs his problems, still, in a realm
beyond most mortals; his black hair is all gone grey, his hands
mottled and old-looking, and his manner somewhat more subdued and
mature than it once was, though he still lets fly with his
good-natured jibes on a regular basis. And he still teaches me how
to climb, with an astounding head for sequential memory; and I am
still the lazy, self-indulgent student who only sometimes succeeds,
by grunting loudly and trying too hard.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <i>Beginner's Crack and Face, Fall 2013</i></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">November
21<sup>st</sup>, 2003</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The day was sunny and
mid-60s; impossible to improve upon. Got to the rocks at 3:00;
everything from Incipient on down was under water. Did Spiderwalk in
easiest style, and met up with Geoff, who was talking to a young
attractive female boulderer, and he then went back to his car and got
his pads and shoes; he said he’d worn out his fingertips the
previous day, and nearly fallen on the wall above the X. He showed
me a very pretty problem on that wall... We showed off just a bit
for the girl, and talked of this and that - mostly our scars and
injuries. Finally walked out, talked to a young guy fooling with the
block at the far left end, the horrid little overhang I’ve never
done, and of course Geoff had many stories of the various ways it had
been done and how we should do it right here and now; I went up and
fiddled a moment with it, and we left laughing. He then drove me to
the beginning of Military Road and I rode on home, stopping only to
photograph a really wonderful green and yellow sunset. His rotten
old truck was littered with various items, and we both indulged from
a bag of Peppermint Patties on the seat. He drove fast but safely,
without wearing his seat belt; perhaps an oversight, or perhaps
exactly what one would expect from a character like him.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <i>Late Spring.</i></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">December 8<sup>th</sup>,
2004</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> A miraculous
sunny Wednesday in the 60s; drove down at 2pm with the Mythos and
T-shirt (Access Fund, ‘Only Climbing’). Geoff was just leaving,
since there was no one there and he had torn the bandaid off his
thumb that had been sliced by a squirrel’s incisor, as neatly as if
he’d chopped it cutting onions; he might have had a hint of lonely
child about him, but he turned right around and we spent two hours on
the X as usual, me bouldering alone for the first hour, and then he
joined me and did things I can’t do, ever, <i>without
using his thumb</i>. It was an excellent
workout, like power yoga, one might say, and a honing of technique as
well; more than once I did something that he had shown me, and had
said was reasonable, and I had said would never go for me. But of
course it did. After three or four misses I did the very subtle
crossover from the low boulder to the face, using nothing right of
the main middle palm hold, etc.; the step-across requires a sinuous,
smooth motion of the body, with the head gliding close to the rock
and the left toe going with uncanny accuracy to the top of a
microscopic vertical arete. From there I did the low traverse
although with non-approved holds here and there, prompting Geoff to
decree that I’d have to stick to the kiddie pool unless I got a
note from my Mom. I also made a couple of fairly good attempts on
‘my’ problem near the Diamond, landing on his doubled pad. Still
no success on the last move, although I thought at first I had badly
twanged a tendon in my right palm. Also did and attempted several of
the mid-level (which is to say, generally torturous) problems in the
amazingly fertile field of the right end of the X. Thinking of
making a mockumentary of bouldering at Carderock - could be hilarious
and fun also.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">February 7<sup>th</sup>,
2006</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Now I am
Geoff’s regular workout partner, and as always, his aging protégé.
This Tuesday was about 45 degrees and clear, with a breeze here and
there; Geoff was creaky but succeeded on some amazing things. There
is really no limit to the number of combinations that can be formed
from the lower right quadrant of the X. I did the very ethereal
step-up in the middle, very rare for me; I switched the two
fingertips of my right hand on the tiny flake to a vertical,
down-facing fingernail push in order to stabilize the last step, and
it worked. Geoff showed me again the left-to-right palming traverse,
which I should do more often, for it is simple and very beautiful. I
find it more and more saddening that so many evanescent and glorious
problems will vanish in the mist one day, like the endless arguments
of aging philosophers, spun out for decades in the courtyard of the
king of chaos. Later boulderers may tell stories of them, may repeat
a few of them, but the glory of the X will fade away. <i>Sic
transit Gloria Mundi!</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> When we were about to
leave Geoff went to sit on his pad, and his knee gave way, and he
collapsed in silent agony on the pad. He is on steroids, and should
not be subjecting his softened tendons and ligaments to such strains;
he claims to be using even greater care than usual, protecting his
joints, but on a good day he leaves me far behind as usual, and it
can’t be good for him. But we are climbers, and we don’t tell
each other where to draw the line; each of us draws it for himself.</span><br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> At the end of the path there is the start to Mad Dog and Trudy's Terror.</span></i></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">December 9<sup>th</sup>,
2006</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Weak sun, 45 degrees.
Geoff, I and another are soloing the face right of Beginner's:</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Geoff, to the other: Don’t
step on my head.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Other: Hell, it’s the
best foothold at Carderock.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Me: At least it’s the
hardest.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Jolly times. Managed to
wheedle chalk out of Geoff (small amount.) Apparently he thought
Hunt once abused the privilege, and Geoff became then reluctant
forevermore to lend chalk. So I chaffed him about his niggardly
ways.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">December
10<sup>th</sup>, 2006 </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Sunny, about 60 degrees.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> A terrific toproping
session. I put the rope on Impossible/Buckets of Blood. At first I
felt weak and was unable to do the crux to Impossible, while Chris
did it (layback version). But then we worked out the start to
Buckets and I got it after two attempts, with some karate kiyi
yelling and several desperate deadpoint moves in quick succession; a
skill I still need to strengthen is doing the needful without delay:
take a bead and pull the trigger, without any meditation or doubt. Do
it now.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Geoff then showed up and
gave me a Christmas present: a block of chalk! I accepted it with
gratitude and laughter.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">January 26<sup>th</sup>
, 2007</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> On Thursday night we had
Arctic air masses sweeping siftings of snow quickly, fitfully, all
the way from the Great Lakes. I stood on the front lawn and saluted
the Hunter, riding high and clear in the furious, invisible winds,
and his eternally faithful Dog.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Around noon Friday Geoff
and I drove to the Virginia side and parked down by the creek, as we
were surprised to find a ranger at the gate. Hiked in the back way
in cold brown woods, open and sunlit; spooked a trio of whitetails
not far from the river, they bounding off at a leisurely pace. He
said he had not been in the park in about eight years. We hiked to
the Microdome, and found little of interest: a tangle of flood-wrack
at the Elephant’s Head, and very little ice anywhere. At the
Fish-ladder face, a very sheltered alcove, we found two small flows,
and I bouldered the right-hand one, on the flat slope, very quickly
and easily. A long walk for very little climbing, but something had
to be done, to assert that winter still exists here in Virginia.</span><br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">December 6<sup>th</sup>, 2009</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Carderock, with Geoff, Chris and Todd.
Temps in the 40s, weak sunlight.</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Todd Bradley shadow-dancing on the X.</i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> The day before the snow came down
thick and wet, several slushy inches of it, and froze up by morning.
The oak leaf hydrangea in our back yard took the honors for Final
Glory of Fall Foliage. I called Geoff around eleven and we agreed to
meet at one at Carderock for a walk if nothing else. The sun was
bright and the roads clear, pale with salt here and there. I took
shoes and chalk just in case; when I got there Geoff was sure that
bouldering would not be feasible and left his shoes and bouldering
pad in his truck.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">But: Lo and Behold! The rocks were
dry, and the X was sufficiently warm that I took my outer jacket and
hat off, and bouldered carefully, walking on my heels whenever I had
to cross the soaking leaves at the base. After a little warmup, with
my shoulder creaking and twanging, I began to stick to the rock
remarkably well, and did some standard problems that I found hard or
impossible in the summer, when I was lighter and probably stronger.
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Presently Todd showed up with his
bouldering pad and we began to play with a few of the infinite
variations of the X, with Geoff coaching and kibitzing and hectoring
as always. He has a bruised heel which has been bothering him for a
few weeks, and hence had no interest in walking back to his car and
getting his shoes. I started playing with some oddball uses of
various footholds, testing my limits; I could not finish my own
signature layback/high pinch problem, but the old Kaukulators were
sticking like glue to everything. When Chris finally arrived I had
just worked out a new, cute little problem and was trying to complete
it. It is a fairly typical problem involving two large but smooth
handholds, walking up on three fairly microscopic footholds, one of
them a mere smear (like the Elephant's Nose before it was stretched,
let us say), and in the midst of that 'walking' turning the right
hand inward and manteling on the outer half of the palm, reaching high
with the left hand to a sharp, small but good hold and placing the left toe on the mantel hold and standing up. Geoff got interested,
and was sure he could do it, so much so that he borrowed Todd's
shoes. As he was putting them on I went for a final attempt at the
Prime Version of it, in which the second foothold consists of a sharp
little knob about the size and shape of a broken half of a peanut,
flat end up. I wanted to complete it before Geoff could snatch the
first ascent from my grasp, and to my surprise I got it, and the
proper sequence, somewhat intricate, solidified in my brain.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <i>Old, tubby Rockwell imposter working the Peanut.</i></span></div>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Geoff then tried it and immediately,
at the first step, his heel hurt him enough that he sat back down and
took the shoes off. Then Chris and Todd went after it for a while,
with Todd eventually getting it, and he marveled at the way something
so apparently impossible could turn so possible. Feeling good, I did
it twice more with good style, and Todd filmed the Historic Third
Ascent (or was it the fourth, technically?) with his phone. We then
dubbed it Peanut Butter. Not a mega-classic, but a useful little
problem with some subtlety to it, and certainly not as hard as Sex
Dispenser, for example.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> We were the only climbers in the
place. A few casual walkers drifted past with dogs, and every so
often small bits of hardened snow would fall from the trees and land
on our faces or go down our shirt collars. The sun gradually faded
down into haze and trees, and the cold came in and gripped us, and we
all went home. A beautiful and surprising Carderock session so late
in the year.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: small;"> ***</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">(<i>end
of diary excerpts)</i></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>Near Camp Lewis.</i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> If
the weather was nasty enough, Geoff enjoyed challenging us to a
'walk', in which we would go up or down the river on the icy, muddy
trails as fast as we could stand, trying to keep up with him as he
jogged along in his sneakers. Since my legs are much shorter and my
knees basically shot long ago, I quickly gave up actually trying to
keep up. Only in the last few years did his legs let him down on
this kind of trek, and we hiked at a more reasonable pace. </span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Farrar, Cubbison, Mrozowski on a very cold day.</span></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
In the last couple of days my mood,
and I think the mood of many of us, has shifted away from the
melancholy that resembles that which one might feel when a fine
gnarly old-but-healthy tree that one has known most of one's life
falls over in a storm, and towards the sort of helpless anger that
one feels when that tree is senselessly cut down by some kind of
simpleton, malevolent or otherwise.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“A creature in its prime
doing harm to the old</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Is known as going against
the way.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That which goes against
the way will come to an early end.”</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<i>Tao te Ching, XXX, D.C. Lau translation</i><br />
<i> </i></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
If one believes in an
afterlife (and I do not) it is usual to hope that people get the
afterlife they deserve. It is pleasant to imagine Geoff idling his
soul at an idealized Carderock, amongst an endless variety of
creative possibilities on the infinitely subtle rocks, and boon
companions to joke around with; and he should be properly supplied
with many old climbing shoes and his little worn-out pickup truck,
which he had fully amortized decades ago, and was almost a ghost
itself. I think the only afterlife is the memory of the person, held
in the minds of those who knew him – and that is why I'm making
this compilation, modest as it is. Memories fade and wear down,
piling up like beachglass as the tide goes in and out year after
year; but they don't make a meaningless tangle; we can sometimes
mentally stand back, and suddenly there emerges an unmistakeable
portrait, real and true, connecting the past to the present, from
that chaotic pile of images. People and trees die and disappear, but
nothing is wasted; except perhaps at times when a person throws his
own humanity away with an evil, irreversible action.</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
“The great earth burdens
me with a body,</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
causes me to toil in life,</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
eases me in old age,</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
and rests me in death.</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
That which makes my life
good,</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
makes my death good also.”</div>
<div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
- Chuang Tzu<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: large;"> Here is my faith: in the Spring, innocence returns, and nothing can stop it.</span></i></div>
</div>
Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-87645582899216607672013-11-21T15:47:00.001-08:002013-11-22T07:49:44.460-08:00Wind along the Waste<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"> <span style="font-family: inherit;"> <span style="font-size: large;">
Nov 19
2013</span></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Carderock, over the water. Late
afternoon sun in a blue sky, filtered through the bare trees of Vaso
Island. Temperature about 50, with a fitful breeze coming down the
shallow channel. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">T-shirt: Captain Jack's Alligator Farm</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Song of the day: Crystal Ship</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> I drove in early, about two o'clock,
knowing what I wanted to climb. Down over the water, out beyond
Trudy's, I set up two anchors: one, directly over Crystal Ship, from
a group of nuts set in the curious incipient crack that runs
tight-closed, arguably from the very base, until at the lip it opens
up, then jumps the summit ledge and splits the tall backstop stone;
and the other end of my long anchor over to an oak and its companion
cedar, to serve the rightward of Sterling's Twin cracks, and the
short hard move called the Iron Cross.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqu6NexYYNNvSjlh1gR14hOcrqWjrdr6iy6Q8BfUC6AV1hJt35phVD15jdGoxv8CDTGKhqYVZGQXUCm1P6CQSVUuzQEcKfWS4Mide9eooVUpCJfobFc6pHti7QMueq11Mqwtl0YJPMqXE/s1600/DSCF1529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjqu6NexYYNNvSjlh1gR14hOcrqWjrdr6iy6Q8BfUC6AV1hJt35phVD15jdGoxv8CDTGKhqYVZGQXUCm1P6CQSVUuzQEcKfWS4Mide9eooVUpCJfobFc6pHti7QMueq11Mqwtl0YJPMqXE/s640/DSCF1529.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">“The crystal ship</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">is being tossed,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">a thousand dreams,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">a million schemes,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">a million ways to die,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I'll never lie.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> These are the lyrics, roughly, stuck
in my head for forty years or so; they are wrong of course, as I had
never heard the song clearly, nor read the lyrics; I had constructed
a romantically sad portrait of doomed love from the feeling of the
music, and kept it in my emotional scrapbook as one of ten thousand
other emotional touchstones of youth. Finding the true lyrics on
YouTube was, inevitably, a letdown, as they have the jejune flaw, the
shallowness, that runs through most of Morrison's work. Yet he was
in fact a nascent poet, who might have matured well, I think, had he
not sabotaged himself, caught in his own tragic/romantic melodrama
like so many others.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMDLHwTuW3NuT_ysWKb3cMARvRXH1v7xhLM15LKEt1nQxBLcFh-c81uYlp_PEiAjhB32fmGqeTWd7lzxhsl7mUuAhwUngzzizVV6NBvIAftMSY0VT_GJWuKyCrfXMuSQhbIotK7tw74E/s1600/DSCF1523.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizMDLHwTuW3NuT_ysWKb3cMARvRXH1v7xhLM15LKEt1nQxBLcFh-c81uYlp_PEiAjhB32fmGqeTWd7lzxhsl7mUuAhwUngzzizVV6NBvIAftMSY0VT_GJWuKyCrfXMuSQhbIotK7tw74E/s640/DSCF1523.JPG" width="426" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> I dropped the old red rope on Crystal
Ship, but threw it far to one side, onto the huge sloping ledge, so
that it would not fall into the water; I could not see the base and
just how wet it might be. I walked over and very slowly and
carefully downclimbed the ramp. All this ramp and face was once my
private solo playground; I would regularly walk past the base of
Trudy's, boulder around the corner and up right, to the top of the
ramp, downclimb the ramp, and solo the Cracks and the Ship, and if
the water was as low as this day, do one or two hard overhang starts
off the big rock in the river, and almost never feel a moment of
fear. But now I tested my anchor, four nuts or no, and rapped to the
base. Soon John showed up and bouldered across over the water to me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">“Riders on the storm
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Riders on the storm </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Into this house we're born </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Into
this world we're thrown </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Like a dog without a bone </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">An actor
out alone </span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Riders on the storm.”
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> This lyric I do know properly. His
last song; it perfectly captures the bleakness of romantic
existentialism, an oxymoron I understood very well, but which failed to
convince my youthful self. I found too much meaning, too much beauty
in my world, to feel that death invalidates it. Now I have come
around to the opposite opinion: that death, change, ending and
beginning, are necessary for meaning to be real for us. But as a
starting point - <i>into this world we're thrown</i> – it is
inarguable.
</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">“Into
this Universe, and Why not knowing<br /> Nor Whence, like Water
willy-nilly flowing;<br /> And out of it, as Wind along the Waste,<br /> I
know not Whither, willy-nilly blowing.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> - Khayyam/Fitzgerald</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> A
rescue helicopter appeared and began making numerous runs fairly low,
directly overhead and all along the shores of Vaso Island. Sometimes
we felt the wash of the rotors. A random head appeared over us at
the anchor and asked if we had heard any calls for help, which we had
not. The swarms of shouting preteens that had been running around
earlier had disappeared; the afternoon would have been silent and
paralyzingly beautiful if the copter had not been there. It occurred
to me that a team of thirty men and several rubber rafts would have
been both cheaper and more effective than the helicopter. But there
was nowhere to lose a person; the trees were bare and the river slow
and clear. </span>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> In
spite of the meaningless din we climbed well. Curiously, the climbs
seemed easier than I remembered, even though I had to work harder
physically, and push my stiff ankle. I did the direct finish to
Crystal Ship which involves trusting a very sharp small right
handhold and a small mild right foothold, and rising on them while
fudging the lack of anything real for the left foot, and getting a
good left hand higher, though still on fresh-broken crockery half
sunk in the rock. John went and looked at the Iron Cross, and was
optimistic that he could do it on a warmer day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> .
. . Near them, on the sand,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Half sunk, a shattered visage lies...</span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"> For me, any fragment of Ozymandias,
such as 'half sunk', will tug on my brain to reform the rest of it,
so perfectly unified is the poem; like heart cells meeting in a petri
dish and starting to beat again in tandem.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">...the hand that mocked them, and the
heart that fed:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">...the lone and level sands stretch far
away.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: small;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdr41V3wDBdKh9RqWcGMOzqmaS4HNbEmeoXS5my2a6s_g1jCFcvlIM5bmt2cMOSEIE3slbFkWCmCDVI4IulfFnJwyhKOiMc8K8DKOjwnoEPN-X0zyvnvKjLRHFB2iSAsWZkGq-rZm4vM/s1600/DSCF1533.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGdr41V3wDBdKh9RqWcGMOzqmaS4HNbEmeoXS5my2a6s_g1jCFcvlIM5bmt2cMOSEIE3slbFkWCmCDVI4IulfFnJwyhKOiMc8K8DKOjwnoEPN-X0zyvnvKjLRHFB2iSAsWZkGq-rZm4vM/s640/DSCF1533.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></span></div>
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Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-54323417713669603862013-09-04T19:18:00.000-07:002013-09-05T19:13:24.825-07:00Four Fierce Brass Lions!<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Four Brass Lions Sept. 4, 2013</div>
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Two days ago, Labor Day, Hannah and I
rode our bikes the six easy miles to Vienna on errands, and to shop
the junk stores for Christmas presents. It was a warm day, and we
stopped where the trail crosses Maple and went to the nice little
junk store on the corner there. In front, sitting in a chair and
smoking a cigarette, was a short, fat, middle aged woman of vaguely
Middle Eastern origin dressed in a loud shirt and black capri pants,
and she welcomed us in with much bonhomie. </div>
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Perhaps it is not fair to call it a
junk store per se, for the objects varied widely in quality and
taste, and most were overpriced and then impressively discounted; and
we soon found that the price would appear to drop even more
precipitously when we showed interest and then hesitated. I am a
haggler of no skill whatsoever, but sometimes just dithering gets me
discounts I had not expected. The objects offered were a chaotic
hash of cheap art, decorative objects, rugs and furniture, with
glassware and ceramics in precarious standing cases. All prices had
been 'slashed' for Labor Day. We stopped in front of a very nice
carved Chinese folding desk and opened it up, noting the asking price
of $1400, and the lady instantly rushed up and bargained herself down
to $700 in quick decrements. We didn't feel that prosperous right now
though it is the kind of thing we have liked in the past.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
While wandering I was intrigued by a
grimy brass vase, of the kind of general style I remembered from
living in Lahore several years in my grade-school days. On its sides
was a frieze of animals, clearly handmade, in bas-relief, jamming the
whole bulging middle section. There were two lions, fierce and
terrible, and a number of ruminants – goats, antelope and so forth,
all seeming to writhe and run on the black background. I walked
around holding it and browsing, and I realized that this object,
unlike anything else in the store, possessed, at least for me, the
Japanese qualities they call wabi – a 'loneliness in nature', a
bleakness – and also sabi – the quality of being aged and worn,
rusty or covered with the patina of time. There was no attempt, in
this frieze, to ingratiate the onlooker with anything indicating
man's dominion, or symbolic of civilization, except for a small set
of arched buildings, crowded into the trees and mountains briefly
sketched near the top, which could perhaps indicate hunting lodges of
Mughal emperors, or possible the huts of Buddhist hermits.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
When the lady saw me holding the vase,
she said, “There's another one!” and she hunted around until she
found it. I wondered if it would be a nearly identical unit, and was
amazed to see that it was clearly meant to be a companion piece, by
the same artist and with the exact same motif – two lions and
several fleeing ruminants, and the little buildings and so forth –
and yet every animal was unique and different in posture and
placement. The artist had repeated his work of art, but had
carefully varied every part of it, so that the viewer's eye wanders
endlessly among the details of wildness and wilderness, searching for
the abstract, for identities and correspondences, and never finding
them. </div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
So I bought them without arguing, at
the Labor Day discount price, (still not cheap, in my scale – but,
Hannah said, “You never ask for anything, so you must have them)
and took them home. Soon I found, using a magnet, that they were
real brass, not plated, and I cleaned them with white vinegar and a
stiff plastic brush, and a mild scrubby-sponge. They emerged after a
couple of hours with most of the sabi-patina and considerable dirt
washed off; the black areas between the animals turned out to be
completely stippled with extremely fine textured details. And here
are the four brass lions for you to admire:</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjThnEOH-k6E414L3p0nH2l7rfp-V-2n56gGw4bD-j6uaP90RSIpQs_LBC7GKrmVd3vyaFfLLcfpDBKdO0__BEtoNi_-i7kX5v0-X1nkSjFL-VaYq4I1Usokw0bnk9FthPgo2otK3KTTOk/s1600/Brass+Lions.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjThnEOH-k6E414L3p0nH2l7rfp-V-2n56gGw4bD-j6uaP90RSIpQs_LBC7GKrmVd3vyaFfLLcfpDBKdO0__BEtoNi_-i7kX5v0-X1nkSjFL-VaYq4I1Usokw0bnk9FthPgo2otK3KTTOk/s640/Brass+Lions.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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Now perhaps I should try to
find out something of their country of origin; but it hardly matters
to me; they've taken their place as totemic objects around the house.
Most of my other totems are just pretty stones I found in the
mountains, or odd little things from my youth. I still have a
poor-quality “bowie knife” that I had to have when I was about
13, and I still keep it sharp and useful, battered and beat-up though
it is. It is clearly both wabi and sabi; it might as well be the the
blade Tarzan found in the cottage with his parents' bones, that he
kept ever afterward. (The knife, not the bones!)</div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div align="LEFT" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At that same time we
bought, as part of a package deal, a weirdly elegant 3-ball light
fixture that Hannah liked, which the lady devalued several times as
we hemmed and hawed. It is neither wabi nor sabi, but it may serve
very well as the Sign of the Three Balls Tavern in Brackney.
</div>
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</div>
Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-24728136437039934532013-06-27T17:42:00.002-07:002013-06-27T18:24:42.621-07:00The Pendulum Pauses<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Kayaking Taylor's Island Estuary
June 22nd, 2013</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XSN_7wGpuIWl-4rvwaDROKieXD9LXiLe91OuVBF0WvhMEMsoHs2VrDmHSVFVdlteF6kAtc7sROTNNh8LK4oDS1Fyx6EcWiH6czKHtDgJuP7a66NuZdMZdZFc4RlBWneQZIAn5WFnsgY/s1600/DSCF8372.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7XSN_7wGpuIWl-4rvwaDROKieXD9LXiLe91OuVBF0WvhMEMsoHs2VrDmHSVFVdlteF6kAtc7sROTNNh8LK4oDS1Fyx6EcWiH6czKHtDgJuP7a66NuZdMZdZFc4RlBWneQZIAn5WFnsgY/s640/DSCF8372.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Some families on the Bay live in
modest bungalows with a nice view of the water. Others reside in
spacious and elegant towers, with plenty of furniture and the latest
communication equipment.</div>
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One hot afternoon a cruising catamaran
dropped anchor near a low highway bridge, its further progress
blocked. Three hard-bitten, grizzled specimens emerged into the
burning sunlight, and launched a rubber raft, towing three kayaks
under the bridge and into the trackless wetlands that form an
ever-shifting maze in one small part of the brackish waters of the
Chesapeake. They were all seasoned veterans of the endless struggle
that is the essence of being male. Married men.</div>
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After a false start or two, down blind
alleys and into narrow leads between the stiff brush walls, they
regroup and tow farther east into more complex and open waters.
Breezes are slight and erratic, and the tide, near its height,
carries them onward. They tie the raft to a stick in an open
location, hoping it will be there when they return.</div>
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An early design effort by Ludwig Mies
van der Rohe, after his duck-hunting buddies complained that their
blinds were always little more than a heap of sticks with a few
tired, hackneyed Neoclassical elements tacked on, which no longer
fooled the ducks because of the sense of alienation or distance from
the landscape itself.</div>
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The sheaves surrounding this stunning
presentation by Le Corbusier (who felt impelled to get into the game
or be left in the mud) were criticized by Mies as an effete reference
or homage to the goddess Demeter, detracting from the pure expression
of space by the structure itself. Reportedly, when Le Corbusier
heard of this he just squinted, turned his head to spit his tobacco
juice into the bay, and grunted, “Bullshit.” In this way are the
priceless native customs and morays diffused into new populations. No
– not eels.</div>
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This iconic glass brick by which we
all so fondly remember Mies, has, tucked away on the roof, a
faux-straw-and-plywood duck blind (mainly constructed of stainless
steel) as a tribute to his humble beginnings. Legend has it that he
used, in his later years, to sit for hours up there at dawn with a
shotgun, waiting for the ducks that would never come.</div>
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This magnificent duck-blind sculpture
by Philip Johnson represents a peak in the art. It has a boat-stall
capable of hiding a sixteen-foot skiff, and enough room in the blind
for six hunters and all the beer that that entails. Negotiations
into the middle seven figures with MOMA and competing European
museums to purchase the structure and move it to an indoor artificial
wetland complete with mallards, have run aground and stuck fast in the mud of
international high-art politics. Notice if you will, the superbly casual irregularity of the rectangular panels. The result of exacting calculation or the simple brilliance of sheer laziness?</div>
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A side view, showing the spare yet
lush natural landscaping.</div>
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van der Rohe's Farnsworth House, built
on a flood plain and clearly influenced by duck-blind principles. We
may judge its success by the Wiki blather as follows:</div>
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“The highly-crafted pristine white
structural frame and all-glass walls define a simple rectilinear
interior space, allowing nature and light to envelop the interior
space. A wood-panelled fireplace (also housing mechanical equipment,
kitchen, and toilets) is positioned within the open space to suggest
living, dining and sleeping spaces without using walls. No partitions
touch the surrounding all-glass enclosure. Without solid exterior
walls, full-height draperies on a perimeter track allow freedom to
provide full or partial privacy when and where desired. The house has
been described as sublime, a temple hovering between heaven and
earth, a poem, a work of art.</div>
The Farnsworth House and its 60-acre wooded site was purchased at
auction for US$7.5 million by preservation groups in 2004 and is now
owned and operated by the National Trust for Historic Preservation as a public museum.”<br />
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I've heard it's hell to heat and cool – but who the hell cares
– it's art. What's that you say? It looks like some old iron trusswork found abandoned out behind the rail yard, painted white? <br />
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A latecomer to the scene, Frank L.
Wright, professed to be saddened by all the squabbling around the
duck-blind aesthetics, and put up this beautifully spare and gaunt
framework, allegedly to restore the art to its roots in pure
Euclidean geometry, and inject some honesty and forthrightness into
the scene. Of course he was immediately savaged and ridiculed, the
others saying that he had simply stopped work and left when he
realized that he didn't know one end of a shotgun from the other, and
disliked the bitter beers so popular in the marsh. Also he kept
bending nails and hitting his thumb.</div>
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The periwinkles cling to their arcane
geometries. They stubbornly refuse to entertain any notion of
rationalist, rectilinear architecture, and they openly sneer at the
theories of Walter Gropius and all his intellectual and aesthetic spawn.</div>
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Returning, we saw a huge pile of
sticks high in a pine tree, and shortly thereafter saw a huge old
bald eagle perched a hundred yards away; soon it flew. Not long
after we saw another one; my impression was that it was smaller and
younger. It dived once or twice and then soared up in larger and
larger circles, widening its search field high into the bright, clear
sky. We drifted on our boats, letting the paddles drip; time seemed
to flow slower and slower; the afternoon approaching a still point,
when the everlasting pendulum of life seems to rest in balance, and
in that moment opening the illusion of eternity. One forgot just for
a while the ridiculous sight seen earlier: a small biplane
put-putting across the sky in the distance like an idling lawnmower;
in the binoculars it was seen to be purple.</div>
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"During the Middle Ages the communal clock extended by the bell permitted high coordination of the energies of small communities. In the Renaissance the clock combined with the uniform respectability of the new typography to extend the power of social organization almost to a national scale. By the nineteenth century it had provided a technology of cohesion that was inseparable from industry and transport, enabling an entire metropolis to act almost as an automaton. Now in the electric age of decentralized power and information we begin to chafe under the uniformity of clock-time. In this age of space-time we seek multiplicity, rather than repeatability, of rhythms. This is the difference between marching soldiers and ballet."<br />
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- Marshall McLuhan, <i>Understanding Media: the Extensions of Man, </i>2nd. ed. chapter 15. 1964.<br />
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So that's why we're out here in these boats, goofing off for all we're worth. </div>
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Almost everything seems funny to this
simpleton.</div>
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East of the sun;</div>
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West of the moon.</div>
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And the great eyelid of the day slowly
closing.</div>
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Returning across the bay the next morning in mediocre winds, we
watched a front come in, and rain, but without any violence or drama,
except visually. Then for a while all we could see in any direction
was a hundred yards of rain. I snoozed on the dining room bench, the
boat rocking gently through the quiet rain.</div>
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Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-91284392773083535362013-05-15T20:32:00.000-07:002013-07-24T11:41:27.518-07:00Rites of Spring<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Reflections, miscellany,
marginalia. </div>
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April 28<sup>th</sup>, 2013</div>
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I went out to perform the rites of
Spring: carrying a short shovel and a hand clipper, equipped with
good boots and gloves, I walked out in a mild rising breeze to look
at the cistern above the pond. Some rain is due tomorrow after four
perfect sunny spring days.</div>
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Every winter the cistern clogs with
silt and the clamps on the supply pipe joints come apart. It is
necessary to cut through brambles to reach the source, where from a
northern spring the clean water comes through the low stone wall
marking the edge of the property and meanders through a neglected
meadow, soggy most of the summer, full of odd trees and mock-orange
brambles. On this preliminary expedition I forgot my screwdriver for
the clamps, but it was moot, as the pipe coming out of the cistern
refused to flow when I cleared enough silt to feel it. So tomorrow
I'll bring a snake as well, unless the rain is heavy.<br />
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I walked back to the house by a
different route, examining the various curiosities in the meadow.
There are two or three black-ant cities: raised mounds the size of
footstools surrounding a dead pine tree in each case, the land in an
eight-foot circle drier and greener, grassy islands in the soggy
meadow full of every kind of marsh-loving plant. Looking closely, I
see the black ants walking around in leisurely fashion, some carrying
grains of earth, some not. They don't project the usual frenetic ant
energy more typical of summer. I realize that these mounds are just
middling-size towns in the black ant worldwide civilization; not New
York or Sao Paulo, they more resemble Binghamton, Johnson City,
Endicott. </div>
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Approaching the border of
civilization, I notice, as I have often before, the scattered ancient
apple trees still hanging on stubbornly after these many decades of
neglect and overgrowth. My grandfather only tended the three trees
in the groomed areas near the house, but three fields on the north
side had been orchards once; the easternmost has been entirely filled
with maples, and even the fallen trunks of the old apples have rotted
away; but in the other two fields they hang on like grim death,
flowering and producing a few small sour apples in the upper
branches, wherever sunlight comes to them through the limbs of the
invading barbarians – the ash, the red pine, spruce, and of course
maple. I admire their gnarled and flinty endurance, and among my
obligations to the land will be aiding and abetting them against
their enemies.</div>
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Stewardship of the land is much on my
mind. Traditionally it has meant nothing more than arranging matters
to suit us. An old friend of mine, nine years older than myself,
loves squirrels amd chipmunks on his suburban lot, and they come to
him to be hand-fed. He told me he found them hiding and refusing to
descend their trees one day recently, and in the backyard he found
the reason: a black snake had emerged to sun himself, like all of us
in the spring. He killed the snake; I asked him why he wouldn't want
the snake around to control mice, and of course he said that the
snake would wipe out his chipmunks. An example in miniature of the
constant destruction of the balance that we practice. This is not my
idea of stewardship. But I didn't say that to him, as it would
achieve nothing.</div>
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As I walked out with the shovel my
father called down to me to check the island for goose eggs. We have
a pond with a tiny island on it, and every year a pair of Canada
geese stakes it out for their nest, forgetting (if it is the same
pair) that last year, like every year, my father destroyed their eggs
as soon as he could. He and my mother are sure that just a few years
of multiplying geese will bury us in goose shit. Currently he still
mows more than four acres of meadow that my grandfather had laid out
as lawn and tiny golf course; fortunately my grandfather was not so
rich or golf-obsessed that he had the land treated professionally
with all the chemicals legal for use in the fifties and sixties. In
vain I have argued that the geese improve the meadow to some degree,
as do all grazing herds when they are not forced to stay and strip
the land bare.</div>
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I may have made some progress
regarding squirrels, though. My parents have had a fixed hatred for
greys, because they “steal” birdseed bought for the songbirds
that my grandmother loved so much, and they feared the reds, thinking
that they will get into the attic, chew on wires and burn the house
down. My dad would go out and shoot them with a pellet gun on a
regular basis. But I pointed out (avoiding the appearance of any
emotional appeal for the animals) that his shooting had little or no
effect on their population density, which is limited by habitat and
food supply; when he thins them here, more gladly move in from the
surrounding woodlands. And now he doesn't bother them; but perhaps
that is just because he can't shoot quite as well as he used to.
There is a certain accidental forbearance that seems to seep into
their lifelong policies, perhaps due as much to forgetfulness and
debility as to any spiritual growth.</div>
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As for me I am a great admirer of
squirrels as well; especially the reds, whose ability to race among
the bare branches of the locusts in the late fall surpasses in
athleticism anything I've seen from any other mammal. I once saw one
miss a tiny branch and fall at least thirty feet; it ran back up the
tree immediately. So I intend to treat the squirrels as honored
guests, though I'll try to escort them out gently should they enter
the house.</div>
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Which leads directly to another
anecdote I'm recorded in passing elsewhere. Last year at some time
my wife entered an upstairs bedroom in my parent's house to find a
bat circling the room. She came and got me, and I went into the room
with a towel to throw over it, as we had no butterfly net; but my
first approach was to open the window all the way,and wave my arms
gently to create better odds that it would find the way out into the
night. But the word had spread in the house that there was a bat,
and my mother reverted to her childhood, in a sort of a panic, and
began yelling, kill it, kill it! Get the tennis racquet! Kill it!
I said there would be no tennis racquet, and in a few minutes the bat
found the window and left. But I remembered so clearly at least one
incident of this same kind from my own childhood, when we got a
racquet and eventually killed the panicked animal, all of us in a
laughing panic ourselves, participating in the primitive patterns of
our own evolution, which mandate killing as the default response to
any odd situation involving animals. In my adult years I have a
different attitude toward this, that is very much at odds with most
of humanity. I especially dislike the killing of snakes, poisonous
or not.</div>
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“Arms are instruments of ill-omen.
Using arms is like cutting wood on behalf of the Master Carpenter.
When one cuts wood on behalf of the Master Carpenter one can rarely
avoid cutting oneself.”
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Or words to that effect, said the old
man.
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One might think that humans would have
a special affinity to a species as impressive and successful as the
Canada goose. They thrive in the absence of most their predators, of
course, and also due to the clearing of forests that we love to
replace with manicured golf courses and lawns, and pretty water
features. But we dislike their noise, their aggressiveness, their
manure, regardless of the organic benefits thereof. They are
inconvenient; they compete with us to a small degree, and so, as
stewards of the land, we discourage them. They also compete for
airspace, menacing our great flying dragons. If we were to continue
expanding the great world-machine that has allowed our current
so-called civilization, the geese will have to go, along with most
other natural creatures. But to imagine this landscape without their
legions cruising north and south each year, without their distant
clamor, strikes horror in me. On my sixtieth-birthday extravaganza,
cabin-camping at Ricketts State Park, we began hearing skeins of
north-going geese overhead, and I began counting them; I counted
groups I could see and those I could just hear. I think I stopped
counting in a half hour at about 25, and my best estimate was that
each skein had perhaps 150 birds.</div>
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Luckily for everybody, we almost
certainly won't be able to do that – to eliminate geese and every
other natural creature. We will reach limits and be forced to cut
back, either rationally and humanely, or (more likely) in a
disorganized, bloody mess of decline and loss. We might resemble my
weakening parents, who must soon relinquish their iron grip on the
land to my very different approach, and are already softening to some
small degree.
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April 29<sup>th</sup>, 2013</div>
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I went out this morning in a very
light rain and trudged up to the cistern with a bucket, a screwdriver
and a plumber's snake, to complete the rite and bring water to the
pond. It was unusually arduous; three joints all needed careful
readjustment, as the person fixing it last year (probably me) did not
properly center the clamps; the cistern had a lot of muck to dip out
with the bucket, and the snake encountered considerable packed silt
deep in the pipe, and even when when I got the water flowing, it was
temporarily stemmed by one of the improvised repairs at one joint,
which mandated much squelching back and forth in my excellent boots
to locate and lance the clot. But water is now entering the pond as
per ancient custom. The unattractive little windmill is turning,
bubbling air into the center of the pond. The two giant grass-eating
carp are drifting about majestically among the floating wrack of
vegetation; the geese are complaining overhead after I put bird
netting all over their proposed nesting site, so that perhaps they
will use their generative energy elsewhere and my Dad will not have
to trudge down and smash their eggs this year; and I heard some
spring peepers close up, in the shallows, with their piercing call.
And I have seen the yellow-bellied salamanders drifting among the
water weed.</div>
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May 3<sup>rd</sup>, 2013</div>
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Since I filled the bird feeders two
days ago, the bird life has picked up immensely. Pairs of goldfinch,
house finch, cardinal, and blue jay compete for space on the pegs, as
well as individual nuthatch, redwing blackbird, and chickadee. They
sit in the apple tree, jockeying and waiting to dive-bomb whoever is
currently filling his beak. Once a raven, grim and huge, came and
sat in the topmost branch of the apple, and everybody scrammed or
froze, especially the chipmunk in the grass. Finally he became bored
and pushed off, and the party resumed. Unrelated sighting: a
pileated woodpecker on the huge eroded old willow, still alive at the
top, which I hope houses many creatures.</div>
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It is currently spring turkey season,
and we have talked twice with Todd Peters, walking through in full
camo, even to his gun and boots; he is an experienced woodsman and
has the wide useful knowledge of the born and bred northern
Pennsylvania countryman. He has not got a turkey yet apparently; I
told him that I had seen one fly from a treetop at the pond as I
stood below not far away; it calmly sailed down the wooded ravine
toward Rinne Creek. I also (today) saw a foot-long bass and a turtle
in the pond, so all is well. Dad and <span style="font-style: normal;">I
installed four trees in large pots on the terrace: two Italian plums,
one Stella cherry, and one combo apple with red delicious, Gala and
yellow delicious on different limbs; next spring after the last frost
we'll plant them on the southern lawns if they live. </span> I
insisted on paying for them; it is my symbolic assertion of
investment and commitment to the land going forward. Perhaps not
coincidentally, today we saw our first deer and rabbit of the season.</div>
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According to Tsunetomo Yamamoto,
negligence is an extreme thing. One my first morning of this trip,
after a rainy night, I went out in cool sunlight, well armored, and
ripped, cut, tore and uprooted a massive blackberry colony
surrounding and choking a still-living juniper bush. The diameter of
the colony was about twenty feet. The roots pulled easily out of the
black, soft earth along with earthworms, centipedes and beetles. I
trimmed and pruned the juniper of twenty years of neglect; it took us
another two days to finish hauling off all the debris. We took two
dozen of the biggest, nastiest blackberry roots and replanted them in
a prime spot across the way, and later did the same for a number of
long-forgotten raspberry plants, replanting them along the crumbling
fences of the barnyard. The list of repairs, cleanups and minor
projects has been satisfyingly long, right down to this evening when
I convinced the folks not to keep plastic dinner trays on top of the
refrigerator, whence they inevitably fall to the kitchen floor and
break, if they don't hit one's arm or head. We threw away the half
of the trays which were cracked and badly chipped. We checked smoke
detectors and fire extinguishers; we relocated one extinguisher from
where it was totally hidden behind a phalanx of coffee-table books to
a spot near the fireplace, which has an ancient heat exchanger and
fan which is much used every winter. And so the endless List goes
ever on.</div>
Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-29496074506797687292013-02-21T19:49:00.001-08:002013-02-21T19:54:11.793-08:00Snapshots of Beethoven<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
My snapshots of Ludwig van Beethoven</div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Hi-ho, Silver! Away! August 13,
2009</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I like this one: Ludwig on his white
stallion</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">galloping across a great field</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">toward a higher country;</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">the sun is loud and the clouds are
piled high</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">in that marvelously meaningful
complexity of structure</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">that can never be explained</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and on the brink of the higher plateau,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">seeing ahead more sun, more clouds,
bigger mountains,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">he pulls up, rears the great white
horse against the blue,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and brimming over with electric
exuberance</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">he waves his white Stetson</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">three times in a circle, high above his
head;</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and then he turns the stallion's mighty
head,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and thunders furiously up into the far
hills.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">You know that place, in the Fifth.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">In order to avoid sadness,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I imagine him simply never coming back. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">How many times February 16, 2000</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">in your life will you hear
the Pathétique?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">asks the classical disk
jockey as I</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">drive my great rusty wagon</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">from the supermarket to
the gas station</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">under a cold impartial
moon</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and this seems to me an
important question</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">as the piano fills the car
with almost</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">harshly clear thought</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Beethoven pounding out the
truth once again</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">from long ago and far away
and</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">filtered, interpreted,
enhanced and digitized</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and sent to me through the
miracle of</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">frequency modulation to
ponder one more time</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">as I drive my great rusty
wagon to get gasoline.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">My mother was so bold as
to try, all her life,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">to play the Pathétique,
even though</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">she knew she would never
so much as </span>
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">crack its massive, ornate
iron gates.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Every note of the
Pathétique is written</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">somewhere in my childish
soul;</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and every thought of the
Pathétique</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">makes inescapable sense to
me now.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">And so it does not matter
how many more times</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I will hear it.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">At the Exxon station the
pavilion arches spaciously</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">over the nearly deserted
pumps.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I turn the radio up</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">set the gas to pump itself</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and listen carefully to
Emil Gilels</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">think through the
Pathétique</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">at times with an
extraordinary eloquence</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">that seems wrong to me;
yet perhaps he</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">just grew weary of his
master’s unshakable confidence,</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">Ludwig walking the
tightrope down through the</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">centuries, never to fall
or even tremble on the wire.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I lean against the mighty
flank of the wagon</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">filling itself with the
acrid life’s blood</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">of our civilization</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">and eat a perfect glazed
doughnut, quite slowly.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">The fallen, the ruined
pavilions, gleaming in the moonlight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-50224423326115162282013-01-21T19:51:00.000-08:002013-01-21T19:51:11.884-08:00Eternal Archive of All That Is
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January 4<sup>th</sup> 2013</div>
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Some miscellany for the new year -</div>
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Random beauty in the moment. Save it forever... uh huh.<br />
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It has come to my attention that the
Library of Congress is archiving all of Twitter – some 400 million
tweets per day. Why? You might very well ask, just as I did, and as
did my wife when I informed her of this. Our mouths hung open, our
perplexity unattractive. We are not young tyros; we have seen our
government do many inexplicable, weird and even randomly horrible
things, because, as we all know, it is not a conscious or even
marginally rational entity, and therefore such actions are
inevitable. If the Library of Congress considers the random,
fleeting thoughts of each and every human that uses this medium to be
worthy of examination by posterity (the article mentioned the
difficulty of welding this mass of words into a searchable, useful
resource of some kind) then I would think the entirety of human
existence, regardless of meaning or quality, is also of inestimable
value and should somehow be recorded and saved forever. To the mind,
our physical world is just a quicksand of change and transformation,
and hence far less solid and real than our thoughts, which exist in a
medium that encompasses, surrounds, creates, the idea of time, and
hence feel eternal to us. Memory, and everything that enhances it or
preserves it, feels more important than the maddeningly elusive,
theoretical single moment of now, when physical and mental worlds
intersect and merge.</div>
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Blue chairs! Everlasting grey! Worlds collide!</div>
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Later in the same section of the W.
Post there was an article regarding a large cache of Jewish documents
roughly a thousand years old found in a cave in Afghanistan. Written
in several languages and scripts, it testifies to the enduring
addiction we all have to the products of our minds. At least the
ancient Jews had a criterion for saving documents, in that anything
mentioning God in any way was considered too sacred to discard.
Going back much farther in time and in our human psychical
development, we find the first writing, cuneiform, in large
quantities in the Sumerian civilization, and there apparently most of
the writing was used just to facilitate commerce and ordinary life –
laundry lists, bills and receipts and similar mental detritus, which
probably only survived because baked clay is a very stable material,
and tax returns must be kept at least seven years. I've got tax
returns twenty years old mouldering in my basement somewhere, but I
lost last year's altogether when my computers fried in a storm, and I
had been too lazy to back up or print them.</div>
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Which reminds me: File, Save As. The
hopeful, pathetic little gesture trying to conjure some sort of </div>
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immortality for our thoughts.</div>
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Don't forget me.</div>
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Liquid Plumber Double Action Snake!
The commercial I just saw was entirely pornographic in style and
intent, lacking only some wildly gyrating genitals and screaming,
spouting orgasms. So what, Pops? Your impertinent question is
valid; one should no longer expect, in our sophisticated modern
milieu, some vapid, sexless cartoon figure to sell household cleaning
products in a way that will not make Auntie Mildred shake with the
vapors. But then I saw a commercial for some auto-repair-and-tire
outfit that must have been written and directed by one of our great
modern absurdist provocateurs; the intent is no longer sexual but
darkly psychotic. A nearly nude bearded fat man embraces a
stone-faced mother figure in a staid outfit, and a masked, nearly
nude midget utters a feral cry and leaps from a tall bookcase upon a
nude fat man (the same one? we don't know.) in a towel, who is
expecting a back massage. The technique, I assume, is to link the
advertiser's name to strange images as a mnemonic, and this effect is
assumed to be stronger if the images are disturbing and repellent,
though lightly smeared with weak humor so as to deflect outraged
criticisms from superannuated, fossilized, fallen Freudians such as
myself. Freud would roll up his sleeves and flail endlessly but
entertainingly, could he but see modern advertising. More and more,
that imp he called the Id is dominating all human consciousness.
Just read those Tweets for as long as you can stand it, if you really
need confirmation. In any case, I can't remember the name of the car
repair outfit, though I've seen the commercial many times, and will
never be able to completely dump those fetid, hyper-banal images from
my brain. What's wrong with me, Doc? Have I fallen down a
metaphorical manhole, or a psychedelic rabbit hole, or a
wormhole-in-the-time/space-continuum? Or has the Zeitgeist just
passed me by like a Ferrari passing a donkey?</div>
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Surrealistic Cookie Factory</div>
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I see on the web that today is the day
Marty McFly was to arrive at in his headlong drive through time in
the battered DeLorean. A perfect example of the same thing: as cool
as that movie was, it now seems quaint in every way, especially in
its earnest optimism. Nevertheless, we are not required to jump on
the Cynical Juggernaut; if we wish we can stay in a decent mental
space of our own, like the Professor hiding in the past, and perhaps
be happy as our culture crumbles around us.</div>
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<i>Ride, Captain, ride, upon your mystery ship...</i></div>
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Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-64078922658842476982013-01-14T17:30:00.001-08:002013-01-14T17:52:47.751-08:00Joshua Tree, Phoenix.<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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</div>
Joshua Tree, Phoenix edition.
October 10-20, 2012</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
with John Ely and Todd Bradley.
Weather: virtually perfect every single day.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
From The Odyssey, trans. E.V. Rieu,
rev. D.C.H. Rieu 1991 Ed., Penguin Classics:</div>
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Book 5, line 269:</div>
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=9173420424668645583" name="firstHeading"></a> <i>It was
with a happy heart that the noble Odysseus spread his sail to catch
the wind and skilfully kept the raft on course with the rudder.
There he sat and never closed his eyes in sleep, but kept them on the
Pleiades, or watched the late-setting Boötes slowly fade, or the
Great Bear, sometimes called the Wain, which always wheels round in
the same place and looks across at Orion the Hunter with a wary eye.
It was this constellation, the only one which never sinks below the
horizon to bathe in Ocean's stream, that the wise goddess Calypso had
told him to keep on his left hand as he sailed across the sea. So
for seventeen days he sailed on his course, and on the eighteenth
there came into view the shadowy mountains of the Phaeacians'
country, which jutted out to meet him. The land looked like a shield
laid on the misty sea.</i><br />
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<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=9173420424668645583" name="firstHeading1"></a><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">So
everything was going right for once. Odysseus had lost all his
companions and all his ships, and been to the land of the dead and
came back alive, and was now sailing his raft on a true course for
home. Incidentally, another translation specifies Arcturus, the
brightest star in the constellation Boötes, rather than the
constellation itself; I don't know why. The original apparently
specifies the Ox-Driver, or Plowman. But anyway, you really can't
relax on these epics until you've actually taken your horribly filthy
boots off by the fireside in your own home, and sometimes not even
then. The tale continues:</span></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>But
now Poseidon, Lord of the Earthquake, who was on his way back from
his visit to the Ethiopians, observed him from the distant mountains
of the Solymi. The sight of Odysseus sailing over the sea enraged
him. He shook his head and said to himself, “Damnation! I had
only to go to Ethiopia for the gods to change their minds about
Odysseus! And there he is, close to the Phaeacians' land, where he
is destined to bring his long ordeal to an end. Nevertheless I mean
to let him have a bellyful of trouble yet.” </i><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> I must go down to the rocks again,</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>to the lonely rocks and sky</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>and all I ask is a stout rope</i></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>and a star to steer her by. </i>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
And all because
Odysseus had made the perfectly reasonable mistake of defending his
life against the cannibal giant Polyphemus, one of Poseidon's
numerous unpleasant progeny. I see Odysseus muttering to himself,
“You can't win for losing,” as he saw the wind begin to howl, and
the giant waves rise up. The gods knew he'd make it home, but would
they tip him off? No. He cursed his fate many times as the epic
dragged on, but he never quite lay down and declared he'd had enough.
He always crawled naked off the beach, looking for a stick, a stone,
a pretty girl – anything he could use to keep going.<br />
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There it is - the Crack of Weirdness that runs through Reality, from here to the bitter end.</div>
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<br /></div>
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So: here I stand
again in Hidden Valley campground, looking up at Orion and his
companions through the crystal midnight of the desert. It has been a
long two years since my last visit, with terrible events chronicled
elsewhere. I went briefly to the land of the dead, though not long
enough to talk to Achilles, and I came back and walked again on this
earth. The mountains and the rivers look the same, but they are not.
My eyes are different. But I came back to the desert to tell myself
that I am still a climber, changed though I may be; and the granite
still flows under my fingertips. If poetic language offends your
ear, I am sorry, but there is no other language that can do this job.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
I got your <i>Tabula Rasa</i> right here, baby.</div>
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<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">From
my notes:</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> Orientation – walked to bathroom
by starlight; returning, I knew the position of the stub of iron post
sticking out of the ground an inch and a quarter, having hit my bad
foot on it last night.</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> Galaxy overhead – to the east,
one stream, but overhead it is apparently bifurcated by interstellar
dust clouds – as if an illustration for primitive cosmogony: life
begins as one unified stream of infinite force, then splits into yin
and yang, consciousness and non-consciousness.</i></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">Returning
to Joshua Tree is, for me, returning home, to a place where I know my
orientation, from the micro- to the macrocosmos. At the very center
is the Eye of the Cyclops, from whence spews the electrifying,
all-embracing torrent of consciousness itself. Looking outward at
sunset one may see great mazes of granite ridges in the west, and the
bowl of desert surrounding in the other three directions; the walls
of of the bowl are a pale pink, often. Above is the Galaxy, around
whose center we revolve, out near the rim. Providentially we are
able to see far in all directions, not buried in monstrous dust
clouds, nor blinded by infinite brilliance near the galactic center.
We can see far back in time – not to the instant of Beginning, but
near enough to imagine it, to see it in the mind's eye, which is an
infinite field, looking inward.</span><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> The Cyclops Dihedral, looking almost straight up. The Eye is at the top, of course.</span></div>
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Of course, my home
– house, family, books – is also home and an orientation equally
valid and potent; the interface to the human world. But that
interface can swamp all else – the people we know, the work we must
do, the potent stream of culture, the rich stew of friendship, love,
pleasure and pain - they blot out the
silence and the stars, the slow breeze drifting through sagebrush,
the expressionless eye of the raven.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> A nice spot to shelter from the glare. Or is it?</span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"> Memorable
incident from this trip: the almost obligatory Dave Almost Steps on a
Rattlesnake trope. This would have been completely </span><i>un</i><span style="font-style: normal;">memorable,
given how remarkably common this type of incident has been in my
life, except that, for the first time, I exhibited a 'normal'
autonomic survival reaction. Ordinarily when I walk obliviously past
a rattlesnake, and have it pointed out to me by a companion, or see
one in the trail nearby, I observe it with pleasure and take the
appropriate action to avoid it, perhaps snap a picture, and pass by.
Once at Old Rag I was walking through dense ground cover and
cautiously parting the vegetation with a stick as I went, and I saw a
black timber rattler about two feet away, awake and moving slowly,
and I calmly let the foliage fall back into place and walked smoothly
backwards in my tracks, feeling no special excitement. On this
occasion, however, as I was walking through some brush between large
boulders out behind the Headstone, I heard and briefly saw a
rattlesnake immediately at my feet. The snake warned me, and the
reptile annex deep in my medulla oblongata instantly exerted total
control over my body, like a savage dictator suddenly seizing control
over a country in times of extreme danger. My body lunged away from
the snake far faster than the sluggish conscious brain, overloaded
with useless garbage like Shakespeare, algebra and Oingo-Boingo
tunes, could have made it go. Still tracking, but unable to
influence the body, the cerebrum got taken for a ride as the body
slammed over a low boulder and dashed the big-brained head into a
low-hanging Joshua tree arm, whose ends resemble the medieval mace
with more spikes. A gash on my left shin proved to be not the work
of the snake; he just wanted to express the quintessentially American
sentiment which is in fact the motto of all rattlesnakes: “Don't
tread on me, motherfucker.”</span></div>
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It is oddly
reassuring to know that our little old reptile brain is still back
there, never sleeping, always alert for reptiles and loaded for
T-Rex. The millions of years of ancient programming endure, and the
Dude abides.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Not long after my Rattlesnake Depantsing, John led this small unnamed climb; after placing the first piece, he somehow left the ground without the rest of the rack, so we tossed it up to him. Somewhat funnier because his personal style of leading requires that he take at least twice as much gear as I would, on any one climb.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Pinhead Boulder and Crack at sunset. No snakes nearby, probably.</div>
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Just for posterity
I should set down The Terrifying Incident of the Rattlesnake Under
the Pigpen Boulder, as told by Drew Frye. We visited Jtree some ten
or twelve years ago for a couple of weeks or so, and one afternoon we
were pursuing separate avenues of leisure or indolence, and Drew went
bouldering by himself, looking up some of the well-known problems.
He found the hand crack in the ceiling of the cave-like space under
the Pigpen boulder and decided to jam it as far as his strength might
hold out; very difficult though it is, even an unexpected fall will
only result in one's ass getting dusty as one drops to the gritty
granite sand. A worse danger is pulling a shoulder or tweaking an
elbow. You can guess the rest: halfway through as he was getting
tired and about to let his legs drop to the ground, he heard the
warning rattle immediately under his ass. His body filled instantly
with high-octane adrenalin, but instead of panicking and
spasmodically thrashing out of the cave, which would have certainly
resulted in an unpleasant fanging, he experienced the best of what
his body and mind could do: he jammed with rock-crushing, atomic
force in his hands and finished the problem, his brain still in
control as his body climbed into overdrive, beyond all normal limits.
One can almost never summon up motivation on that order of magnitude
at will, but under real pressure it sometimes does appear.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
On the Horns of the Minotaur</div>
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<span style="font-style: normal;"> </span><i>Q.:
is “existence” a worthy philosophical topic? Or just take it for
granite. Is “consciousness” a more interesting question, or
equally tautological? John: universe has inherent moral dimension.
Me: why? Or is it just a property or aspect or component of
consciousness, just an emotion, essentially?</i></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> Me: consciousness could have arisen
as a purely mechanical consequence of life/evolution. Morality just
one expression, not an objective law [like law of gravity] - no
evidence.</i></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
The Gates of Valhalla? Landing zone of the Mothership? Or just some of that good old Cosmic Debris?</div>
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As we had the
great luxury of free time, we sometimes took to arguing for the sheer
pleasure of it, while at the Saloon or just sitting around the
concrete picnic table. I can no longer reconstruct in any detail the
discussion indicated by these brief notes; nor is there any point in
doing so; the iterations and arabesques of thought intertwine and
then fade away like breath-mist on a cold morning. I think I
maintained that the “problem” of “existence” is not worth
pursuing. Why is there something rather than nothing? The question
is a massive red herring, given that any philosopher worth his stones
can question whether there is in fact anything. Without our
accepting as givens the basic ground conditions to our argumentation,
we cannot meaningfully assert anything at all; we are just waggling
our jaws and causing the air to vibrate a bit, just as it does when
the proverbial Joshua Tree gently falls to the sand. John of course
pointed out that people have been considering our “existence” a
problem for all of recorded history, or thereabouts. (I must put
words in his mouth, and I am quite sure that he would dispute every
one of them; but this is “now” and that was Zen, as the saying
goes.)</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
John in deep contemplation or perhaps just a snooze. Or both!</div>
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He asked me what I
thought would be an important problem to consider, and I said I was
interested in consciousness itself. At least it has apparent
qualities that one can examine, however tautologically, and in
considering it one might, or might not, be able to pin down a tiny
portion of “existence” to our experience as self-regarding
beings. Naturally, nothing of it can be proven in the same sense
that a scientific proposition can be examined, tested and proven to a
certain standard of likelihood; but we can elaborate a framework of
hypotheses that gives the appearance of plausibility, and that is not
obviously lacking in internal consistency. The moment one demands a
more solid and dependable structure of explanation, one is thrown
against conflicting but equally solid
conjectures-masquerading-as-certainties.</div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
We dance on a ridiculous, invisible knife-edge, every second of every day. The odds against us assure us that we simply aren't here at all. So: dance!</div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> Somehow
we segued to the idea of morality; John asserted that the universe
possesses a moral dimension or structure, one that would exist
independent of human consciousness; I demanded actual evidence of
some sort. I made an loose analogy to the existence of gravitational
force: although we do not know how gravity actually exerts force
across space (or even if that is a correct way to express what it
does), we have powerful physical evidence that allows us to measure
it with extreme precision, and the mysteriously opaque nature of it
leads inevitably to the inarguable T-shirt slogan, </span><i>GRAVITY
DON'T HAVE NO MERCY </i><span style="font-style: normal;">(see
Delaware Water Gap, the climb </span><i>Death Don't Have no Mercy</i><span style="font-style: normal;">).
Morality, by contrast, seems to vary immensely depending on who you
ask, or what you want, or whose ox is being gored, and so forth. To
me it seems like merely one of many dimensions or characteristics of
consciousness, and hence of little larger interest. But John was
quick to dismiss my purely mechanical view of the universe, as
starting at the wrong viewpoint altogether, and thus depressingly
limited. And I probably shouted </span><i>au contraire, mon ami!</i><span style="font-style: normal;">
in my riposte, wherein I asserted that there is no proven obstacle to
the possibility that life and then consciousness have arisen purely
as a statistically necessary consequence of basic physics, and the
mathematical probabilities inherent in a universe of this size and
age, with this many elemental particles whizzing around in it and
sticking together in gravity wells of various sizes. If you break a
rack of balls on a pool table, using your cosmic cue and your special
magical tip-chalk, over and over andoverandoverandoverandoverandover</span><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-style: normal;">andoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandover
</span>andoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandoverandover-----</span></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Hey - who "carved" this granite?</div>
</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;">...until
even your Godlike arm is tired and all the beer is gone, a time will
come when all the balls go into the pockets on the break, and you're
in business. Anders Osbourne, the bluesman, has a nice line, from
another context: “Never is a real long time.” And in that real
long time the universe did emerge (I think) and after another real
long time the Promethean fire of consciousness ignited, and here we
are (apparently), thinking long thoughts and climbing tall rocks, to
equal (that is, unknown) purpose. I have no complaint! </span><br />
<br />
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
From the Wikipedia
page on cosmogony:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<i>One problem in cosmogony is that there is currently no
theoretical model that explains the earliest moments of the
universe's existence (during the </i><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Planck_time"><i>Planck
time</i></a></u></span></span><i>) because of a lack of a testable
theory of </i><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Quantum_gravity"><i>quantum
gravity</i></a></u></span></span><i>. Researchers in </i><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/String_theory"><i>string
theory</i></a></u></span></span><i> and its extensions (for example,
</i><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/M_theory"><i>M
theory</i></a></u></span></span><i>), and of </i><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loop_quantum_cosmology"><i>loop
quantum cosmology</i></a></u></span></span><i>, have nevertheless
proposed solutions of the type just discussed.</i><br />
<i>Another issue facing the field of </i><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Particle_physics"><i>particle
physics</i></a></u></span></span><i> is a need for more expensive and
technologically advanced </i><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Particle_accelerators"><i>particle
accelerators</i></a></u></span></span><i> to test proposed theories
(for example, that the universe was caused by colliding </i><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Membrane_(M-theory)"><i>membranes</i></a></u></span></span><i>).</i><br />
<i>Developing a complete theoretical model has implications in
both the </i><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Philosophy_of_science"><i>philosophy
of science</i></a></u></span></span><i> and </i><span style="color: navy;"><span lang="zxx"><u><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Epistemology"><i>epistemology</i></a></u></span></span><i>.
For example, it would clarify the meaningful ways in which people can
ask the question "why do we exist?"</i>.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<img alt="" height="682" src="http://cdn.sci-news.com/images/2012/12/image_789.jpg" title="This is the planetary nebula NGC 5189 (NASA / ESA / the Hubble Heritage Team / STScI / AURA)" width="640" /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Needless to say, I did not take this photo. Galileo took it, and everyone who came after him; it took our whole civilization to realize this image.</div>
<br />
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
This brings up more questions – in fact an endless string or
loop of vibrating questions. Just the fact that we, like the
children we are, can continue to ask a series of questions
indefinitely, seems to indicate that no final answer can exist. But,
more specifically: What would an
explanation of the earliest moments of the universe's existence look
like? In what terms would it have meaning? If we have to invent a
theoretical model full of infinitely complex and arcane involutions,
will the result have meaning in a way comparable, for example, to the
current scientific explanation of the formation of the earth, and the
evolution of life upon it? All explanations build upon some
foundation of assumed existing elements which combine to produce the
new thing that needs the explanation. We are here instead searching
for the foundation cause of existence itself – the very definition
of a tautology, ain't it? Only a particle accelerator big and strong
enough to spark the creation of a new universe would really satisfy
this scientific quest, but we'd have no time to enjoy our triumph,
would we?<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Shadow-dancing with the Weird Interior Spirit. </div>
</div>
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<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
In this one
extreme case I recommend that we adopt the wisdom of one T. Geisel,
whose brilliant fable regarding the mysterious generation of 500
hats, each a little more splendid than the last, ends with no pat
explanation, simple or arcane: it just “happened to happen”, and
that was enough. In all post-Bang investigations, however, I am in
favor of untrammeled reason rampant, and science unchained (tempered,
one devoutly hopes, with wisdom, humanity, compassion and so forth as
might be feasible).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUY6s7c6eZkKcHYZPENRsj1vRsaTqlcANkO4X10AIPLhm_gFoaZtOhkC9EzOKPTe9GygDeAk2wpdXI8752Upb_qAVrbisR7ytxxUn6U8k7adjB4ojm2LnZSOk8uUtiqpGcaqS6RzwU1w/s1600/DSCF7231.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQUY6s7c6eZkKcHYZPENRsj1vRsaTqlcANkO4X10AIPLhm_gFoaZtOhkC9EzOKPTe9GygDeAk2wpdXI8752Upb_qAVrbisR7ytxxUn6U8k7adjB4ojm2LnZSOk8uUtiqpGcaqS6RzwU1w/s640/DSCF7231.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
The Aguille de Josh - an excellent soap-box from which to hurl your abuse at the gods.</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> I
mean, really – if the universe began because of a collision between
some membranes – then where did those 'membranes' come from? What
were they made of? Why did it set off a Bang? And so forth. </span><i>No
matter what</i><span style="font-style: normal;"> explanation is
given, I can always ask another question about it. And to give an
arbitrary Name for the First Cause is just a cowardly flinch, turning
a blind mind's eye on it.</span><br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0HcdylboKjkdSKfPq4ToxdSWhSqTWvu69r4xTotqU_bS3qL2hLja6dkrR_je_MTHEgdhximUgDvJ19W4fW08f2tkSrGR_36Q5pF6gXk4K3Ivko-lNixxOD8u-Hqw68GhBGReSkQr3GAY/s1600/DSCF7174crop.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0HcdylboKjkdSKfPq4ToxdSWhSqTWvu69r4xTotqU_bS3qL2hLja6dkrR_je_MTHEgdhximUgDvJ19W4fW08f2tkSrGR_36Q5pF6gXk4K3Ivko-lNixxOD8u-Hqw68GhBGReSkQr3GAY/s640/DSCF7174crop.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-style: normal;"> Hey - we're here. We exist. And not only that: don't tread on us, motherfucker.</span></div>
</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
The Joshua Tree
Saloon is a friendly dive on the corner with ten beers on tap, one
pool table, three or four moderately sized screens generally tuned to
football and baseball, a long bar and a few tables and booths, and a
tiny little stage at the end of the bar, nothing more than a small
raised section, for the karaoke club to wail from. And of course
there is a jukebox. The standard burger lineup was well done and
generous in portion size, and between that and Santana's, the
all-night Mexican drive-through, we failed to lose any weight on this
trip. Todd of course is already as lean as a stick from
mountaineering all over the West, and cannot eat gluten in any case;
but John and I are at risk for the predictable middle-aged spread,
and must run very fast just to stay where we are.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Vlf1iF1RAqN2ZNFYEoecb8F_dz54Q3HugftavVjwaKzn4tii5Ru5cbFMnRz4UAm5B8GSl8-sPjNtc08gBSXbj3Iai7BNPwpvRP8pjYJjTNz141N-vCE2bdLpXU24fDZNNzt5Yn5Rx0w/s1600/DSCF6791.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3Vlf1iF1RAqN2ZNFYEoecb8F_dz54Q3HugftavVjwaKzn4tii5Ru5cbFMnRz4UAm5B8GSl8-sPjNtc08gBSXbj3Iai7BNPwpvRP8pjYJjTNz141N-vCE2bdLpXU24fDZNNzt5Yn5Rx0w/s640/DSCF6791.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The gear manager, constantly struggling to tame the chaos of John's rack.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Todd leads a nice hand crack somewhere way out back of beyond.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIB2Spdq-sFgWU1YbeaiwpjooP5qVZOCH0csLqwPhidBaOHLs5cn1G4pqmonSMwkUlGN19vQEKEJPsxbFdnj9jLqvQnPxvGmsJKINYNRrNrAc_qOX-H8HmZuv48PUA5xbNo1KQ9Xhb18/s1600/DSCF7193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXIB2Spdq-sFgWU1YbeaiwpjooP5qVZOCH0csLqwPhidBaOHLs5cn1G4pqmonSMwkUlGN19vQEKEJPsxbFdnj9jLqvQnPxvGmsJKINYNRrNrAc_qOX-H8HmZuv48PUA5xbNo1KQ9Xhb18/s640/DSCF7193.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
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</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
One night we went
to the Saloon to watch the Nationals in the final game of their
season, losing a heartbreaker in the last inning to a more
experienced team; one could see their beaten body language as they
took their last three at-bats, flailing at phantoms and staring at
strikes. The beautiful dream had ended early, and waking, we all
grimaced and stretched, trying to recall, just for a few more
moments, the glorious story line, the girl just now turning toward us
with a rising smile, the last few feet of the wonderful rocky trail
in the hills... evaporating into the null state between stories.
Though I love the beauty of the game, I am no fan; I shift my shallow
allegiances shamelessly, and have only sketchy knowledge of the
characters and teams and history.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPoe312PdDSXXYn1NHstkWzjyg_IikQ9_Q3tBS40gtttmcZeCPo5M4s9CbD4Y9WmESViniPVYWSSeYerVRDPyKV3ZbscSBXiipx6PtB22j927PHW4qTlh8-mL55YthpzVXEOxXgDhGSk/s1600/DSCF7068.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPoe312PdDSXXYn1NHstkWzjyg_IikQ9_Q3tBS40gtttmcZeCPo5M4s9CbD4Y9WmESViniPVYWSSeYerVRDPyKV3ZbscSBXiipx6PtB22j927PHW4qTlh8-mL55YthpzVXEOxXgDhGSk/s640/DSCF7068.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
John leads the right edge of Headstone. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
And Todd leads the left edge. The Headstone floats magically just above a coarse pile of large rubble.</div>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
On another night
it happened to be karaoke night. We watched, mesmerized, as four or
five wildly mismatched individuals took turns crooning, belting and
mumbling various random country-western standards, to near-complete
indifference from the room; the performers were not a bit
discouraged, any more than they were ever even in the same state as
being on key. A sort of wispy wannabe cowpoke in his late eighties
mumbled happily through every verse of “I am my own Grampaw”; the
others were females, difficult to describe and even harder to watch,
trying hard to summon up a tiny spark of Patsy Cline's ghost, and
failing. I would describe this far more vividly, but I had to drink
ever more Fat Tire to endure it at all, and so much grandeur is lost forever. But you
could go there; you could wander in on some fateful Thursday night
(or was it a Wednesday? Only the ghosts can say...) and see them all
still there, trying their best to sing, summoning the courage to
stand up in front of God and his lowly Bar Patrons, and gently waving
their arms to the music. Todd did his best to get John and me to put
together a song for the next week, but we were too old and crafty to
fall for that. It would have taken superhuman efforts by the superb
blond waitress to convince me that I am like unto a young Elvis, a
demigod who can mesmerize with his gaze and his perfect voice –
that and so much beer that I would fall down after the first chorus
of “Hurried Romance, Low-Rent Rendezvous”.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYJ6wWBNnikcnGyDTmym1_JwItqw5SUsVK10XmCG3FlfAUeLB3VpKpYncsg_vW5PjLVHFgmRMakM5jij4_pyF7eTYPsyW_1XlmW1YKCcbDP104UCZ17Sc5zoHEJiBYwDxNn9JDcEjRsck/s1600/DSCF6881.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYJ6wWBNnikcnGyDTmym1_JwItqw5SUsVK10XmCG3FlfAUeLB3VpKpYncsg_vW5PjLVHFgmRMakM5jij4_pyF7eTYPsyW_1XlmW1YKCcbDP104UCZ17Sc5zoHEJiBYwDxNn9JDcEjRsck/s640/DSCF6881.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
The leader dwindles into an illusion of distance. The climb is a very easy 5.8 called "Parental Guidance Suggested", located not too far from the edges of... the Twilight Zone.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJ1J8_6LFbWOt_8luyyCvo8KkixMGshiLfrSrBEcior6CG-jbzlGFPNo0bYdeTBy7MpInr8YuHZGQPzVzeQXWizjE0OoewdI5hmFXrAtAp9MiM31P9YAUbcUvrnsbX12ItOYZOg6Y4AM/s1600/DSCF6856.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFJ1J8_6LFbWOt_8luyyCvo8KkixMGshiLfrSrBEcior6CG-jbzlGFPNo0bYdeTBy7MpInr8YuHZGQPzVzeQXWizjE0OoewdI5hmFXrAtAp9MiM31P9YAUbcUvrnsbX12ItOYZOg6Y4AM/s640/DSCF6856.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Finishing "Fun Stuff", another easy 5.8.</div>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
My three leads:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Poodlsby is a
pretty nice 5.6 a little right of White Lightning; it is a fairly
long pitch with a lot of variety, reasonable protection and not much
strain. It was my first lead since my fall almost 18 months before.
I felt ready in a purely physical sense, but I was completely
unwilling to fall, and therefore my protocol for the climb was very
much like a soloing protocol: test everything, trust nothing,
overprotect, think all moves through in advance; plan and execute
with total deliberation. And doing that, I finished out with very
little fear and much satisfaction.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3r5Ld1H1h_dY1IMpwO_xRhU6WUfBCWEn0aV7JZacmBxwhyphenhyphenTbmuuOwfyn3FB6-emEO7qtqV1uUqiPntuHQFr-3JUYMivPYf5664E_SA9aDdMDlpSYrgUvglP5jVABsVmP1mcdPqScDr1s/s1600/DSCF6738.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3r5Ld1H1h_dY1IMpwO_xRhU6WUfBCWEn0aV7JZacmBxwhyphenhyphenTbmuuOwfyn3FB6-emEO7qtqV1uUqiPntuHQFr-3JUYMivPYf5664E_SA9aDdMDlpSYrgUvglP5jVABsVmP1mcdPqScDr1s/s640/DSCF6738.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Right up the center is the well-known 5.7 called White Lightning, which offers a rather stiff offwidth start, to electrify your day. Poodlsby is to the right, starting in the large shallow chimney. </div>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Spaghetti and
Chili is a fine 5.7 of perhaps 80 or a hundred feet, that I have led
before and recommend as a fine practice lead, with a genuine, though
straightforward, lead move – the type of thing that you must force
yourself to initiate, because while your reason tells you it is
simple and safe, and well within your proven ability, your hindbrain,
the one that (usually) prevents babies from crawling off tables, is
telling you in no uncertain terms that, no, it ain't. The name
refers to the two very different, mismatched cruxes. The first is a
classic traversing, then rising layback on friction footholds, right
at the true start about 20 feet off the ground; you have all the time
you want to place as much pro as you want in the undercling crack,
and when you're finally unable to pretend any longer that the
placements there could be improved by further dithering, you have to
launch out and up, on your arms. Weak as my left arm is, I still
felt that this move should not intimidate me, and yet I did hesitate
longer, and protect more, than I had done two years ago. The other
crux is right at the top, a short, somewhat overhanging crack that
requires nothing more than a couple of simple hand jams and a pinch
of determination; the entire middle section is trivial. But it felt
really good to pull it off.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8PUsZf81jBSv40EODK2CD0ydWS03eQWcmVYMiVZ8o21MrtzKbyFmcqF91A2iLbheCz95fGgXEpDQCED570UrISZSA3SB4vXusz1eulZS3lmjyF5y9MhcBSBAC1bpCJt70n40wxLcQ-0Q/s1600/DSCF7030.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8PUsZf81jBSv40EODK2CD0ydWS03eQWcmVYMiVZ8o21MrtzKbyFmcqF91A2iLbheCz95fGgXEpDQCED570UrISZSA3SB4vXusz1eulZS3lmjyF5y9MhcBSBAC1bpCJt70n40wxLcQ-0Q/s640/DSCF7030.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
First, the spaghetti...</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQKSf-cDYBBuRLPfXFxkZc-110G3aKzXNcT-_5_FmLbfbjyMxWhA8gdMIjwzs1Pd6vaylScezvSsn0mrL6-cEx9nw-Vi3Lu8JN_WVodln_ACNnIi4cdlSW1gPoWQaStuVelegdKZ8T9M/s1600/DSCF7055.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixQKSf-cDYBBuRLPfXFxkZc-110G3aKzXNcT-_5_FmLbfbjyMxWhA8gdMIjwzs1Pd6vaylScezvSsn0mrL6-cEx9nw-Vi3Lu8JN_WVodln_ACNnIi4cdlSW1gPoWQaStuVelegdKZ8T9M/s640/DSCF7055.JPG" width="426" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and later, the chili.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
Ranger Danger, 5.8 smooth. These 3 shots by John Ely.</div>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Ranger Danger is a
short 5.8 slab climb, on the joint formed with a vertical dihedral
wall. Short as it is (maybe 30 feet of actual climbing), it presents
a real problem. The start is tricky friction; about 12 or 15 feet up
one finds a narrow, short crack next to the wall which can take a little
pink tri-cam and a .25 black one as well, which Todd lent to me for
this purpose. And that's all you get. Two years ago Chris led this
and we all followed, and I thought it remarkably easy, which just
illustrates the great mental gulf between leading and following.
Here on lead, frictioning above my two little pieces and missing an
obvious bucket on the left wall, I had a moment or two of real leader
tension, but, regardless of my physical ailments, I knew that a slab
like this must yield to me, as they always do, when met with the
proper mixture of patience and intensity. As the slab ended I put a
nice big blue tri-cam into a hand crack on the left and went on up to
the belay with ease. And I felt good belaying on a magnificent
3-piece equalized anchor, idly watching the endless mare's tails spin
out across the sky, west to east.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<div style="text-align: center;">
If Aeolus lends you the West Wind, be careful, don't let some numbskull in the crew fool with it.</div>
<br />
Book 21, line 404:</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
</div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i>While they were
talking Odysseus, master of stratagems, had picked up the great bow
and checked it all over. As a minstrel skilled at the lyre and in
song easily stretches a string round a new leather strap, fixing the
twisted sheep-gut at both ends, so he strung the great bow without
effort or haste. Then with his right hand he tested the string, and
it sang as he plucked it with a sound like a swallow's note. The
suitors were utterly mortified; the color faded from their cheeks;
and to mark the moment there came a thunderclap from Zeus, and
Odysseus' long-suffering heart leapt up for joy at this sign of favor
from the Son of Chronos of the devious ways.</i></div>
<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> One arrow lay
loose on the table beside him; the rest, which the Achaean lords were
soon to experience, were still inside their hollow quiver. He picked
up this shaft, set it against the bridge of the bow, drew back the
grooved end and the string together, all without rising from his
stool, and, with a straight aim, shot. Not a single axe did he miss.
From the first handle-ring, right through them all and out at the
last the arrow sped with its burden of bronze.</i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuwQztIAh41IAfvKSIRDOhQM8wJeLrWmFPnVbu4dNfm61Eb2tyZu5iiPVHcqolRgJgCj3dtodCw8MfIaqzfeaHoBIMrb1sL9o0SjkCRoQsNBXLK7avM-vUG53hdNku50V1ZDBjMJnDQAs/s1600/DSCF7350.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuwQztIAh41IAfvKSIRDOhQM8wJeLrWmFPnVbu4dNfm61Eb2tyZu5iiPVHcqolRgJgCj3dtodCw8MfIaqzfeaHoBIMrb1sL9o0SjkCRoQsNBXLK7avM-vUG53hdNku50V1ZDBjMJnDQAs/s640/DSCF7350.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i> There</i> is<i> order in the universe. Some, anyway. One draw is missing, I think.</i></div>
</div>
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<div style="font-style: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<i> </i>That's when
he finally knew he was home and safe. All that remained was to take
out the trash and mop the bloody floor, and get straight with the wife for
being out so late. One of those stories that never really ends.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDrO8AffcPeMDvre_Vjg5rtNXS4WPGW384rsAQTJahv0Vpv6u89vBjw34hW2Gd1tPbabMke3mUUUeMNziAOA8osRzOkSIRngwvFFVzWA-LrkaGdlPq-NVlS9pi7cR62We9VqJ2rZdxfGA/s1600/DSCF7129crop.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiDrO8AffcPeMDvre_Vjg5rtNXS4WPGW384rsAQTJahv0Vpv6u89vBjw34hW2Gd1tPbabMke3mUUUeMNziAOA8osRzOkSIRngwvFFVzWA-LrkaGdlPq-NVlS9pi7cR62We9VqJ2rZdxfGA/s640/DSCF7129crop.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-25747265651948730092012-11-01T19:37:00.001-07:002012-11-02T07:00:40.443-07:00The music of pure granite...<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLG0kvblI3gvHI5agzDGBkFTKT30R9qnlLiq5m2QIiw8yyWT98EYpSO-H9x_Yro1ez2fFsCS11647g4mUdt66ZRqXWL2KP4Xis2ZkPj6InMseekW5u2HjJMZW30BKaGIqSRV1nxWfzlo/s1600/IMG_0461.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLLG0kvblI3gvHI5agzDGBkFTKT30R9qnlLiq5m2QIiw8yyWT98EYpSO-H9x_Yro1ez2fFsCS11647g4mUdt66ZRqXWL2KP4Xis2ZkPj6InMseekW5u2HjJMZW30BKaGIqSRV1nxWfzlo/s640/IMG_0461.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Eichorn Pinnacle</td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">South Face of North Dome -
September 2007.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">With Chris Mrozowski. Photos of me are by Chris; the rest by me. Essay <span style="font-size: large;">finished early in</span> 2008. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Twenty-eight years ago
Frank Zappa released the album Sheik Yerbouti, with the classical
masterpiece “Yo’ Mama” on it, and I have no idea how many times
I’ve played it. It has accompanied me through my long journey in
the same manner as a few other works: Prokofiev’s Classical
Symphony has never once failed to lift my spirits; I can never resist
singing along to Don McLean’s “American Pie” when it comes
through the radio; and Grieg’s “Solveig’s Song” from the Peer
Gynt Suite, played on a fifty-year-old, heavily scratched piece of
solid bakelite, always transports me to a simple and beautiful world
of snowy mountains and pure, abstract sorrow. And there’s always
Debussy, dancing with the fauns in the morning. </span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpCEaGuPBJuxmMMGS-QgnHEckYgapi8zTQUWDykrLaHKe1pUvwz-SjpWUMk5j2bcomPQVvwtOGHa52W3Zvbe2oSn5ReXR004SGSQSbFqsHNHB0lsev5yWgSE3MFFX8i3WoIz6wj2hCB0/s1600/IMG_0513.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkpCEaGuPBJuxmMMGS-QgnHEckYgapi8zTQUWDykrLaHKe1pUvwz-SjpWUMk5j2bcomPQVvwtOGHa52W3Zvbe2oSn5ReXR004SGSQSbFqsHNHB0lsev5yWgSE3MFFX8i3WoIz6wj2hCB0/s640/IMG_0513.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Vernal Falls on the Merced</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> “Yo’ Mama” begins
and ends with some lyrics which are not so much silly as perfectly
absurd; they follow the main melodic theme without giving you a
single thing to think about, so their only point is to fill space
with voice while the real music assembles and begins. The next ten
minutes are all instrumental: electric guitar, trumpets,
synthesizers, what have you - melody is developed slowly and
patiently, with glorious non-jazz randomness, and builds to the sort
of logical yet only slowly unveiled, complex climax I associate with
Brahms, and, yes, Debussy. As far as I know this piece means little
to music lovers in general; perhaps it is too quirky, too unique, too
disconnected with any obvious tradition. I associate it with leaping
into the gorgeous unknown, maybe into Petty’s Great Wide Open, on
an aesthetic level. And maybe it’s just ear candy and I have naïve
and simplistic tastes - I just don’t care. More highly refined
aesthetes than myself may now leave the theatre and decamp to the
nearest jazz coffee joint.</span><br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nIC4bSmad39H7NnsvJ4MgzGFzvrjVW1W4DY5_wjBCGAR4B12YAD9ONyNI5h9RBgaLnf3HoSUdpim2AjTrMPQRjrECBYk2PhUUIjLi8syUjl-stzrPskMbhUf7LPsi7vd8XDvd09hQpo/s1600/IMG_0455.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_nIC4bSmad39H7NnsvJ4MgzGFzvrjVW1W4DY5_wjBCGAR4B12YAD9ONyNI5h9RBgaLnf3HoSUdpim2AjTrMPQRjrECBYk2PhUUIjLi8syUjl-stzrPskMbhUf7LPsi7vd8XDvd09hQpo/s640/IMG_0455.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Highlands near Cathedral Peak</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Sometimes songs play
themselves in my head when I am leading a fine climb, and they seem
to connect to the climb thereafter. Only <span style="font-size: large;">later</span>, several weeks after
having climbed the South Face of North Dome (in Yosemite, opposite
Half Dome, for non-climbers) d<span style="font-size: large;">id</span> “Yo’ Mama” suggest itself as
the proper musical counterpart to this climb: beautiful, complex,
long, but still accessible to the merely mortal man, if he is willing
to listen hard and stay with it. Here’s how it goes: </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitE73u9Gi_ivccINxQ4P7om4b2wu6mUi6A9hQgvqxnXW9xrHzcSV571EAU_nh13yWgj3Eqjxa6jngppP7JR3KlwdQoTX2vx2yNA5gW0g-NXymO0gCYvQT8Li9fUe8KMfBzNF9SZCOBo60/s1600/IMG_0477.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitE73u9Gi_ivccINxQ4P7om4b2wu6mUi6A9hQgvqxnXW9xrHzcSV571EAU_nh13yWgj3Eqjxa6jngppP7JR3KlwdQoTX2vx2yNA5gW0g-NXymO0gCYvQT8Li9fUe8KMfBzNF9SZCOBo60/s640/IMG_0477.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> We got up before dawn and
drove the thirty-odd miles from the Valley floor to the Porcupine
Flats trailhead on the road to Tuolumne; we saddled ourselves with
ropes and gear and walked the well-worn trail about five miles,
mostly fairly level, as the morning rose around us. Then we cut
right, down the drainage to the west of the dome, following a faint
but unmistakable climber trail that meandered down through dry,
scratchy, grasping scrub, along the narrow and winding dry creekbed.
This section had been advertised as really nasty bushwhacking. Well,
I’ve done worse; compared to real Old Rag belly-crawling,
nettle-stinging, bramble-scrambling, rattle-snake-annoying,
poison-ivy-infested, wasp-filled rhododendron sweatfests, it wasn’t
real bad. But the predominant bushes we had to whack through were
very grabby indeed, and we had small packs, with most of our gear on
our harnesses - not the best strategy. Hence the last half mile
seemed endless, as we struggled down, craning our necks to the east
to find the elusive traverse to the base of the clean granite slopes
we craved.</span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOx072EE9GqSZrBY1icHClAEMkwcH98g2hmp9Yp2mWq1xdBdexXBfKE7BJULSihdM2Fq0pX0OKStBLzyswvkORFxfN7ToiVt7VpwgG2NCo8y-wwHKbZRx5-tcBejwDYhgYirmm2NUczQY/s1600/IMG_0521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOx072EE9GqSZrBY1icHClAEMkwcH98g2hmp9Yp2mWq1xdBdexXBfKE7BJULSihdM2Fq0pX0OKStBLzyswvkORFxfN7ToiVt7VpwgG2NCo8y-wwHKbZRx5-tcBejwDYhgYirmm2NUczQY/s640/IMG_0521.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">From west slope of Half Dome, we see North Dome across the Valley. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Finally the pointless
lyrics cease and the pseudo-trumpets and the guitar, spangled with a
few sequins synthesized from the ether, enter the clear morning air
and begin building a graceful substructure in the sky. We flaked the
beautiful new twin 60s, roped up at the base, with Half Dome’s NW
face glaring at us like a Paleolithic god from directly across the
Valley, and Chris led off up a winding line on moderate slopes, on
variable friction and a pure and smooth layback to a tiny tree.
Protection was sparse but adequate; there are no bolts anywhere on
this climb. I led the second, another pure layback demanding care
and patience despite the low rating, as the granite was polished,
white, unforgiving. I belayed behind a bigger tree and Chris came
up, looking ahead apprehensively to the routefinding crux of the
entire climb. This involves finding a way rightwards up and over a
gigantic overlap forming a vertical wall just to our right of ten to
fifteen feet; the rest of the climb takes place on the outer layer of
granite thus attained. Chris puzzled out the few words on the topo
regarding this, and went up the dihedral a little way, crawled up
onto a large sloping shelf, and did a creative crabwalk back down a
few feet to a weird ramp whose surface was hidden from the belay
station; zipped up the ramp and over the edge of the great overlap
and disappeared altogether. He had negotiated peculiar chord and key
changes and broken out into unknown new realms, perhaps, from my
fixed point of view under the tree. Much rope ran out fairly quickly
and to my surprise I could still hear him call ‘off belay’.
Having seen him do it, I did it a bit differently and more easily;
the whole difference between the known and the unknown; I envied him
having done it virgin, so to speak.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDoGmCrqeW4rJtIg4bQ4OG5CCLBRB0tjWfDSfQcZ5KS2alehftJ8Fo-G0h4-ZV1vr1ZEG5cpPKMDUe8aLUwgMzhG6fjoQbffz0DDkBUwE5jN3hYk9smJe3vrBGUGzdOEY2YYkBRi-y3w/s1600/IMG_0457.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizDoGmCrqeW4rJtIg4bQ4OG5CCLBRB0tjWfDSfQcZ5KS2alehftJ8Fo-G0h4-ZV1vr1ZEG5cpPKMDUe8aLUwgMzhG6fjoQbffz0DDkBUwE5jN3hYk9smJe3vrBGUGzdOEY2YYkBRi-y3w/s640/IMG_0457.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Chris on the summit of Cathedral Peak.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> But my turn came very soon.
After a short friction traverse though the suddenly fierce clear wind
driving down the valley (we had been becalmed in the lee of the great
side wall for the first two pitches) I climbed a long easy crack,
many feet to the belay, and continued on through with little pause,
leading up the fabulous fourth pitch.</span></div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Ioj8KBbxO8S_A02HiCU-WpX2y5CJLvCwjQ3-AuA8IAiwR83yZGYC9pUUWQb6X-JBcWsiTCUnGgzC7um9oZlr542cu9fV2ToYQnJkR4yWfoCuwHYZda_wgQzF7s4_vSF6xGdK1UsCQPg/s1600/IMG_0500.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2Ioj8KBbxO8S_A02HiCU-WpX2y5CJLvCwjQ3-AuA8IAiwR83yZGYC9pUUWQb6X-JBcWsiTCUnGgzC7um9oZlr542cu9fV2ToYQnJkR4yWfoCuwHYZda_wgQzF7s4_vSF6xGdK1UsCQPg/s640/IMG_0500.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sisyphus in a rare moment of levity. Of course what he really needs is levitation. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> This pitch is clear
trumpets arcing through the clear sky, pure fourths and fifths easily
understood by a stone; the crack continues at a mild angle, jumps
over a small overlap and starts to narrow, gradually but inexorably,
offering fewer placements, and not far ahead I could see where it
narrows to the width of a small woman’s little finger, then to the
small end of a chopstick, and then nothing; I put in a final small
wire, a #1 DMM, totally solid, and then I had to, so to speak, step
into an invisible coracle, out onto the trackless, holdless granite,
and traverse right, out and up what seemed like a very long way, to
get to the large ledge and clump of bushes, that looked like a hotel
with a nice champagne bar from where I was crawling, my mouth so
damned dry. Each foot placement, as you may well imagine, was the
subject of careful scrutiny; but I had enough brain function left
that I began to whisper a silly little mantra under my breath, and it
seemed to smooth out the little bumps of fear that could conceivably
disturb my concentration. The mantra was: “Stick like a fly, boy,
stick like a fly.” And in good time I came to the prickly bushes
and found a fine stance and set a fine anchor and drank some fine
lukewarm water, and brought Chris up. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxs1MOrRIwco-SIOQ2jYSxABx29HvpROWabcLymmOXOvmu32qOwk8ThCNjK0Ojl0GV7U5aIhUE-0-b57cgQlRFIXhBd8cMdrctLDRfuIoW1UKlzq3L4Cdz6bZMTXY-5V6aNKcTevqu3hE/s1600/IMG_0484.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxs1MOrRIwco-SIOQ2jYSxABx29HvpROWabcLymmOXOvmu32qOwk8ThCNjK0Ojl0GV7U5aIhUE-0-b57cgQlRFIXhBd8cMdrctLDRfuIoW1UKlzq3L4Cdz6bZMTXY-5V6aNKcTevqu3hE/s640/IMG_0484.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Tuolomne</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Suddenly the music gets
gnarly and proud; deep bass lines grind low but cleanly, without
weird distracting textures or complications. We are faced with a
chimney. It is Chris’ lead; neither of us has led or followed a
chimney for decades. After some discussion we decide to try it with
our bullet packs hanging between our legs, dragging on the rock,
rather than risk other weirdness by hauling them. The chimney rises
some fifty feet to an abrupt end, beyond which we cannot see. It is a
somewhat flaring, mixed-technique affair with a tantalizing outside
edge that only sometimes offers assistance; not a straightforward
heel-and-back-and-palms sort of deal - not agonizing if one has done
a few chimneys recently. Chris made slow but steady progress for a
while, though at one point he said, “I think I’ve done some
damage.” I should have asked him what he meant, but did not.
After a complicated struggle he exited the top of the chimney and
disappeared into the ether again; a lot of rope went out as he did
some classic 5.7 laybacking in a good sharp crack to another big
ledge. I followed, starting with my back to the wall and my palms on
the giant flake that formed the chimney, and at very much the same
spot where Chris had mentioned doing damage, I did some damage as
well: my left palm slipped out and down just a little bit, and I
found that a nickel-sized patch of palm skin was now flapping,
attached by a thread, and the underlying flesh, though not scored or
bleeding, was naturally a bit sensitive to the prospect of any more
friction chimneying. Well, ok, suck it up, ya crybaby. In a few
feet I had a stance and I got some tape out of my pack and taped it
up, and went on. At the belay I saw that Chris had exactly the same
patch of skin missing on the same hand, but he had not taped it, so
we did that.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf8U783XronggSDoD1w__5kAE50J2GqjQP7PweYMc5MowpKX6qZraAHRJSmBHIus2eJZ_Qg1NDTrrV6qPYXEsPIUiaqRGuXJ9P_GmuDAQGhwZ_yGr_xTf-Qb9tbRq9Tv6Mzc__N2iqnZ0/s1600/IMG_0520.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjf8U783XronggSDoD1w__5kAE50J2GqjQP7PweYMc5MowpKX6qZraAHRJSmBHIus2eJZ_Qg1NDTrrV6qPYXEsPIUiaqRGuXJ9P_GmuDAQGhwZ_yGr_xTf-Qb9tbRq9Tv6Mzc__N2iqnZ0/s640/IMG_0520.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">After the Snake Dike. "From here we walk."</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Okay, kids! Got the nasty
chimney out of the way! And it’s my lead! What have you got for me,
North Dome? I’m ready! Oh, crap - another chimney, weirder than the
last one. Chord changes upside down and backward. Have to start
back to the wall and then switch around at some point. And on and on.
Began laybacking, and the foot friction turned to polished
porcelain. I remember putting in a piece from a very weird position
and making a note to apologize to Chris for it later. It was a good
medium-small tricam. As before, the pitch seemed to end abruptly at
a turn in the crack into blue sky, about 130 feet out, perhaps; but
when I got there, having had a brief reprieve from the slickness with
a patch of good friction, I found that it just kept going. Not
knowing from the wonderful Supertopo that most people set a hanging
belay here, just before the 5.8 technical crux of the climb, (listed in Meyer's 1982 guide at 5.7, though) I just
kept on plugging, thinking, this is harder and harder, and WTF as the
kids all say. It also got slicker; the layback holds grew more
rounded, and farther apart, much of the crack being invaded by
vegetation. Some decisions made in haste and anger: what do I need
more right now in this spot, a piece or a hold - choose one and
choose it fast. The music working its way through problems and
obstacles, toward an ecstatic idea, a connected and meaningful
resolution, a place where much that had been obscure and gestating is
now visible and takes a noble shape, something like truth. And here
I am at a small overlap, still laybacking like a maniac, almost at
the end of my 60 meters. </span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_-xFUPTtRnPMAoB_4sexdeYw9y77174qw-0V74ygUjIVOspUY2E_-yhZnZdrO8s0HBwXdccXDYcAKM5fTcGt-R44YtWUVkwrUgRfdvzwDNXUYueKYj16dA5Epoi2qzG8LtYLfCjd9ys/s1600/IMG_0508.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ_-xFUPTtRnPMAoB_4sexdeYw9y77174qw-0V74ygUjIVOspUY2E_-yhZnZdrO8s0HBwXdccXDYcAKM5fTcGt-R44YtWUVkwrUgRfdvzwDNXUYueKYj16dA5Epoi2qzG8LtYLfCjd9ys/s640/IMG_0508.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;">p.1 of “Darth Vader’s Revenge”,
5.10a at Low Profile Dome.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> I set a hanging belay with two good medium
cams and two questionable small cams for backup, and began belaying
Chris up, thinking black thoughts about the hard last pitch that I
thought was still ahead of me. I had wasted many long minutes all
day on my sloth-like caution on lead, and now the sun is planning to
set on its usual schedule, and no one can persuade it to wait even a
half hour. We still have sunlight, but how much? At least I am sure
that Chris will lead the crux successfully. The last few days have
hardened him up, as he and I both harken back to our youth, and we
set our faces against the menace of the granite and we just go on
ahead regardless - which one must so often do, in this world.</span><br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6khw_JIAVGpF8AEupneDon1hepUWvnfsZy4xAg_QwNTU8mg2U1DreUoMAqn9fCCyw0BENMRUXCBV0IIaqHENrOFqgrMPdB0kPRjg5NfZY4zSVqBiijpdKH4IC8ZeitU2-INW1isB0wM/s1600/IMG_0527.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU6khw_JIAVGpF8AEupneDon1hepUWvnfsZy4xAg_QwNTU8mg2U1DreUoMAqn9fCCyw0BENMRUXCBV0IIaqHENrOFqgrMPdB0kPRjg5NfZY4zSVqBiijpdKH4IC8ZeitU2-INW1isB0wM/s640/IMG_0527.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Heading down the long punishing trail to our camp on the Upper Merced.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: large;"> He is halfway up, still
out of my sight, and I am gazing eastward at the sky, over the great
curving slope of North Dome, and a bird flashes up, soaring, a
raptor, grey, wings bent in the characteristic shape of the peregrine
falcon, and it curves in a perfect arc outward and back down and out
of sight, and I don’t see it again. My black thoughts are gone as
if they had never existed. Is there somewhere in the world right now
that I would rather be? Is there something better than this - better
than being young (sort of) and strong (enough) and at the summit of
the sublime as defined by this moment alone? Certainly, there are
equally wonderful things in the world, of various kinds. But they
are all either in the past, having only a shadowy, pale glory, or in
the future, having no substance but probability. This moment alone;
this is all I have and it is enough, and much more than enough. We
are soaring; every day we soar but most days we don’t know it.<span style="font-size: large;"> </span>The
gift of consciousness is to soar and know it, to ride the infinite
wave of music and thought on the frail surfboards of our finite
lives. Yes, just for a little while, but that is not important. The
important thing is to fling your hand up onto a marginal hold, just
gambling, make it stick, lock it off, and soar up the rock moment by
moment. </span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9WR2klKUvXyRTQMhV0HWY8ImHP95kQQdhD9Hj8z6z4dEyVR7xRMIMR-kQgxjpcsmFdWrMEYNH9xdmOZrsZcIJsFIgmN0AnoeKUsuhjRR2OQYW8N8wLLQ8Rr8e_hoBjcMoH4C-DxfoX4w/s1600/IMG_0540.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9WR2klKUvXyRTQMhV0HWY8ImHP95kQQdhD9Hj8z6z4dEyVR7xRMIMR-kQgxjpcsmFdWrMEYNH9xdmOZrsZcIJsFIgmN0AnoeKUsuhjRR2OQYW8N8wLLQ8Rr8e_hoBjcMoH4C-DxfoX4w/s640/IMG_0540.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">Looking west down the Valley from high on North Dome.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> Chris came up and we
puzzled out the topo, saw that the rest was fairly easy, and he cast
off and ran it out to the angle of incline where walking is feasible.
We took pictures as the sun hung two or three diameters above the
horizon, and walked up to the real summit and took some more. We had
run out of water, but felt fairly good. At the summit we found three
young men all dressed in enigmatic black turtlenecks; they
volunteered nothing of why they were lighting a small bonfire up
there, and we did not ask. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_cM7bRtLC8N22QXSVo2j9YJ4_Lioo_St5eJR7kFm8ZWOMGsZ5SmicJbrWA0_StdVelvowvuJJx34D1FLHlAJRvRwZgD6vqA6PpQkhP2mXfwRdEBnNxllvpL8Bvwecef9B9z-fFlIxXxM/s1600/IMG_0547.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_cM7bRtLC8N22QXSVo2j9YJ4_Lioo_St5eJR7kFm8ZWOMGsZ5SmicJbrWA0_StdVelvowvuJJx34D1FLHlAJRvRwZgD6vqA6PpQkhP2mXfwRdEBnNxllvpL8Bvwecef9B9z-fFlIxXxM/s640/IMG_0547.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> The five mile hike back to the car was
not extremely painful; the stars came out and eventually the Milky
Way and all the others shone as usual through the tall trees. The
last half mile was not good to me; try as I would I could not keep up
with Chris, and he was just walking normally. But we drove to Curry
Village that night just in time to get a beer at the pizza joint
before it closed; I was hobbling from a blister or two, and our palms
bore the identical mark of the coin we had to pay to enter those
realms; but that beer was very sweet. My brain was guttering like a
candle, and I proposed a toast: “To not being dead!” But we were
tired enough to feel within spitting distance of dead.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;">"No matter where you go, there you are." - Buckaroo Banzai.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> It was a good day. Is
there something, really, truly better than this kind of thing, this
life lived in the sky, on the earth, swimming in the clear stream of
time?</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: large;"> <span style="font-size: small;"></span>No: there isn’t.</span></div>
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Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-36719320137429891432012-08-28T17:45:00.002-07:002013-09-04T18:48:28.008-07:00Leading on the Wissahickon Schist<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: large;"> This is a controversial topic among
Mather Gorge climbers, and one of rather specialized interest;
perhaps my store of experience in this area could be helpful to
younger trad climbers, first, in deciding whether to even do it at
all, and second, to approach it with knowledge that will make it
safer and more enjoyable. Of course, when I was younger, safety was
not the top item on my list, and the opinions of experienced climbers
held little interest for me. Go jump off a cliff, you fusty old
farts! What kept me alive while leading a fairly long list of Mather
Gorge climbs was fear of death, plenty of cautious preparation,
decent ability in placing traditional gear, and good familiarity with
the peculiar rock of this area gained through much bouldering and
toproping. And, I freely admit, my share of luck, when I made some
foolish bets at the Life and Death Casino and barely squeaked by the
house odds.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV30iHpfBtYzfoFel7Cm7WUStWb_HZ6PtSYdSnIDE1N8-n51QsVC84Cu5AFExNVHSinzI2THCvQoBJb31UNOL7YnER0OyN2dTtJQmzLay2RS1w7CuqLrmyx5QIG_STxO4puhp-nni3ojA/s1600/Spitzbergen+cliff+jumpers.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgV30iHpfBtYzfoFel7Cm7WUStWb_HZ6PtSYdSnIDE1N8-n51QsVC84Cu5AFExNVHSinzI2THCvQoBJb31UNOL7YnER0OyN2dTtJQmzLay2RS1w7CuqLrmyx5QIG_STxO4puhp-nni3ojA/s640/Spitzbergen+cliff+jumpers.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The beautiful polished crag Spitzbergen, where teenage boys leap off into the great, grey, greasy Potomac River and emerge as young men. Stupid young men, but still... Several fine, hard 5.10s are here, including the AAU Crack, starting on the water, which could certainly be led by a skilled and determined individual.</td></tr>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Leading in the Gorge has a bad
reputation. The quality of the rock is unusual: it is
semi-metamorphosed, half-melted, very hard and often very smooth,
with random quartz inclusions, weird incuts here and there, and some
cracks that are rough and nasty while others are parallel and
polished. The classic true story that illustrates the apparent
danger is well-known: a climber attempted to lead the short but
muscular overhanging 5.9 dihedral called Armbuster, fell near the
top, had at least one cam fail in flaking rock, and cratered. He was
seriously injured, and gave up climbing, according to accounts. It
was this very incident that caused me to consider the problem of
leading here, and I then continued to lead occasionally whenever I
thought a climb would go, and sometimes when I wasn’t as sure as I
ought to have been. Such is youth. However, with the perspective of
more than a quarter century, I feel qualified to bombastically pontificate as
to which climbs can be safely led and which should not be attempted
except by stronger and crazier climbers than myself. Take that as a
total disclaimer: I am no more an ‘authority’ than anyone else;
you must be your own authority in the end, as with all climbing. </div>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=9173420424668645583" name="_GoBack"></a> The basic knock
on the schist is that cams will skate out of the hard, parallel
cracks; some say the teeth can’t bite on the surface of the rock,
and others that the intense forces of a lead fall can cause the
surface of the rock just under the teeth to become powder, thus
allowing an instant Astro-Glide right out of the crack. I can't be
sure which of these theories is correct, but I am forced to accept
the possibility and allow for it in my placement strategy. When the
locals at Wingate tell you to get yourself two sets of fat cams,
you'd better just do it. But if cams are totally suspect at Mather
Gorge, you need to go retro, and use only nuts, and, if you know how
to use them, Tri-Cams. (Advanced gear-heads have been known to use
the weird and exotic Ballnutz to good effect.) As it happens there
are many excellent placements to be found on some of the more classic
lines, and when you slot a perfect nut, properly oriented to the
appropriate force vector and tugged to be snug, there is no reason
that the schist will spit out the piece any sooner than in any other
type of rock.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CGbnwAAtiBCso05C4DouhjV_TNbh26pn_nQrMMh3ZCosl79wLp6qqzFoN5Ldw-lDG8XlwdqTuoMFXC8y25gWLyfAbk0W4acdYtuyca848pyosSqWqMwgNDjGae7wnnocdoTEDECfopU/s1600/Armbuster+directional+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2CGbnwAAtiBCso05C4DouhjV_TNbh26pn_nQrMMh3ZCosl79wLp6qqzFoN5Ldw-lDG8XlwdqTuoMFXC8y25gWLyfAbk0W4acdYtuyca848pyosSqWqMwgNDjGae7wnnocdoTEDECfopU/s640/Armbuster+directional+2.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These equalized Tri-Cams form a directional anchor at the base of Armbuster. I wanged the sling up, down, sideways and every which way with enthusiasm, and they didn't budge. </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; margin-bottom: 0in;">
Reasoning thusly, I went down to Armbuster one day and
led it on a few excellent Tri-Cam and nut placements and one totally
bomber medium wired nut just before the crux at the top. Although I
was in good shape, I was not so strong that I was absolutely sure of
making that last move. But in this instance I did not fall, and my
placements were not tested.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-guzeFmTxWMIl9LwBIkt0nI4rVnp1-nWaGt8xURxMPMXovoGgaueDudJgTlqIMOve1psry-PFIrkhHpKaDpjwTVg7bnevvXAGI7PXHC-lXoD0_00BvGjBgnjugRdzCFHLWN9MEN5PQlQ/s1600/Armbuster+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-guzeFmTxWMIl9LwBIkt0nI4rVnp1-nWaGt8xURxMPMXovoGgaueDudJgTlqIMOve1psry-PFIrkhHpKaDpjwTVg7bnevvXAGI7PXHC-lXoD0_00BvGjBgnjugRdzCFHLWN9MEN5PQlQ/s640/Armbuster+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A perfect nut crack, not far up Armbuster...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgbvL0KE-p_MaC82yJLQpZllmFdl3dknHdxZRKdpgG9tAhYb14wgFs0LU7Hc11alqVHfqX5VIh8elPYIUqq8oyaCMV4G2r65PbsyiqcUBfwnla-VjTc0WjUM_3blRSnynOwOWVd6IM3k/s1600/Armbuster+2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiTgbvL0KE-p_MaC82yJLQpZllmFdl3dknHdxZRKdpgG9tAhYb14wgFs0LU7Hc11alqVHfqX5VIh8elPYIUqq8oyaCMV4G2r65PbsyiqcUBfwnla-VjTc0WjUM_3blRSnynOwOWVd6IM3k/s640/Armbuster+2.JPG" width="425" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...and another one; both of which can take several sizes.</td></tr>
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This is a safe lead, assuming as always
that you size and place the Tri-Cams properly, so that the point
cannot skate out, and that you remember to stem the dihedral's middle
section so that you won't be painfully hanging on a jam, wasting
grip, while trying to get the gear just right. In the Gorge I am not
a true trad purist; I had already toproped all my leads at least
once, and before embarking I usually examined them closely on rappel
to plan the whole gear sequence.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguKugtL0oIIZFzUCecpHFUraSURjX4lavKMbIXBnpXH7-OVCZ8fgNdCrnal-f55x97CTlXFzFB6cOppav5CqNWsCl-dv82f2hEAR1QV3ak-Ijb4EomDCskK1XpYD5WSgaleE1Mzu82Wjo/s1600/Armbuster+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguKugtL0oIIZFzUCecpHFUraSURjX4lavKMbIXBnpXH7-OVCZ8fgNdCrnal-f55x97CTlXFzFB6cOppav5CqNWsCl-dv82f2hEAR1QV3ak-Ijb4EomDCskK1XpYD5WSgaleE1Mzu82Wjo/s640/Armbuster+3.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The last good placement before the desperate final push. This one is strong...</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FIGCVgfIS12q_g_2CR2OQsIwq2wrNJuPNQoAFRvednvaeXkN_5eEyfPaXumL5pp3jfvV5ZGocjBvH9whrb9yDLRI2ZOv2sB7Z9Q4JxJo1DrGJsAw38Okn14xi8BjUJn50Rq4w1bVQ5A/s1600/Armbuster+4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5FIGCVgfIS12q_g_2CR2OQsIwq2wrNJuPNQoAFRvednvaeXkN_5eEyfPaXumL5pp3jfvV5ZGocjBvH9whrb9yDLRI2ZOv2sB7Z9Q4JxJo1DrGJsAw38Okn14xi8BjUJn50Rq4w1bVQ5A/s640/Armbuster+4.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">...but this smaller one, equally strong, leaves more room on this key hold for your hand to grasp it.</td></tr>
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By the way – if you have just
arrived from Latvia, local custom forbids the placing of bolts or the
use of pitons. One or two feeble attempts to establish bolting have
happened in past years, but they were quickly suppressed with a heavy
hand. The rock is just too limited in scope, and valuable in its
original configuration. It is true that the climb Lost
Arrow/Terrapin Station was originally made possible by pin scars, but
no one has proposed that that would justify any piton use now.
Sometimes aimless talk arises of the parks installing bolt anchors
for toproping, for safety and to spare the trees, but nothing seems
to come of it. Most of the climbs have healthy tree anchors readily
available as well as opportunities for good gear anchors in cracks.
For detailed blathering about proper toprope anchors at Great Falls,
consult the 2001 edition of the Climber's Guide to the Great Falls of
the Potomac, page 17. What a crusty old Victorian relic the writer
of that essay must have been! I can see him in knickers and nailed
boots, carrying a piolet about four feet long and wearing a bowler.
Nevertheless his pithy advice is reasonably accurate. </div>
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I have not yet fallen on lead in the
Gorge, nor will I, as I've done all the nice leads within my ability
range. So my placements have not been tested by fire; but I've
fallen often enough elsewhere, and they've held up; and I've learned
better placements, more patient craftsmanship, from those
embarrassing incidents over the years when pieces spontaneously fell
out. The worst of these is probably the time I led the short, pretty
5.9 called Possibilities on the lower tier of the Juliet's Balcony
area.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYp4aOZO0zbACC6x2K9fW18BajIDnoVCedxjYOdeMSj0pHrTlsk-Vbc4XvBoU32QdMxm1Ke5hJEMKzKArmiwDqA7zZCSHuds4SnK-gH5nfc8LIEFcej2kBIraIs0WLhOkW4fujf_JcfkM/s1600/Possibilities+%25232+dmm.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYp4aOZO0zbACC6x2K9fW18BajIDnoVCedxjYOdeMSj0pHrTlsk-Vbc4XvBoU32QdMxm1Ke5hJEMKzKArmiwDqA7zZCSHuds4SnK-gH5nfc8LIEFcej2kBIraIs0WLhOkW4fujf_JcfkM/s640/Possibilities+%25232+dmm.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A #2 DMM nut in a fairly good placement on the climb Possibilities, but only good for a downward pull. Notice just above a flake with a shell in it; you could remove the shell and slot a nut very snugly behind the flake. This is a death trap; the flake will fail. Listen to what I'm saying to you.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA1sbJeRuofgB6m1Sqeqy3HSXt9rreYwkqRQ4Ywnpis-eTaGWz4Mtsb8AHY4yAvWnTecKmvBnPdTEtRBae6BUBmP7YvGaRjmwt1PAWL8vWu0s13nWHcZS4Ohy9CQHwhS6YLsX07oYP9VA/s1600/possibilities+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA1sbJeRuofgB6m1Sqeqy3HSXt9rreYwkqRQ4Ywnpis-eTaGWz4Mtsb8AHY4yAvWnTecKmvBnPdTEtRBae6BUBmP7YvGaRjmwt1PAWL8vWu0s13nWHcZS4Ohy9CQHwhS6YLsX07oYP9VA/s640/possibilities+1.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A medium-sized DMM nut in a seductively-good-looking-but-treacherous placement. It is inserted in a triangular hole and the upper end set behind an overhanging projection. If you have nothing better, use it, but don't trust it; and in fact, on this short a climb, just don't use it. Self-deception kills. </td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyH9KZxZgQIxk8sEmKZOK_OwDDiKsXcnWSV6DQCcFBiLgtMpv74OFZ8n6y5bAeQtE2Ay7ujwDvlhbfGwr3ueRjIA21aNTsHTFku-lkF_KSoSrBMhHkmGcPHcGoodnwcFyPy8Si53TRpnY/s1600/possibilities+3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyH9KZxZgQIxk8sEmKZOK_OwDDiKsXcnWSV6DQCcFBiLgtMpv74OFZ8n6y5bAeQtE2Ay7ujwDvlhbfGwr3ueRjIA21aNTsHTFku-lkF_KSoSrBMhHkmGcPHcGoodnwcFyPy8Si53TRpnY/s640/possibilities+3.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another strong nut for downward pull only.</td></tr>
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I had an anchor at the lip and had scoped the pro with intense
concentration on rappel; I then led it without falls or hangs on
about 5 small to small-ish nuts, all of them satisfying placements,
clipped the rope into the toprope anchor to be lowered, and of
course, when my belayer tightened up, he being just a few feet out
from the base, all the pieces zippered instantly and slid onto his
belay device. I had neglected the most basic tenet of trad leading:
get a good directional at the bottom. If you wish to lead this
climb, do not skip that step! It would not be good to just have the
belayer directly underneath, either, as this climb demands strong
fingers and some ingenuity almost right off the deck.</div>
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It is quite possible to learn trad
leading in the Gorge, but I do not recommend the system I employed in
1980 with a couple of partners hardly any more experienced than
myself. We (out in Washington State) would go out and fiddle around
as much as we dared, using slipshod research, mostly avoiding too much
bravado and risk, experiencing trial and error in the typical
pattern. Much better, regardless of the rock you have to learn on, is
to work with an experienced leader, practice as much as you can at a
level that is quite easy physically for you, get real expertise to
answer your questions, and if you like have a toprope backup so you
can really test your techniques. Here are a few excellent practice
leads for <i>those who find 5.8 toproping reliably easy:</i></div>
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Epigone. 5.6. Short, easy, good hand
jamming. As much pro as you want. Rough texture.</div>
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Romeo's Ladder. 5.6 with nice
vertical finish. Takes large pieces in quantity; teaches one not to
place gear in the best jams at the top. More strenuous when led,
like many climbs. One thing that toproping doesn't necessarily teach
is finding rest stances from which to place gear.</div>
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Last Exit, 5.6. Wanders enough to
help teach rope-drag management through sling lengths. Take a full
set of nuts.</div>
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Snowflake, 5.6. Gobbles up large and
medium nuts; good practice for setting a multiple-piece equalized
hanging belay just before the end if desired. </div>
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</div>
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When those seem simplistic, go on to
Bird's Nest (seriously sidewinds, can be used to teach double rope
techniques as well as dealing with rope drag), 5.7.</div>
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When you've mastered hand jamming and
can easily toprope 5.9, try leading Backslider, an unusually stiff
5.7. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtd0qsJLgNTXAmlU-FSXq31SlzYCNeu30CDECBR4hL-bEvSwsNgrgIAPZEgkPAaZrvOivMop-fqfxtEP_P_qVHpkiJGJS6e3ZNTuvgCxB01X4xR3fjmuJ_UZXKU9zgDf4bitsgYdCPUOA/s1600/backslider+%25238+dmm.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtd0qsJLgNTXAmlU-FSXq31SlzYCNeu30CDECBR4hL-bEvSwsNgrgIAPZEgkPAaZrvOivMop-fqfxtEP_P_qVHpkiJGJS6e3ZNTuvgCxB01X4xR3fjmuJ_UZXKU9zgDf4bitsgYdCPUOA/s640/backslider+%25238+dmm.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This #8 DMM nut on Backslider would hold an elephant, or at the very least a hippopotamus.</td></tr>
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But proceed with great caution at the start, where the crack is
very smooth and somewhat flaring, and the first move peculiar; a
great place to sprain an ankle, or worse. Crack takes large stuff
and often needs gardening and cleaning beforehand due to the high
water of winter filling it with sticks and whatnot. </div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSULjNBY_17bR_HI7x59xdcLiBEKV8dEs2p-zGjS6261XZaBWnYmTQiYryapg5cs19yeGwcP-nwCpP-J9IBWvpqPV9grRzsqq0cFiNgVpKc8kjE_E9D18rCSTuDEEvOL6mSxkD8z_Vc8s/s1600/backslider+nut.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSULjNBY_17bR_HI7x59xdcLiBEKV8dEs2p-zGjS6261XZaBWnYmTQiYryapg5cs19yeGwcP-nwCpP-J9IBWvpqPV9grRzsqq0cFiNgVpKc8kjE_E9D18rCSTuDEEvOL6mSxkD8z_Vc8s/s640/backslider+nut.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Another large and perfect nut on Backslider. If you don't trust this one then maybe the trad leading game is not for you.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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Now that your nerve is a bit stronger,
lead Cornice, the king of 5.7s. The start is slightly run out; be
patient setting a good piece for the first crux down low, through the
tiny chimney. Then just below the main overhang you have plenty of
time to set large Tri-Cams and other pieces in a fine equalized
anchor in the center crack before moving left a few feet to pull the
hang. There is also a horizontal placement available a couple of feet to the left, a bit harder to place. Don't make the slings too short, of course, or the rope might bind
against the lip as you are climbing above it. Resist the temptation to
crouch on the ledge out to the right; setting pro from there is very
awkward. Above the hang there are nice medium/small placements to
protect the exit, and if your follower agrees, you can set a good nut
anchor at the top to belay him up. Pretend there are no trees, and
get a good strong anchor in the little vertical crack or farther up
around boulders.</div>
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There are good leads across the river
at this level, especially on the Knob, with variants, and Rock and
Roll, 5.7, at the north end of the Rocky Islands. Creative moves and
placements on the Knob on exceptionally polished rock, but lesser
physical stress; Rock and Roll is thin jamming, fairly steep, a rough
crack that takes gear well; here give care to anchoring the belayer as needed,
just as anywhere along the river if the base is chaotic in
conformation. The base is best accessed by rappel or by boat; there is a rather nervy and non-obvious downclimb, with a handy deathfall for the suicidal. </div>
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The best practice for multi-pitch
technique in the region is the Ducks Traverse running along below Cow
Hoof; not feasible if the river is unusually high. A fine
three-pitch traverse at varying heights, teaches technique such as
protecting the follower; the finish is a vertical, often dirty climb
up into the woods, which has fewer good placements than you would
want. One can also continue traversing downstream if that section is
too dicey-looking. Supposedly 5.7 but a pretty nervy enterprise,
especially turning a sharp corner after crossing a sort of
garage-door alcove; weird move tosses people into the river here.
Now you're starting to get a bit of genuine adventure in the tame old
Gorge. I once found an old hard-shaft Friend deep in a crack here;
after manufacturing a retrieval hook with wire I got it out, but
never used it. Even then I was prejudiced against using an expensive
all-purpose piece that can walk itself into trouble, but which
seductively invites you to just shove it in quickly and carelessly.
I do like some of the newer designs, (Omega Pacific Link Cams for
example) but I just cadge their use from my friends.</div>
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When you start getting into the 5.8
leading level, you need to refine your placement skill, your
equalization strategy and your overall judgment. For example, the
River Wall at Purple Horse is a wandering small-hold and small-crack
slab climb on a very smooth and very hard face, and demands
creativity, strong fingers, precise footwork and nerve; but I
consider it safe for anyone with these skills. But I once led the
Seclusion Face, a thin 5.8 with good friction, which I had checked
out for protection possibilities, but carelessly, with arrogance in
my heart, because after all I had soloed it a couple of times. On a
cold day I got to the crux under the little overhang with a
questionable small nut probably 8 or 10 feet below me, and I had no
protection worth mentioning at the hang, and spent so long fiddling
hopelessly with a shallow, flaring little crack that would not have
held a chihuahua on a leash, that I ended up almost running out of
strength and just went up and did it, faking my way into the death
zone like a moron. Well, these things happen, and we either learn
from them and strengthen our characters, and correct our mistakes
every so gradually, or, eventually the House wins, as we repeat our
mistakes once too often.<br />
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Another climb much like that is the
Dancing Climb at Boucher Rocks (now seemingly off limits) which is a very
pleasant 5.8 friction/face slab toprope. DO NOT LEAD THIS CLIMB. If
your particular mental disorder demands that you solo it, do so, but
don't pretend to yourself, as I once did, that you are leading it as
you fake your way up with three or four tiny, worthless wires. Just
to the right of it, by the way, is the excellent 5.8 corner-crack
called Long Corner, which is a fine and safe lead. Note: arrogant
rich landowners above claim that this stretch of river is theirs,
although the 'flood plain', as I understand it, is actually public
property. They have a point, because unfortunately this has long
been a party spot for yahoos to crap up. But perhaps it will open up
again someday. If so be warned that the poison ivy is extremely
menacing there.</div>
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Other 5.8s I have led: Center Ring is
unexpectedly good for leading, small Tri-Cams useful, as they so
often are; and it would not be considered cowardly by any means if a strong piece were to be set into the Rock and Roll crack just to the right at the higher crux. Caliban is moderately strenuous but straightforward,
mostly medium and large (check for yellow jackets on top beforehand);
and The Man's Route is short but steep and hard in the first half;
this kind of climb demands that you work out your first and second
placements before really committing yourself, if possible by a short
up-and-down recon. No law says you can't climb three feet, place a
good piece and immediately climb back down and think about it some
more. The law just says you can't hang on it. In extreme cases like
this I have been known to clip the first piece to a sling and onto
the rope at my waist, and hold the piece in my teeth until I'm ready
to drop it in. The second half of the climb is easier but runout, so
step carefully. </div>
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Getting into the 5.9 arena we are
accepting more risk and using more skill and strength, not to mention
nerve; but the only reason that these might be considered more
dangerous than 5.9s elsewhere is that they are short. You don't have
the luxury of having several good pieces in the first thirty feet of
moderate climbing, so that you have a nice cushion of rope and space
if you fall, as, for example, you do on the perfect granite of
Strawberry Jam at Old Rag. Instead you are already burning too much
grip ten feet up with a piece at your feet and you'd better have a
plan for getting that second piece in PDQ, as we old farts say
without embarrassment. I've already talked about Armbuster; for that
it's best if you can do ten pullups, know how to jam, layback and
stem, and have the final piece already on a sling and easy to grab
when you drop it in the beautiful slot. You still don't have any
rest there, but at least you can blast for the giant finishing bucket
with the last of your grip without crapping your pants about the pro. </div>
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Sickle's Edge is a very nice 5.9 that
is completely different; the upper section is classic smooth friction
and face climbing, not quite vertical, well protected by a few very
specific pockets; the faster you solve the tricky little cruxes the
less strenuous it will be. When you master the footwork for this
climb (hint: work on Butterfly and Merv's at Carderock to tune up the
toes) you will find friction work elsewhere on real granite to be
laughably easy.</div>
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Pocket Pussy is a safe but
nerve-racking vertical lead; the angled, jagged first half takes a
couple of big pieces, like Romeo's, but then you are in a mini-cave
looking awkwardly up at a smooth bit of crack with a couple of tough
pocket-jams; you can't put your pro in those jams, remember.<br />
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Rock and Roll is an exciting lead with an
overhang crux near the base, with some real oddball pro setups; check
this one out very carefully before committing to it. I recently visited it (Rocky Islands North is one of the prettiest areas on the river) and was sobered to read in my PATC guidebook that, although it is listed at 5.9-, I had revised it for myself as 5.8. This is a clear incidence of arrogance and self-deception, done when I was much stronger; my partner toproped it and we are convinced that it is harder than 5.8, though easier than some 5.9s on the river. The lesson is obvious and well-known: subjectivity can creep in anywhere, even into well-done guidebooks at times. It is up to the climber to apply a safety-margin adjustment tailored to his or her circumstances. In addition there is the problem of the unreliability of memory itself. Over and over, as I revisit climbs last done (by me) in decades past, I find that the climb is very different from whatever tags I had placed on it in my head. </div>
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F.I.S.T. at Cow Hoof is one of my
favorite leads on the river. Strong, awkward vertical hand jamming
at the start is protected by a couple of well-set big Tri-Cams (3
to 5); fight through that, taking care not to dislodge your pieces as you go, and then rest as long as you like on the
large grassy ledge, looking at the intermittent finger crack that splits
the Hoof above you. It's nice because from here you can walk off if you don't feel like doing the scary final moves.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakZm9oDxk7Cq1FHxx7yG9xdOYFBocu98X61OmX3d9EY8Uae8FrCJBBg3UodH9dwbKUk_w2_j7wjV8dwZHI488iI06fd9hduuyl8LynkYtRM8IqY5LFw5kuHaZk9VQHSl2fWUIVoVOhMM/s1600/F.I.S.T.+tricams.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgakZm9oDxk7Cq1FHxx7yG9xdOYFBocu98X61OmX3d9EY8Uae8FrCJBBg3UodH9dwbKUk_w2_j7wjV8dwZHI488iI06fd9hduuyl8LynkYtRM8IqY5LFw5kuHaZk9VQHSl2fWUIVoVOhMM/s640/F.I.S.T.+tricams.JPG" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Large Tri-Cams protect the start of F.I.S.T.</td></tr>
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You will be able to set more than one excellent
nut here; slot your left fingers in the spot with the blade in the
bottom, chalk like an addict and go high with the right to small face
holds and then to the lip. A classic lead move.</div>
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I am now assuming that my readers at
this level will employ good craftsmanship with setting and equalizing
nuts. I once watched a stronger climber than I lead Lunging Ledges,
patiently setting and equalizing two small nuts in the small flaky
cracks. I didn't follow, but I am pretty sure that was a safe lead
even though the climb was easy for this guy. If you can pull the
climb on toprope ten times out of ten, rap down and look closely at those flakes, and you might find it worth doing. </div>
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I'll finish up this essay with three
climbs that have more complex issues, climbs that perhaps I should
not even have attempted. I led Eagle's Nest, 5.9+, on a hot and
humid day. Getting to the alcove with a few more-or-less good nuts
was not too bad, but the crux of course is traversing left, out,
around and up on a weird boulder problem, which I had done only once,
years before. AND protection at that point is not nearly as good as
what you might like. A fall there will slam you back down on the right wall of the dihedral, too. I spent a long time just finding a funny
contorted rest stance, and then a long time putting in some bullshit,
and then even longer whipping my nerve into a froth so I could start
the move. My belayer was sorry he agreed to belay me, and the whole
experience was bogus, let us say, even though I ticked it. But we do
get bored sometimes after a couple of decades at the Gorge, and want
some new and stupid sensation.</div>
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Then there was the time I decided I
could lead Bridge Too Far, a lovely one-move 5.10a. I used a whole
group of shaky rationalizations to justify this one little move, and
I succeeded in leading it, but I can't justify it, and I don't
recommend it. The crux is fairly low down, but not a place you want
to fall from, and it is protected by one rather tiny wire in a very
smooth little crack. I instructed my belayer to stand to one side
and be instantly ready to yard in one arm's length of rope if I fell,
perhaps to reduce some of the acceleration as the wire pulled out.
The move is smooth and weird. The rest of the climb is easy and
well-protected. But don't lead it, it ain't worth it.</div>
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Years before that I led Two Lane, the
classic 5.10-. I still regard it as one of my best leads ever, in
spite of certain flaws. My preliminary examination was a little too
cursory, and when I arrived at the last rest stance before the
strenuous exit sequence, I found that the peculiar flaring crack I
had assumed would be fine for a nut was not. It was pure creepy
geometric hell. I finally nested two nuts in some ridiculous way and
went for it. I knew very well that I would not have the strength to
stop and put in a piece in the final finger crack, and that if I
peeled off, those two nuts would snap out of there, and I'd fly a
fair ways farther before my next piece, a strong one, would catch me.
It is a very vertical climb, but I did not want to fall, and I also
did not want to admit that I'd really like to be rescued with a rope
from above, thank you very much, so I went for the finish with
everything I had, in fear and trembling, but with all my power and
what skill I had way back then, and I made it. I felt both
triumphant and a little shamed: I had taken the risk and won my bid,
but was it really worth it? Lying to yourself saps the true
enjoyment of your triumphs; if you don't learn better, things just
end up hollowed out.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHLj-hvk2CF_VaD7qB50jLx3fumvlPhNdRvvEZpSDVRFb1BlgTN143GqzwzjEFZJ3fF-DxWvvvIiwJe9-5UbxpYBLpeHtEUNqv5crgRdC_-QfUiLNqEyKfBTKjw1GOI3vQaNrsbK50Bw/s1600/Potomac+from+Cow+Hoof.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkHLj-hvk2CF_VaD7qB50jLx3fumvlPhNdRvvEZpSDVRFb1BlgTN143GqzwzjEFZJ3fF-DxWvvvIiwJe9-5UbxpYBLpeHtEUNqv5crgRdC_-QfUiLNqEyKfBTKjw1GOI3vQaNrsbK50Bw/s640/Potomac+from+Cow+Hoof.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where is the hard truth, behind the cluttered screen of emotion, under the smooth and perfect surface of the river? </td></tr>
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As with all the rest of these climbs,
but especially with Two Lane, I strongly recommend that the climber
know what the hell he is doing before he starts. But life is never
perfect; our control, our judgment and power and skill are always
flawed; we just have to do the best we can with what we have, taking
full responsibility for ourselves as individuals. That's what
climbing is. It isn't a sporty club activity with a safety code and
a merit badge. It's you and your life, and me and my life. We watch
out for each other, but still we each have to watch out for
ourselves, which is the trickiest thing of all. Mirror, mirror, on
the wall, who's the coolest climber of us all? The mirror can and
does lie. </div>
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I did a nice lead of Sciolist, 5.10+,
once, not too many years ago. It is short and bouldery, and the only
reason I don't call it a tick is because the last piece, which I
needed, had to go in a finger-lock which I also needed, and being in
there as I used the hold, it made the move somewhat easier. But you
can't relax for a moment even on this short a climb, because if your
pro is crap and you crater, you will bounce off the ledge you started
from and go another nasty twenty feet down to the river's edge. Two
craters for the price of one.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4PiKk-oCMNXbEhnUqNRoTE-G4_kJhfM21ML-6PE_0LFoOWM68dvLRA51wITIXC-QgLbsCNPW5Bxgnw2eFQjqgiggIALcm0DP5ga3XLWSutet9PFnrK_4RgZ6yjekPM6QoBfCb9RNNQM/s1600/DSCN0335.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgB4PiKk-oCMNXbEhnUqNRoTE-G4_kJhfM21ML-6PE_0LFoOWM68dvLRA51wITIXC-QgLbsCNPW5Bxgnw2eFQjqgiggIALcm0DP5ga3XLWSutet9PFnrK_4RgZ6yjekPM6QoBfCb9RNNQM/s640/DSCN0335.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Treacherous Potomac River which drowns several incautious people per year. It should be ashamed of itself.</td></tr>
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At the far other end of the scale,
Peg's Progress is a very nice and dramatic 5.4 that makes a fun
beginner lead.</div>
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Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-55097164459519588832012-02-14T19:30:00.000-08:002012-06-13T09:37:00.107-07:00Meaning and the Sidewinder<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
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This essay begun in the fall of 2010, and victory declared in the spring of 2012.<br />
Text and photos copyright 2012 by David Warren Rockwell.<br />
None of the images has been manipulated, and no snakes were annoyed in the filming of this epic. </div>
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<i>The copperhead snakes found along the Potomac River are generally shy and unaggressive, and they often freeze. motionless, among the dry leaves, branches and bark from the sycamore, rendering them nearly invisible. Thus when your primitive brain finally reports their proximity, the sudden sense of meaning is amplified, and may override all else for a time, until you move your hand or foot sufficiently far away.</i></div>
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While wandering the golden sands of Joshua Tree National Park I made this chance remark to my friend Chris: “Meaning is the real drug.” His reply was, “I think you’re on to something.” I don't remember, now, anything of the context of the conversation in which that remark materialized.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdr51H_ZcZ1sjcc54bDOeTPQTRpK71LA-mvEsCkmllDBOFnAwa65GLUeRavzTawV8IzjSVzH6HrAOKCqFomz7LZCpAhMttO2UGc_sUZNn7GOx8rmo2mV_iR21LdqMkDdRi5BvCdEMIL5c/s1600/Sidewinder2008-01-15+41.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdr51H_ZcZ1sjcc54bDOeTPQTRpK71LA-mvEsCkmllDBOFnAwa65GLUeRavzTawV8IzjSVzH6HrAOKCqFomz7LZCpAhMttO2UGc_sUZNn7GOx8rmo2mV_iR21LdqMkDdRi5BvCdEMIL5c/s640/Sidewinder2008-01-15+41.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i>Landscape invariably carries meaning, unless you belong to a species not evolved on a planet. But each individual may manufacture his own meanings for each landscape. This one makes me want to run, hard, to the left, faster and faster veering rightwards down the slope, until I lift off and shoot down the valley, riding the thin air above the clouds, accelerating towards Escape Velocity. </i> </div>
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What is meaning, anyway? Webster sez, something like: content, denotation, drift, import, intent, intention, purport, sense, significance, signification. Not a particularly satisfying definition. But in any case it is humorously tautological to bloviate meaningfully about the meaning of meaning. So off we go!<br />
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<i>The sun rises. Our eyes open. The world swiftly unfolds and expands in all directions in the early morning light. Our thought follows the expanding world like a peregrine falcon diving after a fast-flying swallow. The world and the thought share a piercing, unbounded clarity. </i> </div>
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Meaning and consciousness are so mutually interdependent as to be hardly distinguishable. And defining consciousness is notoriously problematic – yet, as with art, we know it when we see it. For my own personal satisfaction I might define meaning as a quality of information that exists when an assemblage of perceptions is synthesized into ideas that are somehow useful to the mental world of the conscious entity doing the synthesizing. The perceptions may be faulty and the person's idea of usefulness completely idiosyncratic and solipsistic, but nevertheless the drug of meaning has been distilled and ingested. Garbage in, garbage out – but really tasty, addictive garbage!</div>
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<i>In the apparently blank desert there is always a path, however faint. We have little choice but to follow it up into the hills, toward an unknown destiny; sitting down and complaining about the heat or the meaninglessness will gain us nothing.</i></div>
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We are born into a desert of meaning. Or so I assert. Luckily we have packed with us a whole camel-train of useful possessions with which to assemble and re-create the meanings we inherit, and then to create new ones as needed. These meanings are partially innate, arising from our biological heritage, and partly presented to us by our society as eternal, self-evident verities, not to be questioned.<br />
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<i>What would this image mean to a geologist? What would it mean to a mystic? What would Van Gogh make of it? The world appears to be crammed with mysteries of this order. In my collision with these mysteries I am no different than the first Neolithic Polynesian to see these things. </i> </div>
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Edgar Rice Burroughs, in order to create an essentially Romantic fantasy hero, specified that a baby is orphaned in the African jungle, adopted by apes, grows to boyhood in a pure state of nature and then chances upon the cabin of his birth and a trove of lovely, magical picture books that eventually, after long study all alone, teach him English without the physical speech, and that he is not, apparently, an ape. Later he becomes so adept under various civilized tutors that he can not only function well in human society, but can also carry the burden of Burroughs' nature-worship and a sort of shallow contempt for civilization in general. (If Burroughs did not originate the phrase “thin veneer of civilization”, he certainly beat it to death.) Tarzan thinks of himself as a dominant ape, and has not the slightest qualm in that regard; the meanings imparted by his biological being and 'natural' upbringing are always treated as paramount and also morally superior to the meanings carried by human culture. And I, as a boy just as spongy as any other, and avid for a meaningful framework to my life, sucked this up like ambrosia, even while understanding the basic silliness of the setup as presented. It was a useful part of my individuation, giving me permission to ignore my parents' meaning-schemes and create my own. Like most people, I was shown the pretty picture books and jabbered at by many teachers, and then I went somewhat sideways, as all individuals should.<br />
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<i>Any idiot could tell you what this image means: life springs from the infinite black wall of death, no matter how small the crack. And it doesn't just spring, it explodes, silver sword upraised, with that ferocious exuberance we all recognize.</i></div>
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Where is a fixed, reliable reference point, to provide us with a foundation for 'real' meaning? Archimedes asserted that such a point in physical space would confer unlimited mechanical advantage; it follows from this that the lack of any such point means that our control of the physical world is limited. Normal sanity accepts this as a ground condition of our existence; but normal sanity does not accept any similar limitation in the mental realm. We desperately want our feeling of meaning to be grounded in something unquestionably real, but we don't ever get our wish.<br />
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<i>Color carries meaning, and so pervasively that it inevitably drives a primary dimension of metaphor. What does the colorblind organism see in this landscape? And is it really different in kind than what the color-seeing organism sees? I can't see it otherwise, but I can't prove a thing. </i> </div>
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Thinkers have searched incessantly for the fixed reference point in the mental world – that thing that would guarantee true and immutable meaning, or at least provide a fulcrum for the questing mind to leverage its vast power against. The mind craves the process, the ingestion of the drug, the pleasure of experiencing meaning; having an ultimate, final meaning would, in our fantasy, end forever the craving with complete satiety, and logically enough, probably turn us into some sort of godlike beings. A short philosophical reflection quickly determines that such a final satiety would resemble death, in that we cannot imagine it and thus cannot really find it interesting; in any case it would be motionless and hence worthless. But that reflection does not necessarily mitigate our addiction to meaning. This thirst is never fully slaked while we live. Clearly the process of assembling meaning, for good or ill, is integral to consciousness.<br />
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<i>Mountains are felt to be sacred, partly because they mingle with the superior realm of the sky, and strange visions drift among them. When a rainbow is seen below us, rather than above, we are driven to find a meaning in the inexplicable, the weird. </i> </div>
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We still adamantly search for the philosopher's stone, for the ultimate mind we could call God, for a meaning in death or nothingness – for the imaginary transcendent, in whatever form, that we would run from in horror, or perhaps turn away in boredom, if we ever truly came face to face with it.<br />
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<i>Long ago a great army came marching through a pass, with all their elephants and their ballistae, their archers and their armored cavalry. Below to the south the Empire awaited</i></div>
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<i>them, rich beyond dreaming. But a purple mist, the vagary of history, drifted through the pass, and left behind nothing but a battlefield of frozen agony.</i></div>
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The habitual, incessant and lifelong construction of meaning creates a constant craving for an absolute reference point that would reduce or eliminate uncertainty; amidst uncertainty lurks the distinct possibility that we will be unable to meet the challenges of life, and immediately death becomes visible in the rear-view mirror of the mind, always trained fixedly on the unconscious. But no such absolute certainty can be established and defended rationally; if it were possible, such an absolute would long ago have been universally acknowledged, after the strenuous efforts of all the remarkably strong thinkers our species has engendered. Many competing absolute certainties have been proposed and continue to compete for validity in the form of 'followers'; the numbers of the followers provide no measure of relative validity, for we are looking for an absolute: only one god may give the feeling of total security. Hence the ongoing competition between these claims to the Truth invalidates them all. If reason could demonstrate an absolute reality, in any form, the human world would be unimaginably different, and I will make no other assertions regarding it.<br />
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<i>The horizon is not a boundary or a limit, but a mark of the infinite nature of the world; it mirrors the unbounded field of consciousness as we feel it. </i> </div>
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<i>Among mountains and deserts it is possible to stop moving altogether and look out at the world, letting the silence gather and intensify. In that silence the remaining sound carries primitive meaning, the background meaning that we know in the womb: our own heartbeat; the slight sound of air drifting over the cactus; a small bee that is the only other animate being in sight. One might almost imagine hearing the heartbeat of the world itself, deep and very slow. It is a pity to forget to do this when we can.</i></div>
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Each 'free' individual mind (one not content to passively accept the meaning-scheme handed to him by his society) constructs a more-or-less arbitrary, relativistic frame of reference in the desert of meaning and builds around that, necessarily haphazardly, with any materials at hand and under the urgent pressure of necessity. Such individuals, myself among them, consider this personal meaning-scheme to be the bedrock of one's subjective life, and the source of an ongoing richness in life that is its own motivation for more exploration. This can be considered as an addiction, just as food or sex can be. But the mind is far more protean than the stomach or the genitals; when a person attempts to 'simplify' their mentation – to focus their reading, to seek less entertainment and meditate more – the mind simply shifts its meaning-generating activity into different channels. The attempt to 'quiet' the mind with sensory deprivation, or asceticism, or for that matter with an overload of input, is doomed to failure, because consciousness is a durable flame that may burn underground for long periods, but can never be extinguished in a healthy human brain. Consciousness is that famous river that you can never step into twice in the same way, and it never stops flowing. No dam can hold it for long; no channel can constrain it in a single direction for any great length of time.<br />
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<i>Huge buttresses guard the east face of the great west wall of Haleakala. Standing at the foot of one of them I found myself in a large fan of boulders, rocks and pebbles fallen from that tortured igneous mass. To my ignorant eye each stone seemed unique and partaking of a tremendous variety. The halls of Haphaestus are vast, and he is never bored. </i> </div>
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I might propose an evolutionary explanation for this universal human craving. Meaning, simply defined as an assembly of information into larger and more useful elements, is a brain-tool predating human consciousness, arising from the absolutely necessary elements of spatial and temporal perception, the need to hunt/gather, and to reproduce. There is an inherent logic in the sequence of events needed to secure territory, food and mates. Meaning then evolves in feedback loops. The brain expands exponentially in conjunction with manual dexterity, tool use and language, and causes the feedback to accelerate. Meaning becomes a comprehensive medium of its own, in which all perceived phenomena <i>must</i> participate as potential elements in a meaning-scheme. The human mind having now become the perfect tool for the construction of meaning, there exists a constant hunger, a pressure for meaning; hence the mind perceives an existential threat when there is any kind of interruption or sudden change in the flow of meaning. Meaning is a commodity as essential as air or water, without which an individual or a society quickly becomes unstable and even deathly ill, suicidal or chaotic. In a physical emergency a meaning-scheme can be quickly truncated or altered for survival (and may thereafter be modified permanently as a result). However, if there is a serious loss of meaning, air and water and food and other people may all take a back seat in the priority list of the mind.<br />
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<i>In the desert we find shape emerging, projecting pure mathematical meanings, echoing the innate spherical trigonometry that is the birthright of chordates. Beauty is not a meaning but a side effect, reinforcing, confirming our harmony with the physical world.</i></div>
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Another obvious first principle: a meaning can be demonstrably wrong in the relativistic context of multiple minds (society or even two persons who disagree) but will still seem right to the individual, who will often require strenuous convincing to change his meaning-scheme, if it can be done at all. Furthermore, science, reason and logic, powerful tools though they are, cannot definitively overcome the addicted mind’s attachment to its own meaning-scheme. If they could so overcome, we would long ago have established a reasonable and conscious utopia in the human world. (This is analogous to the argument that alien beings must not exist because they have not contacted us despite having had plenty of time to do so. Objections to this are also analogously valid: perhaps not enough time has passed for evolution to strengthen logic/reason enough to overcome meaning-addiction.)<br />
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<i>A skull carries unavoidable meaning both in its perfection of unconscious design and in our fascination for the mysterious scaffolding of life, the body that carries our fire and works our will as best it can until our last day. Which always, always arrives too soon. </i> </div>
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This is easily observed in the give-and-take of any general discussion in an open forum such as America. Impassible disagreements inevitably arise because no there is no widely shared agreement on first principles of mind, meaning and existence. Is such an agreement even possible? Unknown. But (my own mind automatically searching for larger context, a more interesting meaning-scheme-drug) it is certainly worth thinking about.<br />
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<i>As the day wanes, growing shadows reveal the hidden texture of existence. A climber will see the tiny, subtle variations in the obdurate and silent stone, and see his way to finish the climb that had baffled him. Later at camp he will make tea in the swiftly cooling evening and think of each move on that wonderful face.</i></div>
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How can we respond to the basic assertion of nihilism? No abstract, absolute, unquestionable reference point exists in the trackless, unmappable desert of meaning outside our consciousness. If we create each our own fulcrum, what shared validity, external to ourselves, can it have? To the individual creator it can be entirely sufficient; but we are not alone, and the other person out there questions our reference point and can argue cogently against it. Must we respond? Only if we wish to extend our personal meaning-scheme, to calm our primitive fear that it will be invalidated along with our own existence. Meaning is thus conflated with the existence of the self. We are our beliefs - the body is secondary.<br />
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<i>In a moment it changes, and in another moment it is gone.</i></div>
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Much of human life can be analyzed under this scheme. Jim Jones, for example. He had established a meaning-scheme entirely controlled by his own persona, and his followers submerged theirs in his. When the visit of an outside person threatened to crack the protective dome of his meaning-scheme, simply by letting in the possibility of another point of view (that might have been forced by legal action or other scrutiny from society at large) he felt forced to protect his meaning-scheme through the absolute action of ending it as was, before it could fail, including of course the ending of all the people who had invested in it, even including their children. The universal obedience of the cult becomes its own validation. Whether he actually believed in an afterlife or any of the other elements of his ideology is irrelevant to the addiction they all shared, which superseded mere physical survival.<br />
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Like many other such events, the Jonestown incident challenges our existential verities, whatever they may be. Most of us, not under such intense domination by a meaning-scheme, feel instinctive revulsion that anyone would kill their own children for any reason, for after all it contravenes the primal and universal mandate of genetic survival that is a universally acknowledged keystone in most peoples' meaning-scheme, as well as, I would argue, the prime directive underlying the turbulent energy of the unconscious.<br />
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“<i>Like a high wind that never ceases,” said the old man, or, if you like, Yeats' conception:</i></div>
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“<i>That dolphin-torn, that gong-tormented sea.” Human consciousness as a permanent cauldron of cross-currents; meaning flickering like flames over the water. </i> </div>
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The Sidewinder, 5.10b****. Joshua Tree N.P., Steve Canyon area. Climbed October 2010.<br />
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A very beautiful and varied climb, which serves as a framework or touchstone for high and noble meaning in my own psyche. From an objective point of view, it is purely abstract and arbitrary - a random sequence of actions utilizing an unrelated random sequence of features in the peculiar granite. As with any climb, the intersection of these two sequences overlaid on the capabilities and feelings of the human being engenders the work of art – a performance art of pure solipsism, owned entirely by the climber.<br />
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<i>Planes, angles and curves that Henry Moore would have killed to be able to have imagined. The hand rises and demands to caress these forms and textures – to fit itself to the real.</i></div>
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The climb began easily in a short, simple layback crack, less than twenty feet. When it faded to blank rock, I placed a medium-sized anchor near the top of the crack, and stood up on sloping surfaces and tiny edges to clip the first bolt. The face here is smooth and concave, hence steepening gradually just beyond what the shoes will stick to. Later, when I was perhaps twenty-five feet higher, my friends below told me that a tarantula had emerged from the layback crack shortly after I had passed by. I laughed, for this feeds one of my special personal illusions: that there is a harmony pervading the world, invisible and nearly imperceptible, except to eyes whose contextual knowledge is also in harmony, from long absorption of the world. I feel, quite without foundation, that I am ‘lucky’; that I walk in harmony through danger, much of the time; that my love for the world is returned impartially and unconsciously by the things of the world; I try not to fight with the world, and in return it treats me well; treats me to a tolerable existence, beyond any particular meaning - the pure joy of life and consciousness. I fail to disturb tarantulas and rattlesnakes, because I don’t classify them as my enemies, and I don’t search the land for them as I walk. But this is pure fantasy; stepping over or walking obliviously past a half-dozen rattlesnakes over the course of thirty-five years proves nothing. I also have spurious proofs through the negative side: I perceive the worst agonies of my life to have been incurred my weaknesses, my lack of harmony, a willful fault of honesty. In splitting my own reality, I became vulnerable to disharmony in others, and blind to hollowness, rot, disorder. It is easy to harmonize with rattlesnakes. It is hard to harmonize with a human being. But again, this is only an imposed, perhaps arbitrary, meaning-scheme – useful to me, but no more objectively valid than any other.<br />
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<i>The world as a set of crystalline translucent spheres, all moving in different directions and at different rates; mysteriously they often appear to harmonize, but we can never be sure that this is not just an illusion, an artifact of the nature of consciousness.</i></div>
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At the bolt I examined the first crux: very thin face climbing without any obvious direction, a few scattered tiny footholds, an exit bucket well out of reach up and right, no possibility of leaping for it. Standing on the main rectangle, fingers and toes shifting, distributing weight round and round while feeding the elements of the problem into the black box, discarding false leads and blind alleys, conserving energy. The true solution appeared like a triangle floating up in a magic 8-ball: “Certainly True”. And I did the move smoothly, with little strain, and great delight, because it had seemed impossible at first. This was an example of harmony between body and mind: using consciousness to manage the Triad: a horse with two riders, and the second one is not sane or sound. The horse is strong but might be influenced by either rider. The unconscious rider has all the real skill, but sees through a shattered lens, and needs the conscious rider to interpret, direct, flow the energy. Harmonizing with one’s unconscious is never more than partially feasible; it will always carry risk, chaos, the unknown, by definition; but only through that can works of art, great or humble, be born.<br />
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<i>Red sky at morning, climber take warning. I didn't ever remember seeing any dawn this dire, and soon fragments of storms, broken streamers of rain clouds, came flying westward, and sprinkled us, sent us off to town for bacon and eggs at the Country Kitch'n.</i></div>
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The third segment of the climb is a weird leftward traverse under a roof; a good piece to start off with, and a long sling to reduce drag, and a few oddball moves got me to a small overhang. Here, having a decent stance, I had the luxury of soothing fear, and spent a large wired nut in a somewhat questionable placement, although I was confident that the small overhang was quite easy. A bit of a stylistic blunder, perhaps, but not a real mistake; another long sling, because above the overhang is a short vertical crack. Somewhat 'physical' (requires a bit of grunting) and easily protected with one piece, it leads to a sort of rounded gutter-ledge that rises gradually to the left again, for many feet. Great care is required to stand up here in balance, at the top of the crack, and clip the last bolt, the last protection, of the climb.<br />
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<i>Life balances so delicately, between the freezing shadow and the burning light, between floods of brilliant experience and terrible droughts of love that might as well be interstellar space. Finding a perfect spot to camp, just northwest of a small but solid boulder is not a bad strategy. </i> </div>
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The rounded ledge serves as a nice metaphor in itself, for the subtle complexity of consciousness, and human life, or, anything else you like. (Rockwell’s Dictum #29: Anything can serve as a metaphor for anything else if you put your mind to it.) The damned thing is perfectly set between Scylla and Charybdis. You can’t walk across it in balance; you can’t hand-traverse below it; you can’t sit on it and protoplasmically hump your gluteus maximi along like a couple of giant slugs. At first glance you imagine that nothing could be simpler. You begin to sidle with your toes as far out as you dare, and with your heels over the void, to move your center of balance just that half-inch closer to the face; and you suddenly know that you need something on that smooth face to hold you in, because you didn’t lose those ten pounds off your posterior <i>a priori</i> the trip. Only a little force is needed to keep you in, as your face slides along the rock, and your fingers explore quickly and widely for edges, no matter how small. A few items show up, but become diabolically smaller and fewer, as your tiny, hesitant baby steps progress along the ledge. Not far ahead the ledge widens: but it might as well be a mile away. The mind frays on its tether, but the computation, the pressure to solve the problem and seize the meaning, continues, even as a feeling of thin, high background screaming seems to shut out whole sections of the world; large segments of normal mentation are off-line, kaput, gesphincto. Existence itself hinges on a postage-stamp flake with a rough edge, two fingernails scraping at it, and on the effort to lift the left foot and move it another few inches into the wider section, without plunging into the void. Perhaps some part of the conscious mind is thinking about that fall, the horrible slow moment when this delicate balance drains away and is lost, the swinging down and back, the rubbing of the rope along that rough granite edge, and the probability of hitting the various protrusions down below; but the two riders are now, briefly, blessedly, one being, one centaur, entirely focused on one action. Just for this one lucky day I am allowed to be whole, uncracked, for a moment in true harmony; on my own terms, in my own world, I’m no longer split into the observer and the observed. No desire. No fear. No suffering. No past, no future. Just granite brushing my fingertips.<br />
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<i>Oh, to heck with it. It's all just drifting water vapor. Right?</i></div>
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Suddenly I was wrapping it up, happy and talking to the guys below. I walked onto the broad summit and rigged a long anchor from a big boulder, and sat on the lip and talked to Chris a bit, whom I could not see, as he followed. His experience of the traverse was also intense, similar to mine; but when Tomek followed, he was relatively unfazed, for he has a remarkable confidence in his shoes. Or at least that is one explanation. Another might be that short people have an infinitesimal advantage in the balance, being able to lean inward at a slightly greater angle from the vertical on the traverse; Tomek is both short and light. As Chris was belaying him up, I took my shirt off and lay down on the granite, in the sunlight, with my legs cool in the shade of a boulder, and the sun warm on my chest and red through my closed eyelids. Like the Jack of Shadows, I absorbed dark magical strength from the shadow of the boulder, and like Superman, I was made invulnerable and omnipotent by the yellow rays of Sol. I drifted into a half-sleep, as if floating in amniotic fluid. The great blue arch above me was without flaw, without judgment or praise. Time itself seemed viscous and slow – the greatest luxury of all. I offer these observations as proof that the world is one flawless entity, knowing that I’ve proven exactly nothing to you, the other. What do I mean by ‘entity’? Nothing supernatural, certainly; nothing separate from us; perhaps really only a strong suspicion about existence. What more can we really expect? And what more do we need?<br />
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<i>The world expands to fit my swiftly exploding sphere of consciousness; still plenty of windy space in there though.</i></div>
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Under these rare and weird circumstances the endless craving for meaning, the incessant desire of the mind, is granted a short hiatus, and there is a fine bit of silence. I might define this moment as real meaning – for myself. The invisible fulcrum between existence and the void, perhaps. Language can only suggest rather than elucidate these matters.<br />
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<i>Someone had laid out a sunburst facing east; after repairing it I sent my energy streaming to the southwest. Why? The compass of the mind crazily circles the pole, never rests. Round and round we goes; where we stops nobody knows.</i></div>
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Some ideas regarding the Sidewinder metaphor itself: the journey of life is not straight or logical or preordained. It takes erratic turns, and requires unknown skills and resources of the traveler when it does so. It might trend upward overall, but the summit is unknown; rarely is a moment of true repose awarded to the pilgrim. More interesting is the pattern of motion left by the Sidewinder as it crosses the yielding, blank sand, and the elusive, changing image of the calculus itself, the fractal impulse that approaches the limits of a function, that describes or circumscribes the infinite quality of curving space, implied by the snake's silhouette crossing the four dimensions. For some, the feeling of absolute meaning, a reliable reality beyond all this uncertainty we see and feel, is found in mathematics, and of course, no one can prove or refute this purely subjective assertion. This faith is not logically different than any other faith, whether a belief in a god, or 'nothingness', or any other meaning-scheme.</div>
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<i>These wise men have taken much mescaline and they can tell you whatever you want to know. But they cannot guarantee that you will understand it, or like it.</i></div>
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So let's get down to the nitty-gritty. What, then is the meaning of death? Sure, it's the death of meaning, and no commentary is useful about death itself. Objectivity gains no purchase, in the sense that <i>if (</i>a damned big <i>if)</i> we could be objective, we would be forced to accept our deaths, as the end of all meaning. But this is both unimaginable to the meaning-generating brain, and unacceptable to the meaning-addicted brain; our emotions do not allow us to accept death, ending, lack of all meaning, as meaningful. Hence in order to live with some reasonable measure of happiness, we are forced to invent meaning-schemes, often tremendously elaborate (in order to bolster their apparent validity) and subtle (in order to make a successful end run around that powerful hammer called Reason). Those of us who recognize this activity and accept it are condemned to various degrees of conscious 'hollowness' – knowing that the meaning we enjoy in our life is limited, no matter how intense and satisfying it may feel. We imagine our children and grandchildren living on, extending the meaning of our own lives a little way. But we don't imagine our names resounding down through the ages, or an infinite afterlife, or the other fantasies prompted by our innate and powerful gene-survival drive. Even the mad King of Kings, Xerxes of Persia, was suddenly struck with existential dread, with his famous realization, as he surveyed his immense army, that in a hundred years not one man of them would remain alive. There are those who think about this more and more, until it swamps all other mental activity; the conflict cannot be resolved, and the individual sinks in the quicksand. Again, I am a lucky man; when I feel myself sinking gradually into that morass, something in the physical world invariably comes along and rescues me, gives me trouble, pain and work to do, and soon I feel much more in harmony. Yeah, that's right: Be Here Now. What else is there?<br />
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<i>Oh yeah, we did – we saw the Rainbow Bridge to Valhalla, the upcurving road among the clouds. But we still had climbs to do here, and earthly women to kiss. So we turned it down.</i></div>
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<i>I saw the gentle magpie birds</i></div>
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<i>In dusky yester-eve. </i> </div>
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<i>One brought sorrow and one brought joy</i></div>
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<i>And sooner than soon did leave. </i> </div>
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<i>Shantih, shantih, three times shantih!</i></div>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-30941767058828404552011-08-10T19:23:00.000-07:002011-08-11T19:05:39.430-07:00On Death<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 16pt;">On Death</span></div><div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “…that undiscover’d country</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> From whose bourne no traveler returns.”</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> - Hamlet</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8OcPNZbDvAKUTFbQGnNvrmeWsMXXR7E_yYhMkS12STzz2CMBBzC8NzjAEudvs4p7W9PiDYN-rHeD6wGzVh9D3mRESe_WAoOKVUoR7RpwoliYu2ke0EKXflFrzHSe63m2PYow5k5apKl4/s1600/hikerssmall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8OcPNZbDvAKUTFbQGnNvrmeWsMXXR7E_yYhMkS12STzz2CMBBzC8NzjAEudvs4p7W9PiDYN-rHeD6wGzVh9D3mRESe_WAoOKVUoR7RpwoliYu2ke0EKXflFrzHSe63m2PYow5k5apKl4/s640/hikerssmall.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> <i>Six good friends set off on an afternoon's adventure.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal"> An essay on Death? Really? How much more clear could the Bard be? No traveler returns. Not one, ever, tales of ghosts notwithstanding. So what is there to write about? Death is a blank screen. Consciousness blinked off like a dead light bulb. Brief candle, etc. We all know what death is: it is that one thing we cannot make into an object of the imagination. It is the hypothetical Outside to the seemingly infinite field of consciousness.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Yet much has been written. What are we really writing about, then? I dismiss out of hand all those who are convinced in any way that consciousness persists in any form after death. They are simply asserting that there is no such thing as death. But death as an element of our consciousness is as obdurately real as any other element; as real to us in our thinking and emotion as the physical world, as love, as hatred, as pleasure, and so forth. I often think of death, just for convenience, as something always very near, like a crow perched alertly on my shoulder, silent and stalwart, sometimes almost forgotten, but never absent for a moment. Those who assert that there is no death are simply trying to shoo that pesky crow away; they may make it invisible for a time, but it persists, because it is one of the most primal elements of consciousness. This is a poem of mine, prompted by climbing some twenty-five years ago:</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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</div><div class="MsoNormal">The Gendarme October 1986</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">He stands on one foot</div><div class="MsoNormal">and leans west</div><div class="MsoNormal">into the wind, shoulder hunched –</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">East and west the pale stone falls</div><div class="MsoNormal">sheer and far and fast to</div><div class="MsoNormal">rhododendron and talus.</div><div class="MsoNormal">He looks as if careening </div><div class="MsoNormal">around a corner on one roller skate</div><div class="MsoNormal">balancing against the west wind</div><div class="MsoNormal">or mere centrifugal force</div><div class="MsoNormal">the whirling of the mountain</div><div class="MsoNormal">beneath the fixed wind,</div><div class="MsoNormal">the motionless clouds.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">Inching up the small of his back</div><div class="MsoNormal">sneaking up his shoulder – </div><div class="MsoNormal">got to get up and back down</div><div class="MsoNormal">before he wakes, and notices my</div><div class="MsoNormal">stealthy palm silently set</div><div class="MsoNormal">on wrinkled stone skin.</div><div class="MsoNormal">If he shrugs or startles</div><div class="MsoNormal">we will both fly far,</div><div class="MsoNormal">break together;</div><div class="MsoNormal">this afternoon of brilliant texture</div><div class="MsoNormal">sunlight and dark clouds</div><div class="MsoNormal">leopards running through the hills</div><div class="MsoNormal">all of it instantly swallowed </div><div class="MsoNormal">by the great black fish.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal">I stand up</div><div class="MsoNormal">swaying in the unreliable air;</div><div class="MsoNormal">the camera jeers and I turn</div><div class="MsoNormal">and reverse each motion </div><div class="MsoNormal">smoothly as water meandering down a gutter</div><div class="MsoNormal">to where those immense jaws can be</div><div class="MsoNormal">more easily ignored.</div><div class="MsoNormal">And the day begins again,</div><div class="MsoNormal">amazing, as it ever was.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">(Historical note: the 30-foot tall finger of rock standing in the Gunsight at Seneca Rocks, known as the Gendarme, which had stood there for unknown aeons, fell over about a month after I climbed it. No one was injured.) </i><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidCvJT5euPD1sIAoPWERndZfcfD8ev0pdPDW_LuTyhqFYnCg79SWY3AaMrjz7gNf-CHAy-MxvyikrLB0KaUdL6nRWAAhyphenhyphena6RsO3CxnoE3gT4fRiFzB2HgorRFaznNjrKBOUstgCqwY14g/s1600/MtBaker3small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidCvJT5euPD1sIAoPWERndZfcfD8ev0pdPDW_LuTyhqFYnCg79SWY3AaMrjz7gNf-CHAy-MxvyikrLB0KaUdL6nRWAAhyphenhyphena6RsO3CxnoE3gT4fRiFzB2HgorRFaznNjrKBOUstgCqwY14g/s640/MtBaker3small.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> <i>Far off, beyond the pleasant meadows of existence, there rises a line of mountains;</i></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i>of the lands beyond them, nothing is known.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I am a climber; specifically a rock climber, subcategory crag climber, subcategory ‘trad’, meaning a sort of traditional climbing involving placing mostly removable anchors as a climb progresses, and leaving little if any trace on the rock. I have only minor credentials in true mountaineering and some in ice climbing; I have never engaged in ‘big-wall’, multi-day or expedition climbing. Nevertheless I can claim membership in the most basic element of a true climbing mentality, which resembles the samurai ethic in a way: we are aware of the reality of death, and we are always alive to the risk in life, of losing it. We do not deny this reality, though our response to it may vary widely. This is a true divide in consciousness, between those who have not yet made this realization, or have not accepted it as real, or who deny it altogether, and those who have accepted the reality of death. This crossover in maturity gives the individual a certain freedom he did not previously have, and an ownership of his life on a deeper level. Fear is diminished as an element of consciousness, and greater scope for action is opened up. Life itself is made more real, more precious, in a somewhat mysterious way. The removal of veils of denial and fear adds something subtle – meaning? value? – to ordinary existence.</div><div class="MsoNormal"> I have, by the way, no contempt for any other form of climbing; even bouldering, a pleasant pastime involving little risk, engages the subconscious in these ways to some degree. I have no real use for gym climbing, indoors on plastic holds, where the only risk is pulling a muscle, and the only creativity is in solving puzzles set by other people, as opposed to the infinite variety and surprise involved in real rock, out under the sky. Young gym climbers emerge, every so often, at our local bouldering area, very fit and confident, and usually learn immediately that their climbing education has just begun; some stay, and some go back to the gym in bemusement. </div><div class="MsoNormal"> I began climbing in 1980, and for more than thirty years I climbed regularly and hard, pushing my own modest abilities when I found the time between marriage, children and job, without a single injury worse than a bruise or a cut. I am still free of any kind of overuse hand injury, and considered myself both skilled and lucky. This essay is prompted by the incident on June 5<sup>th</sup>, 2011, when I traded all those years of care and luck for my life. Incorrectly thinking I was belayed and being lowered, I leaned back from the rappel station on a popular climb at Old Rag Mountain, in western Virginia, and fell about 50 feet to the stony ground. The accident was comparable in banality to the example of a person who pulls out into traffic without looking in his mirrors, and is hit; he, though sober and wide awake, simply fails to exercise due caution for reasons unknown. In 1983 I was responsible for exactly that accident, driving my wife’s tiny, fragile 1963 MG Midget, and we missed being killed by the narrowest fraction of time worth mentioning. The car was totaled, I got a cut on my forehead, and my very pregnant wife held a grudge about it for approximately the next 25 years. So I have, perhaps, a slight tendency for this sort of unreliability; yet here I am, still alive. Why? Is it even the right question to ask? The mind always searches for an explanation, and so I write this essay, knowing I will get no meaningful answer. A similar, much-cited accident is the one suffered by Lynn Hill (famous, top-level rock climber), who failed to check her harness knot adequately, and fell a long way into a tree, which saved her life. </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOB2lcZNcCynuNHhPaEPDH-Z1OqEjQsSZqChrNzs-DPG1HjAsDq-uuE3PKqXahNspH7AHqItk9SK7agK4FgaNEUV4SigF2n3nx2-sRTeHcP7-veic28eaxXDVAs9XK_Pu224Fu9XR4wc/s1600/MtBaker1small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijOB2lcZNcCynuNHhPaEPDH-Z1OqEjQsSZqChrNzs-DPG1HjAsDq-uuE3PKqXahNspH7AHqItk9SK7agK4FgaNEUV4SigF2n3nx2-sRTeHcP7-veic28eaxXDVAs9XK_Pu224Fu9XR4wc/s640/MtBaker1small.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> <i>Longer lenses show forbidding ramparts, but cannot see over the peaks.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> Now, 50 feet is usually cited as the statistical dividing line between life and death for falls; about half of persons falling that far will die. I don’t have statistics on the injury levels of the survivors, but I have to believe that my injuries were far down at the low end of the scale, especially considering that I was 58 years old. My left foot hit first, taking a great portion of the force as my tibia and fibula shattered; then most of the remaining force was taken by my rear end, breaking my pelvis and severely bruising my thighs, gluteus maximi, etc. Minor force was also taken by my right heel, with a break that did not require surgery, and my left elbow, which did need a relatively minor surgery with some titanium replacement. The list of damage that I avoided is long: no organ damage; no spinal damage (except a very minor crack in a vertebra); no neural or brain damage; no damage to my right arm, back, shoulders, ribs, or neck. One might cite my unusual leg strength, due to much cycling, as a factor in this outcome, but in the course of the fall there were many opportunities to land in a different configuration. It takes less than two seconds to fall fifty feet; I had no warning, of course, and no sense of time dilation or a Technicolor review of my life now starting, with popcorn and trailers. I felt a moment of great alarm, and then I was lying on the ground. I looked down at my feet, saw that my left foot was now useless, and wiggled all my toes. Immediately I felt a gladness: pure and simple, I was happy and grateful to still be alive and thinking and wiggling my toes; I knew that everything would be all right somehow. The pain was not nearly as bad as one might imagine. I tried to pull myself up using my right arm on a boulder, but the rest of my body parts told me that they had checked out of any more duty for today, and my partners told me to lie still.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbd8xd1YIlXQmpVxpWqeHSnivTfIUB0pvgb-4W7aaNvXsKuXhTjP3pdhdx7T_GBZS2zf-HE3ajljNWEkd4IcH5T05S_5Hu8emvt6BBHXaLfaotb2d3IC4FI4RUSZFiTDJ744WolI7iQXo/s1600/MtBaker2small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbd8xd1YIlXQmpVxpWqeHSnivTfIUB0pvgb-4W7aaNvXsKuXhTjP3pdhdx7T_GBZS2zf-HE3ajljNWEkd4IcH5T05S_5Hu8emvt6BBHXaLfaotb2d3IC4FI4RUSZFiTDJ744WolI7iQXo/s640/MtBaker2small.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> <i>I had no wish to come this close.</i></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"> So that is the boring story, which I hope not to have to tell again too many times, it being both pointless and embarrassing. After a moderate length of time, which seemed to be much less to me, I was winched up into the hovering helicopter and zoomed off to the hospital, rushed to the emergency room where I underwent terrible, swift tortures, and then finally lapsed into unconsciousness for a day or two, gradually surfacing to a complicated and bizarre set of hospital experiences. I had never spent a long time in any hospital, so it was weird to me; but all in all they did a fantastic job of splicing me up and retrieving me from the trashbin of smashed-up climbers. And here I am, thinking: I have not the least right to be here. I’ve been handed a whole extended new life: what do I do with it? What does it mean, if anything?</div><div class="MsoNormal"> This is a longer poem I wrote after another brush with death: </div><div class="MsoNormal"> </div><div class="DefaultText">Driving North June 29th, 2000</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">past Gettysburg, steam on</div><div class="DefaultText">towards Harrisburg, and on my left</div><div class="DefaultText">a pale glory of copper-lined cloud shines</div><div class="DefaultText">for the memory of rusted blood on that battlefield</div><div class="DefaultText">and the disc descends into a gauzed antechamber</div><div class="DefaultText">a lamp trimmed in a field hospital;</div><div class="DefaultText">though those gates are grand</div><div class="DefaultText">we can't see through them</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">it’s just me and a couple of tons</div><div class="DefaultText"> of congenial steel</div><div class="DefaultText">steaming north on smooth asphalt</div><div class="DefaultText">to cross the great Appalachian ridges</div><div class="DefaultText"> on the oblique</div><div class="DefaultText"> sidewinding northeast</div><div class="DefaultText">scattered thunderstorms, says the FM</div><div class="DefaultText"> going my way</div><div class="DefaultText"> and jazz fills the car</div><div class="DefaultText"> jazz and more jazz to straighten my brain</div><div class="DefaultText">as we gradually overtake the storm</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">the storm that is dead ahead</div><div class="DefaultText">the true black beyond the gates</div><div class="DefaultText"> <i>SHOT THROUGH AND THROUGH</i></div><div class="DefaultText"><i> </i>with beautiful bolts</div><div class="DefaultText"> <i>SHOT THROUGH</i></div><div class="DefaultText">with the avatar of symbols:</div><div class="DefaultText">instant death/god's touch of life</div><div class="DefaultText"> the universal moment that will open</div><div class="DefaultText"> or close</div><div class="DefaultText"> our eyes</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">those men marched down to Gettysburg</div><div class="DefaultText">they joined the tide</div><div class="DefaultText">the men rode down to Gettysburg</div><div class="DefaultText">the sky turned black</div><div class="DefaultText">they hauled their guns to Gettysburg</div><div class="DefaultText">they passed the gate</div><div class="DefaultText">wondering, at Gettysburg</div><div class="DefaultText">what is beyond</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">in my car full of jazz</div><div class="DefaultText"> and my head lightning-filigreed,</div><div class="DefaultText">thoughts a tangled ball of silver thread</div><div class="DefaultText">and the road now wet and</div><div class="DefaultText"> black as a black snake</div><div class="DefaultText"> twisting and troubling</div><div class="DefaultText"> and the many huge trucks</div><div class="DefaultText">their skirts of spray flying wide</div><div class="DefaultText"> lashing the wind, riding the dark river</div><div class="DefaultText"> as my vision</div><div class="DefaultText"> erodes and the storm’s</div><div class="DefaultText">iron gates slam behind us</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">life quickly narrows</div><div class="DefaultText"> in attention desperately focused</div><div class="DefaultText"> on a line of weakly shining blips</div><div class="DefaultText"> drifting in a roaring sea of black foam</div><div class="DefaultText"> to guide our weaving course</div><div class="DefaultText">preserve life a few more moments</div><div class="DefaultText"> from the great grinding tires</div><div class="DefaultText">just outside my streaming windows,</div><div class="DefaultText"> to my right up the hills</div><div class="DefaultText"> to my left going down</div><div class="DefaultText">the trucks must make up time somehow</div><div class="DefaultText"> storm or no storm</div><div class="DefaultText"> storm or no storm</div><div class="DefaultText">death or no death</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">fear or no fear</div><div class="DefaultText">we must keep the hammer down.</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">in three moments the rain doubles</div><div class="DefaultText"> and redoubles and fills the narrow world</div><div class="DefaultText">taillights smear wide in the screaming dark</div><div class="DefaultText"> the faint reflector-guides have blinked off, gone,</div><div class="DefaultText"> cast into a cauldron of dream</div><div class="DefaultText"> you struggle to open your eyes</div><div class="DefaultText">while pumping the brake and trying to get off the road</div><div class="DefaultText">knowing the edge is unknown</div><div class="DefaultText">knowing you've lost control</div><div class="DefaultText">no time to check your speed</div><div class="DefaultText">in the fourth moment</div><div class="DefaultText">you might think: so this is what it's like</div><div class="DefaultText">to die</div><div class="DefaultText">but you haven't got time</div><div class="DefaultText">to think</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
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</div><div class="DefaultText">just as quickly eases the rain</div><div class="DefaultText">and my eyes are opened</div><div class="DefaultText">and the road goes ever on...</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">farther north the storms end,</div><div class="DefaultText">I and my trusted steed descend</div><div class="DefaultText">from the rushing Styx onto</div><div class="DefaultText">quiet narrow roads among the hills</div><div class="DefaultText">where wraiths of vapor haunt the asphalt</div><div class="DefaultText">in the warm forested night, and the deer</div><div class="DefaultText">turn casually toward my headlights;</div><div class="DefaultText">winding through tiny valleys and over</div><div class="DefaultText">steep ridges to my parents’ house</div><div class="DefaultText">feeling my life as a ballad,</div><div class="DefaultText">the last verse not written</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">getting out of the car at midnight</div><div class="DefaultText">a perfect silence rushing in</div><div class="DefaultText">as the engine stops</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"> the stars are spread wide</div><div class="DefaultText"> for my delectation</div><div class="DefaultText"> at the banquet of infinity</div><div class="DefaultText"> and far beyond the hill I see</div><div class="DefaultText"> a faint flash, distant echo of the storm</div><div class="DefaultText"> and meseems each single star</div><div class="DefaultText"> speaks to me in single voice</div><div class="DefaultText"> and this is all they say:</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"> lucky to be alive...</div><div class="DefaultText"> lucky to be alive...</div><div class="DefaultText"> you are</div><div class="DefaultText"> lucky</div><div class="DefaultText"> to be</div><div class="DefaultText"> alive</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"> Disclaimer: I am not a Poet, nor am I a ‘poet’ of any kind. Unfortunately, at irregular intervals poems arrive in my head and demand to be written down, and I have no choice but to comply as best I can. I consider poetry to be one of the deepest of all human arts, but at present in our civilization it is all but dead, and accorded no respect or value whatsoever. In future millennia it will reassert itself, after the Computer has died.</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YM_SRXYc_PuJYkjn3fHDrGnkzHXlIPL2o8RWlyzzDJdgK_9LpvLAAfSAQXDtMeXexpXga7klMz_sZ4TxcC50oJ8YHXDLhgHhsWYEFZW-uvjND6ywK33SyR1J5E5Rx912qve07UnVXI4/s1600/Beach4small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9YM_SRXYc_PuJYkjn3fHDrGnkzHXlIPL2o8RWlyzzDJdgK_9LpvLAAfSAQXDtMeXexpXga7klMz_sZ4TxcC50oJ8YHXDLhgHhsWYEFZW-uvjND6ywK33SyR1J5E5Rx912qve07UnVXI4/s640/Beach4small.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="DefaultText" style="text-align: center;"> <i>Down a steep bank to the rocky strand we went, by waters connected to the Pacific; an excellent place to contemplate Eternity, futile though that may be.</i></div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
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</div><div class="DefaultText"> Once again, in this poem as the previous one, death is only a screen, a blank white wall, but absolutely necessary for the projection of life, and to color with adequate vividness the feeling I have for life. And this literary device only shadows the actuality of life and death as elements of consciousness; they have been recognized in the earliest philosophical writings as indispensable to each other, and endlessly mythologized as amoral protagonists in the cosmic dance that we have no choice but to participate in. Our only choice is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how we feel about it.</i></div><div class="DefaultText"> I am revealed once again as a lonely champion of “free will” – a concept not really amenable to objective analysis; maybe “just a feeling” after all. But what feeling is more crucial to the independent functioning of an individual? Yes, I am well aware that the existence of the self has also been disproved in the presumably selfless minds of many modern philosophers; I arrogantly consider them to be captives of emotion – that emotion that relieves its fear and pain in a comprehensive fatalism, and the notion that all is illusion, and reality cannot be reliably located or described, and hence is a useless concept. The whole argument is boringly tautological, to me at least. More important is the experience of the moment – the window on the world that we do at least appear to have; and the moment when I lay broken on the ground and realized that my life had been ended and just as quickly re-started, was an experience of such a force and quality that denial of it is simply foolish.<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> </i>The remaining task (if I choose to accept it) is to find or create a meaning for this moment. After all, it carries a lot more weight in my life than, say, what I had for breakfast this morning.</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzO3H03hMcfzRi0ljKTZIPzeWsoQg7t-aWzQ5qol56jaNmQ7EqnM3bqqyTp7wJ6Y-Zg2FhAeeTsXxrfmkSCN5BDpu5XO1LDeivupMK6N_ROYwzQmDVqEjxlNSSZNi9K4FjTX_amIlV1dI/s1600/beach1small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzO3H03hMcfzRi0ljKTZIPzeWsoQg7t-aWzQ5qol56jaNmQ7EqnM3bqqyTp7wJ6Y-Zg2FhAeeTsXxrfmkSCN5BDpu5XO1LDeivupMK6N_ROYwzQmDVqEjxlNSSZNi9K4FjTX_amIlV1dI/s640/beach1small.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="DefaultText" style="text-align: center;"> <i>Wine in plastic cups, and time freely and casually spent; beat that, Socrates!</i></div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"> Unfortunately for me, I’ve been forced to tell the story of this accident to a myriad of people: friends, family, acquaintances and health-care workers. But it is interesting to note their immediate reactions: a significant fraction of them adopt some form of a primitive fatalism, as in, “You lucky so-and-so,” “It wasn’t your time to go,” “Somebody up there has a plan for you,” and the like. This provides a simplistic, place-holder explanation for the inexplicable or the unlikely, and is of no philosophical interest to me. An even more common response is to ask whether I will climb again, and I always answer in the affirmative without hesitation or qualification. This tells me that my subconscious has processed the meaning of the break in my life, and deems no serious course change necessary; the cause of the break was not the activity I was engaged in, but my own simple carelessness. But these reactions are deep and true to our being. I am forced to think of the scenes in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lawrence of Arabia </i>in which Lawrence rejects the fatalism of his Arab fighters:</div><div class="DefaultText"> “It is written, Effendi!”</div><div class="DefaultText"> “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Nothing </i>is written until <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I write it!</i>”</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"> And he goes back into the desert at great personal risk to rescue a man who had fallen behind. A perfect assertion of free will; and then later, of course, the very same man is found to have committed an atrocity, and Lawrence himself must execute him, and the Arabs are muttering, “It was written.” Life and death are not ours to determine, we feel in our core; and yet we often make supreme and even final efforts to influence these universal realities.</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlCcmhUWkF_J_U6PCLflX0qWJtQgINePngF2zK6qbctQ0yhE-nW-uTs0tcqYaQfGbcKAN28GjhrwiICYuUFebCwuEH1ltQMbZVgdHc9Ka7RYmd2uM9pZNyY1pZbHyw84Ix0KwiBJu2co/s1600/Dogsmall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGlCcmhUWkF_J_U6PCLflX0qWJtQgINePngF2zK6qbctQ0yhE-nW-uTs0tcqYaQfGbcKAN28GjhrwiICYuUFebCwuEH1ltQMbZVgdHc9Ka7RYmd2uM9pZNyY1pZbHyw84Ix0KwiBJu2co/s640/Dogsmall.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="DefaultText" style="text-align: center;"> <i>I'm thinking this stick holds important secrets to Life and Death! </i></div><div class="DefaultText"> </div><div class="DefaultText"> In my case I can imagine the Grecian Fates, the Moirae, looking at me on the cliff: </div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">Atropos: “Ok, that’s it for this sucker. Snip, snip – so long, dirtbag!”</div><div class="DefaultText">[tiny action figure of Dave falls to the ground]</div><div class="DefaultText">Lachesis: “What th’? You blind old fool! Look, I’ve measured all this extra thread!”</div><div class="DefaultText">Atropos: “Oh, all right. But you must have measured wrong!”</div><div class="DefaultText">Lachesis: “Doesn’t matter – he gets this much more, right or wrong. What am I, chopped </div><div class="DefaultText"> liver?”</div><div class="DefaultText">[as they squabble, tiny action figure Dave wiggles his toes.]</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXonrZBtg2AnrJoI6MO4vnDZgn04Ueie-n1e8jBZ_dPDwhu_8OuqTIsCBM9GM721_oLlfaFuh628ISJEl4jp9eFll24MSzG9f41MJ7ocIAXx6viRdITM6FKcnr25rD_n90Brj1HelPBsU/s1600/dogsmall2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXonrZBtg2AnrJoI6MO4vnDZgn04Ueie-n1e8jBZ_dPDwhu_8OuqTIsCBM9GM721_oLlfaFuh628ISJEl4jp9eFll24MSzG9f41MJ7ocIAXx6viRdITM6FKcnr25rD_n90Brj1HelPBsU/s640/dogsmall2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="DefaultText" style="text-align: center;"> <i>Gimme that stick! You don't know the first premise regarding stickness!</i></div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"> The truth is, we are afraid of our dark subconscious half, which makes its own decisions and reverses our own best intentions. Loki lurks inside us, laughing inscrutably. We try to shut him up with reason, the tools of conscious thought, but of course they get no traction with him. So I come out by the same door as in I went.</div><div class="DefaultText"></div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><pre><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> “One thing is certain, and the Rest is Lies;</span></pre><pre><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> The Flower that once has blown for ever dies.”</span></pre><pre><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> </span></pre><pre><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-size: 12pt;"> - Khayyam/Fitzgerald XXVI</span></pre><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"> So, yes! You’re reading a pointless essay, just as I warned you. And how do I personally feel about life and death; how do I choose to feel, now, after having been so forcibly confronted once again with these intractable issues inherent to existence?</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMlG59yXzMF1yR0oB8QOlh37377qkjaJvXgevl9VAv8s1i1zpBvOP04rdISfVq61Iz327kdaAIpPiGORRS5_emMq8G3N3DvtAhz6mP_gAgwCI_c_20coZUQs92ZI91QJO4IMglRCAS7A/s1600/Beach2small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihMlG59yXzMF1yR0oB8QOlh37377qkjaJvXgevl9VAv8s1i1zpBvOP04rdISfVq61Iz327kdaAIpPiGORRS5_emMq8G3N3DvtAhz6mP_gAgwCI_c_20coZUQs92ZI91QJO4IMglRCAS7A/s640/Beach2small.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="DefaultText" style="text-align: center;"> <i>I'm quite sure you must have a treat or two hidden in your pockets. This is my creed.</i></div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"> I was born, somehow, with joy in my heart. When I was six I often ran out of the house in the cold clear morning and I wandered the Canadian woods alone, and went home to have hot chocolate or apple juice, and life was simply good. Sadness and evil did exist, as I came to know, but I never changed my mind. I still haven’t changed it. Perhaps I don’t have that choice after all – though I have known a typical variety of discouraging and unpleasant things in my life – and if I did decide that life is sad and evil, and death therefore a blessing, would that prove anything? Although I have never considered suicide for a single moment of my life, many others do, and take that ultimate action. Are they all mistaken? Or is this decision not something that the common experience of our species can illuminate – in other words, an entirely individual experience, wholly owned by one person alone?</div><div class="DefaultText"> In a few months I will be able to ride my bike again. I will get on it in the cold clear morning and I will ride it just as I always have: as far and as fast as I can get away with. If you happen to see me riding by, and look carefully, you’ll see a smiling man with a beady-eyed crow on his shoulder. Don’t suddenly jump out, yelling “What about death?” – because I’ve already thought about it, and made up my mind.</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2OnwYJYlNc1Exns0t_ahfAlOUwtsfTQ2bMQTunLX3lIghOLNO1cJ7cMuC_e18cZI41OEC9q-FTmhft1XSbcUPOGPShHgCx3zJprLYW-JxqEVffaqsdzq14bazUq1d3EfruQbtZPoYybo/s1600/Beach3small.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2OnwYJYlNc1Exns0t_ahfAlOUwtsfTQ2bMQTunLX3lIghOLNO1cJ7cMuC_e18cZI41OEC9q-FTmhft1XSbcUPOGPShHgCx3zJprLYW-JxqEVffaqsdzq14bazUq1d3EfruQbtZPoYybo/s640/Beach3small.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="DefaultText" style="text-align: center;"> <i>Well - about time to pack up and vamoose. Where's my stick?</i></div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"> Third and final poem:</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">On the Oblique 9/5/2006</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">This apple tree was old when I was young.</div><div class="DefaultText">Yet it is not decrepit; green mold on worn bark,</div><div class="DefaultText">some iron-hard snags of silver deadwood</div><div class="DefaultText">interrupting its homely, moth-eaten thatch.</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">One large limb, a quarter of the tree, is dead;</div><div class="DefaultText">I stood oblique on a sloping trunk,</div><div class="DefaultText">tested my stance and the grip of my shoes</div><div class="DefaultText">on the mottled-olive bark; looked up and right</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">to the other trunk carrying the dead wood,</div><div class="DefaultText">calculated and imagined the cut, and my cousin</div><div class="DefaultText">handed me up the running chainsaw</div><div class="DefaultText">and right away I tilted it to the proper plane and cut.</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">Cleanly crashed the limb to the green turf;</div><div class="DefaultText">quick I cut off the saw and climbed down.</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">Firewood in the truck, sticks off in the stick pile,</div><div class="DefaultText">twigs raked up, sawdust left to molder.</div><div class="DefaultText">“Apple’s a damned hard wood,” I said, and he</div><div class="DefaultText">replied, “Yeah, it'll burn well.”</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">My father came out to watch a moment;</div><div class="DefaultText">he has locust logs cached for posts or rails,</div><div class="DefaultText">or to burn. “Apple’s a damned hard wood,” he said,</div><div class="DefaultText">and we grunted agreement.</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">Death was also watching, as always.</div><div class="DefaultText">As I stood on the trunk, lifted the saw, Death stood ready</div><div class="DefaultText">to cut me down; yet I and my cousin knew</div><div class="DefaultText">as well one can know, my time had not arrived.</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">Casual but not careless, we call Death our companion,</div><div class="MsoNormal">we keep him in the corner of our eye.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebQ-BGhzp6O9Z3S5bQUQTxjbkJkvv1U1m0xm2smvHJ0r4qK2KRu9ODxLOcxkTFrammetOKhOGIzqu9sPuMGYxrSsTgQ39RGZudZ4H3Qf0EfSrjtANqyqmfxwp5LB48qjuQ56lfQ6We8o/s1600/tulipBsmall.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiebQ-BGhzp6O9Z3S5bQUQTxjbkJkvv1U1m0xm2smvHJ0r4qK2KRu9ODxLOcxkTFrammetOKhOGIzqu9sPuMGYxrSsTgQ39RGZudZ4H3Qf0EfSrjtANqyqmfxwp5LB48qjuQ56lfQ6We8o/s640/tulipBsmall.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Mandala. Totally, comprehensively meaningful. Take my word for it.</i> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"> </div><div class="DefaultText"> text and photos copyright by David Warren Rockwell, July 30<sup>th</sup> 2011</div>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-60262940669703496572010-11-21T18:23:00.000-08:002010-12-28T20:46:06.964-08:00Joshua Tree Expedition, October 2010<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
NOTES – lightly embellished and edited. Text and photos copyright 2010 by David Warren Rockwell. (except as noted.)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><b>Joshua Tree, with Chris and Tomek, Sept 30 – Oct 13, and with Todd Oct 6 – 13, 2010</b></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Weather: first half: unsettled, wind, small rain, lightning, partly sunny; daytime high 80 F., nighttime about 40 F.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Second half: settled, no wind, no clouds, daytime highs up through 90, lows 45 or 50.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsiW7uyHIiGSDtzN2QBP8wjCKqEXrKFvOS1cKxJtDdqwgNPGgBt2BwSK8mOgBXKBRFcM4ACQ4r853qjV4D8tVn14aQWSu3DfymS02Fhnin53XB9OjwjFqNPIQZwykub3P1uwSgTsbE44g/s1600/0001+Chris+racks+up+for+the+first+lead+of+the+trip..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsiW7uyHIiGSDtzN2QBP8wjCKqEXrKFvOS1cKxJtDdqwgNPGgBt2BwSK8mOgBXKBRFcM4ACQ4r853qjV4D8tVn14aQWSu3DfymS02Fhnin53XB9OjwjFqNPIQZwykub3P1uwSgTsbE44g/s640/0001+Chris+racks+up+for+the+first+lead+of+the+trip..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">Chris racks up for the first lead of the trip</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Lead T-shirt: Robots Revolt. Lead song: Dirty Life and Times, Warren Zevon.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sept. 30<sup>th</sup> 2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Rain and floods in DC – water in the basement, but good cheer in the family. “Are you 6 years old?” And we laughed uncontrollably. Cheerfully she drove me to Dulles after much fun at Dogfish Head. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJ8t2R_4bCXdQqbtXLIBBbvplEr3Xp6UB0uplBpx0QEmKLiJU-pyCPlaPOOIRD3lCQ32ziStfWc4uQ_2gPZJyYDxjPJG_ODOFJVj_Xehgg3zZcpR6djfYfS8hzJDwuP52Y3hhxaHjMD0/s1600/0002+Hidden+Tower%252C+East+face.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQJ8t2R_4bCXdQqbtXLIBBbvplEr3Xp6UB0uplBpx0QEmKLiJU-pyCPlaPOOIRD3lCQ32ziStfWc4uQ_2gPZJyYDxjPJG_ODOFJVj_Xehgg3zZcpR6djfYfS8hzJDwuP52Y3hhxaHjMD0/s640/0002+Hidden+Tower%252C+East+face.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">East face of Hidden Tower </div><br />
<br />
[Finally I am beginning to understand the lovely epigram of Delmore Schwartz:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Love is the most difficult and dangerous form of courage.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> Courage is the most desperate, admirable and noble kind of love.</i>]<i> </i> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Uneventful flight sandwiched between the two Poles – one tall and gaunt, the other short, round-faced, long-haired, but sharing a sense of thoughtful silence – feeling no need to fill it up with talk.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Picked up van at Budget and navigated skillfully out 105/605/10 and to Joe’s Tacos – nice little truckstop place where the $6.50 lunch special is v. large, whatever it is, and always comes with tortilla chips, refried beans, rice, melted cheese. Some gastric distress still ongoing after big chili party two days gone.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Usual stops at Stater Bros. for food and Big 5 for propane, and on into the park. Immediately secured campsite # 35 – 5:30 pm. So we walked out behind the Cyclops to boulder for about 90 mins.; gorgeous pink/purple sunset. Tea and cookies before bed. Cloudy.<br />
<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieBFaW30o0igdfEYFrI74wF1A5Mp_fvgfI_fzQInIruuHVMUXCVolwdr2TbsB80WUVdJAEfWCvXyaL52VEsZdndemg7oV3nIsPoiHNWkGLYngwsxDKdlaNZ38yxiQR5OGvYUKTc7E2jgA/s1600/0003+Chris+leading+Sail+Away%252C+5.8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieBFaW30o0igdfEYFrI74wF1A5Mp_fvgfI_fzQInIruuHVMUXCVolwdr2TbsB80WUVdJAEfWCvXyaL52VEsZdndemg7oV3nIsPoiHNWkGLYngwsxDKdlaNZ38yxiQR5OGvYUKTc7E2jgA/s640/0003+Chris+leading+Sail+Away%252C+5.8.JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Chris leading Sail Away, 5.8</div><br />
<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Oct. 1<sup>st</sup> – a good climbing day.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Chris led Sail Away, 5.8, flash of course; Tomek followed and cleaned. I followed and rapped off tiny NW face, toproped the 5.10a with a view to leading later; no falls, good short climb. Possible lead if you really know your nuts.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg081I8Im18a0rsiamRm7rn0dD1Uxm5Uw5IvuvdSSY02a9a25ERhb3l6ZMx-e19uvTepc-iOfe0oJ8vxXDfW5VhKyoK40fneXEgkdy7gyYQvYZikwwi9ZlETvyprgYKNgwCVgomSMUlUb0/s1600/0004+Placing+a+piece+to+protect+the+last+move..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg081I8Im18a0rsiamRm7rn0dD1Uxm5Uw5IvuvdSSY02a9a25ERhb3l6ZMx-e19uvTepc-iOfe0oJ8vxXDfW5VhKyoK40fneXEgkdy7gyYQvYZikwwi9ZlETvyprgYKNgwCVgomSMUlUb0/s640/0004+Placing+a+piece+to+protect+the+last+move..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Placing a piece to protect the last move</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis8wcKt9zb7oaP7lwFN-s8W7wY6dqPjkc28air99N1s1gk7qAX6ehH6VLq-bgjPhQQKRylqbkjsGl5gweuLB4cjNP2y6-WV8DIT5gZQDUO0pUTwC5V8NHbljtckq5IgO6m2gnDgaFm9Ag/s1600/0005+A+small+and+airy+summit..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEis8wcKt9zb7oaP7lwFN-s8W7wY6dqPjkc28air99N1s1gk7qAX6ehH6VLq-bgjPhQQKRylqbkjsGl5gweuLB4cjNP2y6-WV8DIT5gZQDUO0pUTwC5V8NHbljtckq5IgO6m2gnDgaFm9Ag/s640/0005+A+small+and+airy+summit..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A small and airy summit.<br />
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</div><div style="text-align: center;"></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Walking tour of Real Hidden Valley incl. Illusion Dweller. Lunch: noodles.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> I led Raven’s Reach 5.10a, no falls – did left, face version at ‘reach’ dihedral move; Chris followed, Tomek could not. I then toproped Flue Right, 5.10b, no falls! V. nice climb, best not to lead. Tomek made valiant attempt but couldn’t, took a minor swing. Chris declined.<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Drove to Echo Rock. Chris led and Tomek followed Stichter Quits 5.7, no falls. I bouldered and photographed, attempted to TR Cherry Bomb, 5.10c, no dice.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOT-_Uaga5mhAMsCp60wu-E2SJLsYmT5z2oIjAUQcTKSgNRVCzPWAsC59ObRoWVGNp6Gq5Y6ZXaekoFaL0yzEmH7j3B0SmH8p080Swn54P_9dDHAv-OJRcA-LiNwAp8MZniK4XPiCsUo/s1600/0006+Chris+leads+Stichter+Quits%252C+5.7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWOT-_Uaga5mhAMsCp60wu-E2SJLsYmT5z2oIjAUQcTKSgNRVCzPWAsC59ObRoWVGNp6Gq5Y6ZXaekoFaL0yzEmH7j3B0SmH8p080Swn54P_9dDHAv-OJRcA-LiNwAp8MZniK4XPiCsUo/s640/0006+Chris+leads+Stichter+Quits%252C+5.7.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Chris leads Stichter Quits, 5.7</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvujyHflf-Bn9MOcLu_LBUM59EA8zSzWmrHIAJanP86Z3YXWdXZDR5YytY3IJ3gmMng-MgVjvDAD9YYhLDsFbBtoTfB_58AyBxwIx7m63O8xNZz6XoWvpqoVmdtFrwZXkSMQtKf0bS2k/s1600/0007+Calibration+of+shoe+friction+is+critical....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlvujyHflf-Bn9MOcLu_LBUM59EA8zSzWmrHIAJanP86Z3YXWdXZDR5YytY3IJ3gmMng-MgVjvDAD9YYhLDsFbBtoTfB_58AyBxwIx7m63O8xNZz6XoWvpqoVmdtFrwZXkSMQtKf0bS2k/s640/0007+Calibration+of+shoe+friction+is+critical....JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Calibration of shoe friction is critical...</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Qw1zZXukcE9na-gcViXGUZwj4qlD5NAC3xf9C4sL509KnVuuUoVD5jP8hOTF8bIXlhsGWcZOA53TL6t4OUdrdPbf2mATyGDWaHOMWpCj6dcwGgHvYB9PDQMTf559bY1kqEQyEWAvIvE/s1600/0008+on+this+trackless+slab..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Qw1zZXukcE9na-gcViXGUZwj4qlD5NAC3xf9C4sL509KnVuuUoVD5jP8hOTF8bIXlhsGWcZOA53TL6t4OUdrdPbf2mATyGDWaHOMWpCj6dcwGgHvYB9PDQMTf559bY1kqEQyEWAvIvE/s640/0008+on+this+trackless+slab..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">on this trackless slab.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQFsmnm6my0vGoL6I4x2aqNamrCJA5lGZWBI_4zLjYdYfAigJ6CZgHGBIO3r9OaQ6FtbjKbt8YcPVeHDaa9kZw5AyqBdgUfdLAEZAetdAlH9o8S1tVl0ypiA4wD-msM7l9zflu9wq9foM/s1600/0009+Very+soon+he+will+clip+his+last+bolt%253B+the+anchor+awaits+far+above..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQFsmnm6my0vGoL6I4x2aqNamrCJA5lGZWBI_4zLjYdYfAigJ6CZgHGBIO3r9OaQ6FtbjKbt8YcPVeHDaa9kZw5AyqBdgUfdLAEZAetdAlH9o8S1tVl0ypiA4wD-msM7l9zflu9wq9foM/s640/0009+Very+soon+he+will+clip+his+last+bolt%253B+the+anchor+awaits+far+above..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Very soon he will clip his last bolt; the anchor hides far above.</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10/2/2010 – Another excellent climbing day!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Woke at 4:30 to pee. Through intermittent high clouds a magnificent view of Orion high over the Cyclops. Sirius blue as always.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2OgPOT3GXiEkkRkPf1yrA4bnNvMIX7JRBIP-1PVAsVnXoxepPulZeQlcBSwRPE_9emDnbN9QKa0xFQizlThGZXas1uft49OMdJq3c5JxUtxtS7uIg3DojAhyxmCQSxsnVQFNVdIQLTwM/s1600/DSCF2202.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2OgPOT3GXiEkkRkPf1yrA4bnNvMIX7JRBIP-1PVAsVnXoxepPulZeQlcBSwRPE_9emDnbN9QKa0xFQizlThGZXas1uft49OMdJq3c5JxUtxtS7uIg3DojAhyxmCQSxsnVQFNVdIQLTwM/s640/DSCF2202.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Sunrise, glorious and dire...</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiky5Vq9jFZBiYdEQ59YUsQ88jftNR2aYUZobTZWy6JYclmbLBBLNc4z5FkvYR8HSdF46f1HG66kTiAcXdNKHuiWAhjTH38IBqDRM4u6he-OY_uaPhLlClT7mZTnh_VmtlQQ7tr3UxJ9SI/s1600/DSCF2200.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiky5Vq9jFZBiYdEQ59YUsQ88jftNR2aYUZobTZWy6JYclmbLBBLNc4z5FkvYR8HSdF46f1HG66kTiAcXdNKHuiWAhjTH38IBqDRM4u6he-OY_uaPhLlClT7mZTnh_VmtlQQ7tr3UxJ9SI/s640/DSCF2200.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> chaos, uncertainty, the order of the day.</div><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Woke again to light rain, lightning over western hills. It started to thicken, so we drove into town for eggs and bacon at the Country Kitch’n. It was crowded, and the power was out; the Cambodian lady was working hard and coping – made more coffee in pots on stove. Good cheese omelet, hash browns made with no salt, toast, etc. Sourdough toast available, Chris’s favorite.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Drove to Stater again, got more food and water. Using about 1 gal./person/day. Most thrift stores closed due to power outage. Good farmers market in parking lot. Bought 4 books in Christian bookstore in Yucca Valley. [No, <i>not</i> Christian books.] Got gas for Chris’s stove in Yellow Mart sporting goods store. Fishing, hunting, camping, with huge lingerie and sexy-top section for guys buying for their bedmates.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Weather cleared – drove back to camp. Bouldered at the Turtle in lazy manner, but I flashed the Turnbuckle, 1st try! Checked out Gripped Up…5.10a – total sandbag, do not ever go back.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldfqU2-g7uPvrIgSPX9hzIXtHFn6aMJie-Nh-jqfOi01_q1xOGzgUR4g5OW9RA7XqjT412qdEQLZ9YgorJJxybOWvjE4lWw0PuIal93UOsAW6MybIBy5OwHUxKH7eNVMvDPNI_-x7rm4/s1600/0010+Bouldering+session+out+behind+the+Turtle..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhldfqU2-g7uPvrIgSPX9hzIXtHFn6aMJie-Nh-jqfOi01_q1xOGzgUR4g5OW9RA7XqjT412qdEQLZ9YgorJJxybOWvjE4lWw0PuIal93UOsAW6MybIBy5OwHUxKH7eNVMvDPNI_-x7rm4/s640/0010+Bouldering+session+out+behind+the+Turtle..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Bouldering session out behind the Turtle.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWW0i5u6xCD8du-KjQ6zwmDaU_s80oXGSB1lKwBwdNq14Ut5eyAgFiYl_lBYY_OZ8BQ1Kgkhb959ApQGFP-i9elXdO2T5HBDgdW9HADZgOfz49SSEeLO3u-orjfJIubvB8C49tWcPMQs/s1600/0011+Chris+goes+Highball..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnWW0i5u6xCD8du-KjQ6zwmDaU_s80oXGSB1lKwBwdNq14Ut5eyAgFiYl_lBYY_OZ8BQ1Kgkhb959ApQGFP-i9elXdO2T5HBDgdW9HADZgOfz49SSEeLO3u-orjfJIubvB8C49tWcPMQs/s640/0011+Chris+goes+Highball..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Chris going highball on us. </div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfQTO2USpWx1pmTQe-nQQp2N5GY9PQutue-P9R7cADJWSgl42l5La4VdNnxboGW6hqW1jCTy9n_KH6KmxJ684l0ReZ4AWVefqsYKylPKcWMcIffSyxQTeMYt-8m_zBYQbvJnUK9iSse0/s1600/0012+About+to+Cruise+the+Turnbuckle%252C+5.11%252B%2521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnfQTO2USpWx1pmTQe-nQQp2N5GY9PQutue-P9R7cADJWSgl42l5La4VdNnxboGW6hqW1jCTy9n_KH6KmxJ684l0ReZ4AWVefqsYKylPKcWMcIffSyxQTeMYt-8m_zBYQbvJnUK9iSse0/s640/0012+About+to+Cruise+the+Turnbuckle%252C+5.11%252B%2521.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">About to Cruise the Turnbuckle, 5.11+!</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0YwKp0F8ulGaFarJz_zh3WX-bov_WTSCF4SnnDBbKWKkbsfJV0741K1xrpMB-4ECpsNBl2xRMB_xWwEBA_jBRvDLzMUL1NE86IYOV5_dAFgawa-shmmjPAKBg5hGZL6MmiUu4pFAXNY/s1600/0013+Maybe+not+today.+though..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe0YwKp0F8ulGaFarJz_zh3WX-bov_WTSCF4SnnDBbKWKkbsfJV0741K1xrpMB-4ECpsNBl2xRMB_xWwEBA_jBRvDLzMUL1NE86IYOV5_dAFgawa-shmmjPAKBg5hGZL6MmiUu4pFAXNY/s640/0013+Maybe+not+today.+though..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Maybe not today, though.</div><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Went to Intersection Rock. Chris led most of Overhang Bypass 5.7+++***. (Last pitch short but fun, my lead.) He did the ‘cave’ blockage to left, though could have stemmed right up the middle if he had some pro there. Tomek went left following; I went right, lower down, onto the face and up as per book. Climb is 5.7 physically but demands excellent leading skills and judgment.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV91vnPD35kgtDMNqvBv0QyfoXJ-OHPZDf3naIu9wKuWy4G_MZCeB99QPFnnDvj4lPwuB6bDahz2PiPrUU9uFxHIoPY8wvn_HUxqqzXCBpNeBcIA-AdDWCs9iZXJies-TPbbwzSTQdL7U/s1600/0101+and+spectacular..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhV91vnPD35kgtDMNqvBv0QyfoXJ-OHPZDf3naIu9wKuWy4G_MZCeB99QPFnnDvj4lPwuB6bDahz2PiPrUU9uFxHIoPY8wvn_HUxqqzXCBpNeBcIA-AdDWCs9iZXJies-TPbbwzSTQdL7U/s640/0101+and+spectacular..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Chris leads, Tomek follows, Overhang Bypass, 5.7.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhmrzXZHnfVfu4UMOVTlhOpbhlqi0horxPMgY3YnZwlwCDYwxg4WdMNG-z4RYSZTZe-zpdRFsYpdLI36iUBXExOG1jCa98EWqotjOtP0TEkKu2t-AjzAr5CcyPu1Wkz7SlGyH7DIfwb4U/s1600/0099+Chris+leads+Overhang+Bypass+5.7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhmrzXZHnfVfu4UMOVTlhOpbhlqi0horxPMgY3YnZwlwCDYwxg4WdMNG-z4RYSZTZe-zpdRFsYpdLI36iUBXExOG1jCa98EWqotjOtP0TEkKu2t-AjzAr5CcyPu1Wkz7SlGyH7DIfwb4U/s640/0099+Chris+leads+Overhang+Bypass+5.7.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Peculiar, intimidating...</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh87skTyxb-mkFC4-ugpobAB9pQCiY2_SzKJ77DjA1VsDcxO3n_mczbZlWI6QEC8nVZ-zBfVwzQhfOLBTV_ros1urR6x11nRpSX772mHOAwj1zmQLmcy7TN4NvqAGonr8wtV6t6KrasOc/s1600/0100+Peculiar%252C+intimidating.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh87skTyxb-mkFC4-ugpobAB9pQCiY2_SzKJ77DjA1VsDcxO3n_mczbZlWI6QEC8nVZ-zBfVwzQhfOLBTV_ros1urR6x11nRpSX772mHOAwj1zmQLmcy7TN4NvqAGonr8wtV6t6KrasOc/s640/0100+Peculiar%252C+intimidating.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> ...and spectacular.</div><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Dinner: chili with black beans and garlic mashed potatoes. Stars out. All well.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10/3/2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> 6:00 a.m. ¼ moon lit my way to the toilet, casting sharp shadow. Huge thunderstorms in the south, moving in slowly – much lightning, barely audible thunder. Rained last night, first gently, then hard, with lightning, tent floor holding up ok.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglZi6rDCIgoNOgf8teLrQabvaKlSYgb2x3hkdUlgCdBLcAVaBayAYa7yVY9w4n4N8-uFV5khQhFsnklLhY5Pq1KucEZ1OQ7rac0Isn1D9PDB_pNamkk1d8yL8k0gbLe4vZyKC9s3tYAmk/s1600/DSCF2797.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglZi6rDCIgoNOgf8teLrQabvaKlSYgb2x3hkdUlgCdBLcAVaBayAYa7yVY9w4n4N8-uFV5khQhFsnklLhY5Pq1KucEZ1OQ7rac0Isn1D9PDB_pNamkk1d8yL8k0gbLe4vZyKC9s3tYAmk/s640/DSCF2797.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Coyotes hold brief discussion just now. Distant thunder and small noises just set off the Great Silence. I seem to feel the silence cleaning me – dissolving the rust and scale of city psyche.<br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Orion is due south; Great Bear northeast, but now both are obscured. Would be nice if the day was dry. We have brought very little rain gear, of course. 10-day forecast showed almost nothing but sun and 90ºF. highs.<br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Many black beetles: they walk with their butts high and their heads low – big black butts – if disturbed they stick their butts straight up in a very menacing attitude, and hold still. Common beetle problem: how to get back on feet if overturned.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihD7JJ5nzYkwiXRijjDZHM5PkmYGxggaHhMvAl84rOIbihyphenhyphenkMrpxay12GdfLfEfrkS56FIxW-wMAPl8QKTkIVM-Yp7hwqO-PvkLiAfAyk-lgGvBoHNvT95lFXO0RXmHkOp1IayZr1pjYw/s1600/DSCF2308.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihD7JJ5nzYkwiXRijjDZHM5PkmYGxggaHhMvAl84rOIbihyphenhyphenkMrpxay12GdfLfEfrkS56FIxW-wMAPl8QKTkIVM-Yp7hwqO-PvkLiAfAyk-lgGvBoHNvT95lFXO0RXmHkOp1IayZr1pjYw/s640/DSCF2308.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Pinacate beetle, aka stink beetle; name derived from ‘pinacatl’, Nahuatl (Aztec), simply meaning ‘black beetle’. Its headstand pose is a warning that your next attack will elicit some nasty chemical warfare from his ass.</div><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">6:15 – Stars all gone – pre-dawn gloaming extended by clouds.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Among books bought yesterday was R.D. Laing’s “Self and Others”. We discussed Laing and Julian Jaynes (Origin of Consciousness, etc.) at dinner.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> We are all sleeping well, except that Tomek confessed to ‘bad dreams’. And he added, “I don’t know why.” Neighbors reasonably quiet.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Strange dreams myself:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">1. Journey to aid weird deserter cult sitting and lying in mud up to necks, in a room in an old Gothic dormitory – pried off screen, negotiated through window – atmosphere of shock and disgust.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">2. Tents were pitched inside a house – many others sleeping crowded around. Discussion of what to do about owners large, multi-room basement prone to flooding – I said, make it into a swimming pool.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">3. I was a bit hot, and a doctor friend put a glass thermometer into my mouth and went away – later came back to find that I had broken it into several pieces in my mouth while talking, and didn’t even notice.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">6:30 Good light now, headlamp off. North and West clear, South and East cloudy.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10/14/2010 </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sunrise: 7:14 KA-BLAMMO!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Slow time, slow mind</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Crow: (quietly) 1. 2. 3. / 1. 2. 3. etc.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Yesterday – led Room to Shroom for the third time. [Good hike beyond, around N Astro Dome to the Don Juan boulder.]</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEign0WKMmbk9xOZBOFYRCum6IDMbiBug5TBmRIxayvCk2SQoPIwTEi-sqbZQsepeQ9z4ZeqOglFEkZ57oH0GfMWNaIQc4hpzTcsATn3kWkdJK9BjjKPNlT3s156LqGRekOCcv8_P6LeT5g/s1600/0023+After+we+had+dealt+with+the+fabulous+Room+to+Shroom%252C+5.9....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEign0WKMmbk9xOZBOFYRCum6IDMbiBug5TBmRIxayvCk2SQoPIwTEi-sqbZQsepeQ9z4ZeqOglFEkZ57oH0GfMWNaIQc4hpzTcsATn3kWkdJK9BjjKPNlT3s156LqGRekOCcv8_P6LeT5g/s640/0023+After+we+had+dealt+with+the+fabulous+Room+to+Shroom%252C+5.9....JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The fabulous 5.9 hand crack Room to 'Shroom<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUo3yZRM1k-S-ibmUFMlYxDeKcNyY5Medk67jibfS7zeKLeS4aHlDILBGUiue04aP-fJ3Ib5g8t5J1xubNSlhMibTwOgsSL_z4bEWi8DsILSjhfAso29QmdPZhEkoSOieluND4wnpZ8QY/s1600/IMG_1411.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUo3yZRM1k-S-ibmUFMlYxDeKcNyY5Medk67jibfS7zeKLeS4aHlDILBGUiue04aP-fJ3Ib5g8t5J1xubNSlhMibTwOgsSL_z4bEWi8DsILSjhfAso29QmdPZhEkoSOieluND4wnpZ8QY/s640/IMG_1411.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
Photo by Chris Mrozowski</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEB9Zi6pUIMNMQQHZyJQAPFHlpAPW5uWx0qqxcIVHwHv70nbd2NWfSUFka4x33Mz7GMLSe9LRB-iWl1OyDQ-4OHAA8iB71vRBUPlTVmJUMDV-1WXATGXxLAIHr8fs8AGVvEmWzIdayezQ/s1600/0024+we+headed+north+into+trackless+lands....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEB9Zi6pUIMNMQQHZyJQAPFHlpAPW5uWx0qqxcIVHwHv70nbd2NWfSUFka4x33Mz7GMLSe9LRB-iWl1OyDQ-4OHAA8iB71vRBUPlTVmJUMDV-1WXATGXxLAIHr8fs8AGVvEmWzIdayezQ/s640/0024+we+headed+north+into+trackless+lands....JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">we headed north into trackless lands...</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2SG0tVDV4QRjenb9PBOyb-OZ_YPlpw6At7O1wYE2K8s3f4fW4uiPRAYcIm23FSQLT4uGWGlTY85SBsQYAfq3s7BbUqVuFXZMnAQXDH0FblSSiJP7tZFv30OgfGxC8IwUq2-tFOEw3AWQ/s1600/0025+where+we+steered+by+the+Astro+Domes....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2SG0tVDV4QRjenb9PBOyb-OZ_YPlpw6At7O1wYE2K8s3f4fW4uiPRAYcIm23FSQLT4uGWGlTY85SBsQYAfq3s7BbUqVuFXZMnAQXDH0FblSSiJP7tZFv30OgfGxC8IwUq2-tFOEw3AWQ/s640/0025+where+we+steered+by+the+Astro+Domes....JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">where we steered by the Astro Domes...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKw35E76IAMkr9NU_H6I7hIqEXk_yiZ7I4YaUlUtpEDXvG4uDexCv48J0A7ZwJTJjv1dXEiFC_OmX5HQ8m0MAPjyW38lPexsEQy-aCqkyJLJ1LpPhha7ar9UT3Sr-PntEb842-EcrA8a0/s1600/0026+through+the+rat%2527s+maze....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKw35E76IAMkr9NU_H6I7hIqEXk_yiZ7I4YaUlUtpEDXvG4uDexCv48J0A7ZwJTJjv1dXEiFC_OmX5HQ8m0MAPjyW38lPexsEQy-aCqkyJLJ1LpPhha7ar9UT3Sr-PntEb842-EcrA8a0/s640/0026+through+the+rat%2527s+maze....JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">...through a rat's maze...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZsTSt-fNi8ummFojE8uvLMKhPzBofYrIHaBkUcpein38gmeVh-plYATS0zn-_HAMxsRNGGNy6SNVAj1slghqRvQFXjJkm4TXUxJmIwmnH40LpWk9da98aeDUgpBfBJh-U1JMLbC-Owi8/s1600/0029+dominated+by+the+mystical+Don+Juan+Boulder..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZsTSt-fNi8ummFojE8uvLMKhPzBofYrIHaBkUcpein38gmeVh-plYATS0zn-_HAMxsRNGGNy6SNVAj1slghqRvQFXjJkm4TXUxJmIwmnH40LpWk9da98aeDUgpBfBJh-U1JMLbC-Owi8/s640/0029+dominated+by+the+mystical+Don+Juan+Boulder..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">...to the Don Juan Boulder...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUUsXBdaHjPM7eraWg0FVlEtrw3Tn_pGezHnXRA2Svbrnop2JDAhRJ5KCfZMtz3-PgMjUzFoHZW_Rg4VXLRuOzuXsOmjqRNPIYTM3caIW5QOEr-nvEq_8UaG4U96Sxba26xkPFp1Wct4/s1600/0030+and+so+we+consult+the+sacred+text..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOUUsXBdaHjPM7eraWg0FVlEtrw3Tn_pGezHnXRA2Svbrnop2JDAhRJ5KCfZMtz3-PgMjUzFoHZW_Rg4VXLRuOzuXsOmjqRNPIYTM3caIW5QOEr-nvEq_8UaG4U96Sxba26xkPFp1Wct4/s640/0030+and+so+we+consult+the+sacred+text..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">...where we consulted the sacred texts...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGTTKQq_HRWfT0HDvMRplvk8E8q9C069ZfV1I6KKDIqqIZlUGwTEHSrE4Dqy_J0JD72tZk1qsQrSsifg6pai9ctTQLixAk225rkNOEvuIhZ5_nRbFJYonLobP9nHTVcfXATJkXrIuBBco/s1600/0028+and+find+a+strange+new+world....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGTTKQq_HRWfT0HDvMRplvk8E8q9C069ZfV1I6KKDIqqIZlUGwTEHSrE4Dqy_J0JD72tZk1qsQrSsifg6pai9ctTQLixAk225rkNOEvuIhZ5_nRbFJYonLobP9nHTVcfXATJkXrIuBBco/s640/0028+and+find+a+strange+new+world....JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">and experienced visions...</div><div style="text-align: center;">Brilliant cloud line slowly walking across mountaintop as sun hangs fire…</div><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Yesterday we visited the boulder called Pinhead (or is it just the crack problem?). The crack is rated at 5.11-; actually it is 5.9 if properly laybacked. Nice friction problem on NW corner; no one can figure out N face.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkhi6h2gKq3rgYos2L4pK2YoynqRScrqxr_J4FK14FUwUFMJyfw9rBjurC0nM5AUnDE2M3S75my6KnZOVN4d_gkjAhLG32w8EqOyUMOWHikiqahG3BDKt4_iAUu5aq9mCWz06Tf6c1z74/s1600/0105+A+relaxing+workout...JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkhi6h2gKq3rgYos2L4pK2YoynqRScrqxr_J4FK14FUwUFMJyfw9rBjurC0nM5AUnDE2M3S75my6KnZOVN4d_gkjAhLG32w8EqOyUMOWHikiqahG3BDKt4_iAUu5aq9mCWz06Tf6c1z74/s640/0105+A+relaxing+workout...JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> A relaxing workout on the Pinhead boulder.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhecyQgTFnFLyWRl5ETIH62m9VcBgum8xPOce3VjAlqahe5zPw3igNAvZguLD_b3nr2qh1p-b6W3ud77qebg3M1f6fE6pywIZV2UQT6hejjGJIJNZ67CSXLPLmCSJa6VhNKLJ8v3EHLVEQ/s1600/0107+A+smooth%252C+baffling+chess+problem.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhecyQgTFnFLyWRl5ETIH62m9VcBgum8xPOce3VjAlqahe5zPw3igNAvZguLD_b3nr2qh1p-b6W3ud77qebg3M1f6fE6pywIZV2UQT6hejjGJIJNZ67CSXLPLmCSJa6VhNKLJ8v3EHLVEQ/s640/0107+A+smooth%252C+baffling+chess+problem.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> A smooth, baffling chess problem...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHJBbF9HUxHswxoqdr3mLtfXcudfg2B4F34i-AM_PF_Y0wwdpaMa-oi8spsbxoa-0ME7aQi6FgBNLIDDrgvsIQLQf7a7te09aUNIYphLGvpTQnAG1ulXbJEPu8tUHjGDarKlJ2R2VU_o/s1600/0108+considered+from+all+angles....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisHJBbF9HUxHswxoqdr3mLtfXcudfg2B4F34i-AM_PF_Y0wwdpaMa-oi8spsbxoa-0ME7aQi6FgBNLIDDrgvsIQLQf7a7te09aUNIYphLGvpTQnAG1ulXbJEPu8tUHjGDarKlJ2R2VU_o/s640/0108+considered+from+all+angles....JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> considered from all angles...</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGW_JiQALnpIK3K9I1Ia9hcAUcKHvIwyX-DBkc8RiPP2qA_HV1ojaKbgvXZayBZptogk9tDlqjtFIA2b-5id7QhU7ZJf4KdtOLp-3ArZg-16J58SrfQYE7IqNPBP5sIALXWJ33WXqEMM/s1600/0109+must+eventually+yield%2521.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHGW_JiQALnpIK3K9I1Ia9hcAUcKHvIwyX-DBkc8RiPP2qA_HV1ojaKbgvXZayBZptogk9tDlqjtFIA2b-5id7QhU7ZJf4KdtOLp-3ArZg-16J58SrfQYE7IqNPBP5sIALXWJ33WXqEMM/s640/0109+must+eventually+yield%2521.JPG" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> must eventually yield!</div><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> V. nice coyote performance ~ 6:30 a.m. – group nearby sings several short songs; after each they pause and a listener far away responds with a brief “Yeah!” Finally they stopped, apparently when their audience of one stopped listening. These guys’n’gals are jokers and smokers. Casual ebullience of their attitude. Why not? Jackrabbits are plentiful. Had two in our camp this morning – one walked up as close as 10 feet from the table as we drank our coffee, examined us and left unhurriedly. Taking his sweet time.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Bouldered the tiny ‘Phallus’ spire, 5.7, right behind tents. R. side is maybe 5.7, fun, l. side probably 5.9 or harder; didn’t feel quite erect enough for that. [better name for this formation: Cobra]<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM1YKalMGlGp_lu5HC3o9tTj0GP3vqAhomCIDzGzl124HwlyIidINLSNzXpuMc3ApfJFA3Yg2uHINYEiTi-6JpX-oDZLfrQiSoT9kV1VvrcUyEPWiZmf6sCGlgCkafq2siCE791nI-_7s/s1600/0070+girl+with+dreads%252C+reclining+at+the+base+of+the+Phallus.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM1YKalMGlGp_lu5HC3o9tTj0GP3vqAhomCIDzGzl124HwlyIidINLSNzXpuMc3ApfJFA3Yg2uHINYEiTi-6JpX-oDZLfrQiSoT9kV1VvrcUyEPWiZmf6sCGlgCkafq2siCE791nI-_7s/s640/0070+girl+with+dreads%252C+reclining+at+the+base+of+the+Phallus.JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Girl with dreads reading at the base of the Phallus. </div><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Tomek led ‘Circe’. 5.6 on the Cyclops w/4 pieces, good job. Good pics from above.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiVY-ff3swOut7_nBK6rSFeGDiYi1TJb_h5n1zHVF8IfAcxi9PwPqQr4Z59HIkohKGguBOVbZEMbgVp91M0a7zsxSZEKrGrVi0jByUKUljeCGKCbuNnCJbw7vkNa78azZBXnpE0UN1hyphenhyphenI/s1600/0014+Tomek+leads+the+classic+5.6+Circe.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiVY-ff3swOut7_nBK6rSFeGDiYi1TJb_h5n1zHVF8IfAcxi9PwPqQr4Z59HIkohKGguBOVbZEMbgVp91M0a7zsxSZEKrGrVi0jByUKUljeCGKCbuNnCJbw7vkNa78azZBXnpE0UN1hyphenhyphenI/s640/0014+Tomek+leads+the+classic+5.6+Circe.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Tomek leads the classic 5.6 Circe</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fc1pa2QFj18Ze1_N9ijOmHGadFjahJ2HdmaNHfa_cUIDUfFbjOBYEUPmqSJdqf2hi4UA95K_MBhYrL-0CwjZFqEO7fapLyG_YpNl3Id6_deDGgcPsnUY51s3QvFiXswXzrX3xEARWD4/s1600/0015+On+the+right+arete+edge+of+the+great+dihedral....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_fc1pa2QFj18Ze1_N9ijOmHGadFjahJ2HdmaNHfa_cUIDUfFbjOBYEUPmqSJdqf2hi4UA95K_MBhYrL-0CwjZFqEO7fapLyG_YpNl3Id6_deDGgcPsnUY51s3QvFiXswXzrX3xEARWD4/s640/0015+On+the+right+arete+edge+of+the+great+dihedral....JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> on the right arete edge of the great dihedral...</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKlG6e4BA-07iZ9-_V4q9l6Fn9B04maOlZftwWuLvUj8xLJtZkuCx_IsT3cNw5AISGnJjZUozGZpCP1G42iHfTG22XBuTWepUFBVoZbhqcxS0MxaMtSqK5TOIqkELPOgvdp5FxM3iV9do/s1600/0016+...known+as+the+Eye+of+the+Cyclops..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKlG6e4BA-07iZ9-_V4q9l6Fn9B04maOlZftwWuLvUj8xLJtZkuCx_IsT3cNw5AISGnJjZUozGZpCP1G42iHfTG22XBuTWepUFBVoZbhqcxS0MxaMtSqK5TOIqkELPOgvdp5FxM3iV9do/s640/0016+...known+as+the+Eye+of+the+Cyclops..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> known as the Eye of the Cyclops.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEc7nEhyphenhypheno7P8oGQWRDD8KLEW5DZHQBQjqGhMJBdtYEWaOF2tr42KYgZjzPmb2bszk7agbTiABzH3_E71aMAlBZ5amMWk6WA4OttPy3obMUckRWsvLlCNj2vvp_xs6-asctI1eWQ_90gxc/s1600/0017+His+placements+are+few....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgEc7nEhyphenhypheno7P8oGQWRDD8KLEW5DZHQBQjqGhMJBdtYEWaOF2tr42KYgZjzPmb2bszk7agbTiABzH3_E71aMAlBZ5amMWk6WA4OttPy3obMUckRWsvLlCNj2vvp_xs6-asctI1eWQ_90gxc/s640/0017+His+placements+are+few....JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> His anchors placements are few...</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEnqMAKb7WlkvraJntCIVxC_KxOu5fORGZpzmOVohBSisk-7rM7X9-10aF8SNYgoOVSUxXxShCbtaz4DT6INd7jsEGWpbOBd3XhAvn0KqVD6_ujFb85_TYD-pvgrKzdDPKZWtsaPh3u2w/s1600/0018+but+carefully+chosen+and+placed..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEnqMAKb7WlkvraJntCIVxC_KxOu5fORGZpzmOVohBSisk-7rM7X9-10aF8SNYgoOVSUxXxShCbtaz4DT6INd7jsEGWpbOBd3XhAvn0KqVD6_ujFb85_TYD-pvgrKzdDPKZWtsaPh3u2w/s640/0018+but+carefully+chosen+and+placed..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> but carefully chosen and installed.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRK-QRWH42ZmiPBPGN4sA0sOJWUDs2RXCpqahJvhj8nV1FouEl42PS25k25Bu0nNUUuYXGh1jW1Jsb7FgmHQHELKh3sFtX-FRhQnQkn7fgS6gjPrMSVSTrJjeEj7YqgB-CFyH4LRYCCY/s1600/0019+and+he+steadily+cruises+the+crux..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDRK-QRWH42ZmiPBPGN4sA0sOJWUDs2RXCpqahJvhj8nV1FouEl42PS25k25Bu0nNUUuYXGh1jW1Jsb7FgmHQHELKh3sFtX-FRhQnQkn7fgS6gjPrMSVSTrJjeEj7YqgB-CFyH4LRYCCY/s640/0019+and+he+steadily+cruises+the+crux..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> ...pass the crux...</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixVh83dOAmVoCLiWJDDZOtHWQSXWdMWc8WRx7PFPDOJJYSgw8-tG2nnm_CnUBAM6c4VXg-geMH6t4otvX244W0aWn7T5NmBxJJxSbp68LrheWTcYF0A3L9nkeOSZtaojJE0m-l-q2tekQ/s1600/0020+...winds+through+the+windy+caves....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixVh83dOAmVoCLiWJDDZOtHWQSXWdMWc8WRx7PFPDOJJYSgw8-tG2nnm_CnUBAM6c4VXg-geMH6t4otvX244W0aWn7T5NmBxJJxSbp68LrheWTcYF0A3L9nkeOSZtaojJE0m-l-q2tekQ/s640/0020+...winds+through+the+windy+caves....JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> ...wind through the windy caves...</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXHvb99jZVHfi1TocIvJ67uFnMb1eCRTGPo7lqckdvX_rFZOUxLzkSXXRV10iviDMeZuQAJpcdrlK1AnbAk4qLkV2vixwRdVaF3Wsi0e4GmIh_vSvyHvFewHQG1wyLORPBUt3zmAvzL8/s1600/0021+cleverly+avoids+being+enporcined....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXHvb99jZVHfi1TocIvJ67uFnMb1eCRTGPo7lqckdvX_rFZOUxLzkSXXRV10iviDMeZuQAJpcdrlK1AnbAk4qLkV2vixwRdVaF3Wsi0e4GmIh_vSvyHvFewHQG1wyLORPBUt3zmAvzL8/s640/0021+cleverly+avoids+being+enporcined....JPG" width="640" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">...cleverly avoid being enporcined... </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9DCR_nJ7EGskiicLN_QKS0bAbLnsSyt-NaDNAcNpZIhyjw_e3784A7eF_bM_zcGo39YUD-5eJs5MzBgSa7AXTHSuKEk8p8H8ZqrwkUUPd9pokebNyRM1FmCou4NVyo-b7lia89fbwKY/s1600/0022+and+passes+fearsome+cornices+to+reach+the+open+sky..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK9DCR_nJ7EGskiicLN_QKS0bAbLnsSyt-NaDNAcNpZIhyjw_e3784A7eF_bM_zcGo39YUD-5eJs5MzBgSa7AXTHSuKEk8p8H8ZqrwkUUPd9pokebNyRM1FmCou4NVyo-b7lia89fbwKY/s640/0022+and+passes+fearsome+cornices+to+reach+the+open+sky..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> ...and outwit fearsome cornice to win through to the open sky.</div><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Came back, rained briefly, soup for lunch under a boulder, then I tried to lead ‘Pinched Rib’ 5.10b, failed, downclimbed. Can see target hold, but not reach it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mpXvu-hS_Smidb-TerODEK1K_2yCcXNihcq1xvi2ipq43kHpFhwYTBn_Ed9nblkdHbAu1vPiwHX1DWKbwRWlBmu-liBJl7UOMDDVIFNglWOBVKTpdBi34PuVqbu3fs9iVPxoUXq7Ppw/s1600/DSCN7750.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8mpXvu-hS_Smidb-TerODEK1K_2yCcXNihcq1xvi2ipq43kHpFhwYTBn_Ed9nblkdHbAu1vPiwHX1DWKbwRWlBmu-liBJl7UOMDDVIFNglWOBVKTpdBi34PuVqbu3fs9iVPxoUXq7Ppw/s640/DSCN7750.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">I'm flummoxed on "Pinched Rib" 5.10b; had to do a careful downclimb. NOW, of course, I think I have the solution to it in my head.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by Tomek Chudy.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Walked around – Chris led ‘Hands Off’ 5.8, flash, enjoyed it, Tomek followed. Very windy up top. Many good photos from above; brief selection follows:<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4VtPYpj2nchxw09_CrjDVN_ivv1fJeXo4bezbg7OguozN0vr1Xl-z6oq4b5JaEJ3EksJWv1IoJwVJLKXxWsNh783oFDQ9nnOkiY15bilGKtTQbPkNkrR44Q388ex19Psp1r3imk_7nHE/s1600/0039+belaying+in+a+memorably+high+wind..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4VtPYpj2nchxw09_CrjDVN_ivv1fJeXo4bezbg7OguozN0vr1Xl-z6oq4b5JaEJ3EksJWv1IoJwVJLKXxWsNh783oFDQ9nnOkiY15bilGKtTQbPkNkrR44Q388ex19Psp1r3imk_7nHE/s640/0039+belaying+in+a+memorably+high+wind..JPG" width="422" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"> Belaying Tomek in high wind.</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Tired of wind, at 4 p.m. we drove to town to get cell reception. Contacted homes: “Washing machine won’t fill, window won’t close.” [Jarring disjunct between mundane home crap so far away and the magnificence of our surroundings.] Called Todd to conform arrival tom. L.B. airport; Hannah at city meeting. Stopped at Del Taco, had fish tacos. Pilfered hot sauce as per S.O.P.; washed face, hands, forearms in restroom; went back to camp playing Prokofiev’s 5<sup>th</sup> on car stereo in the sunset. [Tomek is an accomplished classical pianist, and also a fan of jazz incl. Dixieland.] </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Poles recommend reading: works of Ryszard Kapuscinski – “Soccer Wars”, “The Emperor”, “Imperium”.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10/5/2010 </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Day of the fat rat bunny! Corrupted rabbit begs for cookies, gets them.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> 4:45 a.m. 40º F. light wind, very clear. Stars Galore. New moon just rising over eastern skyline. [Momentarily startled by the weird alien object on the eastern skyline – dark grey disc flanked by two glowing spikes, the sickle moon facing upward, rising over the hill’s sharp edge.] Dark disk, horned god – many aches and pains – pulled back muscle, full bladder, cold head, weird unpleasant dreams, putting on pants and boots – step outside to see the splendors, the vastness of the Galaxy! All for me!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Drove to Long Beach, picked up Todd at airport. Hit the In’n’Out Burger on the way back. Todd had his ‘animal style’– some kind of sauce. Hit the Yellow Mart for more gas, the Stater for food, and the Holy Jeezus Thrift for a warm hat. Lucky – Chris found a nice Patagonia fleece too small for him; I got it for $4. Now reading and writing in the tent much more comfortable.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQe-FSSU-0ccG97X2RGOYv2VnbpaKnz9VvIPUleIqhbCyrW3ekglWcxIK25IveW8QgSTZXL1hJtR4UgsnZx9sHZnd-B6Mj8uVGQaFFZLr2AsahyphenhyphenFE7B-tVMvbmdRE33zAGi9ha5MEvhk/s1600/DSCN7828.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhvQe-FSSU-0ccG97X2RGOYv2VnbpaKnz9VvIPUleIqhbCyrW3ekglWcxIK25IveW8QgSTZXL1hJtR4UgsnZx9sHZnd-B6Mj8uVGQaFFZLr2AsahyphenhyphenFE7B-tVMvbmdRE33zAGi9ha5MEvhk/s640/DSCN7828.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> The Desert Apes Climbing Team infesting the Long Beach airport just prior to disbanding for the winter.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by Anonymous Passerby.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Back at camp by 4 p.m. – sunny, cool breeze – the guys seemed sluggish, but I felt we should not waste time – dragged the platoon out to Echo Cove, where Chris led Fun Stuff, 5.8, and I led W.A.C. 5.8 and set a toprope, and then led R.A.F. 5.9 and Todd followed without any great difficulty. Excellent ending to long day of driving. [Note: Dodge Grand Caravan is an excellent camping vehicle and got better than 21 mph on the highway.]<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpfdu4s1XkFbCf-whcZOT47DhcY9BAKH2tsWQMO5Xa6sxUM8vsErOVPBVhmSb_paH6CYtfmjTUlcGH2Lv49JKB8fWjnuuwfWYXsPp6cRCWGtwxXwwbOcghj3XwZ_vTbHKwWnx_AOD_Rw/s1600/0041+on+Fun+Stuff%252C+5.8%252Cat+Echo+Cove.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzpfdu4s1XkFbCf-whcZOT47DhcY9BAKH2tsWQMO5Xa6sxUM8vsErOVPBVhmSb_paH6CYtfmjTUlcGH2Lv49JKB8fWjnuuwfWYXsPp6cRCWGtwxXwwbOcghj3XwZ_vTbHKwWnx_AOD_Rw/s640/0041+on+Fun+Stuff%252C+5.8%252Cat+Echo+Cove.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Chris tops out with the dying light...</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoi-ag2Y4C2fIYoOv03B0phOwRx_X4yVGH-bfWmcbMRt9PY4iKNPESB0bzcF1jk35qnZRbXqV2H_vL_nw7JfUXRGrLYCpW2URiczpEtWnH8phRmcwLXbKGNOr6ItjDFh38pwbxJZcO9ZQ/s1600/0040+Chris+tops+out+with+the+dying+light....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoi-ag2Y4C2fIYoOv03B0phOwRx_X4yVGH-bfWmcbMRt9PY4iKNPESB0bzcF1jk35qnZRbXqV2H_vL_nw7JfUXRGrLYCpW2URiczpEtWnH8phRmcwLXbKGNOr6ItjDFh38pwbxJZcO9ZQ/s640/0040+Chris+tops+out+with+the+dying+light....JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">on Fun Stuff, 5.8,at Echo Cove</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Things I forgot or foolishly decided not to bring:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Warm hat</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Gloves</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Inflatable pillow</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Fleece</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Rope hooks</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Binoculars</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10/6/2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Another excellent climbing day! At least for me and Chris – not so much for Todd. Breakfast: sardines and ramen noodles!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGpz_AYH3MDPZZWY-StEuv4OB-1AGYbZseOAMq6CJ-Ix4wCY8P5YIBTjC4bUhIbOb2katThyphenhyphen6A0rkZ2Yl9ZedUXP8vWflm2XqqkRCxs-RnxuL1_SGVQJq6dL4GeQ8c7OHbAt9m6au8SW4/s1600/0042+I+assigned+Todd+a+pretty+5.7+called+Spaghetti+and+Chili.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGpz_AYH3MDPZZWY-StEuv4OB-1AGYbZseOAMq6CJ-Ix4wCY8P5YIBTjC4bUhIbOb2katThyphenhyphen6A0rkZ2Yl9ZedUXP8vWflm2XqqkRCxs-RnxuL1_SGVQJq6dL4GeQ8c7OHbAt9m6au8SW4/s640/0042+I+assigned+Todd+a+pretty+5.7+called+Spaghetti+and+Chili.JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">After discussion we went to the Cyclops, there to lead Spaghetti and Chili, 5.7, and Goldilocks, 5.7. As Tomek led Goldilocks in steady manner, Todd struggled mightily with the classic launch-out layback/undercling crux of S&C, gave up in spite of coaching. [He just couldn’t make himself step out there.] He was downhearted.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRtL07IOcxvuNgTWhWzclxwYVsDRxeKbXvrnrD6gzSMX_394ONB1AQwqJziPAsToX4FUDxFpP9dnu3eUFmWIpdlo4yFOL8e1mMbzPZvKlua_EBRPGfxgYFRehubLXhQf2jU2CkTyD-a0/s1600/0043+involving+a+step-across+undercling+to+which+he+could+not+commit..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBRtL07IOcxvuNgTWhWzclxwYVsDRxeKbXvrnrD6gzSMX_394ONB1AQwqJziPAsToX4FUDxFpP9dnu3eUFmWIpdlo4yFOL8e1mMbzPZvKlua_EBRPGfxgYFRehubLXhQf2jU2CkTyD-a0/s640/0043+involving+a+step-across+undercling+to+which+he+could+not+commit..JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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I led it to top, and he then still could not commit to even following. A nice route. Then we switched places – I led Goldilocks, Todd accidentally put on Chris’s Mythos which got a big laugh, but did not hinder him from following me with ease. Chris led S&C in good style; Tomek followed easily, and Todd was even more discouraged.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbZxt6Q1a3uEoOEAoT0mexkcPvMhtl4OH25v9lcQ_bixjQyRjPpsKF1zjkW_cVeqBRkVGxmg3we3RK_0HjARTQgl99jIRjWe3MvW5IJVIaa0PVCM2h56faK1-vPVj4covNp0w4IBXsw0/s1600/0044+Chris+demonstrates+the+x-sling....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="423" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXbZxt6Q1a3uEoOEAoT0mexkcPvMhtl4OH25v9lcQ_bixjQyRjPpsKF1zjkW_cVeqBRkVGxmg3we3RK_0HjARTQgl99jIRjWe3MvW5IJVIaa0PVCM2h56faK1-vPVj4covNp0w4IBXsw0/s640/0044+Chris+demonstrates+the+x-sling....JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> Chris demos the classic equalizing-x; </div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYs31pp_cAhqqcgKMxf30bUncAbq0SPfxmZQu6zSN0xrX3OSr3gcYNf7UX8sZ05V1uh8X_8T067MAGpfcMA82EcQwzuTyZ9TPgAt8WlzRtWiJzWiAVN3dN9PDaKXE9wKGXdegMARG8-s/s1600/0045+checks+out+the+holds.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbYs31pp_cAhqqcgKMxf30bUncAbq0SPfxmZQu6zSN0xrX3OSr3gcYNf7UX8sZ05V1uh8X_8T067MAGpfcMA82EcQwzuTyZ9TPgAt8WlzRtWiJzWiAVN3dN9PDaKXE9wKGXdegMARG8-s/s640/0045+checks+out+the+holds.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> checks out the crack;</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rB12UDjrT7AI8LShQVNJfn9rXKCqkcxsk9hAW7iTXVMZVp4ipcHMcLqyzK8sRYGOp3gqdaqQiIym0EwDsofSMoLzDcX0wy4CTBQ0ZfVhevxPgPkXU3N5n_tkOUD6A9WK3wn-4mqUYJQ/s1600/0046+and+step+out+onto+very+minimal+footholds.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3rB12UDjrT7AI8LShQVNJfn9rXKCqkcxsk9hAW7iTXVMZVp4ipcHMcLqyzK8sRYGOp3gqdaqQiIym0EwDsofSMoLzDcX0wy4CTBQ0ZfVhevxPgPkXU3N5n_tkOUD6A9WK3wn-4mqUYJQ/s640/0046+and+step+out+onto+very+minimal+footholds.JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">launches onto minimal or virtual footholds;</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTB9L2Is0zeo1foHn6Ynkrx4vNyg6ZA8TIR0yOB1FcZgasyt6Pdk3Tu4VTs71hOGa2J_BqcIgjGRkCCPIJ3UA9YNPfsJWYGlylWz9bsdZeafl0mT_spA6EYu3vjx8FZq1iDopB9uXU8ZI/s1600/0047+and+the+rest+is+simple..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTB9L2Is0zeo1foHn6Ynkrx4vNyg6ZA8TIR0yOB1FcZgasyt6Pdk3Tu4VTs71hOGa2J_BqcIgjGRkCCPIJ3UA9YNPfsJWYGlylWz9bsdZeafl0mT_spA6EYu3vjx8FZq1iDopB9uXU8ZI/s640/0047+and+the+rest+is+simple..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> and cruises.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitweigDqgM246d_kb4tnnthHGrjkfEPek0ww3ke4lVqK8R8rhJwvbpTSqwABERZMcproJJ-OupJUOTLH2Bs-M70iphPri7Orb5s3WALIlt4PgIxidTxEBpuhIeu0zXAVGaQe6k-mNQj0A/s1600/0049.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitweigDqgM246d_kb4tnnthHGrjkfEPek0ww3ke4lVqK8R8rhJwvbpTSqwABERZMcproJJ-OupJUOTLH2Bs-M70iphPri7Orb5s3WALIlt4PgIxidTxEBpuhIeu0zXAVGaQe6k-mNQj0A/s640/0049.JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">Soon Chris tops out on the easy but picturesque overhang.</div> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Lunch. Then a quick trip to Echo Cove to retrieve a dropped wire. Todd lethargic, unwilling. So we went to Hidden Tower and I led Wild Wind, 5.9*** with the subtle and difficult rising traverse finish, probably 5.10a in my opinion. Tomek followed very well but was stumped by the start of the traverse, and instead finished straight up on the short and easy crack. Before we could toprope Sail Away a pair showed up to lead it.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> So on the spur of the moment we went to the nearby Locomotive Rock. I quickly led Jumping Jehosephat, 5.7, Chris followed leaving the gear in so Tomek could lead in turn more quickly. As Todd followed I amazed myself by toproping, with no falls, the nice 5.10b, Grain Dance, just to the right (harder in the newer books), which, long ago, I had failed on once. Three or four very hard and peculiar boulder moves at the top of the climb must be solved in sequence.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Drove to town to check the tire pressure at the AM/PM gas station [car gave a warning, tires were about 32 psi, calls for 36.] Addicts (Todd and Tomek) bought ciggies; too late for a shower at the corner store, hours are 10-6.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Dinner – noodles scampi w/tuna, cling peaches in syrup, hot choc., tea. Cold but not like last night – stars really magnificent. Noisy campground.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10/7/2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">6:00 a.m. – gloaming.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Woke to pee; had also gone at 1:30. Stars then were absolutely full. Pleiades clear, Orion, and Sirius brilliant on the horizon.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The previous evening as I was walking back from the Cyclops boulders this thought drifted through my head: </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i> The horns of the Minotaur will lead you into a maze of endless beauty, </i><br />
<i>where you will wander contented until you die.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> No doubt what Theseus read on his fortune cookie before he headed down to Knossos. Prompted by climbing the boulder problem on the back side, somewhat highball, the crux at the very top, of course, one toe hooked on the horn as far out as possible, one set of fingers pressing into a tiny seam on the summit. Trust, verify, then trust again as you lever your weight over the edge and back into balance. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Remember the young man who passed by on crutches as we climbed Masochist, who had fallen from a high problem, missed his pad, and badly sprained his ankle. He was headed toward the Cyclops boulders.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRU8AYB4-u2IAN8R7L8TPQvJidH8CbWJahiItN8pgwNmZVcMx5HgHottXwUuJNDH1nUUm1xrDrPrc5Xi_oIGpbpLE0kCTf8OxHg0rH4Ad7QFT_8wEog76gkqaYB1ckfZrwWScWJ9Rev7I/s1600/DSCN7751.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRU8AYB4-u2IAN8R7L8TPQvJidH8CbWJahiItN8pgwNmZVcMx5HgHottXwUuJNDH1nUUm1xrDrPrc5Xi_oIGpbpLE0kCTf8OxHg0rH4Ad7QFT_8wEog76gkqaYB1ckfZrwWScWJ9Rev7I/s640/DSCN7751.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> What is this guy pondering? Wittgenstein? Spherical trigonometry? Or which can to open for dinner? </div><div style="text-align: center;"> Photo by Tomek Chudy.</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Yet another fantastic climbing day!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">First Toprope:</div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">DAWN TREADER!!!</span></div><div align="CENTER" style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Mt. Grossvogel, SE face<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8cx4VzxUEKlm-H5P1rddXkW17tq83WM3A8lEZgLKlU5vxPsdw0gJSolwyMEsjmPtfwo4RfxWgYp_vVMpvaCCxW50BzNFnbqt_R_fuVrhnIgZQle07gGfMKLR1hwpX3dNfPOniumEjkBw/s1600/0053+on+the+SE+face+of+Mt.+Grossvogel.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8cx4VzxUEKlm-H5P1rddXkW17tq83WM3A8lEZgLKlU5vxPsdw0gJSolwyMEsjmPtfwo4RfxWgYp_vVMpvaCCxW50BzNFnbqt_R_fuVrhnIgZQle07gGfMKLR1hwpX3dNfPOniumEjkBw/s640/0053+on+the+SE+face+of+Mt.+Grossvogel.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQvjNyDDQArDAJT_zxJc7CcTp8P2nQees1aI9dRZ85HQoSezgmuKvC4SRRY40RRJe0_73IdQzJQEpFbUSuv4GQeQT9TwRUUaghUjNTSJFEBFF2ZqtEywaaVUTGvFdPWMCoofaHEuZOpM/s1600/0051+Tomek+working+out+on+Dawn+Treader+5.10c.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuQvjNyDDQArDAJT_zxJc7CcTp8P2nQees1aI9dRZ85HQoSezgmuKvC4SRRY40RRJe0_73IdQzJQEpFbUSuv4GQeQT9TwRUUaghUjNTSJFEBFF2ZqtEywaaVUTGvFdPWMCoofaHEuZOpM/s640/0051+Tomek+working+out+on+Dawn+Treader+5.10c.JPG" width="422" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Toproped. With direct finish over mystery knob! <u>Extremely thin.</u> 5.10d? 5.11a?</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Unknown. But as thin and as hard as anything I’ve ever done.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"> Knob is manteled, then palmed, with extreme finger-edging and extreme smear-edging.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0WI9YSkEQSHF9ILhYAsM76QTbKzWqCrruqXJ45AiaMfcMSvlDI0hzpV4DuLw6B7mko_BXgoLjH3yKp64rV-rbP4SbA9rAlDx4ez8gSeaoQtp3UHel9N_PQkYXu7V3ukzlqOuQPrly70s/s1600/0058+working+it.++Eventually+got+it..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0WI9YSkEQSHF9ILhYAsM76QTbKzWqCrruqXJ45AiaMfcMSvlDI0hzpV4DuLw6B7mko_BXgoLjH3yKp64rV-rbP4SbA9rAlDx4ez8gSeaoQtp3UHel9N_PQkYXu7V3ukzlqOuQPrly70s/s640/0058+working+it.++Eventually+got+it..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">Flying on chalk and faith in the Mighty Purple Mythos! (Or substitute your favorite shoe.) </div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3cGJQSIinynJy1DfBJeAGAzpGDsPR3cWE4MZG61YRh5wP7l3Q84wtSLSTOslIsBByhk4LGSTliwMG2mc8h2j1N51yq8wDMEOC_aS2f35ggq-wAKIFJoYIIiD8PYhyr_YkI5w1AOT2Xyo/s1600/0057+some+of+these+holds+can+hide+behind+a+good-sized+ant..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3cGJQSIinynJy1DfBJeAGAzpGDsPR3cWE4MZG61YRh5wP7l3Q84wtSLSTOslIsBByhk4LGSTliwMG2mc8h2j1N51yq8wDMEOC_aS2f35ggq-wAKIFJoYIIiD8PYhyr_YkI5w1AOT2Xyo/s640/0057+some+of+these+holds+can+hide+behind+a+good-sized+ant..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> "You've got to be joking!"</div> <br />
After we all had tried toproping it, it was 1:00 p.m. Some rude names for the direct knob finish:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Slob my Knob</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Polish my Knob</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Paris Hilton’s Clit<br />
and the like. <br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: center;">Todd’s first Josh lead: Dr. Seuss Vogel, 5.6 – no problems. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTNbY4nnmHobpIKreWvO9dRwh-oacaJqfv4Wxz1pHPsAE-HXEGyRD_CgRryQjTn3mR4qhV9yYPwu7NhZ7HdS5JxxgCB7ik2plnEMxF5OtRMJLOY2_aEvjbgPubisMVqR20JCmcSBmdwQ/s1600/0068+stretching+on+a+classic+dihedral.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSTNbY4nnmHobpIKreWvO9dRwh-oacaJqfv4Wxz1pHPsAE-HXEGyRD_CgRryQjTn3mR4qhV9yYPwu7NhZ7HdS5JxxgCB7ik2plnEMxF5OtRMJLOY2_aEvjbgPubisMVqR20JCmcSBmdwQ/s640/0068+stretching+on+a+classic+dihedral.JPG" width="422" /></a></div><br />
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Chris led Ranger Danger, 5.8 – excellent example of this type of leaning dihedral. We all followed quickly – tricky walkoff to the east. [I felt curiously sharp and strong – was last to follow, so the cleaner of the gear, and I went so quickly that the guys commented on it. Aftereffect of going all out on Dawn treader?]<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Hh8R_P_iRUcRSQeW0czMRdO8MrO_tBDDoyRhB_T1TRPA7KRg2f5S3ZkWWkfPejdiBclOXxFHGwPuuEZOit9cEw_PTv0yFw8-_QaAcZfHoeAxS_OmpO9t1yxtgvn362sIacPftOsF5t4/s1600/0066+in+the+prehistoric+landscape.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-Hh8R_P_iRUcRSQeW0czMRdO8MrO_tBDDoyRhB_T1TRPA7KRg2f5S3ZkWWkfPejdiBclOXxFHGwPuuEZOit9cEw_PTv0yFw8-_QaAcZfHoeAxS_OmpO9t1yxtgvn362sIacPftOsF5t4/s1600/0066+in+the+prehistoric+landscape.JPG" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Desert apes relaxing in prehistoric landscape.</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Todd suggests I lead Sidewinder, 5.10b**** in Steve Canyon.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">[I wrote yet another description of the Dawn Treader. Equally well done in May notes. Except for:]</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">How to Climb the Mystery Knob:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Mantel knob w/ right hand, claw for micro holds w/left and feet, then switch to palm down on knob. Ignore the pain and work micro-edge finger holds. Get right foot onto knob somehow (this part was mysterious.) Then step up on almost nothing to get left hand to a rotten edge, then to a better one; finish in short seam on the right. It is also possible to step off rightwards from knob, rising onto mild hump, which is what Todd did – some marvelous frictioning.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10/8/2010 – another perfect, no-clouds climbing day!</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Led “Count on your Fingers”. Easy 5.9, short, much pro. Chris followed.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Todd and Tomek did Fote Hog 5.6 on the Sentinel east face; Todd led P.1.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">Todd belays Tomek on the second pitch, as a woman leads pitch one. </div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrcFj-fOQ11YtBcosjYNSQOE9tFzAYksmCMOwzssyz2b4IS5khijPqTHQgF5vL2qgCs2piUT4ivYPWw9tuJxol4zVRv6OGWvkFStxNftdbMHVIzUSkYhsHOn4mvOnPl1XOug_c4HvlE74/s1600/0073+a+lower+leader+reworks+the+pro.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrcFj-fOQ11YtBcosjYNSQOE9tFzAYksmCMOwzssyz2b4IS5khijPqTHQgF5vL2qgCs2piUT4ivYPWw9tuJxol4zVRv6OGWvkFStxNftdbMHVIzUSkYhsHOn4mvOnPl1XOug_c4HvlE74/s640/0073+a+lower+leader+reworks+the+pro.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Apparently she needed to go back and reduce rope drag here.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbBAcNGWItM64tOq9GOptcmfsYvoBkOCaJIH92N9fd5GEbLKy3nyYndUsBiNgFKIKtycthNhM3yfH__6NK2QQwoCF73lL8PYNIYc72Sf-CJqKB5n_zLqDYJ1rjVGhSNwVuD1jvdmpH1c/s1600/0074+as+Tomek+walks+up+a+nice+dihedral.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbBAcNGWItM64tOq9GOptcmfsYvoBkOCaJIH92N9fd5GEbLKy3nyYndUsBiNgFKIKtycthNhM3yfH__6NK2QQwoCF73lL8PYNIYc72Sf-CJqKB5n_zLqDYJ1rjVGhSNwVuD1jvdmpH1c/s640/0074+as+Tomek+walks+up+a+nice+dihedral.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Tomek finishing up.</div><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Later I led “Loose Lady”, 2<sup>nd</sup> time, no falls. [first time was in 1999.] Tomek led Lucky Lady 5.8, Chris followed; Tomek followed “Loose Lady”, no falls. Todd could not do first move of “Loose”. Tough on fingers. One must accept the pain level and crank.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjibgmAQsLwMItVYgMKXThmEYGeeMTsKwphQdECdi9ef5ryWRMHH3AYa0Q0w0-F4pLkBjLCrdJ0ePJeIoELPHj6IG8Kit2q48gpH9alGLzi7GKQysreWyZOMDE4PGbl-xLkDi09zmS4oro/s1600/IMG_1458.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjibgmAQsLwMItVYgMKXThmEYGeeMTsKwphQdECdi9ef5ryWRMHH3AYa0Q0w0-F4pLkBjLCrdJ0ePJeIoELPHj6IG8Kit2q48gpH9alGLzi7GKQysreWyZOMDE4PGbl-xLkDi09zmS4oro/s640/IMG_1458.jpg" width="480" /></a></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: center;">Rightly considered a great moderate sport classic, Loose Lady has no loose rock now, but has several subtle cruxes on sharp edges for the first two thirds; when the edges go away, but the difficulty doesn't, one is unnerved, having been softened up by that time.<br />
Photo by Chris Mrozowski.</div><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> We went to town for showers, Taquitz guidebook, gasoline, Del Taco – much regretted later by Chris and Todd. Back at camp we discovered uproarious new neighbors – idiot children (college kids) yammering on and on into the night. We checked out Ryan campground, decided we are too lazy to move camp. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10/9/2010 Taquitz Expedition! Weather perfect.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> 87 miles to Idyllwild via Banning, etc., from Hidden Valley camp. Get $5 parking pass for Humber Park at the bottom of hill, in town, before driving up. From parking lot take lower trail south ~ 100 yards, then strike uphill on steep climber-scree- trail, ~ 40 min. to base.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> The first few easy classics we approached were choked with wankers, especially “Angel’s Fright” 5.6 – two parties on first pitch. The upper party: a man was belaying a woman; inexplicably he had led a hard variation on the left, put in short slings on the pro, and did not protect the second on a long rising traverse. She was unable to follow and was asking questions that indicated inexperience. In the lower party the follower was just starting; he was wearing black bicycle tights and painfully pointy sport-climbing shoes, and had no idea how to climb the easy chimney, and was nervous, clearly in over his head. So we left.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Eventually Chris and Tomek led a climb called Left Ski Track (not to be confused with the Ski Track climbs at Intersection Rock in Josh), three pitches, and they enjoyed it; Todd led pitches 1, 2, and 4 of Jensen’s Jaunt, 5.6, and I led p.3. Felt tired, back tight, but the short crux on p.3 is airy, fun and not too awkward. [The kind of offwidth that intimidates at first, but becomes simple when you decide not to yield to your fearful wish to crawl inside it.]<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz1b2bJQ7HCYe2VzIDgsFOAU3CPQEfNppEpnYobASJUXhugnTMQtWmAiQ48dYouINQcfgP63aeegcFwHZqMgCsoBpW9aLUgxCLvtBiRab5xxWnHzWWbDJLBH6_0PoVx-Or2vYqVb3JTzU/s1600/0078+on+classic+Yosemite-type+granite..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz1b2bJQ7HCYe2VzIDgsFOAU3CPQEfNppEpnYobASJUXhugnTMQtWmAiQ48dYouINQcfgP63aeegcFwHZqMgCsoBpW9aLUgxCLvtBiRab5xxWnHzWWbDJLBH6_0PoVx-Or2vYqVb3JTzU/s640/0078+on+classic+Yosemite-type+granite..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Classic white Yosemite-style granite.</div><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Note: p.2 and 3 could be combined into a very nice long pitch if using long rope. Good pro, rope drag not a problem, perfect weather. Last pitch is easy slab – Todd led with pro here and there.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Walk-off back side is slightly tricky downclimb/scramble located above and behind a large rectangular boulder – drop down small chimney, etc.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfRZBkLMtadVHTTsHUi9gB3iy5iY7huLEZ9wcLLaoC4CFw6wFtX3DcZrvy6YMBr2WH6lqY9FVzUfjO7OI10wlfMoBmPzU4BMvQMlkceIQSKr4DgBmkXbYyTPTxfBTuaTqmmotalRpI9D8/s1600/0080+Rejoining+the+Polish+team%252C+we+embark+on+a+Quest+for+Burgers%2527n%2527Beer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfRZBkLMtadVHTTsHUi9gB3iy5iY7huLEZ9wcLLaoC4CFw6wFtX3DcZrvy6YMBr2WH6lqY9FVzUfjO7OI10wlfMoBmPzU4BMvQMlkceIQSKr4DgBmkXbYyTPTxfBTuaTqmmotalRpI9D8/s640/0080+Rejoining+the+Polish+team%252C+we+embark+on+a+Quest+for+Burgers%2527n%2527Beer.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> Rejoining the Polish team at advance base camp after good climbing all around.<br />
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</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Dinner! Terrific burgers at the Lumber Mill Bar and Grill – pitcher of Hefeweizen, my first beer in ten days. Curly fries, etc. College football on the tube; players looked like grotesquely over-muscled wads of sausage. The owner/waitress came by to talk, is an old lady (near 60?), been there 40 years, who climbs or has climbed 5.11a at Suicide! Weeping Wall! Good stories of Taquitz.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Coca-cola on drive back – many switchbacks, but uneventful. Long, tiring day, stiff back, etc.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Came home to 4 cars clogging up our spot, and idiot children partying. One car left, was only visiting. No doubt these dolts will disappear tomorrow.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10/10/10</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifPX0g-I7Cwb5ebct1iJ5WpDE4FoKe3RwnNc6gTehAMGeYUTsO9y012cxlmQpXREsUwlVTOQcKvbD8KR3cyF5vvuCH-sbmFc002iXiySyZtDtTtC-EMvUgTcP9-OGgiA4wQkZIBHGj_zg/s1600/DSCN2111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifPX0g-I7Cwb5ebct1iJ5WpDE4FoKe3RwnNc6gTehAMGeYUTsO9y012cxlmQpXREsUwlVTOQcKvbD8KR3cyF5vvuCH-sbmFc002iXiySyZtDtTtC-EMvUgTcP9-OGgiA4wQkZIBHGj_zg/s640/DSCN2111.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">Numerologists celebrate their special day! World ending soon, say crows, Mayans.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Hence a day of miscellaneous weirdness.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Todd: “The Pickled Beet Conspiracy.” (re spilled beet juice in car)</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Dave: “By Arthur Conan Doyle.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Todd’s Mystical Dragon sauce. The man is a gourmand of the crags.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> From the previous day, the incident of the yellow-jackets’ sandwich at Taquitz and the placing of the sandwich in the pack by well-meaning, brave-but-stupid passerby: While hiking down along the base we saw a submarine sandwich left open on a pack; it was covered with yellow jackets scarfing up lunch in the sunlight. Then the weirdness happened: a climber unconnected with the sandwich's owners, and a stranger to us, came by, and thinking he was doing a favor, gently picked up the sub and shook most of the wasps off of it, and stashed it in the pack lying there. He was not stung, which was amusing, as was the thought of the horrid surprise in store for the pack's owner, because those wasps were certainly not going to remain politely outside the pack as the sub became ever more appetizing inside it. "The Case of the Insidious Lunch." </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">List of elements composing the well-rounded trad. lead climber:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Techniques:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Face climbing</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Laybacking</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Friction/smearing</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Stemming/opposition</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Jamming and other crack techniques<br />
The usual protection placement skills<br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Mentality:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Fear control</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Aggressiveness</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Creativity</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Prudence</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">9 useful life rules from rock climbing, according to Matthew Childs in his TED talk, and embellished by me and other Taoists.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><ol><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; margin-right: -1.13in;">Don’t let go! Hang in there. The monkey-brain will send you up a solution very soon.</div></li>
</ol><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><ol start="2"><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">He who hesitates is lost. See clearly, act swiftly.</div></li>
</ol><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><ol start="3"><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Have a plan. Be as careful at the end of a project as at the beginning.</div></li>
</ol><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><ol start="4"><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Do the move in front of you. Focus on each task in turn.</div></li>
</ol><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><ol start="5"><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Know how to rest. Find an interstice in the blank pain and gather strength.</div></li>
</ol><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><ol start="6"><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Strength ain’t everything. Samson lacked subtlety, and suffered sorely.</div></li>
</ol><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><ol start="7"><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Opposition gives opportunity. Samson chained to one pillar is weak; chained to two pillars he is strong.</div></li>
</ol><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><ol start="8"><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Fear weakens, sabotages effort and concentration. Wall it off.</div></li>
</ol><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><ol start="9"><li><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Know when to let go. If you must fall, try to tweak the circumstances in your favor.</div></li>
</ol><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Kind of a rest day. Soloed chimney-only version of “Skinny-dip” 5.7 (a purely nominal rating) in order to assist Chris in backing off (chimney itself is v. easy.) He, and probably me too, are just too big to fit through the hole. Then we all tried to toprope the attractive 5.10d “Invisible Touch” without success.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAiILBF7snmPnH0SLlaOv9o8Dty-ODEloVHJCh7o3mKPemyQ9o_EPLGizJrOL-d7nWeEYuxMOWoMLTJld2breflYdvljZzrA6DztAuClFXLaqrX4dRZcLveO_elabzmoxwdcVFEdaRsQk/s1600/0081+Back+in+JT%252C+a+man%2527s+leg+is+spotted+being+swallowed+by+the+living+rock....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAiILBF7snmPnH0SLlaOv9o8Dty-ODEloVHJCh7o3mKPemyQ9o_EPLGizJrOL-d7nWeEYuxMOWoMLTJld2breflYdvljZzrA6DztAuClFXLaqrX4dRZcLveO_elabzmoxwdcVFEdaRsQk/s640/0081+Back+in+JT%252C+a+man%2527s+leg+is+spotted+being+swallowed+by+the+living+rock....JPG" width="422" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"> We saw a climber disappear into this hole...</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT5hh4lYvww5kIv-RLwB4kw7n_WxkxyOCjBKBsX93Gfu8edK-tzgWNki5jnVlGMgK_fgZV9cP0NtbsbGaqCmnxfwWZu603zk3SY0YJ_lPkdhG8QneCOog5_1-H8gB2nu_TjDvyH0GBuJQ/s1600/0082+only+to+be+expelled+from+the+opposite+end....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT5hh4lYvww5kIv-RLwB4kw7n_WxkxyOCjBKBsX93Gfu8edK-tzgWNki5jnVlGMgK_fgZV9cP0NtbsbGaqCmnxfwWZu603zk3SY0YJ_lPkdhG8QneCOog5_1-H8gB2nu_TjDvyH0GBuJQ/s640/0082+only+to+be+expelled+from+the+opposite+end....JPG" width="422" /> </a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">And emerge on the other side, so we knew it could be done... </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqf73TkoWiDmQDCsnnNv269Giz3ABiBU40-eVLhyHe-V25NzB5MmNTi4eIJSpXxcWLT-Q6IwffWuvyGWgLZH3l3zYuLWokQyUL-1yxwKQo_BG_9fkkrH4KSYh3QK01SDENMuPq227hAc/s1600/0086+called+Skinny-Dip.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinqf73TkoWiDmQDCsnnNv269Giz3ABiBU40-eVLhyHe-V25NzB5MmNTi4eIJSpXxcWLT-Q6IwffWuvyGWgLZH3l3zYuLWokQyUL-1yxwKQo_BG_9fkkrH4KSYh3QK01SDENMuPq227hAc/s640/0086+called+Skinny-Dip.JPG" width="422" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iKWVHakwq-lSe4Ag-QJ6UbMGlp9sqe8UdeXVDDgxkBmS-_h9M4OPJ8oz4qZJBWWlPIrkIyb8_yi3g3G3y2p9rca_V23qkBRhKVq6KTs6QtBw9FL1tSoLcPmetF4RxNOPHAeSzeilJ7A/s1600/0087+Chris+is+quite+tall+and+very+lean....JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iKWVHakwq-lSe4Ag-QJ6UbMGlp9sqe8UdeXVDDgxkBmS-_h9M4OPJ8oz4qZJBWWlPIrkIyb8_yi3g3G3y2p9rca_V23qkBRhKVq6KTs6QtBw9FL1tSoLcPmetF4RxNOPHAeSzeilJ7A/s640/0087+Chris+is+quite+tall+and+very+lean....JPG" width="422" /></a></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLzveW1fyMStFgwsLeAaBXN2mSwVwkEmNDxvyXZPNeXcI5dYmkOixb84Jl-VmURpFd35cxtwEgfKqp_BrE7DO13IvWyyajVmX4o71eHjx7aK0CvkYJXZ27wiwi5yRnv05nspsd88ggebM/s1600/0088+but+in+spite+of+massive+effort%252C+his+rib+cage+would+not+go+through..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLzveW1fyMStFgwsLeAaBXN2mSwVwkEmNDxvyXZPNeXcI5dYmkOixb84Jl-VmURpFd35cxtwEgfKqp_BrE7DO13IvWyyajVmX4o71eHjx7aK0CvkYJXZ27wiwi5yRnv05nspsd88ggebM/s640/0088+but+in+spite+of+massive+effort%252C+his+rib+cage+would+not+go+through..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">So Chris gave it an all-out try, until he heard cracking noises in his rib cage, and wisely desisted. </div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1IMF4CnK5TNIRnCzK8RBuY8c1FsuanISFBO1x1E1BbbDKCfbHwl73KawsGheBMMSvgAyeuuEox18XGwhasv6dlOy-r84Hf2RftlLhtaP2PF_JMeEjqY6SJnyNTKhF9I5XruXKl84g754/s1600/0089+As+a+change+of+pace.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh1IMF4CnK5TNIRnCzK8RBuY8c1FsuanISFBO1x1E1BbbDKCfbHwl73KawsGheBMMSvgAyeuuEox18XGwhasv6dlOy-r84Hf2RftlLhtaP2PF_JMeEjqY6SJnyNTKhF9I5XruXKl84g754/s640/0089+As+a+change+of+pace.JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">"Invisible Touch", 5.10d;</div> <br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTDpdKMl40s2szVxW4pk2ccIwm-jooocq2TtmIpL_eKngL3S7iuOV30crM5swOEbGEbEAzyblGrKfxv_tMYtzQgBDUGGfsrjLSi-JsEqtE4nI7977Qd72mLEmNSxde4Qy6BHNa5yjtxs/s1600/0090+We+all+worked+out+toproping+Invisible+Touch+5.10d%252C+to+no+avail..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiTDpdKMl40s2szVxW4pk2ccIwm-jooocq2TtmIpL_eKngL3S7iuOV30crM5swOEbGEbEAzyblGrKfxv_tMYtzQgBDUGGfsrjLSi-JsEqtE4nI7977Qd72mLEmNSxde4Qy6BHNa5yjtxs/s640/0090+We+all+worked+out+toproping+Invisible+Touch+5.10d%252C+to+no+avail..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">...we just couldn't see it.</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcRBZCuxLiJd81JvH1wq4xJ9LO1eTtFotL4CQ8xEmsyunDRoLyVu4lBIeNSif35JrIspUaWhFF7JkOee1cZVFjIj5KQi1IgISRb5xBro4hV9MZgz91fPnDzQCiefUS8sieni8KFD25Knk/s1600/weirdo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcRBZCuxLiJd81JvH1wq4xJ9LO1eTtFotL4CQ8xEmsyunDRoLyVu4lBIeNSif35JrIspUaWhFF7JkOee1cZVFjIj5KQi1IgISRb5xBro4hV9MZgz91fPnDzQCiefUS8sieni8KFD25Knk/s640/weirdo.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">The Bald Eunuch of the Cyclops! Weird guy in orange shorts came up, soloed the Cyclops’ Eye just before Todd’s lead – later heard him yelling in unknown languages (to his alien god, etc.?) from the summit. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by Chris Mrozowski</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQoTftfNLqpt5fqOY2MkpLWHOy7S7vvbvhpuCVWsANuZJsGG0kaovsLrIrMO6KAGoK_J3lPIt4pKP4KORJG7WLvHPkntrrd9ICXEgeuXWh7MI-545HHuYVCBzzlXERgvA3gEGB7maMJU/s1600/IMG_1438.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMQoTftfNLqpt5fqOY2MkpLWHOy7S7vvbvhpuCVWsANuZJsGG0kaovsLrIrMO6KAGoK_J3lPIt4pKP4KORJG7WLvHPkntrrd9ICXEgeuXWh7MI-545HHuYVCBzzlXERgvA3gEGB7maMJU/s640/IMG_1438.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: center;">Foodstains on the table will be cleaned by sun, rain, wind, animals. Casual dirtbag companionship. [primitive society of men without women or any immediate worries.]<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitfaN4PBlNrXZhOuvWi44kJY7lUTIzE12gWK2lTLWda7OvFbVM8IaRB8W0r7VlEJEWuhH-kW1jny4VVkPazD1DSMlbkg0UKIG0mZiPjxDmE8NKCg86qRDKZw40ZW2-zdbFODBQ3190XNw/s1600/DSCN7792.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitfaN4PBlNrXZhOuvWi44kJY7lUTIzE12gWK2lTLWda7OvFbVM8IaRB8W0r7VlEJEWuhH-kW1jny4VVkPazD1DSMlbkg0UKIG0mZiPjxDmE8NKCg86qRDKZw40ZW2-zdbFODBQ3190XNw/s320/DSCN7792.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>Photo by Tomek Chudy </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Todd led “Masochist”, 5.8, 3 bolts, short but fun, not painful. Long gear anchor needed; easy access through “Tubers in Space” 5.4, to left.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Rapped the Cyclops to examine 'Olympics' climb – ‘new’ bolt near crux. Should try.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10/11/10 2:30 a.m. pee break</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">~50º F. Total, dead silence.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">No wind.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">No clouds.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">No moon.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Orion, the Hunter. 6½ Pleiades. The great blue bell of Sirius ringing across the desert. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">[Inevitably I must quote the mad, doomed poet Delmore Schwartz:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“<i>Silence is a great blue bell</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Swinging and ringing, tinkling and singing,</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>In measure’s pleasure, and in the supple symmetry</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> Of the soaring of the immense intense wings</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> Glinting against</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>All the blue radiance above us and within us, hidden</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Save for the stars sparking, distant and unheard in their singing.”</i>]</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Coyotes sleeping or hunting.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">The desert which is not empty. Not, as people imagine, a reduction of existence.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Not [Ogden Nash]:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>Over the Great Gromboolian Plain</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> Awful Darkness and Silence Reign.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">But instead, a realm full of life and infinite context.<br />
<br />
One day, I don't know which, we were idling around the camp, goofing off, when all at once an expensive car drove up and parked in our lot, a well-dressed older gentleman in suit and tie got out, whipped out an expensive camera, took a picture of the picturesque nomad Tomek as he sat at the picnic table, as if he were a coyote, got back in his car and drove off. I was insulted on Tomek's behalf, of course, but the vast mental gulf between that tourist and ourselves, though typical, struck me as interesting in itself. I suspect we could not have communicated meaningfully with this specimen, who clearly considers us to be the specimens worthy of note. Perhaps he will write his own essay on his photo: "Out in the last few useless pockets of California desert one still may find a few pathetic refugees from the Psychedelic Sixties," and so forth. We substitute a spurious context out of sheer laziness, and fail to connect. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> If an individual is mostly context, what is left as the unique property of the self? Only interpretation, owned interaction with the world. And this is real, hence powerful:</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>57 Hence the way is great; heaven is great; earth is great; and the king is also great.</i><br />
<i> Within the realm there are four things that are great, and the king counts as one.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i>- so wrote the old man.</i><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMba3LWQ3r8Ago0nqjw0YP6X7WhEdRo81I-e9va8lF9TF6L6Ic2EK_tvcAeSBXZEMEi-5kH1Kh35N93GE-Qw5AI4CU4eaUEPuRHxsVSov2c2i2FMrlksbMMl13SkV-NTIIPIKnGpYqoYA/s1600/DSCF2298.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMba3LWQ3r8Ago0nqjw0YP6X7WhEdRo81I-e9va8lF9TF6L6Ic2EK_tvcAeSBXZEMEi-5kH1Kh35N93GE-Qw5AI4CU4eaUEPuRHxsVSov2c2i2FMrlksbMMl13SkV-NTIIPIKnGpYqoYA/s640/DSCF2298.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I am the King, of all I survey. Hence it is incumbent on me to survey well and with intent.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Earth – physical universe.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Heaven – consciousness, the mental universe.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Tao, the way – the presumed, hypothetical algorithm that links Heaven and Earth. The way it all theoretically harmonizes. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">King – the self that experiences, creates, owns them all.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKVv-oESfbvIeoSq3RBY181Ds2xrhs6RBOWCZ3AivUwkTyRZCHySjcRBwXwqraWX6Wyc13-1Pb-GzqWyiBYE5403TA0chmSDYS0EDBpKhGM5WhmucWNv-HTKedAW7AM8exPHvuPFgHWcM/s1600/DSCN7795.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKVv-oESfbvIeoSq3RBY181Ds2xrhs6RBOWCZ3AivUwkTyRZCHySjcRBwXwqraWX6Wyc13-1Pb-GzqWyiBYE5403TA0chmSDYS0EDBpKhGM5WhmucWNv-HTKedAW7AM8exPHvuPFgHWcM/s320/DSCN7795.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Here I am probably surveying some girl's scientifically interesting anatomy rather than the guy I'm belaying.</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by Tomek Chudy.</div><br />
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<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> After breakfast I led Sidewinder, 5.10b**** as a flash, onsight lead. A personal milestone, and a wonderful climb in every way. An entire separate essay will be needed to clarify the meaning of this climb in my turbulent head.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9NCsY12dp5ZfzyO6HpcIveP53C0e8Q0EWsWnfnAmqkoA6DG-6g2-aXZ6VLPXQ1ww0C5JRUH15487V0oB7WN7PXOpIyV4lc2jTUYSRtIhIgmp2jStfBgwSBZPhfcWKk9WgfIkuBXrKhE/s1600/sidewinder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ9NCsY12dp5ZfzyO6HpcIveP53C0e8Q0EWsWnfnAmqkoA6DG-6g2-aXZ6VLPXQ1ww0C5JRUH15487V0oB7WN7PXOpIyV4lc2jTUYSRtIhIgmp2jStfBgwSBZPhfcWKk9WgfIkuBXrKhE/s400/sidewinder.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by Todd Bradley</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzG4nxMK6BR9yC9HWleIHXo-gXHJurNpb1QBUOIlHfiEtusEACKcUwwsxElsAUXZtty62bnqCdH68XDvVRoxDllQm4oZDrB_QHFup75X-xnsGRelkX9HlwhrbQqvb3IP2rmXo_GI-RYGI/s1600/DSCN7806.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzG4nxMK6BR9yC9HWleIHXo-gXHJurNpb1QBUOIlHfiEtusEACKcUwwsxElsAUXZtty62bnqCdH68XDvVRoxDllQm4oZDrB_QHFup75X-xnsGRelkX9HlwhrbQqvb3IP2rmXo_GI-RYGI/s640/DSCN7806.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">This guy emerged from the initial crack not long after I had climbed through.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by Tomek Chudy.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuZgl7Q91S5kTjwfG1a7YeRQEjxGZo5RxNwfmdsl_PYJGZESlzMHj7J_cmxXLjoSapNnfEBNxheaygRFG5NemEoJqpfLbiK6KFWxVhOQiyOfmY50jKYcvRD2hhsELDHr4p-qR7ZhgT0BI/s1600/DSCN7803.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuZgl7Q91S5kTjwfG1a7YeRQEjxGZo5RxNwfmdsl_PYJGZESlzMHj7J_cmxXLjoSapNnfEBNxheaygRFG5NemEoJqpfLbiK6KFWxVhOQiyOfmY50jKYcvRD2hhsELDHr4p-qR7ZhgT0BI/s640/DSCN7803.jpg" width="480" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Standing on not much, working the first crux.</div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by Tomek Chudy.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSWSrn-lfHKSaldcsgsAop-zW1VniC5Ld2-UBJzOW0MK1e5U-B8b3r88hynp4P6mmWy9BmyxIw0srn68Tc2u5Ox7ZenI-O6iHN6dsBfWyGBRcqMQ1CzXMokEVLmbwt0vQCwWPFgq00ZP4/s1600/DSCN7804.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSWSrn-lfHKSaldcsgsAop-zW1VniC5Ld2-UBJzOW0MK1e5U-B8b3r88hynp4P6mmWy9BmyxIw0srn68Tc2u5Ox7ZenI-O6iHN6dsBfWyGBRcqMQ1CzXMokEVLmbwt0vQCwWPFgq00ZP4/s640/DSCN7804.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><div style="text-align: center;">Placing a somewhat superfluous nut... </div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by Tomek Chudy.</div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdbrEyDTfiExdIefjrIJQ8NgFgeSg2oNyud86KRBEKPmcol8eT-ixXAfr0XDYmUS_XroCEz_KFqF8UkfvuWvUVeGBTSmal6A0yBWqc7aQQkw64qun36oZixMFH3ZdsKi7CskOzAtm4ax4/s1600/DSCN7805.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhdbrEyDTfiExdIefjrIJQ8NgFgeSg2oNyud86KRBEKPmcol8eT-ixXAfr0XDYmUS_XroCEz_KFqF8UkfvuWvUVeGBTSmal6A0yBWqc7aQQkw64qun36oZixMFH3ZdsKi7CskOzAtm4ax4/s640/DSCN7805.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">...because the next move was trivial. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by Tomek Chudy.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv8OGQmSPnte8nBA6kuC5Du6KWalvXg9LDyu9D3BGVVTg-yFkHzopLg-poSNK08dQaL-rIqIQzBxsgyp-47lNoG0cgqa5MwvdPdJ5TrR9XzXKeb2wb5VXT5Gec32Biggdq6YtmHXRjVvA/s1600/DSCN7807.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv8OGQmSPnte8nBA6kuC5Du6KWalvXg9LDyu9D3BGVVTg-yFkHzopLg-poSNK08dQaL-rIqIQzBxsgyp-47lNoG0cgqa5MwvdPdJ5TrR9XzXKeb2wb5VXT5Gec32Biggdq6YtmHXRjVvA/s640/DSCN7807.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Finishing up the very thin, man-on-a-wire crux traverse. </div><div style="text-align: center;">Photo by Tomek Chudy.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
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</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Yet another perfect climbing day. Followed Todd on The Bong, 5.4, on the Blob. Sleepy. Hot, not much breeze.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Took Todd bouldering before dinner behind the Cyclops.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiptJeHt281nCXtHTDwQ_uxU_FtOKWvw2WQ6AgPTtUYGyFjbfX71_MBmvkHNfHU112eUGTI8WLR6SDdA3Kej80FC96seU6XCuctEzECrExCT-s2CDf8QsGxV2siFVvYbIs_QUesd8Yizbs/s1600/DSCF2616.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiptJeHt281nCXtHTDwQ_uxU_FtOKWvw2WQ6AgPTtUYGyFjbfX71_MBmvkHNfHU112eUGTI8WLR6SDdA3Kej80FC96seU6XCuctEzECrExCT-s2CDf8QsGxV2siFVvYbIs_QUesd8Yizbs/s640/DSCF2616.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">On the back side of this classic set of boulders are found <i>Horns of the Minotaur </i>and <i>Invisible Wave, </i>among others. (These are just my own names for them.)</div></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Saw 2 shooting stars after dinner, one of them big. ¼ moon casting sharp shadows. Good place for telescope.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Tomorrow – last day. </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">10/12/10 4:35 a.m.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">¼ moon long since set. Total silence, no wind. Saw two more major shooting stars, one very bright and large, could briefly see glowing core.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">“The real drug is meaning.”</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sidewinder still fresh in the mind.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Pro list in order</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">1. Medium nut at top of flake, 24” sling.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">2. Bolt at lower crux, 24” sling</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">3. Brown or purple tricam partway out the arching crack, 48” sling</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">4. # 9 DMM nut at a horn, 30” sling. This nut was questionable and probably unnecessary.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">5. large wired nut halfway up vertical crack, 24” sling</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">6. final bolt to protect traverse, 24” sling.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">With this group the rope drag on the last delicate traverse is reasonable. Doubtful, really, whether double ropes would have reduced the drag enough to justify the increased weight.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Sunrise ~ 7:15 a.m. – take off hat.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">I actually look forward to getting up at 4:30 a.m. to pee – the weather has been very clear and stable for the last six days – no wind. Heard an owl this morning (I think). Cadence: hoohoo, hoo, hoo. Repeat. Off to the west. Coyotes sounding off distantly at breakfast.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;">“<i>Sometimes I feel like my shadow’s casting me,</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i>Some days the sun don’t shine;</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i>Sometimes I wonder why I’m still running free</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i>All up and down the line.”</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><i> - Warren Zevon</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">YET ANOTHER! perfect climbing day…</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Atlantis Wall in Lost Horse area.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWuHdGrXthQ0tiEKAovwnSSK5JxxBo0QkHeKLxhsd0pVaYBHCiN34Div4cYPgG9THS1QwMhjgTaohyZrosY2aaXdsYuLnqINME4cT7hMwN7WH6409wRVbE1WxMtyg9kRaq1VuYO0r6H-w/s1600/0093+Atlantis+area.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWuHdGrXthQ0tiEKAovwnSSK5JxxBo0QkHeKLxhsd0pVaYBHCiN34Div4cYPgG9THS1QwMhjgTaohyZrosY2aaXdsYuLnqINME4cT7hMwN7WH6409wRVbE1WxMtyg9kRaq1VuYO0r6H-w/s640/0093+Atlantis+area.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Last day to climb. Todd led a 5.5 and a 5.8, we all followed, Chris led a couple of 5.8s, and I toproped, flash, onsight, “Ceremony”, 5.10c*, a pretty set of almost-vertical boulder moves. Chris did it 2<sup>nd</sup> try; I was sorely tempted to lead it, but thought it would be fun to leave it for next trip. After watching me and Chris and getting beta, Todd also succeeded on it. He's stronger than he thinks he is.<br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Drove back around to Hemingway, IRS wall, etc. but in the end decided to save time, go back to camp. Chris led the Flue, 5.8 *** with some trepidation but no falls, we all followed, and that was that.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ3KVVKPZvgJB0w5Z6t1_FV8VjKr9c1Iwe1H1PS97Wyl_Abw5EDhSGUXZvF0BERLvyxFhaT_a1lTL7_sKcEQTa7dXVn1KxAEkoO82mravsdJy3vZymZft40Ypx8fZiJdEedt0y-oFM2WE/s1600/0102+Chris+leads+The+Flue+on+Chimney+Rock%252C+our+final+climb..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZ3KVVKPZvgJB0w5Z6t1_FV8VjKr9c1Iwe1H1PS97Wyl_Abw5EDhSGUXZvF0BERLvyxFhaT_a1lTL7_sKcEQTa7dXVn1KxAEkoO82mravsdJy3vZymZft40Ypx8fZiJdEedt0y-oFM2WE/s640/0102+Chris+leads+The+Flue+on+Chimney+Rock%252C+our+final+climb..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> The start is not obvious, and is steep too.</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAKKfMqblMjrr30jkzMZ5HrpRyHHOAnKGPwMYTqS1FCQLg-TWwQsFNGzGZT-jkcXQTGazyQduFQrX9YbMyoEq7mC2y2nnG8Bc7HslZ9qAhK5mWrak-CMz0X_kcmzJ9pvzU8ldYLqhco5g/s1600/0103+A+bit+of+awkwardness.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAKKfMqblMjrr30jkzMZ5HrpRyHHOAnKGPwMYTqS1FCQLg-TWwQsFNGzGZT-jkcXQTGazyQduFQrX9YbMyoEq7mC2y2nnG8Bc7HslZ9qAhK5mWrak-CMz0X_kcmzJ9pvzU8ldYLqhco5g/s640/0103+A+bit+of+awkwardness.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">A bit of awkwardness in the middle...</div><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgANH7di7FnAzMKALaCWFziMKDeaNyTTnE98tG9on-ThyFFNFTcIolRI4Xu2z_2zkSnLXH3viNZxEhWn49-Rr2xup9CZUxAbq_umLwYNIpMfpUTW3EDIj3-X0WAlDYbQjk6nZfbu0tnoyM/s1600/0104+and+cruises+on+up+to+the+anchors..JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgANH7di7FnAzMKALaCWFziMKDeaNyTTnE98tG9on-ThyFFNFTcIolRI4Xu2z_2zkSnLXH3viNZxEhWn49-Rr2xup9CZUxAbq_umLwYNIpMfpUTW3EDIj3-X0WAlDYbQjk6nZfbu0tnoyM/s640/0104+and+cruises+on+up+to+the+anchors..JPG" width="422" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">and he cruises up to the anchor.</div><br />
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</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> Off to the showers, gas station, bank and La Casita Nueva for sizzling fajitas served on cast-iron and Negra Modela. Some colorful bikers and the usual fat-blob humanoids everywhere. Another perfect day in JT. Next time: visit J.T. Saloon, tank museum, desert hot springs.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGYbX2yRg40o8gnL95eR7izAioWOe8GIdF6W-g-IJadJQtkn3Ogqmisla3DKLKSM1YBYo0DGy2i2o298c7qj8cIxgJEtqxq0QifZHN0ypq_eYkN9WxY7NsD1nR432Z5z8AWnUWTL3JUf4/s1600/DSCF2798.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="422" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGYbX2yRg40o8gnL95eR7izAioWOe8GIdF6W-g-IJadJQtkn3Ogqmisla3DKLKSM1YBYo0DGy2i2o298c7qj8cIxgJEtqxq0QifZHN0ypq_eYkN9WxY7NsD1nR432Z5z8AWnUWTL3JUf4/s640/DSCF2798.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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</div>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-59582529567974185382010-09-20T17:04:00.000-07:002010-09-20T18:09:42.706-07:00Afternoon of a Faun<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> <span style="font-size: large;"> Cupid's Bower </span><span style="font-size: large;">text - 11/15/1998</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> photos - 9/19/2010</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">here, now, on this dry island,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">i could live the whole of my life through this one afternoon and lack for nothing -</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">dry leaves and soft sand and the poetry of the stone -</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">elegance is not nearly a sufficiently elegant word for the poetry of the</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">stone outcroppings of this island</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxStfHW-6X6QSFPI7yHLlR_7jVULNJya-3QAYUSIRQUEl0YnUKOa6PejLvxuQlunK-GbOO2YzgHOfggbM3ZBqGYrmMaA8ecS2zYzgEyfXYkHU7WcEJBXJ94Lfq-2N_0VKNFled4LJzspY/s1600/BDSCN2052-0111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxStfHW-6X6QSFPI7yHLlR_7jVULNJya-3QAYUSIRQUEl0YnUKOa6PejLvxuQlunK-GbOO2YzgHOfggbM3ZBqGYrmMaA8ecS2zYzgEyfXYkHU7WcEJBXJ94Lfq-2N_0VKNFled4LJzspY/s640/BDSCN2052-0111.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">i could live the whole of my life, as the sun nearly frozen in the sky </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">alters its angle ever so infinitesimally, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">here in this miniature paradise, roaming across and around,</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">unable to exhaust the endless shapes - </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKrjjUg91EOTvKT8OOjtWc_ftTZ7xij-qqlEwf9omG-QtsjpbxEMFuVo4SC4BqNA1BVP4C_-p4O3zcNew_L6ZYUC2IHEtOM2ogom-f8hWhF4Ne_KOXdJsP6Qub3IoPXU2TbrVO2CJVKWI/s1600/BDSCN2031-0041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKrjjUg91EOTvKT8OOjtWc_ftTZ7xij-qqlEwf9omG-QtsjpbxEMFuVo4SC4BqNA1BVP4C_-p4O3zcNew_L6ZYUC2IHEtOM2ogom-f8hWhF4Ne_KOXdJsP6Qub3IoPXU2TbrVO2CJVKWI/s640/BDSCN2031-0041.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">grains of sand, the dry yellow leaves, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">beaches piled with innumerable pebbles to be cataloged and fondled between thumb and finger on an afternoon that cannot end</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmzCM75GpOUWPFDuS_SDIHU5ruGsOXLmv2Xb4yipQV9AOZzh2TDlDc5FntWIv0PJ4GEiDZwdnN3bxRSrY_0X2_1ezFS4vM7xAy_zQJ9PiiA1sSF8gE6r8ESfW9xm7eZJZB_JE4MUJk54/s1600/BDSCN2063-0161.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSmzCM75GpOUWPFDuS_SDIHU5ruGsOXLmv2Xb4yipQV9AOZzh2TDlDc5FntWIv0PJ4GEiDZwdnN3bxRSrY_0X2_1ezFS4vM7xAy_zQJ9PiiA1sSF8gE6r8ESfW9xm7eZJZB_JE4MUJk54/s640/BDSCN2063-0161.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">here, now, needing nothing at all, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">i might see a leaf slowly twist on the unfelt breeze, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">look back an hour, an eyeblink later </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">to see the entire tree and forest transformed, </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOYrUpV1fOCL2FrXMwkOh9-pPIKeoMKH8OP3GQBKO4Ys3VgRBIy733lw9MJr3mwFLJoB8Ie1Jztjy5hsDCi2_RDE9nJmLV1NY7gC9J0Jq5TQxysy13lOvca89tsbB772pVtVyBippvj5g/s1600/BDSCN2029-0031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOYrUpV1fOCL2FrXMwkOh9-pPIKeoMKH8OP3GQBKO4Ys3VgRBIy733lw9MJr3mwFLJoB8Ie1Jztjy5hsDCi2_RDE9nJmLV1NY7gC9J0Jq5TQxysy13lOvca89tsbB772pVtVyBippvj5g/s640/BDSCN2029-0031.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">each leaf now turned another way, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">the sunlight now glancing a different direction, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">and the river warm-frozen to less than a meander </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGwM3IZL-0fBO12CB4ZtkAcuVnqttUaeAfSfHQ_4pxdQiTTtX13ES-NQ-JvtyeJp7r06D4qRc9KiCstW4GYxeromK9P3OQbjpKt0znnOYHCE9dt3bqPnzjMrnxCcEV198CIdiyzsp42r8/s1600/BDSCN2035-0051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGwM3IZL-0fBO12CB4ZtkAcuVnqttUaeAfSfHQ_4pxdQiTTtX13ES-NQ-JvtyeJp7r06D4qRc9KiCstW4GYxeromK9P3OQbjpKt0znnOYHCE9dt3bqPnzjMrnxCcEV198CIdiyzsp42r8/s640/BDSCN2035-0051.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">as i live the remainder of my life with no thirst at all, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">an endless flat river of bright water just under my hand, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">and no desire to drink</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSAm2dNItcWhWNkrVpnZ_4AYhCIFoMMC3JwMzcl0fVcr4K0PBzACidYGfk4mGuXRdhSA5CApaDZuLFz6OEQCuFYXVEcx0A_77fERyqLG2YLu8OYg4_r3zfRVTeKCaXGNTV-1LlQebiL0/s1600/BDSCN2067-0131.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSAm2dNItcWhWNkrVpnZ_4AYhCIFoMMC3JwMzcl0fVcr4K0PBzACidYGfk4mGuXRdhSA5CApaDZuLFz6OEQCuFYXVEcx0A_77fERyqLG2YLu8OYg4_r3zfRVTeKCaXGNTV-1LlQebiL0/s640/BDSCN2067-0131.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">the pawpaws still have some of their leaves, and the sycamore casts shade, still, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">and a moiling slow rain of little yellow memos: </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">each one says the same thing if i pick them nearly motionless from the air: </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">beware, you are selling your last years very cheap, they say; </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">but as i lack for nothing </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">i could hardly have been paid more </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvrhyphenhyphenoBEg64EWD_OFroal57UCfGq7KvDzmxWFm6GWgjlK4SZ-zt5aAaBYTQiWRH_GImVDMUs4aMnsQBE81KJNKcAfJTqtS7ibMLRHrEVBDpPHAygR1rR9lbzkknRrKQbju-h6lVoBpHk/s1600/BDSCN2048-0081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUvrhyphenhyphenoBEg64EWD_OFroal57UCfGq7KvDzmxWFm6GWgjlK4SZ-zt5aAaBYTQiWRH_GImVDMUs4aMnsQBE81KJNKcAfJTqtS7ibMLRHrEVBDpPHAygR1rR9lbzkknRrKQbju-h6lVoBpHk/s640/BDSCN2048-0081.JPG" width="480" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">even the wings of bees wave languidly on such an elongated afternoon -</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">i could wander through the shapes for ten years, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">then start to decipher each minute flake on the rock faces, </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjr4Y8Jp3rOxouaQZsjdgvT0hWas9RVeDd04fZAVgQN0J_rTPDDmc80-CXAdwIyHBaZLzYVWMJTJdf7hBZY6AkWkEKUvWsrmpdbVOwFKJMnPUeya27J7TjMEuqKnIeYnrklN9FpDUGOY/s1600/BDSCN2050-0101.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRjr4Y8Jp3rOxouaQZsjdgvT0hWas9RVeDd04fZAVgQN0J_rTPDDmc80-CXAdwIyHBaZLzYVWMJTJdf7hBZY6AkWkEKUvWsrmpdbVOwFKJMnPUeya27J7TjMEuqKnIeYnrklN9FpDUGOY/s640/BDSCN2050-0101.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">and i could climb them all, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">a hundred or a thousand attempts in a row, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">no matter, falling again and again to the soft and leaf-carpeted sand</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPHtU5wzb1XBGNt01Vhx8SmvPRMH5hpGhmMvIE4yucAZU0dMCMXyMJKA6sywCVPmb8IjPzK6cDZAm_jWkPCbpZlQA-SQhYMf7QcopGdST9Ha5UTQjxYjCabC5s9m3Vbz8ylT2s522YFA/s1600/BDSCN2042-0061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuPHtU5wzb1XBGNt01Vhx8SmvPRMH5hpGhmMvIE4yucAZU0dMCMXyMJKA6sywCVPmb8IjPzK6cDZAm_jWkPCbpZlQA-SQhYMf7QcopGdST9Ha5UTQjxYjCabC5s9m3Vbz8ylT2s522YFA/s640/BDSCN2042-0061.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">she is holding me and i am holding her; </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">i lack for nothing </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">i stand in the leaf-strewn afternoon with my face strewn with her hair, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">with my chest filled with her chest, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">and we stand with our arms around each other </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">and no space between us, no space at all; </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">i remember nothing, look forward to nothing; </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">i've never seen her before, and never will again, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">for the future has crumbled like wet sand under the wave of the present</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zXeEohPNcTDx0R0UXnvmCD9U9w70CUvnQcIsV6sr519xnLotwKevZI5wR89RIINdmmvU_nUpOpQiHcUgojOcW4JPLPKMOC-mHi0MB22fnJjazdcx69CHhbwxlz-x0nQAvDkFvJ7I_ZY/s1600/BDSCN2068-0141.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7zXeEohPNcTDx0R0UXnvmCD9U9w70CUvnQcIsV6sr519xnLotwKevZI5wR89RIINdmmvU_nUpOpQiHcUgojOcW4JPLPKMOC-mHi0MB22fnJjazdcx69CHhbwxlz-x0nQAvDkFvJ7I_ZY/s640/BDSCN2068-0141.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">O blessed moment </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">when all volition ceases </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">a short or perhaps almost endless vacation from ego's eternal gravitational field </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3QZfJmDJuTdsMJWf84gBJKJSwKuluwDKqN8IJ2TL85XD2AaDeBT8JESafYNExieahIOBkN_CkumwkokxtQs5AeLY5magcLENcsxjtTEGgyLN4y9c5EwRi85QMumzXiZkkStp1v6IlmhY/s1600/BDSCN2065-0121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3QZfJmDJuTdsMJWf84gBJKJSwKuluwDKqN8IJ2TL85XD2AaDeBT8JESafYNExieahIOBkN_CkumwkokxtQs5AeLY5magcLENcsxjtTEGgyLN4y9c5EwRi85QMumzXiZkkStp1v6IlmhY/s640/BDSCN2065-0121.JPG" width="480" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">we stand </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">we hold each other </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">and i make no motion whatsoever, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">and i know that she bears the burden of ending this embrace, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">and i know that she has the will to end it, </span> </div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;">and that she will do so momentarily...</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">momentarily...</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;">momentarily... </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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</span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBKIT_64Kk0ofXCqQ4leZ1oVjNrAQnbgRxLNarMAokD4k8Zhud5xrg09ygmX2lrIJc0-7z8yp5Nr76YvzkJAzCgPbr1GGfbPoF6cPFoTumF9DtfUvEFCUVxTRPbQ292u6SWz4Si2zgKU/s1600/BDSCN2049-0091.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrBKIT_64Kk0ofXCqQ4leZ1oVjNrAQnbgRxLNarMAokD4k8Zhud5xrg09ygmX2lrIJc0-7z8yp5Nr76YvzkJAzCgPbr1GGfbPoF6cPFoTumF9DtfUvEFCUVxTRPbQ292u6SWz4Si2zgKU/s640/BDSCN2049-0091.JPG" width="640" /></a></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: large;"> </span> </div>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-41683521040320244742010-08-18T17:42:00.000-07:002010-08-18T18:07:27.232-07:00Jesus Loves Me, So He Says<b>Warning and Disclaimer</b>:<br />
<br />
If you are one who claims a personal relationship with a guy who calls himself Jesus, or Christ, you might want to skip over this. I dislike this Jesus, whoever and whatever he says he is. I'm biased, prejudiced and unfair. I wonder why?<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguCSQUA2GMg-mw3eHiKwl0fNIp9e-cPrCWd4eivEGbE_JRIWHMIpRCZrSve2nd3N5U_ijwmCkJpNLUPO9hT28dvH5OwMmcZ1mFhVDMZ-g_oIse7_Oj224C3mz_6i8WTLESiZ8GcUBvoKA/s1600/Jesus'+personal+letter+to+me.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="634" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguCSQUA2GMg-mw3eHiKwl0fNIp9e-cPrCWd4eivEGbE_JRIWHMIpRCZrSve2nd3N5U_ijwmCkJpNLUPO9hT28dvH5OwMmcZ1mFhVDMZ-g_oIse7_Oj224C3mz_6i8WTLESiZ8GcUBvoKA/s640/Jesus'+personal+letter+to+me.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Think of me as you relax. A truly spiritual experience.</i></div><br />
A letter from Jesus, transcribed from a wall hanging:<br />
<br />
<i>Dear Friend,<br />
<br />
I love you very much and care about you. I saw you yesterday as you were walking with your friends. I called to you. I wanted to talk to you and I waited, but you did not answer me. Still, as evening drew near, I gave you a sunset to close your day and a cool breeze to rest you.<br />
<br />
I saw you fall asleep last night and I wanted to touch your brow. So, I spilled moonlight on your pillow and your face. I have so many gifts for you, but you awakened late this morning and rushed off to work. Will you call me? Seek me? My tears were in the rain.</i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i></i><br />
<i></i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0H_WFDGbs2FhkwejJNKblhaklde7ENeW8hUIc26FYovGSwmsdO28wGTmrmew32k4tk_S2mLUmE8xLxAqVN1nGZSSXc2ZpK8ddgdh9p23WRzDqOmWeHw1Qnpgsuq240rRT_dIO0hFcif4/s1600/Jesus_155.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0H_WFDGbs2FhkwejJNKblhaklde7ENeW8hUIc26FYovGSwmsdO28wGTmrmew32k4tk_S2mLUmE8xLxAqVN1nGZSSXc2ZpK8ddgdh9p23WRzDqOmWeHw1Qnpgsuq240rRT_dIO0hFcif4/s400/Jesus_155.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Why, oh why, does Dave not call me and ask me out?</i></div><i> <br />
Today you looked so sad, so all alone. I understand. My friends let me down many times, too. Oh, I love you; if you would only listen to me. I really love you. I show you in blue skys </i>[sic]<i> and in the quiet green grass; I whisper it in the leaves on the trees and breathe it in the colors of flowers; I shout it in the mountain streams and clothe you in warm sunshine. My love for you is deeper than the oceans and bigger than the biggest want or need of your heart.<br />
<br />
If only you knew how much I – and my Father – want to help you. I’ll keep saying this to you. Come to me! Don’t forget that I am near. I have so much to share with you. I’ll wait because I love you, but it’s up to you.<br />
<br />
Your friend,<br />
<br />
Jesus</i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEannvRvH5vKm4L0sqwGhMJ9UANJ8wBHYZzVMJE9aR43hxK3a_jiCW83KsR5ttXLkQgHF0GhHU9rkr2QXZDcZHpynPfjQl9m-M5RnqF51QmvE2-tzpZCwr-S4u-Zbqqr8USDpW3sK6jzs/s1600/Jesus_034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEannvRvH5vKm4L0sqwGhMJ9UANJ8wBHYZzVMJE9aR43hxK3a_jiCW83KsR5ttXLkQgHF0GhHU9rkr2QXZDcZHpynPfjQl9m-M5RnqF51QmvE2-tzpZCwr-S4u-Zbqqr8USDpW3sK6jzs/s400/Jesus_034.jpg" width="298" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>I'm a totally sympathetic guy, you know.</i></div><i> </i><br />
<i><br />
</i><br />
My inevitable reply:<br />
<br />
Mr. Jesus H. Christ<br />
Of No Fixed Address<br />
<br />
Dear Mr. Christ:<br />
<br />
I enjoin you immediately to forthwith cease and desist your stalking and surveillance with regard to me and all those close to me. I have notified the police and sent a copy of your letter to my lawyer.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRZIGLXro6V-y_IgtfBU9o4WdRFyM7uSCDEYrxFYUZJou9FbcKWDgGsRJTl2Q3kMqmht5vfLPXsbShkJVwE42nyjhvsWOF_r29o6VWkbwM8JQVsV_o_hiZV3-fOlz6e_7lJWyeeuJNegQ/s1600/christ-at-column-bramante-1490-pinac-brera-milan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRZIGLXro6V-y_IgtfBU9o4WdRFyM7uSCDEYrxFYUZJou9FbcKWDgGsRJTl2Q3kMqmht5vfLPXsbShkJVwE42nyjhvsWOF_r29o6VWkbwM8JQVsV_o_hiZV3-fOlz6e_7lJWyeeuJNegQ/s400/christ-at-column-bramante-1490-pinac-brera-milan.jpg" width="262" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>I'm not a weirdo. Just whip me lightly.</i></div><br />
Although you have no recent criminal record and are not listed in the national Sex Offender database, I am concerned that your attentions to me, a perfect stranger to you, are pathological. I warn you that in addition to the protections of the law, I can bring to bear significant self-defense capabilities, both physical, and, more important, psychological.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnunVc-Az0BIgSkV3gZpfrE9wiU3Uzi5xcXxu2-3hkpS3mtz9qw0WEjSA2P6rmNYVGhkoiFtHlX0rcRr1-PNrflKETLNjzLigRQpDyFZjmZw8fP0ZvvYPz_nWNX3eoedL2v54tCJpnWjo/s1600/christ-crowned-with-thorns-1500-sandro-botticelli-bergamo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnunVc-Az0BIgSkV3gZpfrE9wiU3Uzi5xcXxu2-3hkpS3mtz9qw0WEjSA2P6rmNYVGhkoiFtHlX0rcRr1-PNrflKETLNjzLigRQpDyFZjmZw8fP0ZvvYPz_nWNX3eoedL2v54tCJpnWjo/s400/christ-crowned-with-thorns-1500-sandro-botticelli-bergamo.jpg" width="275" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> So, maybe I'm a little off-center. The two fingers? Enigmatic, eh?</i></div><br />
To wit: I am well aware that I am not addressing an individual entity, either natural or supernatural, nor indeed the vast group of your surrogates who actually composed and circulated your execrable missive; I am addressing a meme, a mere collection of self-perpetuating ideas and emotions, and in doing so I am in all ways simply acting metaphorically. I realize that you cannot hear me any more than any other inanimate object, which makes my reply a little weird, a little silly. But not as silly and weird as the stuff you've spewed forth in this letter.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykVKGsoSLl3QGJzLMR54bm2amxMmCXBYpkDpC9HOg0e0IhVGy553npZW3LbDFN6tnxEyZ4kRiF_WdUCCBpxc_61fbryEGjiJnQYnywqo0v5iSjI4iEv9TYXfV6C6oTstsi5GnFHoSKKc/s1600/Jesus_049.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgykVKGsoSLl3QGJzLMR54bm2amxMmCXBYpkDpC9HOg0e0IhVGy553npZW3LbDFN6tnxEyZ4kRiF_WdUCCBpxc_61fbryEGjiJnQYnywqo0v5iSjI4iEv9TYXfV6C6oTstsi5GnFHoSKKc/s320/Jesus_049.jpg" width="242" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Yeah, I'm feeling a little run down...</i></div><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFUtPwBX7IIbCJRSuzw8MksSL0nO5tDwLhTkKqxW53GTYdHTOZzB4h3na8W5rVgbTbkTusiP6Hq1JU2CGfo2sC2aDe8LP3EujFPmPtKCiTK-llSNgpQ0WRNcH6Red47wm4BGwholrmak/s1600/Jesus_080.jpg" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEFUtPwBX7IIbCJRSuzw8MksSL0nO5tDwLhTkKqxW53GTYdHTOZzB4h3na8W5rVgbTbkTusiP6Hq1JU2CGfo2sC2aDe8LP3EujFPmPtKCiTK-llSNgpQ0WRNcH6Red47wm4BGwholrmak/s320/Jesus_080.jpg" width="229" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Inside, I'm in ecstasy! Cool, huh?</i></div><br />
<br />
My first objection is that you are deliberately placing me in the role of a child, to your wise and forgiving parent. You are addressing everyone; clearly you think that all people on this earth are children and unworthy of adulthood and self-governance. You arrogate to yourself full consciousness, moral choice, intellectual strength and emotional balance, while denying it to us, your “children”. In return for our perpetual servitude as your imperfect little darlings, you will give us mucho ice cream: endless love, a beautiful and supportive eden to live in, and plenty of bogus guilt to wallow in, to give our lives a false drama, a story to fill the emptiness in our idle minds. And all this in the context of your howlingly smarmy assertion that you have endowed us with free will, so that our choice of good over evil, or vice versa, will have actual meaning.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqFXV3s8O3yg_QHxGUxF7CH99wSzadGu0no2q_O0pT7xY6_hrnD92p0RcsXGBQma4fR2UQh1eC7ijQdQNxlOUnFFHxiqG6eziSL6SJDwazoU8Xfok8szf87YsCxHKeuCQYVMQIzkm6HA/s1600/Jesus_144.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGqFXV3s8O3yg_QHxGUxF7CH99wSzadGu0no2q_O0pT7xY6_hrnD92p0RcsXGBQma4fR2UQh1eC7ijQdQNxlOUnFFHxiqG6eziSL6SJDwazoU8Xfok8szf87YsCxHKeuCQYVMQIzkm6HA/s320/Jesus_144.jpg" width="247" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Hey, I'm wise and forgiving! Come back here!</i></div><br />
Having tried your best to establish this false recreation of the nuclear family, with yourself in the role of the Feel-Good Parent and your so-called Father, Jehovah, Creator of this, that and every other thing we see, in the role of the Stern Parent, dispenser of Wisdom, Justice and Pain (while still saying every chance he gets, how much he really, really loves us, each and every one individually, “for ourselves”) you then use this situation to ratchet up the emotional manipulation. “My tears are in the rain.” ?! Puuuh-lease! This works on children and those who never really grew out of childhood’s emotional universe, which group unfortunately constitutes the majority of us.<i> But not me!</i><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0KGoU1xJy2RXyH3j2Z5mKA7db9qiaIfZxo8DBINswOGUPE3tCBzQTV3WQdv7s1fA_d2E9VuOieLIjCaH2t5QPSaIeYAN2Nthyxg98dXGtpbIxipwUeAsn5bCgixwgH55Q1Kwr4T8RhMU/s1600/Jesus_112.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="341" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0KGoU1xJy2RXyH3j2Z5mKA7db9qiaIfZxo8DBINswOGUPE3tCBzQTV3WQdv7s1fA_d2E9VuOieLIjCaH2t5QPSaIeYAN2Nthyxg98dXGtpbIxipwUeAsn5bCgixwgH55Q1Kwr4T8RhMU/s400/Jesus_112.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Come and sit on my knee. Be a kid again. Don't worry, be happy. </i></div><i> </i> <br />
Millions of people have come to the realization, either gradually or suddenly, that they are individuals – whole, complete, functioning autonomously, and able to apprehend a sufficiently large context such that this emotional manipulation, the dishonest currency of the memes, is visible and can be rejected.<br />
<br />
So, Jesus: who are you, exactly? You can be anything to anybody - whatever we want. You can be our manly drinking buddy, always getting our backs:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCaymtdVyZwEgu4DD0A6XOaLxpLXOm1UZFRBqJggcy0TOsm3WojmQvbjbKEd1eHoEUP-MYhXP2YBbH2B5uHkm-DK0iRW_OB1bqCe5F_Ba08xWsVcWSldh3aqS1ySnp-3I6_3A_ul58SGI/s1600/Jesus_184.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCaymtdVyZwEgu4DD0A6XOaLxpLXOm1UZFRBqJggcy0TOsm3WojmQvbjbKEd1eHoEUP-MYhXP2YBbH2B5uHkm-DK0iRW_OB1bqCe5F_Ba08xWsVcWSldh3aqS1ySnp-3I6_3A_ul58SGI/s400/Jesus_184.jpg" width="272" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Let's go get a beer!</i></div><br />
Or you could be a hip, handsome young boyfriend:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuRnOnnVs1Wnyvn_yprNj5bFixcC_40nFAyN_P1jssgg9wAXp_U17lg7zgfePQHMIT_qm2WXy5Rz2mlxUppUyMyA5bYyHp9CTaCKRrOTMcQrcjO5VgcVusecpmxARCAh9MFZ4c5NaVZJM/s1600/Jesus_183.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuRnOnnVs1Wnyvn_yprNj5bFixcC_40nFAyN_P1jssgg9wAXp_U17lg7zgfePQHMIT_qm2WXy5Rz2mlxUppUyMyA5bYyHp9CTaCKRrOTMcQrcjO5VgcVusecpmxARCAh9MFZ4c5NaVZJM/s400/Jesus_183.jpg" width="302" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Cmon, babe! Let's go skinny-dipping!</i> </div><br />
But I remember you like this: inhuman, deadly, crushed, stabbed, beaten, feeling sorry for yourself, and demanding we look at you forever, and share your pointless martyred agony/ecstasy:<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpu1TK4VWIm4qeyfdxHfEPgyAaKA2PcFHYohBl2QgN2ilMu7tx8wB6VAZhj4_h18OLkOZ0aKv9MUAy9QFpnoIzFoWyvn_5CRLSE3TEdJhpgq8HoVOgOAb1H7xanQLHb7_UWBF0p15PH8/s1600/shroud_of_turin_negative.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBpu1TK4VWIm4qeyfdxHfEPgyAaKA2PcFHYohBl2QgN2ilMu7tx8wB6VAZhj4_h18OLkOZ0aKv9MUAy9QFpnoIzFoWyvn_5CRLSE3TEdJhpgq8HoVOgOAb1H7xanQLHb7_UWBF0p15PH8/s400/shroud_of_turin_negative.jpg" width="281" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
Very Sincerely <i>Not Yours</i>,<br />
<br />
<br />
DaveDavehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-11268536620070844742010-07-26T20:46:00.001-07:002010-07-27T07:00:14.135-07:00Bear, Bobcat, Rattlesnake and Paleolithic Man<title></title><meta content="OpenOffice.org 3.0 (Win32)" name="GENERATOR"></meta><style type="text/css">
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<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">Old Rag 7/22/2010</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> A beautiful warm Thursday for a teach-the-kids expedition. With Richard senior, his son Richard, 14 (hereinafter referred to as Young Rich), his younger son John, 9, Young Rich's friends Alan and Zach, 16 and 13 respectively, and John's friend Alex, about 9 also.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxnD2z2RPydLWDC5HxnYhJltbAUtj7PwiyPi1AHGRzoWwrOXEhw2X_fXEFKFslXuc2x92p03jSOeTbMEKrAf4uhVPfhfu3YjF3rYfNKwue4kQmUrLaI23zykTIyBDBQbIQCp7NV3Hwq_k/s1600/tribe.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxnD2z2RPydLWDC5HxnYhJltbAUtj7PwiyPi1AHGRzoWwrOXEhw2X_fXEFKFslXuc2x92p03jSOeTbMEKrAf4uhVPfhfu3YjF3rYfNKwue4kQmUrLaI23zykTIyBDBQbIQCp7NV3Hwq_k/s640/tribe.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"> <i>Where the trail breaks off from the fire road, and heads up...</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"> As guide of the expedition, I made the obligatory speech for this situation, to the effect that this is a real and serious mountain, small though it may be; that not everyone returns uninjured or even alive from this mountain; that one can get lost, fall off deceptively sloping cliffs, be bitten by rattlesnakes, etc.; that they should keep their eyes peeled for black bear, bobcat and rattlesnake, all of which I have seen before in this region, the cat only once, but the others several times each. They seemed to be listening, and we set off in the pleasant shade of the towering tulip trees, maples and the occasional sycamore that inhabit the lower reaches of the mountain. As one might expect the older boys began pulling away, but we had not gone a half mile on the fire road before they stopped dead, looking ahead. When we got up to them they said they had seen a fox, they thought; asked if it was red or gray, they said it was brownish black. The mystery was solved in a few minutes as we all saw a young black bear, about the size of a large dog, up the slope to the left, foraging along as if he were unaware of us. We got photos and walked on, scanning the forest for a possible Mama bear. Less than a mile later the advance guard again saw a bear, larger this time, that walked off quickly as soon as it saw them. None of the boys, small or large, showed any fear. So already we had set the proper tone for this adventure: there are definitely potentially dangerous animals running around loose out here, but we are the masters of the land and need fear nothing if we are brave and capable.</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbX7YWntCo_eyM8hj-0ZJ1eQr-viebR9Z58mKNTyxLAmT3TCg_MeFIvyog3Xgrb8sO-uG3fRHZTgP6yd8ByGyt88VvTHzNyswhdSK6covi-zWZr48NkQEkOtgwQLWY-9gPAHHYb028Kck/s1600/bear.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbX7YWntCo_eyM8hj-0ZJ1eQr-viebR9Z58mKNTyxLAmT3TCg_MeFIvyog3Xgrb8sO-uG3fRHZTgP6yd8ByGyt88VvTHzNyswhdSK6covi-zWZr48NkQEkOtgwQLWY-9gPAHHYb028Kck/s640/bear.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"> <i>Ursus Americanus, half-grown but still pretty big.</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">...<i>and a couple of huge yellow swallowtails lurched through, up and away...</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">We reached the summit in a decent time, with a few short rests. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fm4roLFVSCJkDGr-F8U6fHXCfI7vPmAdxNtFE3vJ34OjbeNIZb82JBIgMKsnJ2-6qyut3O7m-3sqqcI4NDoGURyjc7CrgSSdli-BGTL2Y_SqOEv-ioYCYpL35Hp52VuqXN9Dhoug-KM/s1600/water+break.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9fm4roLFVSCJkDGr-F8U6fHXCfI7vPmAdxNtFE3vJ34OjbeNIZb82JBIgMKsnJ2-6qyut3O7m-3sqqcI4NDoGURyjc7CrgSSdli-BGTL2Y_SqOEv-ioYCYpL35Hp52VuqXN9Dhoug-KM/s640/water+break.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Everyone enjoyed the usual euphoria caused by the sudden expansion of the view in all directions, and the kids explored and clambered on the boulders. We went up to the very topmost boulder, to say we'd reached the summit. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpy4rK3XiZdn0yVB15Kyu5bmGiXUemUs01SLXc9FZ3GaTrm2VdgsISCtZJLIjvyq5OuigZLx5OvyOugrVF-UtZNEmHR9s8wcJ1JDjC0bRIgX-TFVsnovzai8-1UYDIq_ZtfVar6-aAq4/s1600/cavemen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxpy4rK3XiZdn0yVB15Kyu5bmGiXUemUs01SLXc9FZ3GaTrm2VdgsISCtZJLIjvyq5OuigZLx5OvyOugrVF-UtZNEmHR9s8wcJ1JDjC0bRIgX-TFVsnovzai8-1UYDIq_ZtfVar6-aAq4/s640/cavemen.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> Had a nice leisurely lunch and watched a couple of guys setting up a Tyrolean traverse, a most unusual bit of rope tomfoolery running a hundred feet across a gap; they seemed to know what they were doing. </span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9RfVZzjm9MpfhZvEiKDHXK5ZsNJHrt1KT884z_UdCELhP_gDWZj-iKw1DT630jt-SqOEPc2uIBynMghFx3EuS7UeOzGXtLliGjHdZ6UUTvSa1Z9wedfL68nm2FXnbgKkoMyg3SimXtRQ/s1600/tyrolean.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9RfVZzjm9MpfhZvEiKDHXK5ZsNJHrt1KT884z_UdCELhP_gDWZj-iKw1DT630jt-SqOEPc2uIBynMghFx3EuS7UeOzGXtLliGjHdZ6UUTvSa1Z9wedfL68nm2FXnbgKkoMyg3SimXtRQ/s640/tyrolean.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span> I demonstrated a few basic climbing techniques, showed the difference between the tiny blueberries and the poisonous fruit of the mountain laurel growing right beside it, and we got ready to go. I then proposed to Richard that we take a detour through the woods on the way back, down to the Sunset area, across the giant rocks and down the Secret Climber Trail that joins the Berry Hollow at the second major staircase. I was a bit hesitant but I felt that it would be a real adventure for the kids, and not beyond their strengths. Richard agreed, just taking my word, and we set off. Leaving the Berry Hollow trail at the usual very vague exit on the right, we angled down slowly and cautiously...</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">...<i>and a couple of huge yellow swallowtails lurched through, up and away...</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> ...</i><span style="font-style: normal;">and quite soon we were buried, immersed in the totality of a secret green world; an empire of ferns.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAjMAcwjMxqb_lud5jXM4YUf3ioXbVDOgv0Ny8gVffjEthUUem2YnnGqvRmOtvGtnPHOI8do2U98bX138vIj-N54GU_uH-769faL4QlzGAP8giigzoEc_f1qpSpUXG2f__yiOOtEyZzps/s1600/greenworld.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAjMAcwjMxqb_lud5jXM4YUf3ioXbVDOgv0Ny8gVffjEthUUem2YnnGqvRmOtvGtnPHOI8do2U98bX138vIj-N54GU_uH-769faL4QlzGAP8giigzoEc_f1qpSpUXG2f__yiOOtEyZzps/s640/greenworld.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> A faint line of bent ferns led, occasionally, down the moderately steep northeastern edge of the complex and broken Sunset Ridge, as I waded, clambered and slithered through blackberries, laurel, fallen trees, creeper, striped maple, and boulders of all sizes buried in ages of moss and munge. Behind me Young Rich had assumed the role of lieutenant, watching where I went and how I solved each new problem without breaking my leg, and then teaching it to the other kids as needed. Richard brought up the rear to assist the youngest, and we all talked up and down the line continually, constantly feeding the information we needed to all members of the tribe. Soon the rocks on our left grew higher, as did the trees around us, and the ferns and moss were supremely luxurious. There was nothing whatever to indicate that we were not well and truly lost, but nobody seemed nervous. They were keying off my own mood, which was genuinely carefree, in that I knew exactly where I was. I saw that not too far down the slope there was a cliff that seemed familiar, and I thought that the Keyhole must be not much further on; but first we had to find the proper way around a very large boulder onto whose top surface, which was somewhat sloping and a little wet, I had just emerged, with Zach right behind me at this time. The drop off the edge was too far, and the right side was badly blocked by windfall. I looked to the left, but before I could see the solution little Alex, a few feet back, suddenly discovered a nest of small, nasty ground-dwelling yellow jackets, and a slightly dangerous pandemonium ensued, because no one could just give way to the normal human reaction, which would be to run screaming and slapping at random. Instead we all had to help each other move quickly and safely a few feet away while slapping what we could; I grabbed Alex and prevented him from walking down the slimy slope of the big boulder, and slapped a last bug off his leg. He had been stung on the head as well as a couple of other places, and was sure that they were still in his hair. In the end four of us shared some ten stings; Zach and I both escaped. I quickly found the exit on the right, and we squeezed through a gap in the boulders, slid down a short drop and continued in good order along the edge of the ridge. Soon I found a bolt on a climb I recognized, and we all spelunked through the Keyhole, which the kids enjoyed, crossed the slippery slopes below the Breasts of Sheba buttresses, took a hard left up the big ramp, examined the spot where I once saw a rattlesnake (after I had stepped right over it), and got ready to downclimb the short chimney at the upper end. I demonstrated the easiest method, which involves putting your butt against the far wall, and Young Rich and Alan took to it immediately; we then handed down John and Alex, neither of whom were all that happy about it, but did not cry or complain, and got Zach, who was too big to be handed down, to eventually figure out for himself an alternative method which was perhaps harder, but less scary.</span><br />
<br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> ...</span><i>and a couple of huge yellow swallowtails lurched through, up and away...</i></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Back down the fire road, the last long mile...</i></div><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><i> </i><span style="font-style: normal;">All that remained was to follow the Secret Climber Trail, down, down past the cairns left by climbers, past blackberries on various stages of ripeness, down rock slides, over large talus buried in vines, and across sloping boulders, finally to emerge on the Berry Hollow trail, with a feeling of victory in the air.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBRaWzb14yfn8rj38EUYgytmNEiiKyumuXKNr25_tZyaEY8yLgif9wkSsdZbkbAMND1LmI7NfwJwqXEpHYFYv38QTrLtqQwiFYaStScqHcIST49lxoTfJlymPcLtvQYs-UJCi99ECEEo/s1600/rock.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMBRaWzb14yfn8rj38EUYgytmNEiiKyumuXKNr25_tZyaEY8yLgif9wkSsdZbkbAMND1LmI7NfwJwqXEpHYFYv38QTrLtqQwiFYaStScqHcIST49lxoTfJlymPcLtvQYs-UJCi99ECEEo/s640/rock.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> <i>The very popular rock right next to the parking lot.</i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><br />
</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> It is very gratifying for me, in a deep and primitive way, to have survived to this age, to have matured along my own rocky, uneven and difficult trail, to get to the point of being honored by leading the hunting party out into the green and dangerous world; however trivial the actual hike, this was the psychological reality, as potent now as a half-million years ago. The young men trusted my confidence and went out into the unknown right behind me. I'll take that feeling with me as I go, along with a few other trinkets and memories.</span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP2CoPKROnuGq6tzCAhafKpoi5TeY_WxZf_Tut-ezx0T4j6s7S_AalTy-RZHot4NhhBb8JjZC86AxvXD9Az9buKw9nxcD-X924-kWvvtb-fokXz6OODMdTEwn7x9lWIzCAAJjSUHvQrzM/s1600/Old+Rag+Bobcat.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP2CoPKROnuGq6tzCAhafKpoi5TeY_WxZf_Tut-ezx0T4j6s7S_AalTy-RZHot4NhhBb8JjZC86AxvXD9Az9buKw9nxcD-X924-kWvvtb-fokXz6OODMdTEwn7x9lWIzCAAJjSUHvQrzM/s640/Old+Rag+Bobcat.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><br />
</div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: center;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> <i>The bobcat we never saw, from another year; he's still out there somewhere...</i></span></div><div style="margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-style: normal;"> </span></div>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-64824128773000787562010-06-09T21:37:00.000-07:002010-08-30T20:36:01.866-07:00A Chequer-board of Nights and DaysJoshua Tree National Park, Southern California May 3rd - 14th, 2010<br />
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Preface and caveat –<br />
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<br />
This is a long and rambling disquisition which nobody will find interesting in all its parts. Some will skip over climbing minutia, others will roll their eyes at philosophical chestnuts laid out as if they were diamonds, and still others will declare that the Rubáiyát is such a cliché and a bore, like all things classical in these sophisticated decades we enjoy nowadays. And not everyone has any particular interest in the high desert or in astronomy. Still, it's certainly worth what you've paid for it, and well worth the paper it's not printed on! Good luck! If you become disoriented and dehydrated, just head downhill until you stumble over a refrigerator with beer in it.<br />
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– Dave<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJdSwOaJWmWub9j0Cz7IqZnrcESPS2tg4d6vZngQjrD71XUfhO3nt6FT0HjXRAncDvzmKnUABg1HAP0e3nrzsLWn48TGvlsXjA69ITexqd04KRjI9pdN8aSvtndHjlqd1-G4C7pol2Y6A/s1600/B4desert+dave-0061.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="266" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJdSwOaJWmWub9j0Cz7IqZnrcESPS2tg4d6vZngQjrD71XUfhO3nt6FT0HjXRAncDvzmKnUABg1HAP0e3nrzsLWn48TGvlsXjA69ITexqd04KRjI9pdN8aSvtndHjlqd1-G4C7pol2Y6A/s400/B4desert+dave-0061.jpg" width="400" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Your guide, Desert Dave. Don't worry! He's totally reliable!</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Alone. Weather: gorgeous. All day, every day.<br />
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May 3. AA Flt. 149 out of IAD – bag ~55lbs.<br />
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Nonstop to LAX! Breakfast in Dulles at gate B-73, brioche, coffee gulped down. Sort of gauzy mosquito netting separating Biz class and steerage. Hail to our Benevolent Business Overlords! Here comes the New Coke, just like the Old Coke, etc.<br />
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The mind is stumblebum, unclear, muddy, tracking a little erratically. Current Stats: age – 57, wt. ~ 175 lbs., bfp ~ 13%, bp ~ 125/80, cholesterol 186, resting pulse ~ 55. Pullups: 3 underhand, 3 overhand, pain in l. shoulder and elbow from 18 months ago. Left knee not bad but not as good as right knee. Back, neck, wrists, ankles and hands all good! Time's Wingéd Chariot, etc. – sadness, that arthritis might cut short the stellar, never-to-be-surpassed Carderock bouldering career of Geoff Farrar, now in his mid-60s. Ain't none of us gonna outrun it.<br />
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<br />
But here I am again in JT, again, for the sixth time, after a long hiatus of nine years. Too long. This is the old climber's paradise. I am still somewhat capable: solid at 5.9, where once I was solid at 5.10a, and an even chance at 5.10b. Recent good climbs in Virginia: TR “Strong Finish” 5.10a, and “Armbuster” 5.9+, and soloed “Black Sun” 5.9. Naturally I feel, like every climber, that a few weeks dedicated to nothing but climbing would quickly carve me into a chiseled machine, climbing better than I ever did, but this is probably just fantasy now. However, such fantasy is necessary to avoiding that Slough of Despond that can swallow any of us in an instant, after the euphoric certainties of youth have been destroyed.<br />
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More bad news – Chris developed a bad shoulder 2 weeks ago; he has never been here, and we've postponed until October. To solidify it I bought the 12-month Jtree pass, $30. So this resets the trip goals: if possible pick up partners, climb solo with gear, but mostly write, boulder, photograph, hike distant areas etc. Camping by the way is $10/site/night, cash only, first come first serve, limit 2 cars and six people. Monday am is a good bet for finding open spots.<br />
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Sun falling fast – must shoot the Cyclops across the way. I always photograph the Cyclops near sunset on every visit, almost involuntarily. More than most other crags, it projects the phantom image of a long-crumbled Roman temple, erected to honor forgotten gods of reason, wisdom and compassion. Near sunset it turns a pale gold, and later transmutes to copper. Named for a hole near the top of a huge central chimney/dihedral.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">I</div><div style="text-align: center;">Awake! For Morning in the Bowl of Night</div><div style="text-align: center;">Has flung the stone that puts the stars to flight</div><div style="text-align: center;">and Lo! The Hunter of the East has caught</div><div style="text-align: center;">The Sultán's Turret in a Noose of Light.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: center;">- Khayyám/Fitzgerald</div><br />
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May 4th Tune-up Day!<br />
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Sunrise – 6:08. Half-moon is very bright at 4:30 am, and I'm peeing in the moonlight.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">“Over the great Gromboolian Plain,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Beautiful moonlight and silence reign.”</div><br />
(slightly altered and stolen from Edward Lear, from “The Dong with the Luminous Nose.”) -<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">“When awful darkness and silence reign</div><div style="text-align: center;">Over the great Gromboolian plain,”</div><br />
– which, oddly enough, I also like – that abstract plain of silence and darkness, free of all the ambiguous clutter of consciousness – a space full of potential, though not, I suspect, what Lear intended.<br />
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Crows, matter-of-fact, flap by with the morning news. Obesity epidemic / humans on their way out / crows rule – the usual. Recalling coyote chorus around midnight last night – not too extended, just a couple of Te Deums, etc.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEJMxXBsYzyBn6Y3KR48ljeRgWAUbwg5M_4MezQZFj9eSFpIjqmt3NyigsMcgkdI-9wRfQ5U5vAdtp24pXW9xGONrZs_Y4bN3U7mqsTZBQoxQGPbonXiAMNXQ_wYeu5nw1mhOAuaJXs8/s1600/BDSCF0202-0051.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIEJMxXBsYzyBn6Y3KR48ljeRgWAUbwg5M_4MezQZFj9eSFpIjqmt3NyigsMcgkdI-9wRfQ5U5vAdtp24pXW9xGONrZs_Y4bN3U7mqsTZBQoxQGPbonXiAMNXQ_wYeu5nw1mhOAuaJXs8/s640/BDSCF0202-0051.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
Scruffy western chipmunk watches my breakfast like a hawk. I dub thee Scruffy, honorary climber mascot. Screw you, dirtbag, says he, giving the traditional salute. I found his daddy's dry skull this afternoon. I'll keep it as a memento – Time's Wingéd Chariot, etc. How many generation of 'munks since my first visit in 1988? One or two per year?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQLbCtV2O4WuXs4wE0_SbuR3DFevllDHQoXtEA8EhSwhCsDoGwLCLvdP2iWGwzp4fpF74fQTrP7EzngDQqy6ZgSFRcd1uE553PaKR8-p97CKTKJE6QOuX6C0vNk4AFvkNCsU9sNoynpo/s1600/BDSCF0324-0091.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbQLbCtV2O4WuXs4wE0_SbuR3DFevllDHQoXtEA8EhSwhCsDoGwLCLvdP2iWGwzp4fpF74fQTrP7EzngDQqy6ZgSFRcd1uE553PaKR8-p97CKTKJE6QOuX6C0vNk4AFvkNCsU9sNoynpo/s640/BDSCF0324-0091.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
7:15 pm – sunset desperately imminent. Went to get one last shot, and returned to find Scruffy raiding my nuts (leftover Brazil nuts).<br />
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After dinner I am reminded of the overnight backpacking trip that Eamonn and I took in the Shenandoah, Blue Ridge, when he was only nine or ten. Lacking any water source, we scoured our dinner pans of mac-and-cheese residue with handfuls of the granitic sand at our campsite, which was so dry that after a few changes of sand the pots could be wiped perfectly clean without rinsing. I used the same technique today, though with a little water at the end.<br />
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On my fourth attempt I stood on my pack, gaining six inches in initial height, and this allowed me to succeed without badly crushing the little finger in the turnbuckle crack. I went and played on some easier ground, thinking I'd give it up as lost; but I came back with a new willingness to crush Shorty, now that I had the correct sequence dialed in. My fifth attempt (starting back on ground zero) would have succeeded but for a microscopic misplacement of the left foot, and then, the sixth attempt was precise throughout, and an honest 'send'. I did, however have to leave, for the spirit of the boulder, a minor spot of blood from Shorty as a sacrifice.<br />
“Turnbuckle” is so named because when you slot the fingers of your right hand, facing upwards and to the left, into the angled, tapering undercling crack, and weight it, the fingers rotate down into the bottom of the crack, and the little finger is clamped as if ground into a buckle of that design. And you can stand there as long as you want, with the tips of your left fingers in a pitiful horizontal, but when you go you have to bring it all with you. Or at least I do.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">II </div><div style="text-align: center;">Dreaming when Dawn's Left Hand was in the Sky</div><div style="text-align: center;">I heard a Voice within the Tavern cry,</div><div style="text-align: center;">“Awake, my Little ones, and fill the Cup</div><div style="text-align: center;">Before Life's Liquor in its Cup be dry.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBKd7rQs_wI07QP8MMnH_mqiE1BFcBk0XLuIA9-OPDkVaITwgtMdK5x6Y__haIpcHeyKdxFiaspzbk-CBz6YCeSC0CXBX6eTYIMONm9x4QpWBfS9okcC1OgNYEpvgIUGauZIU-rDlONFQ/s1600/BDSCF0189-0071.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBKd7rQs_wI07QP8MMnH_mqiE1BFcBk0XLuIA9-OPDkVaITwgtMdK5x6Y__haIpcHeyKdxFiaspzbk-CBz6YCeSC0CXBX6eTYIMONm9x4QpWBfS9okcC1OgNYEpvgIUGauZIU-rDlONFQ/s640/BDSCF0189-0071.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
</div><br />
May 5th, Wednesday<br />
Dawn comes over the hills to my tent at exactly 6:06 am.<br />
<br />
It's a simple miracle, and a simple god-analogue, but I like it. The moon appears to be waning, hence good stargazing over the next week.<br />
<br />
Last night I scattered Brazil nuts and pecans for Scruffy, on the petulant, though squeaky, demands of his daddy's skull, now sitting on the table facing the risen sun. Let's call him Big Scruffy, or, if we like, Yorick, a good traditional skull name. The nuts are gone this morning – now they'll want my bear claws. Well, no matter. We are eating this world. Let's not begrudge them the scraps.<br />
<br />
Soon, though, the world will be about eaten up; we uneasily sense the imminence of that heart-stopping moment, as when the giant space frog eats the moon and nothing is left, for a short time, but a brown ghost-moon, hideous as any other death-image.<br />
<br />
An old birding couple just walked by, long lenses dangling, eyes vigilant, heads darting toward the birdsong from my tree. Birds in evidence: crows (as always), cactus finches, goldfinches of some kind, hummingbirds, mockingbirds. Some of them perch effortlessly in the vertical-spined crowns of the Joshua trees by rotating their claws outward and grasping two spines, as if they were walking canes. Later blue jays and turkey buzzards were seen; the buzzards seemed identical to those so common in Virginia.<br />
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The heat waves thrown off by my stove are invisible to the eye, but not to the sun – they cast shadows on the boulder next to the table. Distortion, inevitable in the clearest medium – even empty space is warped by gravity. One might conclude that the concept of 'nothingness' has no true analogue in the physical universe – it is only a useful phantom necessary to balance the conceptual universe in which our consciousness must swim. Hence the word should always be undercut with apostrophes, and mocked with dual sets of bent fingers, as in 'Being and “Nothingness”' by J.P. “Sartre”. Or was it that wacky guy Kierkegaard?<br />
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Bird resembling a flicker, though smaller, scavenges bugs from the scaly 'bark' of the Joshua trees. Cactus wren?<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtzZrb3aIDZ8hUQ_uOJbW487k1NPoYJKnTXQJJEFiaEeErl71Rjb3jV3evXp8SFTFA6xPHCTevck7qLQ7vCWD3m3fTTbb8SIRD0CVN_osHSzaWVEFByqs-atXlj4RfQmJ6-WmcgCVx1z8/s1600/BDSCF0751-0051.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtzZrb3aIDZ8hUQ_uOJbW487k1NPoYJKnTXQJJEFiaEeErl71Rjb3jV3evXp8SFTFA6xPHCTevck7qLQ7vCWD3m3fTTbb8SIRD0CVN_osHSzaWVEFByqs-atXlj4RfQmJ6-WmcgCVx1z8/s640/BDSCF0751-0051.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The <b>Cactus Wren</b> (</i><i>Campylorhynchus brunneicapillus) is the largest <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/North_America" title="North America">North American</a> <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wren" title="Wren">wren</a>, and is 18–23 cm (7-9 inches) long. And he'll come right up and give you the hairy eyeball.</i></div><br />
Last night we were treated to a solo performance by a member of the coyote chorus, which sounded very close by, as if perched on my picnic table. He or she would warble tunefully (I'm being polite here) and then the chorus would respond from a distant hillock, and faint echoes returned, or perhaps they were more distant coyotes. The concert only lasted a few minutes.<br />
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The infinite variety of forms in the granite: what do we imagine them into? Here the head of a giant moray eel, there a breaking wave, and in the distance a breaching grey whale. One can look for whatever one most desires and eventually find it, if one walks the burning sands with eyes also burning with desire for that thing, whatever it may be, because the shapes formed by the rock, as seen by the continuously shifting angle of view of the eye and the mind's eye, are infinite in number. Do you want to see the Virgin Mary? There she is, head bent and cloaked. <i>Surely</i> God must have sent this as a sign.<br />
<br />
Or not. And don't call me Shirley.<br />
<br />
An odd feature high overhead on Chimney Rock, just behind my camp, appears at first as a crusty old scab or wart protruding from the side of a summit, weighing maybe a couple of tons. Closer examination transforms it into a decrepit heart, split down the middle and covered with scabbed-over wounds from a lifetime of betrayal and neglect.<br />
<br />
9:30 am – <br />
Peter and Jayko, site 44. Peter had left a note on a bulletin board similar to mine, looking for partners, so I walked up and introduced myself.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgaE1YVeH_qNtjahTK-753IehX_IXkFCxN1Vt8BSiXMpNJCWd0b6xmMSrOwbY3JBogWCQmkbiRUlv8wZ8oM4SYDx6r-ytdOv_9CHV1SyJVp_gHppAwcTqmXbx5qra0wZ_Skah8REPdPVY/s1600/BDSCF0594-0131.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgaE1YVeH_qNtjahTK-753IehX_IXkFCxN1Vt8BSiXMpNJCWd0b6xmMSrOwbY3JBogWCQmkbiRUlv8wZ8oM4SYDx6r-ytdOv_9CHV1SyJVp_gHppAwcTqmXbx5qra0wZ_Skah8REPdPVY/s640/BDSCF0594-0131.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><i></i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>They've just topped out on "Fun Stuff", 5.8, at Echo Cove.</i></div><br />
Peter: a weatherbeaten yet youthful-appearing climber who turned out to be 50. Longish slightly graying hair, very lean. Reading a children's book to small boy Jayko. Might climb with him and friends to arrive later this week; his ambition, to climb “Leave It to Beaver”, 5.12b***** on Sports Challenge Rock in Real Hidden Valley. Left my card. From Canada. Cowboy hat, no facial hair. He dropped by a little later to make a date for tomorrow.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfEM8f__WaJcBKnJXrKmO4mD_Ie0MV8buLKvhJ0UHE7iKTDAE_haImV8usqoir0gC-HjvLm11Ywf_FVXBRVwIk4FI9fG1WGTFjVbDEp4a1hctRgcxVHG-0oxUnTOlXw17pSvK1Alj0Pls/s1600/BDSCF0408-0181.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfEM8f__WaJcBKnJXrKmO4mD_Ie0MV8buLKvhJ0UHE7iKTDAE_haImV8usqoir0gC-HjvLm11Ywf_FVXBRVwIk4FI9fG1WGTFjVbDEp4a1hctRgcxVHG-0oxUnTOlXw17pSvK1Alj0Pls/s640/BDSCF0408-0181.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Red Obelisk, deep in the mazelike Wonderland.</i></div><br />
6:15 pm – <br />
Spent 10:30 to 5:30 hiking the Wonderland, out past the Red Obelisk, and back via the Astrodomes and Barker Dam. Memorable item: tiny tadpoles wriggling madly in a tiny, shallow seep in the parched and stony ground. Desert blooming with life. Saw prints of bighorn sheep, in dried mud. Unbroken solitude except for gnome-like being encountered in the massive shade cast by the huge boulder called Don Juan, which overhangs on all sides: little old hiker, talkative, open, seemed lonely. Likes Clint Eastwood films, Kurosawa, etc. Classic southern Californian named Robert, Ra for short. His motto: “All's well at Ra's well.” (pun on Roswell NM)<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ddMid89nay9G9OY5go0f8_npE3XYYl-OY0p_zf17GXQd3YrL4vJt-bB5_1PzEcL_Eumyq1S829H4wpx8b58GtrroU6_gXGM0BiaVJhz3msdZIYiReabat1KsRLNSIc3MtP51md1WhBE/s1600/BDSCF0570-0261.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3ddMid89nay9G9OY5go0f8_npE3XYYl-OY0p_zf17GXQd3YrL4vJt-bB5_1PzEcL_Eumyq1S829H4wpx8b58GtrroU6_gXGM0BiaVJhz3msdZIYiReabat1KsRLNSIc3MtP51md1WhBE/s640/BDSCF0570-0261.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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Frustrating traverse of nearly full west margin of Barker Dam lake as usual. Note: walk on dam-side instead if just passing through. Probably better to do Wonderland trail to Don Juan and then head west, even for “Room to Shroom”.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;"><i>A wet spring this year; at Barker Dam.</i></div><br />
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The single eye of the Cyclops – the sun that sees us, that we see the world through. The eye on the pyramid; the mind's singular eye of consciousness. The eye therefore threatens the unconscious: the Tree of Knowledge, tainted fruit that causes children to question their parents, to leave the Eden of childhood, to go out to do battle with the Cyclops. Paradoxically the Cyclops can also represent the unconscious – it never sleeps (unless drugged by wine) – it sees everything, scrutinizes without understanding or compassion; it is treacherous and very big and dangerous. The conscious mind must adopt clever stratagems to survive in the cave of the unconscious, into which we are thrust every night and sometimes when awake as well. Another demonstration of Dave's Dictum #29: anything can be shown to be a metaphor for anything else if you put your mind to it.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcIYTcUy7wKV2kUgbO1dzlTKnQm5ubm26RrTsc2NhXxX0LLQ8QaI8Le2XAULFpFi7dDUudAJKD1NlmjZivWat9PcH0D9pyeI-LYKJIbgebUXSqbxyK9t3oBSxGH2k14T5BwdMJ_QeT0jI/s1600/BDSCF0703-0041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcIYTcUy7wKV2kUgbO1dzlTKnQm5ubm26RrTsc2NhXxX0LLQ8QaI8Le2XAULFpFi7dDUudAJKD1NlmjZivWat9PcH0D9pyeI-LYKJIbgebUXSqbxyK9t3oBSxGH2k14T5BwdMJ_QeT0jI/s640/BDSCF0703-0041.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><i></i><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Barrel Cactus</i></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">III </div><div style="text-align: center;">And, as the Cock crew, those who stood before</div><div style="text-align: center;">The Tavern shouted – “Open then the Door!”</div><div style="text-align: center;">You know how little while we have to stay, </div><div style="text-align: center;">And once departed, may return no more.”</div><br />
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May 6th, Thursday<br />
Right now: 5:55 am, temps in the high 40s.<br />
<br />
Ten minutes to the daily miracle. News crow on patrol as usual. No coyotes last night, or I begin to ignore them in my sleep. The news crow is a crow of few words: Sunrise in ten; humans doomed shortly thereafter.<br />
Oh – there go the coyotes at 6:00 exactly, somewhere well off behind the Cyclops. Sound carries really well. Moment of sunrise on camera – 6:04. We're in business, warming up already. Time for oatmeal. A statistic to think about: I am now using about 3 quarts of water per day for everything.<br />
<br />
“Sunrise... surprise... Civilized Man... you were keeper to me. Now your animal is free...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">Words/Music: Grace Slick</div><div style="text-align: center;">Sunrise Surprise</div><div style="text-align: center;">Civilized Man</div><div style="text-align: center;">You were keeper to me</div><div style="text-align: center;">Now your animal is free</div><div style="text-align: center;">you're free to die</div><div style="text-align: center;">Oh oh oh</div><div style="text-align: center;">You're old and your hands are gray</div><div style="text-align: center;">You're old, go home and stay</div><div style="text-align: center;">We've all heard your dirty stories</div><div style="text-align: center;">Two thousand years</div><div style="text-align: center;">Two thousand years</div><div style="text-align: center;">Two thousand years</div><div style="text-align: center;">Of your</div><div style="text-align: center;">God damned</div><div style="text-align: center;">Glory<br />
</div> Grace Slick as Astarte,or Shiva, announcing the end of a cycle, inevitable destruction on its way. It seemed so juvenile, so hippie/dippie when I was 21, yet it still struck that perfect chord; this civilization so wrong, so inhuman, unnatural. We wanted something different – more organic, romantic, reasonable, smaller, quieter, truer and so forth. I've still got the album.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5O4NsmAk3WFflWe4qN6utGO1HM47f85BJJOmuRwA02QRkrlp1HuuORqTR1TzPGXVR5M1rv54LOeuFbaz9ZdVqeNbeU3XKfG3MjDukYA4BQh15T_I5kRJ4uv_bXRQeAoE_yYbxX9iUic/s1600/BDSCF0500-0141.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ5O4NsmAk3WFflWe4qN6utGO1HM47f85BJJOmuRwA02QRkrlp1HuuORqTR1TzPGXVR5M1rv54LOeuFbaz9ZdVqeNbeU3XKfG3MjDukYA4BQh15T_I5kRJ4uv_bXRQeAoE_yYbxX9iUic/s640/BDSCF0500-0141.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
And here we are – 2010 – world population about doubled since that album came out – peak oil (probably) upon us now – unsustainability everywhere we look; overdue for another world cataclysm; pendulum swing longer and harder this time.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">NO ONE IS SAFE.</div><br />
So what else is new? Deal with it. It ain't the end of the world. Civilizations rise, and then they fall. But look out: Bonzo's got a gun – not a prop gun; a real gun with real bullets. 7 billion Bonzos got 7 billion guns, so to speak. Should this species have cheap energy, something comparable to oil?<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">NO.</div><br />
No. <i> Don't</i> give the monkey that fusion reactor. He'll just use it to make more monkeys. That's all he really wants to do – the final goal of all human activity – to increase the tribe. Simple genetic compulsion, shared by all life. The Big Taboo in all public debate.<br />
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Aside – Scruffy is starting to think I'm harmless. He just went into my tent for a look-see, then came and sat on a boulder 4 feet away and gave me the hairy eyeball. I've scattered more unwanted nuts.<br />
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Another aside – I'm now steeping an unused TazoTM teabag I found near the road. Will it be a magical Don Juan teabag left there by a shaman? Not likely. Visions/dreams are unconscious bullshit, but if you can embroider them into personal meaning, fine. We need closet organizers for the mind, and it doesn't really matter exactly how they're put together.<br />
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So the monkeys have guns and they ain't letting go of them. They all want as many children as they can finagle. It's going to snap back on them. Every civilization overshoots its resource base and crashes, but all too soon reformulates with better tools and rebuilds the inverted pyramid even higher.<br />
<br />
Sound carries here. At sunset small groups of people tend to gather on the summit of the Cyclops a hundred feet above the desert floor (the back side is an easy slope). Their conversations are often intelligible from here, perhaps 200 yards away.<br />
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Livy, book XXI, chapter 62 – Prodigies (p.89)<br />
“Shapes like shining ships appeared in the sky.”<br />
!!! – UFOs even then, in 217 B.C.<br />
Responses to the threatening omens included:<br />
“Five victims of the greater sort were sacrificed to Genius...”<br />
<br />
This was during widespread panic induced by the invasion of Italy by Hannibal. Human nature is a constant; all my readings of history, starting with Herodotus and Thucydides, have reinforced this conviction of mine. No amount of brilliant science, no wondrous technology, no rigorous logic and application of reason, can free more than a few of us from the tendency to see shapes like shining ships in the sky, and all the other ridiculous stuff coughed up by the swamp of our fears and desires. To this day people in general do not trust science except as they pick-and-choose to, even as they get into automobiles and airplanes, even as they use computers. But why worry? The earth is going to spin off its axis like a top running down on December 21st, 2012, fall off the table and roll toward the giant Black Hole at the Galactic Center, with all of us screaming like so many flies.<br />
<br />
Hannibal was as scary as any black hole. They never called him “The Great”, or any other adjectival sobriquet; he was unique in this regard, and needs no other name. Arguably his invasion became in the long run a tremendous spur to the success and growth of Rome, for once they had survived his first few overwhelming victories on the field of battle, the evolutionary stress of the struggle forced the emergence of talented men, and they studied Hannibal, the great teacher of tactics and strategy, until after twenty years they had turned it around, sowed the salt in the ruins of Carthage, and were left with the finest army in the world, and a conviction of their superior destiny. Sure, it all fell to pieces in a few short centuries, but we certainly can't claim they left nothing useful for us in the ruins. <br />
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Nice little pile of crap in camp this morning – coyote? Buried to reduce flies.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jiLwaIuoUw_41KJFgKcI926aOrQVP8V5kZnl0q7YnNprna2l1c3sN1Mkqb37y1QGHdworvgiYyYaZpUhxUWMhMTLj7bzP-MVKMO6pfjiEkqKvK1WrAgOzf7gCnGXjbEwogwts9Lwixw/s1600/BDSCF0608-0191.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9jiLwaIuoUw_41KJFgKcI926aOrQVP8V5kZnl0q7YnNprna2l1c3sN1Mkqb37y1QGHdworvgiYyYaZpUhxUWMhMTLj7bzP-MVKMO6pfjiEkqKvK1WrAgOzf7gCnGXjbEwogwts9Lwixw/s640/BDSCF0608-0191.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Jayko has drawn a magical ideogram with charcoal on my table; it offers milk to a roadrunner and prohibits any man from stealing the milk.</i></div><br />
Around 10 am Peter and his rambunctious six-year-old Jayko (short for Jacob) showed up and we drove to the parking lot at Real Hidden Valley in separate cars. Everything takes longer with kids, of course; while I was waiting for them I figured out the 5.10 boulder problem on the left side of the east face of the 'entrance boulder' – a very nifty problem, not excessively strenuous. Also did the 5.7 on the back corner, up and down.<br />
Then we all had fun at the Sports Challenge Rock. I led “Sphincter Quits”, a short, scary but solid 5.9 on the west side. Peter toproped the 5.10+ on the left, which I could not even start, as a warmup, and then moved the anchor over to “Beaver”, the 5-star 12b, while I hung out with Jayko. Peter surprised himself by pulling it first try, after not having climbed for a year. Needless to say he is a very honed guy with absolutely zero visible body fat. Owns a dog-boarding biz in Squamish and plays soccer to stay in shape. Some hints of frustration regarding his situation – understandable, as Jayko, though intelligent and perky, can be annoyingly loud, sometimes deliberately; home schooled so far, in good old liberal-hippie fashion one might say. At one point Jayko was casing the underbrush just out of sight, looking for targets for his tiny bow and plastic straw/suction-cup arrows, and we heard him exclaim portentously, “I came! I saw! I conq – ow!” having stubbed his toe perhaps. He had a good time swinging on the rope (“Beaver” is wildly overhanging) and simultaneously, on the fly, shooting his dad with the bow, with remarkable accuracy.<br />
<br />
A fun day for all – Peter stoked with his hard top-roping success, and me happy with the solid 5.9 lead. “Sphincter Quits” goes in three parts (like Gaul, for that matter): first a curving hand crack, not vertical, easy 5.8, set a directional and two pieces getting to a pseudo-ledge area – #2 ½ tricam at your feet. Now you are safe as regards falling; but the second phase is out on the face to the right; a thin step out and across to the almost dead-vertical crack, too thin for fingers, but has the odd pocket and a few face holds. Trick is to place a good solid nut to start (DMM wallnuts best here) while balancing close in to the rock. Don't waste time at the start, as I did, trying to place a Frost nut in a slightly flaring spot; you must commit a little farther to get a solid placement somewhat higher. Then you can step back down and rest before tightening up your sphincter and going for it. Crux is semi-tough right-facing layback; the third phase is quite easy to the top. No bolt anchors for toproping, but some good cracks. Easy walk-down to the southwest.<br />
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As I told Peter (who was quite complimentary) I got through it on experience, not strength.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtkCu9TTtvD4vrsJm7HUuEE2LG5sZYQfVbEDrcvy9gUxNqxZaQlV9NvFVpaWECWQENcdwkFsnjZDvupuSUhkVTodh2KeBcjvPIXzoyEi_8SlIibEfyAlk_sLnO0bnCoFDESyluZuXcP9Q/s1600/BDSCF0182-0061.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgtkCu9TTtvD4vrsJm7HUuEE2LG5sZYQfVbEDrcvy9gUxNqxZaQlV9NvFVpaWECWQENcdwkFsnjZDvupuSUhkVTodh2KeBcjvPIXzoyEi_8SlIibEfyAlk_sLnO0bnCoFDESyluZuXcP9Q/s640/BDSCF0182-0061.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">IV</div><div style="text-align: center;">Now the New Year reviving old Desires,</div><div style="text-align: center;">The thoughtful Soul to solitude retires</div><div style="text-align: center;">Where the White hand of Moses on the Bough</div><div style="text-align: center;">Puts out, and Jesus from the ground suspires.</div><br />
May 7th, Friday<br />
Sunrise! Yet again!<br />
<br />
Lazy day – went to town – took a shower – got lucky at thrift stores – park service didn't have missing credit card – couldn't find real deet – only fake organic insect repellents. Took a nap in tent – woke up panicked, thinking wallet stolen – had forgotten I had locked it in glove box. What a dufus.<br />
<br />
Afternoon – some good physical bouldering at Echo Cove. A group of jolly wankers were swinging on “Big Mo”, the classic 5.11a 80-foot-tall series of boulder problems – no hope for any of them, but lots of fun was had.<br />
<br />
There are five nice short problems at the entrance to the cove, on the right, ranging from 5.8/subtle to 5.10+/brutal – I did the 5.8 dihedral, 5.9 crack and 5.10- arete (the easiest of the three!). Still conditioning fingers slowly – I tried the Classic Thin Crack (5.11a) on the other side of the cove a couple of times – too thin for my fingers, was my excuse du jour; truth is that I need more strength, less weight, as always. I may have lost a couple of pounds, but more hiking is indicated. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj634PrK22BCHA5yNO5UDqYWiNx9rJAub9UYd_pB3v4T8Cepv1Tz85TLTfySdXjkYm7lDTWYeRl_ZtiHFDri1YPJqe0Ihf4OH0S2RTmZWkEwi6OVa1OPXgPVNLJQ3CFaD9uqkESajPz1X8/s1600/BDSCF0234-0081.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj634PrK22BCHA5yNO5UDqYWiNx9rJAub9UYd_pB3v4T8Cepv1Tz85TLTfySdXjkYm7lDTWYeRl_ZtiHFDri1YPJqe0Ihf4OH0S2RTmZWkEwi6OVa1OPXgPVNLJQ3CFaD9uqkESajPz1X8/s640/BDSCF0234-0081.jpg" width="640" /><span id="goog_129682223"></span><span id="goog_129682224"></span></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Opuntia basilaris</b>, the <b>Beavertail Cactus</b>, is found in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Southwestern_United_States" title="Southwestern United States">southwest</a> <a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/USA" title="USA">USA</a>, mostly in the <a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mojave_desert" title="Mojave desert">Mojave</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colorado_Desert" title="Colorado
Desert">Colorado Deserts</a>, and also in northwest <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mexico" title="Mexico">Mexico</a>.</i></div><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">V</div><div style="text-align: center;">Irám indeed is gone with all its Rose,</div><div style="text-align: center;">And Jamshyd's Sev'n-ring'd Cup where no one knows;</div><div style="text-align: center;">But still the Vine her ancient Ruby yields,</div><div style="text-align: center;">And still a garden by the Water blows.</div><br />
May 8th, Saturday. Sunrise 6:03 <br />
<br />
A lucky day, when balance and optimism were restored, after they had slipped a little. Managed to reach Hannah on her cell as she was walking to the train station with Cierán in NY, and she confirmed that the credit card had been found by an honest person, who called Visa, and the number was changed, etc.<br />
<br />
So I celebrated – went and bought some real DEET (never needed it the rest of the trip) and got crispy fish tacos from Del Taco – not bad. Life cannot be alleged to be totally terrible if your fish tacos are edible, and hot sauce is readily available. I loaded up with sauce packets to boost my bland camping food, and drove back totally without any plan for the rest of the day. An essential state of being – drifting without plans, or any need for plans – which gives the brain a balm, a respite from the dreary months of predictable yet insoluble problems. Finally I loaded up the pack at Real Hidden Valley and went in search of “Zombie Woof”, among other things back beyond “Loose Lady”. Found many beautiful unknown things behind and around Arid Piles and Jimmy Cliff. Finally I recognized “Aguille de Josh”, a tiny spire that stands alone, and turned back. Did some minor bouldering on a flat face I called “Map of Atlantis” and went on home. Early dinner of Bush's Baked Beans doctored with taco chips and Del's hot sauce packets. With about forty-five minutes to sunset I walked out behind the Cyclops and bouldered with some kids – very gratifying, as I did both the “Invisible Wave” and the “Horns of the Minotaur” (my names), both of which I had backed down from, twice, earlier in the week, feeling too tentative. These are the kinds of problems where feeling tentative just kills the vibe, ruins your chances, much like sex.<br />
<br />
After wowing the kids (by 'kids' I mean people probably in their twenties) I quickly hiked up the backside of the Cyclops and shot a rather uninteresting sunset down to the last moment, to balance out the many sunrises. Then in darkness I walked up to the far end of the encampment to see Peter and Jayko and their friend Billy – nice young guy (actually a youthful 40), taking a break from 1-year-old daughter back in LA. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eQV9IRKtLorc0sDO09x9afzT5zMyt21BvIbLIj0nVdOMUhziLLYcGwGB7jWNs7Ue5Pp7dXo7fcVLjpSGoWnim4ibOm-RUu6Px6YNXtFvgt3llvoLoqy9uTkCO-dv8ADRAOO0Qw1_gV8/s1600/BDSCF0622-0081.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4eQV9IRKtLorc0sDO09x9afzT5zMyt21BvIbLIj0nVdOMUhziLLYcGwGB7jWNs7Ue5Pp7dXo7fcVLjpSGoWnim4ibOm-RUu6Px6YNXtFvgt3llvoLoqy9uTkCO-dv8ADRAOO0Qw1_gV8/s640/BDSCF0622-0081.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Datura stramonium</b>, known by the <a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Common_names" title="Common names">common names</a> <b>jimson weed</b>, <b>devil's trumpet</b>, <b>devil's weed</b>, <b>thorn apple</b>, <b>tolguacha</b>, <b>Jamestown weed</b>, <b>stinkweed</b>, <b>locoweed</b>, <b>datura</b>, <b>moonflower</b><sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-NPGS.2FGRIN_0-1"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimson_weed#cite_note-NPGS.2FGRIN-0">[1]</a></sup>, and, in <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/South_Africa" title="South Africa">South Africa</a>, <b>malpitte</b> and <b>mad seeds</b>, is a common <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Weed" title="Weed">weed</a> in the </i><i><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Solanaceae" title="Solanaceae">Solanaceae</a> (<a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nightshade" title="Nightshade">nightshade</a>) family.</i></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">VI</div><div style="text-align: center;">And David's Lips are lock'd; but in divine</div><div style="text-align: center;">High piping Pehlevi, with “Wine! Wine! Wine!</div><div style="text-align: center;">Red Wine!” the Nightingale cries to the Rose </div><div style="text-align: center;">That yellow cheek of hers to incarnadine.</div><br />
Some history of jimson weed, from Wiki:<br />
<i> "Datura stramonium</i> was used as a mystical sacrament in both possible places of origin. Aboriginal Americans in North America, such as the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Algonquin" title="Algonquin">Algonquin</a> and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Luise%C3%B1o" title="Luiseño">Luiseño</a> have used this plant in sacred ceremonies<sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-9"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimson_weed#cite_note-9">[10]</a></sup>. In the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/United_States" title="United States">United States</a> the plant is called jimson weed, or more rarely Jamestown weed; it got this name from the town of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jamestown,_Virginia" title="Jamestown, Virginia">Jamestown, Virginia</a>, where British soldiers were drugged with it while attempting to suppress <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bacon%27s_Rebellion" title="Bacon's
Rebellion">Bacon's Rebellion</a>. They spent eleven days generally appearing to have gone insane."<br />
<br />
It's bad stuff, all right - don't even bother to try to get high with it:<br />
<br />
<i> "Datura</i> intoxication typically produces a complete inability to differentiate <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Reality" title="Reality">reality</a> from <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fantasy" title="Fantasy">fantasy</a> (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Delirium" title="Delirium">delirium</a>, as contrasted to <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hallucination" title="Hallucination">hallucination</a>); <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyperthermia" title="Hyperthermia">hyperthermia</a>; <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tachycardia" title="Tachycardia">tachycardia</a>; bizarre, and possibly violent behavior; and severe <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mydriasis" title="Mydriasis">mydriasis</a> with resultant painful <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Photophobia" title="Photophobia">photophobia</a> that can last several days. Pronounced <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amnesia" title="Amnesia">amnesia</a> is another commonly reported effect.<sup class="reference" id="cite_ref-Freye_7-0"><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimson_weed#cite_note-Freye-7">[8]</a></sup> The antidote of choice for overdose or poisoning is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Physostigmine" title="Physostigmine">physostigmine</a>. <a class="external
autonumber" href="http://www.pshm.org/datura_poisoning.shtml" rel="nofollow">[6]"</a><br />
<br />
Maybe Hunter Thompson put this in his salad every day, but that was just him.<br />
<br />
<br />
May 9th, Sunday – a night and day of heavy wind out of a clear sky.<br />
<br />
Last of the bearclaws – must get more!<br />
<br />
The infinite randomness of consciousness parallels the infinite randomness of granite. Hence finding a meaning – a boulder problem – in the meaningless, blank curves and wrinkles of the granite, is pure poetry, rising inexplicably from the hidden depths like the springs dripping from the dry rocks of the desert.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQS9es-kObtiFwyL2JUueB8G_M0YtLDuWWBUZqt0Fa2FocPLujT2p6p1GhgNSRvWe7kHfho0bv3TBHHDXmvQo0SUILfFVPfZVwddmu3kw2BdUKESle9JcXaUYM6apr1m5vB7qY_buXZuA/s1600/JTFBDSCF0733-016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQS9es-kObtiFwyL2JUueB8G_M0YtLDuWWBUZqt0Fa2FocPLujT2p6p1GhgNSRvWe7kHfho0bv3TBHHDXmvQo0SUILfFVPfZVwddmu3kw2BdUKESle9JcXaUYM6apr1m5vB7qY_buXZuA/s640/JTFBDSCF0733-016.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>The Great Egg of the poetic imagination; there's no telling what might emerge.</i></div><br />
<br />
So: poetry and other high conscious creativity is truly of a 'higher' order than a weaver bird's nest, or an anthill, or any genetically programmed activity? Probably – the possible number of combinations of words in any poem is an immense number even when all 'meaningless' series are excluded. Not so easy to define 'meaningless', I admit.<br />
<br />
7:15 pm<br />
At This Very Moment (which is the only moment that ever really counts) I am boiling up Knorr's Cheezy Bacon Macaroni a la Del Scorcho sauce. Rejoicing in repaired tent – central arch pole snapped in the wind as I was gone climbing. Now dipping stale half-croissant in cheesy pseudo-bacon liquid – haute cuisine!<br />
Notable day's events: not only heavy wind, but rabbits rampant! Hares gone nuts!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqlJ-h5Hma4_8XjlTEQFSZ3t5RWLpHCBrXDKKMIpSpftpOZtqOkFYPxwULf4XcvA5as5PCLi7W8gNajwV5XKHEJW7fpjVBhBL_VkSN60Wsot_Gynm3VItLEj5JMZNou7IcOR1EsyCtFg/s1600/BDSCF0810-0011.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAqlJ-h5Hma4_8XjlTEQFSZ3t5RWLpHCBrXDKKMIpSpftpOZtqOkFYPxwULf4XcvA5as5PCLi7W8gNajwV5XKHEJW7fpjVBhBL_VkSN60Wsot_Gynm3VItLEj5JMZNou7IcOR1EsyCtFg/s640/BDSCF0810-0011.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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In the morning we mounted an expedition to Echo Cove with Peter, Jayko and Billy. Billy led “Fun Stuff” 5.8 – his first lead in 10 years – almost a flash – commendable hanging-in-there vs. nerves. I coached, followed, cleaned and critiqued.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRjexQRe4Z8fJawwa8D0H99FvknkZmQin4UqIbxMy-a5Fm4UcarZQEV_bUogqsEGTta-1MfxNlzUb5l8s7eXBGugdwrp9zMvd8yW0PptL5HdQhIlEx4lY4hBYQ44RtTQHpJVcY-sQBypY/s1600/BDSCF0589-0011.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRjexQRe4Z8fJawwa8D0H99FvknkZmQin4UqIbxMy-a5Fm4UcarZQEV_bUogqsEGTta-1MfxNlzUb5l8s7eXBGugdwrp9zMvd8yW0PptL5HdQhIlEx4lY4hBYQ44RtTQHpJVcY-sQBypY/s640/BDSCF0589-0011.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"></div><br />
Then Peter toproped it with Jayko tied to him with a sling (and full-body harness) and boosting him just a couple of times. Kid was fearless! And having tons of fun – no whining whatsoever, not while climbing anyway.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPlmPaEovssCYeHMyhiCC5ane4n7-ewG32hz9XHRcrPzD74UOFfP5XaZgFv5yJfQWJoaSDOvAar_edsw4KbIPpkRhZrSTqPOGSxZ7XXuSdkz0WsCL7K95zKGgmgZVqEZIUDFaMmupRcw/s1600/BDSCF0591-0031.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilPlmPaEovssCYeHMyhiCC5ane4n7-ewG32hz9XHRcrPzD74UOFfP5XaZgFv5yJfQWJoaSDOvAar_edsw4KbIPpkRhZrSTqPOGSxZ7XXuSdkz0WsCL7K95zKGgmgZVqEZIUDFaMmupRcw/s640/BDSCF0591-0031.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
<div style="text-align: center;"><i>Peter and Jayko pulling over the top.</i></div><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFunfIoZRJ9B96w_4dLM8bIxUmWfCu3w7rCPu9QcNClZZzTEByeFormFD-9r_wY9ecyGkXyXyAidNqz1B-7mJdBnwxp4GpJEvJxeZk_huGXGKbnzAEfaMCswV74EEfiR-k2VKx8OKW_o/s1600/JTFBDSCF0599-2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYFunfIoZRJ9B96w_4dLM8bIxUmWfCu3w7rCPu9QcNClZZzTEByeFormFD-9r_wY9ecyGkXyXyAidNqz1B-7mJdBnwxp4GpJEvJxeZk_huGXGKbnzAEfaMCswV74EEfiR-k2VKx8OKW_o/s640/JTFBDSCF0599-2.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>And headed back to terra firma.</i></div><br />
Home for lunch – smoked oysters, croissant, tortilla chips, water. I took a short nap as the wind tore at the tent sans merci. Then I roused myself and went off to the Beautiful Project behind Arid Piles. Wind not too bad, being from the west, and the face looks east. But it was in shadow, and by the time I had finished toproping it on self-belay I was cold and fed up with the wind. The tedious twenty-minute trudge back to car, the three minute drive home, and I immediately noticed my tent's center-arch pole had snapped and thrust up through the fly – sort of a tent hara-kiri. Immediately Ra showed up in his truck, as if on cue. He is an amusing reincarnation of the popular Egyptian sun-god as a semi-retired carpenter from San Mateo who loves the desert and rides a custom-made titanium mountain bike. He proceeded to magically scrounge up a couple of special rusty nails, originally used in pallets which are burned as kindling, from the dirt around the camp, and inserted them into the broken tube, and I taped it up with athletic tape, put tent-repair tape on the wounded fly, and I was back in business – catastrophe averted. I could have stuck it out with a partially collapsed tent, but my fun would have been diminished. Although my belongings in the tent had been tossed as if by coyote gangsters, it didn't really look much different – a minute of shoving stuff into various corners and you'd never have known anything had happened.<br />
<br />
Thinking of Billy's lead, which, although he is not strictly speaking a novice, challenged him quite seriously due to the many years that had passed since his previous climbing. Peter and I joked back and forth about who had encouraged or coerced him into doing it, though of course we were pretty confident that he would not get into any serious trouble on this particular climb, with the crux right at the bottom, and no runout or sustained physical sections. We agreed that the 'head' for leading is something that has to be regularly renewed and exercised, and when it is not, there is a definite adjustment period, which I personally experience as a sudden fear-pain in the pit on my stomach, even after all these years. I am usually able to recognize it and soothe it by means of intense concentration on the plan of attack for the climb I'm proposing to lead. Thinking of this subject made me compile this short list of novice-leader problems that come up again and again, and cause the inexperienced leader to fail on climbs that are well within his or her physical ability. I once saw an apparently experienced, and obviously extremely fit climber fail miserably to lead Castor, a stiff 5.10 at Seneca, because he was clearly too afraid of the climb to make a tactical plan, and put in twice as many pieces as he needed in the first twenty feet, and zig-zagged them unnecessarily as well, creating drag. Thinking back a quarter century to my own onsight flash lead of it, I don't really know how I did it; I was certainly not as strong as this guy, and had no great store of leading experience. It may just be that I had climbed a lot of cracks by then, and had an edge in crack technique that would have given me time, as I went, to place gear more strategically. Odds are, though, my individual placements were a little sketchy back then; but then, nuts hold well at Seneca.<br />
<br />
Typical novice leader problems and their causes:<br />
Overgripping/forearm flameout – nerves<br />
overprotecting/energy waste – nerves<br />
missing obvious holds – nerves<br />
rope drag – inexperience<br />
weak placements – inexperience<br />
missing rest stances – inexperience<br />
cramped belay stances - inexperience<br />
<br />
There is only one cure for all of these ailments, and that is more climbing!<br />
<br />
The cold wind remained strong; I had to disobey one of the Stupid Commandments of camping – “Never cook in the tent.” – which I have often ignored before. I cooked with the zippers almost closed, the tent rocking back and forth at random. Fairly safe with propane stove – probably not with liquid-fuel types. Basic problem – stakes cannot be driven into this stony ground – we drift on the shallow granite sands by the sufferance of Fate... Perhaps titanium stakes and a hammer would work; but how much must I spend on tent stakes? As the week went on I gathered more and larger boulders from the site and strapped the fly to them; luckily, before I went out that day I had attached a cord to the nearby tree as well.<br />
Sometime after midnight the wind simply stopped altogether, which I think woke me up. And then the 2 am coyote chorus across the hills, brief, as always.<br />
<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">VII</div><div style="text-align: center;">Come, fill the Cup, and in the Fire of Spring</div><div style="text-align: center;">The Winter Garment of Repentance fling:</div><div style="text-align: center;">The Bird of Time has but a little way</div><div style="text-align: center;">To fly, and Lo! The Bird in on the Wing.</div><br />
<br />
May 10th, Monday; sunrise 6:01, 40 degrees F. Tomorrow: re-up for three days; too lazy to move tent, and don't want to risk losing the jury-rig. <br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">“This tune was composéd by Spencer the rover,</div><div style="text-align: center;">As valiant a man, as ever left home...”</div><br />
This is my description of “Dawn Treader” 5.10b (on toprope), the apparently brand new climb out behind the Arid Piles, as per diagram on p. 25 of notebook:<br />
<br />
First section – about 25 feet+, smooth slab split by incipient crack with a few shallow, tricky placements for #5 DMM nuts and the like; about 5.10b on toprope halfway through, then easing off. Ends at a good horizontal with one excellent placement, but getting there on lead could be damned dicey.<br />
<br />
Second section – eight feet, a fairly simple step-up to another good horizontal and pro.<br />
<br />
Third section – about 25 feet again, smooth slab, crack on left. Three possible finishes:<br />
<br />
a) crack on left is easy but annoying, with bushes and yucca to get through, and crumbly big curving flake to the left.<br />
<br />
b) slab climbing, near the crack at first, then angling right and up to a short vertical seam, and then to the crack under the big bulgy headwall (which is not part of climb); about 5.8 at most; no pro available.<br />
<br />
c) directly up the slab to a smooth weird knob, the only one on the face; theoretically one might palm this and mantel up, step up and right to slightly less steep area; finish to crack and exit left under the bulge. I almost got this, and Peter fiddled with it only briefly; I would suspect an .11a or .10d sort of rating. A single bolt could protect this section.<br />
<br />
Expedition to the project, Peter and I leading/following Jayko, who has decreed that we shall play the fantasy Prince Caspian as we go. For the occasion I have been re-christened Prince Caspian (I was offered any character except Reepicheep and Glenstorm.) Peter became Reepicheep the noble mouse, and Jayko took the plum role of Glenstorm the Centaur. Somehow we fought our way through the evil armies of the White Queen to the base of the climb. Peter then did an expert evaluation and recon, finding the pro thin and tricky but feasible – but he didn't want to lead it, nor did I, as I then toproped it twice more, and found it still fairly desperate early on, when pro is a necessity. We ended up thinking that the start – first 20 feet – is 5.10b or maybe b/c, but definitely harder if led.<br />
<br />
There is a 5.8-ish finish on the face alone, to the right of the bushy crack (Ever notice how guidebooks always call that a 'vegetated crack' instead?) on crumbly but adequate edges, curving right to a shallow seam. This allows for a bypass of the annoying crack/flake finish on the left.<br />
<br />
But what would elevate the climb from ordinary to pretty cool, would be the successful use of the smooth knob to the right, in the upper section. It would be a very thin, balancey mantel move – I almost got it, I flatter myself, and so can perhaps use this as a spur to improve my physical conditioning.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFLH0y_7vJfeolDHIMNqeMYhtQntwuY0Phhe_ta8QdtQUtdhPrFCirECyxrrqkiZCK7gqZwI4hdxaiZoW1cngL2YpQmKtq5N82Ie4sd2es67fe7dP7evrUu413FCh_tZQfvwRNWmepMM/s1600/JTFBDSCF0614-1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJFLH0y_7vJfeolDHIMNqeMYhtQntwuY0Phhe_ta8QdtQUtdhPrFCirECyxrrqkiZCK7gqZwI4hdxaiZoW1cngL2YpQmKtq5N82Ie4sd2es67fe7dP7evrUu413FCh_tZQfvwRNWmepMM/s640/JTFBDSCF0614-1.JPG" width="426" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Glenstorm Approaches "Dawn Treader"</i></div><br />
<br />
We made a small detour to view the small but noble crag Zombie Woof on the way back. Jayko staged a big power play to protest the deviation, which we more or less ignored.<br />
<br />
In the afternoon I went to town for gas and more Del Taco fish tacos, plus a vanilla milkshake – a mistake – felt bloated and overfull for a while. I drove around and confirmed the melancholy rumor that the stellar local Italian restaurant called Stefano's no longer exists. Couldn't find anything remotely comparable among the strip malls on 29 Palms highway.<br />
Later I was invited to dinner with Peter and Jayko – a cheerfully chaotic affair. Jayko was as always skylarking, sometimes quite loudly, and mostly hanging out in the tree over the picnic table. Favorite game – guess what animal I am. He became sloth, scorpion, monkey and others – conversation difficult. Peter and I had Molsons, cool but not cold – my first beer in 9 days – ambrosia! Finally Jayko settled on the persona of a monkey named Oo-oo-ee-ee.<br />
Peter: “Can I call you Oo-oo for short?”<br />
Jayko: “No.” Got a laugh.<br />
<br />
When he tried to bite me on the arm (not in a serious manner, but still a little alarming) for the second time, I pulled his head away from my arm by the hair, gently. He then got angry, fake-sobbing, climbed high on a rock and glared down at us. In modern psychopharmia-land they would give him ritalin, etc., but I feel it would be a crime to muzzle such a spirit. Smart kid, too. Always a problem – how to socialize the wild and savage child without blunting his wonderful energy and enthusiasm, sense of self. If he is handled gently, patiently and firmly, he'll end up as an outstanding human being in whatever he does. Maybe that could be said of most of us, I suppose – no parents are perfect, and I have my own share of regrets in the raising of my boys – but whatever I did right, to help them be the fine young men they are, was a function of my limited store of patience, gentleness and love, and did not stem from my intellect or discipline.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYLYOw2zkTo-fO9QE8SsNjVI_84eYqbGeOfHYlQI0plva2ArMt7A-EaWvpY7qX2YPJSJ81ADgvel6_OTnc0Lb5215_zmlZ2NN9kw0phzBpJbQiPsFNodoarF6_MLhFnK2bc9vIfc1ePNw/s1600/BDSCF0369-0161.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYLYOw2zkTo-fO9QE8SsNjVI_84eYqbGeOfHYlQI0plva2ArMt7A-EaWvpY7qX2YPJSJ81ADgvel6_OTnc0Lb5215_zmlZ2NN9kw0phzBpJbQiPsFNodoarF6_MLhFnK2bc9vIfc1ePNw/s640/BDSCF0369-0161.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">VIII</div><div style="text-align: center;">And look – a thousand Blossoms with the Day</div><div style="text-align: center;">Woke – and a thousand scatter'd into Clay:</div><div style="text-align: center;">And this first Summer month that brings the Rose</div><div style="text-align: center;">Shall take Jamshyd and Kaikobád away.</div><br />
May 11th, Tuesday Sunrise 6:00am<br />
<br />
It was a cold night – wore hat, fleece sox etc. This morning there was a thin layer of frost on the car; when the sun rose it disappeared before my coffee boiled. Peter and Jayko are off to town today – I should develop a plan, I guess. Hike “Galapagos” region? Very low on propane.<br />
<br />
9:50 – rambling hike of Galapagos area.<br />
<br />
Far down the wash leading to the left of Jerry's Quarry is a small obelisk, not far on the left. There is a 25-foot route, 5.9-ish I think, on the near corner. Not too much farther is a bouldering area with a very hard-looking, highball horizontals problem. On the east side of the pile is a shrine to the sun god – stones laid out as a sunburst, with eight arms oriented to the cardinal directions, on a gentle slope facing east, with a view open probably 25 miles to the southeast. To pay my respects to the sun god (although I salute him with coffee the moment he rises each day) I did some nude sunbathing. The wind was a bit chilly, but I was partly sheltered here, and the god was strong.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdBBlWlHSz9K6JbFvJZknhPlWITMQQTKPAho6quJld45N4yxe14RNFHZsrQmeU-BlcdwHOBdWm568ACSX3u9sqKR1JSRjUa3ro-aTMFAikIEhGHrS7fD9qKqU0V4PkvKWAeY8d1xJn6uQ/s1600/BDSCF0656-0211.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdBBlWlHSz9K6JbFvJZknhPlWITMQQTKPAho6quJld45N4yxe14RNFHZsrQmeU-BlcdwHOBdWm568ACSX3u9sqKR1JSRjUa3ro-aTMFAikIEhGHrS7fD9qKqU0V4PkvKWAeY8d1xJn6uQ/s640/BDSCF0656-0211.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Sorry - nude model just left!</i></div><br />
<br />
Random items:<br />
hummingbird sat for a portrait. Two shots, one good.<br />
Coyote skull and jaw in wash.<br />
Several fun boulder problems, widely spaced.<br />
Lot's wife in granite.<br />
Bees still there in the crack, not as active.<br />
Probably a large owl, flying.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0JcDSmTU7v0F_W2FmqFOR-mQ2lzvoKri7dCi5egEq0ECIMVtw-QWahCE3iavuNoaRiAc8lbTVjJVqhNy0NsGQHN8kzbenaM2yDpAy8ohjvRi9r15wtBDryNU-YoxYgrqq7Ln2exete4/s1600/BDSCF0747-0041.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiL0JcDSmTU7v0F_W2FmqFOR-mQ2lzvoKri7dCi5egEq0ECIMVtw-QWahCE3iavuNoaRiAc8lbTVjJVqhNy0NsGQHN8kzbenaM2yDpAy8ohjvRi9r15wtBDryNU-YoxYgrqq7Ln2exete4/s640/BDSCF0747-0041.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i> Hummingbird on a twig.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"></div><br />
<br />
Forgot my danged binoculars! – a must-have for full enjoyment of this huge landscape. Tremendous climbing potential, but diffuse, lots of trudging.<br />
<br />
NOTE: Turnoffs # 3 and 4 are not insight of each other, though not far apart. If you return from hiking at #3 and think your car was stolen, walk right, south, downhill, to #4 before panicking.<br />
<br />
After eight solid hours of wandering the vast waves of the desert beyond “Equinox” (mid-seventies, windy at first, some small clouds last two hours) with only a liter of water and one crispy food bar, I drove home and gobbled Alfredo tuna surprise, and saw once again before me the beautiful, glowing Cyclops in the dying hour of the sun. I grabbed my old friends, the green Scarpa Edges that have never failed me, and I soloed the easy 'chimney' up the middle (too huge for any actual chimneying technique) which is possibly the most-climbed pitch in the park, being so attractive, easy and convenient of access. Just a happy jugfest with one or two moments of thought required on the first time. Sort of like the first time I ever had sex, but without the delirium.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6b6-hT_9k6HpxgO20fPaaSD2W6h1fmpyV9Z_dTD2zT-N0blP4l2BlMVL71Qief-on05uNOrQ2MgTosnWmlXHPxcrx9omNW5MfMpuMVNBcZKg5oOMMw7tSTQML9PrFfwAE_Us7Jl7VetU/s1600/BDSCF0464-0281.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6b6-hT_9k6HpxgO20fPaaSD2W6h1fmpyV9Z_dTD2zT-N0blP4l2BlMVL71Qief-on05uNOrQ2MgTosnWmlXHPxcrx9omNW5MfMpuMVNBcZKg5oOMMw7tSTQML9PrFfwAE_Us7Jl7VetU/s640/BDSCF0464-0281.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Toproping the Cyclops in the eternal afternoon.</i></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br />
</div>Did a couple of boulder problems out back to keep up the finger conditioning, walked home in the gloaming and to bed.<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">IX</div><div style="text-align: center;">But come with old Khayyám, and leave the Lot</div><div style="text-align: center;">Of Kaikobád and Kaikhosrú forgot:</div><div style="text-align: center;">Let Rustum lay about him as he will,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Or Hátim Tai cry supper – heed them not.</div><br />
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May 12, Wednesday. Sunrise 5:57:45 – sun precessing into a slight pass in the hills, hence showing a little earlier than expected.<br />
<br />
Professional astronomers will no doubt scoff at my careless use of the term 'precession'. Wiki defines axial precession as follows:<br />
<br />
“Axial precession is the movement of the rotational axis of an astronomical body, whereby the axis slowly traces out a cone.”<br />
<br />
This therefore might seem like a reasonable word to call the drift of the points on the horizon where the sun rises and sets as the seasons change; however, reality is always layered with greater complexity than at first appears, and they go on:<br />
<br />
“In the case of the Earth, this type of precession is also known as the precession of the equinoxes or precession of the equator. The Earth goes through one such complete precessional cycle in a period of approximately 26,000 years, during which the positions of stars as measured in the equatorial coordinate system will slowly change; the change is actually due to the change of the coordinates. Over this cycle the Earth's north axial pole moves from where it is now, within 1° of Polaris, in a circle around the ecliptic pole, with an angular radius of about 23.5 degrees (or approximately 23 degrees 27 arcminutes [2]). The shift is 1 degree in 72 years, where the angle is taken from the observer, not from the center of the circle.<br />
Discovery of the precession of the equinoxes is generally attributed to the ancient Greek astronomer Hipparchus (ca. 150 B.C.). The Precession (axial rotation) was later explained by Newtonian physics. Being an oblate spheroid, the Earth has a nonspherical shape, bulging outward at the equator. The gravitational tidal forces of the Moon and Sun apply torque as they attempt to pull the equatorial bulge into the plane of the ecliptic. The portion of the precession due to the combined action of the Sun and the Moon is called lunisolar precession.”<br />
<br />
I feel happy that this level of complexity was within the grasp of Hipparchus way back then, and also that we still have plenty of people who fully understand this, unlike the very dim and rudimentary understanding I can assemble. I'll take it on faith, that it is all true – not because I worship at any altar, but because for the last 2,160 years intelligent people have checked it and rechecked it in the normal course of learning the sciences, and not one could prove it to be flawed. There is my faith: that the human mind desperately loves to prove another human mind wrong, and to discover a new and original truth that cannot be pulled down, no matter how much reason is applied, for that is one of the few forms of immortality available to us. <br />
<br />
I've re-shot many of the same photos I have taken on previous trips, so as to have them on digital as well as film. The same quirky items jump out at me, like the huge guardian-troll face on lower Cyclops west corner.<br />
Desperately in need of a shower – immersed in dust and pollen all day yesterday, sneezing and dripping. Also need some ready-to-eat foods as propane nearly gone – not worth buying more just for two days. Shave, haircut?<br />
<br />
Tense tableau unfolds! As I sat in the car, avoiding the wind and thinking of this and that, a large crow and two ground squirrels proceeded to ransack my camp, getting very little. One of the squirrels stood up straight, just behind the water jug for quite a long time, not even blinking an eyelash, as the crow paced back and forth on a nearby rock. It reminded me of the little girl in one of the Jurassic Park movies holding extremely still so as not to trigger the motion-sensing eyes of the tyrannosaur. Finally the crow hopped down and finished off the dried cranberries I had left for Scruffy, and the squirrels went over the table and grounds with a fine-toothed comb.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6OSXSVa9aUZuF-g3hLcgDgjyCJShQIDDeSMzkskaSemC7jzo79H3_53h185hyphenhyphenRyDETbYKXIzTNQFdr6SBr01CirOJNiFdNRYgcoWtBUck34OT_DRe1f9e09svFBsYQOq_aPDEw9SG5eg/s1600/BDSCF0447-0271.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6OSXSVa9aUZuF-g3hLcgDgjyCJShQIDDeSMzkskaSemC7jzo79H3_53h185hyphenhyphenRyDETbYKXIzTNQFdr6SBr01CirOJNiFdNRYgcoWtBUck34OT_DRe1f9e09svFBsYQOq_aPDEw9SG5eg/s640/BDSCF0447-0271.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"> <i>Brazen thieves, openly conspiring to rob me!</i></div><br />
Blue Jay just came by on his rounds, saw that nothing was left, and flew off in a huff. No comment though. Useful thing the crows taught me: do not leave your large water jugs unguarded when you go climbing, as the crows can and will punch holes in them - maybe near the top, and you'll lose a little water, or maybe at the bottom, and you'll lose most of the water.<br />
<br />
~ 11:00 am – warm, sunny, wind dying. Peter, Jayko, Ra and I went up the camp a little bit, and I led “Hands Off”, 5.8*** a classic crack best done with as much stemming, etc. as possible; finish is a bit steeper and harder. Crack accepts nearly anything – nuts are good, keep some smalls for the last bit. Very popular, obviously, kind of greasy. Peter says he's done it probably twenty times over the years, it being so convenient in Hidden Valley campground.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtE8pv9YzsKhVm22fYk3CIxZtYGbgGvRxSZSkOPdT16Jqiq9j6AqsGG-_FBLOPF3JgM_ni3RFom81dI6ijXYIFf8ooSVv0rRK1PEQ8QvNMyQQG9mYMoH-2MUUOSYrFnwUAIp9-37EwfV8/s1600/JTFBDSCF0829-4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtE8pv9YzsKhVm22fYk3CIxZtYGbgGvRxSZSkOPdT16Jqiq9j6AqsGG-_FBLOPF3JgM_ni3RFom81dI6ijXYIFf8ooSVv0rRK1PEQ8QvNMyQQG9mYMoH-2MUUOSYrFnwUAIp9-37EwfV8/s640/JTFBDSCF0829-4.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Notice that the lizard's tail does not yet know that it no longer serves a lizard, and still flails.</i></div><br />
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Then we all went off to the Zombie Woof crag. On the north side I led all but the last move – a pure leap, like a jump ball in basketball, which my knees can no longer do – of the short two-bolt 5.10b. Peter worked TR on “Zombie” and “Poodle” Woofs – no progress on either one – both are very, very bad. “I'm about as baaaad as a boogie-man can be.” - from the eponymous Frank Zappa classic. “Poodle” only 10b? We think not – inexplicable, maybe a weird contorted bouldering start. “Zombie” at 12b is just brutally physical. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5P-sazPjGedcb-fLG6xLhqDbmu-4m4wZRWcI-AL7kdsecSNBoKf_435DJdMruV3c99jcuLB2cMDNe2TGfNXegJ6oV4_2mR2PSnEgTWL4GSJYTzBHn8QncrqHJyoxoJev4cs8btMQLc3I/s1600/BDSCF0627-0071.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5P-sazPjGedcb-fLG6xLhqDbmu-4m4wZRWcI-AL7kdsecSNBoKf_435DJdMruV3c99jcuLB2cMDNe2TGfNXegJ6oV4_2mR2PSnEgTWL4GSJYTzBHn8QncrqHJyoxoJev4cs8btMQLc3I/s640/BDSCF0627-0071.JPG" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">X</div><div style="text-align: center;">With me along some Strip of Herbage strown</div><div style="text-align: center;">That just divides the Desert from the sown,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Where name of Slave and Sultán scarce is known</div><div style="text-align: center;">And pity Sultán Máhmúd on his throne.</div><br />
May 13th, Thursday. <br />
<br />
Last full day here, and for the occasion it is actually overcast, and I get no sunrise, after nine straight days of seeing the actual moment the sun struck over the hill. I feel a little old – stiff lower back, etc. But the cold is moderating.<br />
<br />
Breakfast at Country Kitchen! “Home Cook'n” their motto. Opens early, until 3 pm. Classic American greasy spoon near the corner of Park and 29 Palms Highway. Owned and operated by Peng and Madleine Uy – apparently Cambodian. Crammed with kitsch – figurines, plastic flowers (some for sale at your table!), Buddha heads, big-eyed cat statues, bric-a-brac, “nic-nacs” and “doo-dads” (as listed on a yard-sale sign posted on the inside of the front door). Near the door, a wooden panel neatly lettered using a soldering iron advises, almost in haiku:<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">IN GOD WE TRUST</div><div style="text-align: center;">ALL AUTHORS PAY CASH</div><div style="text-align: center;">NO PLASTIC OR CHECK'S</div><br />
As there is no other evidence in the restaurant of ironic consciousness, I will assume that the substitution of 'authors' for 'others' is a genuine malapropism, in total agreement with the naïve charm of the décor. (Not everyone knows that one should never extend credit to authors.) On the wall above my table there was a nicely framed colored-pastel drawing of the restaurant, which is a quarter the size of even a small MacDonald's. (Park in the back on a dirt lot accessed only from the back of the block.) The drawing depicts the building from an angle above, and several western galoots with ten-gallon hats and big old mustaches are sauntering egregiously and jauntily towards the door from their respective pickup trucks. I had some generously-portioned but indifferently cooked eggs, toast and bacon.<br />
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Led “Flue” 5.8***, on the Chimney formation right behind my tent – easy in general, the start is easier than it looks; don't waste time going to the right. Lead the slanting crack with your feet mostly below it. The crack is fairly rough in texture although obviously popular; I meant to use my crack gloves but forgot, and it didn't much matter. The occasion was marked by a weird rainbow high in the sky, arcing part way around the sun – so weird I had to run back to the car for the camera. Magical Mystery Tour etc.<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWAjdHN39cfNJrAXgIgHm6TxP83TLDq96puOdlbhcx69q9ceuThuYdq7d0mDXKLQ_rwJvLn76CGHqvB6ArGyjNN_xfnWbVDQSDDnvZYjSD7q4-0DLV6yhny9jDrKiORwVE-yRKZq_tVCc/s1600/BDSCF0818-0241.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWAjdHN39cfNJrAXgIgHm6TxP83TLDq96puOdlbhcx69q9ceuThuYdq7d0mDXKLQ_rwJvLn76CGHqvB6ArGyjNN_xfnWbVDQSDDnvZYjSD7q4-0DLV6yhny9jDrKiORwVE-yRKZq_tVCc/s640/BDSCF0818-0241.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>What the hell? Have the gods gone cuckoo?</i></div> <br />
Some more quickie Wiki research seems to indicate that this was a circumhorizontal arc (NOT an upside-down rainbow) and not a circumzenithal arc nor even an infralateral. The differences between the various arcs that can be found in the sky are pretty dry, so let's just not go into it, shall we?<br />
<br />
Then we both toproped “Raven's Reach” 5.10a without difficulty, and Peter toproped the 5.10b between them, that looks so hard, with no apparent difficulty. We went on out to Zombie Woof, again, with detours to look at “Gripped up in the Hole” and “Lucky Lady”, both not worth the trouble at this time. (“Hole” is a short two-bolt 5.10a with a weird, dangerous start involving stepping sideways off a tall boulder and immediately doing a peculiar and probably irreversible mantel to get on the climb, with a somewhat nasty little fall. I said, “Would it have <i>killed</i> them to put one bolt right here to protect the start?” and Peter immediately replied, “Yes, it would have <i>killed</i> them to do that, because they were Joshua Tree climbers!” and we had a laugh at that.)<br />
<br />
I once again led the short 5.10b and pulled on the bolt to finish it, and Peter gave the Z.W. four valiant attempts, each time getting a little farther, but still no solution to the problem of turning the roof. Jayko had a few swings on the rope and we said our goodbyes.<br />
<br />
A song that has inexplicably stayed in my memory, probably for the last 50 years:<br />
<h2>Git Along Little Dogies</h2><a href="http://www.blogger.com/post-edit.g?blogID=9173420424668645583&postID=6482412877300078756" name="index_x_136"></a> <br />
<ul><li>As I was out walking one morning for pleasure, </li>
<li>I spied a cowpuncher come ridin' along, </li>
<li>His hat was thrown back and his spurs were a-jinglin' </li>
<li>And as he approached he was singing this song. </li>
</ul><b>Chorus:</b> <br />
<br />
<ul><li>Whoopie ti-yi-yo git along little dogies, </li>
<li>It's your misfortune and none of my own. </li>
<li>Whoopie ti-yi-yo git along little dogies, </li>
<li>For you know that Wyoming will be your new home. </li>
</ul><ul><li>It's early in spring when we round up the dogies. </li>
<li>We mark 'em and brand 'em and bob off their tails. </li>
<li>They round up the horses and load the chuck wagon, </li>
<li>And throw the little dogies upon the long trail. </li>
</ul><ul><li>Your mama was raised way down in old Texas, </li>
<li>Where the jimson weed and cactus grow. </li>
<li>We'll fill you up on prickly pear and cholla, </li>
<li>Until you are ready for Idaho. </li>
</ul><br />
Off to shower, shave and haircut in town. Found a beauty salon open on south side of highway in Yucca Valley. Hairdresser named Kathleen Bruce, a good-looking lady of 60, loves camping in JT with her kids and grandkids.<br />
<br />
The restaurant formerly called Alejandro's has lost the cheesy statue, improved the décor and now calls itself La Casita Nueva – chicken fajitas not half bad w/two bottles of Negro Modelo. It was a struggle to finish it all; $17 – they apparently forgot to charge me for the second Modelo. $22 with tip. My tank is now full.<br />
<br />
More astronomical matters: Peter told me that a smaller, visible star orbits the second star in the tail of Ursa Major, and the orbit is fairly fast. I was able to see it at the 5-o'clock position with respect to the bigger star by adjusting my astigmatism in the usual manner, pulling at the corners of my eyes. Later I confirmed it with binoculars; also saw a fairly good-sized meteor burn up.<br />
<br />
We had clear air that last night; I stood near my tent looking up at the sky. The Milky Way spread far, horizon to horizon, northwest and southeast. I noticed, or constructed, a pattern: a vague set of footprints, or stepping stones, laid out along the galaxy, in several sets of paired stars. I know that these pairs in fact have no actual relationships, either in themselves or to each other; their only meaning is the image itself, as seen by me, from this point in space and time, and written down here for my memory; yet I looked at them and thought of the mythic journey that is intrinsic to consciousness, that is essential to human life. When we cannot walk across the land, when we cannot see the endless sky, when we are mired or imprisoned in our imperfect brains, we mourn, we struggle in panic against the death that is stasis. Life must move, and we must travel the galaxy, and we must paint the stars with meaning, even knowing that the paint, a mere ephemera like ourselves, is the only meaning they can have.<br />
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<br />
From Wiki:<br />
<br />
"The Mizar-Alcor stellar sextuple system consists of the quadruplet system Mizar and the binary system Alcor. Mizar (ζ UMa / ζ Ursae Majoris) is a quadruplet system of two binary stars in the constellation Ursa Major and is the second star from the end of the Big Dipper's handle. Its apparent magnitude is 2.23 and its spectral class is A1V. Mizar's name comes from the Arabic مئزر mīzar, meaning a waistband or girdle.)<br />
With normal eyesight one can make out a faint companion just to the east, named Alcor or 80 Ursae Majoris. Alcor is of magnitude 3.99 and spectral class A5V. Mizar and Alcor together are sometimes called the "Horse and Rider," and the ability to resolve the two stars with the naked eye is often quoted as a test of eyesight, although even people with quite poor eyesight can see the two stars. Arabic literature says that only those with the sharpest eyesight can see the companion of Mizar. Astronomer Sir Patrick Moore has suggested that this in fact refers to another star which lies visually between Mizar and Alcor. Mizar and Alcor lie three light-years apart, and though their proper motions show they move together (they are both members of the Ursa Major Moving Group), it was long believed they do not form a true binary star system, but simply a double star. However, in 2009, it was reported by astronomer Eric Mamajek and collaborators that Alcor actually is itself a binary, consisting of Alcor A and Alcor B, and that this binary system is most likely gravitationally bound to Mizar, bringing the full count of stars in this complex system to six.[1] Their study also demonstrated that the Alcor binary and Mizar quadruple are much closer together than previously thought - approximately 74,000 ± 39,000 Astronomical Units.[2]<br />
<br />
The whole four-star system lies about 78 light-years away from Earth. The components are all members of the Ursa Major moving group, a mostly dispersed group of stars sharing a common birth, as determined by proper motion. The other stars of the Big Dipper, except Dubhe and Alkaid, belong to this group as well."<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">XIV</div><div style="text-align: center;">The Worldly Hope men set their Hearts upon</div><div style="text-align: center;">Turns ashes – or it prospers, and anon,</div><div style="text-align: center;">Like Snow upon the Desert's dusty face</div><div style="text-align: center;">Lighting a little hour or two – is gone.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">All text and photos Copyright 2010 by David Warren Rockwell .</div></div>Davehttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02410730859699014703noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9173420424668645583.post-8913213233229768332010-03-22T19:29:00.001-07:002010-03-22T19:45:21.073-07:00what was it that he trusted so?<meta content="text/html; charset=utf-8" http-equiv="Content-Type"></meta><meta content="Word.Document" name="ProgId"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Generator"></meta><meta content="Microsoft Word 11" name="Originator"></meta><link href="file:///C:%5CDOCUME%7E1%5CDAVIDR%7E1%5CLOCALS%7E1%5CTemp%5Cmsohtml1%5C01%5Cclip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link><style>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_FJrgYyQpmuTe0pG-G14G-hkynwidwOAWZYrN75jDtUwKJ-U40BtLAk4RZ55q3f8Ki5eclwZE-JJXiq99j72SPYMQP1cEYUqH1m9TkmMjV-j9TcLFuNdqo3L6Rin87x20gyM6ssZnvAE/s1600-h/snow+field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_FJrgYyQpmuTe0pG-G14G-hkynwidwOAWZYrN75jDtUwKJ-U40BtLAk4RZ55q3f8Ki5eclwZE-JJXiq99j72SPYMQP1cEYUqH1m9TkmMjV-j9TcLFuNdqo3L6Rin87x20gyM6ssZnvAE/s640/snow+field.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText"> </div><div class="DefaultText">On a day entirely neutral grey: January 13th, 1998</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPz0Fv8vNLSKp_YsytH0lNCl9zXIaJJp_zfVi4oPjrbhFLPZa-B4eqBpwdr03enTVcHq6YYb9DzWhmEPBFmrx_EvN_faoGV-dFCc4GzxXqpuM_Ej8HvFXt93Eo22cGf7xVt_ERTRyXMY/s1600-h/snow+gorge.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgPz0Fv8vNLSKp_YsytH0lNCl9zXIaJJp_zfVi4oPjrbhFLPZa-B4eqBpwdr03enTVcHq6YYb9DzWhmEPBFmrx_EvN_faoGV-dFCc4GzxXqpuM_Ej8HvFXt93Eo22cGf7xVt_ERTRyXMY/s640/snow+gorge.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
</div><div class="DefaultText">A full foot of dry powder</div><div class="DefaultText">came down after Christmas</div><div class="DefaultText">a blessing filling the locust woods</div><div class="DefaultText">draping all thorns, outlining</div><div class="DefaultText">the rock maple, revealing structure</div><div class="DefaultText">in the erasure of the intermediate;</div><div class="DefaultText">stone walls, the foundations</div><div class="DefaultText">of forgotten barns and houses</div><div class="DefaultText">and the fading roads through the trees</div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrrdPqWADYRkotq2U9StIgdcc3ipEWOsMehLTdZvrkBaWf0V9G0Vodij6hdFblxcj0MTa39OxlYEGPxrGXoV1lh395BjUImwt0PHf8uGPZ3tVAtAhN0seSlw2pmZFWgpG3VwmrnlgHIQM/s1600-h/snow+wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="394" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrrdPqWADYRkotq2U9StIgdcc3ipEWOsMehLTdZvrkBaWf0V9G0Vodij6hdFblxcj0MTa39OxlYEGPxrGXoV1lh395BjUImwt0PHf8uGPZ3tVAtAhN0seSlw2pmZFWgpG3VwmrnlgHIQM/s640/snow+wall.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br />
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<br />
My sons and I went out to sled</div><div class="DefaultText">found a suitable slope</div><div class="DefaultText">down through the trees and across</div><div class="DefaultText">a wide trail, ending in a rocky pit</div><div class="DefaultText">a farmer's basement a century gone;</div><div class="DefaultText">a couple of runs made the track fast</div><div class="DefaultText">and Eamonn complained that the snow</div><div class="DefaultText">into his eyes would blow</div><div class="DefaultText">and sting, and he said,</div><div class="DefaultText">“I know what I'll do,”</div><div class="DefaultText">and halfway down his last run</div><div class="DefaultText">pulled his hat down to his chin</div><div class="DefaultText">and rode his bucking sled blind</div><div class="DefaultText">into the white future</div><div class="DefaultText">wild and unafraid</div><div class="DefaultText">what was it that he trusted so?<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-6efzSHfXkk48K8TatHiWBCm164-78kJt95Wph-9vKKrxHSxf1POHk5f0pVwI923W6UbXsQ8tnU7ElHB1X1l-vWW4K7XUCTNsWgGq95WONgMcFCFAq9Kz4lKE0Jxt-EqBxzZjYvPUHyw/s1600-h/snow+thicket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="410" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-6efzSHfXkk48K8TatHiWBCm164-78kJt95Wph-9vKKrxHSxf1POHk5f0pVwI923W6UbXsQ8tnU7ElHB1X1l-vWW4K7XUCTNsWgGq95WONgMcFCFAq9Kz4lKE0Jxt-EqBxzZjYvPUHyw/s640/snow+thicket.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
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</div><div class="DefaultText">and he slammed the trail, flew into white air,</div><div class="DefaultText">skimmed the submerged stones and</div><div class="DefaultText">caromed off a locust tree</div><div class="DefaultText">shouted in pain and lay still</div><div class="DefaultText">in the uncomplaining snow<br />
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</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-LceRJ9YRM_y-AmfaF29FGAVzdOjpIDIF6njd7Ij7enF4-iNpr5eTr3CuVBAu0cgsiLR-Eh6AW5Dd9f0mLa7QNhhXbzCXfVNhUHaXGn2bi0sC3H54Y5R6gUKBjb6VM46hId00lEy3iq8/s1600-h/snow+twin+oak.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="428" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-LceRJ9YRM_y-AmfaF29FGAVzdOjpIDIF6njd7Ij7enF4-iNpr5eTr3CuVBAu0cgsiLR-Eh6AW5Dd9f0mLa7QNhhXbzCXfVNhUHaXGn2bi0sC3H54Y5R6gUKBjb6VM46hId00lEy3iq8/s640/snow+twin+oak.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><div class="DefaultText"><br />
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</div><div class="DefaultText">and we ran down to him, my</div><div class="DefaultText">heart torn in two</div><div class="DefaultText">between fear that he was maimed</div><div class="DefaultText">and pure wonder at his wildness;</div><div class="DefaultText">lifted him up and got him walking,</div><div class="DefaultText">promising him hot chocolate</div><div class="DefaultText">in the warm kitchen of the present,</div><div class="DefaultText">the house still full of life and noise</div><div class="DefaultText">and color, sailing on a sea of snow.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">What was it that he trusted so? </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;"><i>Eamonn, Christmas 2010</i></span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br />
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