Barry Clark's Blog
- Billy Budd, July 2008
- Italy - April, 2008
- White Sands - March, 2008
- Healing - February, 2008
- Trip Report - January, 2008
- Walking and Church - January, 2008
- Christmas, December, 2007
- Resquiscat in pace canem amatem December 7, 2007
- Purchases, August, 2007
- Sermonette, August 12, 2007
- Helispot 38, July 2007
- Yellowstone, May 2007
- Perceptions, April 2007
- Memorial Service, February 2007
- Newspaper, February 2007
- Jordan Canyon, February 2007
- Peace March, January 2007
- Medical Event, January 2007
- Sermonette, January 3, 2007
- Christmas in Boston, December, 2006
- Chupadera trail, November, 2006
- Sermonette, October 5, 2006
- Mill Canyon, September, 2006
- Sermonette, September 8, 2006
- Wet in the Gila, Labor day, 2006
- Coffeemaker diatribe, August, 2006
- Food, August, 2006
- Salome, August, 2006
- Driving around, July, 2006
- Carmen, Santa Fe Opera, July, 2006
- Sangre de Cristos, July, 2006
Barry Clark's home page
Sangre de Cristos, July, 2006
I had planned a nice loop walk in the Sangre de Cristos, which looked
like a strenuous three days or an easy four. However, I had ignored
something which has become a factor of increasing importance - these
days a mile at elevations above 10,000 feet is the equivalent of about
three miles below 9,000.
We had a late start, arriving at the trailhead at a little after 11 AM.
At this point we had to wait a while for it to stop raining. A bad omen,
that. We hit the trail about noon. The dog was very unhappy indeed.
She doesn't like being wet, and is terrified of thunder. So we rolled
into Pecos Baldy Lake about 7 PM, had a meager dinner and started to
settle in for the night.
I have a new toy, a backpacking tent. Previously, I just carried a tarp,
which, in wet weather, could be used to convert me and the sleeping bag
into a taco. Which worked well enough, but sometimes attracted pitying
looks from other campers. So, anyhow, I was trying to set up the tent,
and not having much luck - "Insert the pole into the open end of the pole
sleeve and place the outer end into the grommet on the tent side tab."
But pole end and said grommet seemed to be about a foot apart, and no
way to get them closer. (I'll have to set up the tent in the living room
to see if it's really possible.) At this point, it started to rain
fairly hard, so I flung the tent into whatever configuration it seemed
willing to assume, flung in the sleeping bag and myself. Turns out
my ad hoc assembly left a square foot of area without rain protection
down at the foot, so my sleeping bag had a soaked area near the feet,
and I had to sleep rather contorted to keep my feet from getting cold
(which had its own problems with leg cramps). The rain continued,
with a few short intermissions, until about 3 AM.
The dog decided the tent was a good thing, despite her inclination to
avoid close physical contract, and happily joined me.
In the morning, I was treated to a spectacular display of the alpengluem,
the sunrise colors painting the face of Pecos Baldy, across the way. But
after a few minutes of that, the sun went behind the clouds, and I became really
very discouraged - if we had early morning clouds, the prospects for much
fair weather during the day didn't seem very good. I concluded to call
the game on account of rain, and go home.
In order to salvage something of the trip, however, I decided to take the
walk to the top of Pecos Baldy (actually, West Pecos Baldy, the higher
of the two peaks). I rather collect New Mexico Baldies. I've been on
Santa Fe Baldy, Pecos Baldy, North Baldy, South Baldy, Whitewater Baldy,
and Mogollon Baldy. Anyway, a pleasant (though rather steep) hike, and
a really great view from the top. Also, when I summited, it was
a magnificent day, with blue skies, and not a cloud in them. My mood
improved 100%, and I thought I might continue the hike, now four days
for sure because of the side trip.
However, when I got back to the lake (two and a half hours for a two mile
excursion, because of the over 10,000 foot effect) and struck camp,
the sky was once again about 50% clouds - pretty, fluffy clouds with flat
black bottoms - which did not presage well for the thunder phobia of the
dog. So, in the end, I decided to call it off and go back home.
The weather behaved pretty well for us, though. Not a peep of thunder
until 2 PM, and the first actual shower at 3. However, about three
minute after getting back to the car, before I was actually ready to
roll, there was a fairly major downpour.
The scenery was really gorgeous, though. From Pecos Baldy there was range
after range of green hills before any overt signs of human presence. And
the trail was nearly as beautiful, wandering through fir forests, stands
of aspen, luxurious meadows and groves of blue spruce. There is nothing
so beautiful as an evergreen forest after a rain.
I got sunburned on the backs of my hands. The local stores seem to carry
sunblock only in 8 oz bottles, and is a guy who buys a four pound tent
somebody who would carry a half pound bottle of sunblock?
Carmen, Santa Fe Opera, July, 2006
For a synopsis of Carmen
I don't know why I was looking forward so much to the opera season
starting. 'Carmen' isn't really one of my favorite operas. It is filled
with people who just aren't very nice. Don Jose is a characterless
jerk, Escamillo is an egotistical jerk, Carmen is a born troublemaker
with terrorist tendencies who never misses an opportunity to indulge
her natural proclivities, Zuniga is an arrogant brass-hat. The virtuous
Michaela might be OK if she was a human being instead of a plot device.
The only sympathetic dramatis personae were a troop of street urchins
about Jasper's age who lined up next to the soldiers and marched in step
with them, carefully out of range of a cuff on the ear.
Still, Escamillo's 'Toreador' theme has got to be one of the greatest
leitmotivs of opera.
The squalid occurrence of Don Jose murdering his former lover is the
stuff of the daily newspaper. Which made the opera rather shocking
when first came out. But my sympathy is not that engaged because the
individuals involved are such scum.
It is the genius of opera, that the combination of music and drama
transcends either of its components. Listening to the music alone
would have been boring. Watching the drama alone, without a great
deal more development, would have been merely squalid. But put the
two together and you've got something. One can even put up with the
likes of Carmen.
Driving around, July, 2006
I took the car on a circumnavigation of the Magdalena Mountains
yesterday. The thought was to locate the Mill Canyon trailhead.
I might like to walk that trail sometime when there isn't a
thunderhead sitting over the Magdalena Ridge, and thought I might
get a bit forwarder by locating the trailhead. And the thought
was apposite. I spent a good deal of time wandering around Rock
Creek Canyon before realizing I was in the wrong place.
Anyhow, I soon found the proper road. A few miles up that road,
I found it occupied by a flock of sheep. They were being herded by
two sheep-sized dogs and a llama. The dogs came over to the car
and stuck their heads in the driver-side window and asked if I had
any nefarious intentions with respect to their sheep. But they
seemed willing to take my word for it when I said I did not. I
thought of offering them my driver's license and proof of insurance,
but they didn't seem to require it.
Not being very serious about getting to the trailhead, and the road
being pretty terrible, I decided not to force my way through, and
turned around.
After that, I went to something called Squaw Peak Ranch. The map
showed a road from there leading back to Highway 107. It lied.
But the scenery was great. But I had enough invested in the
enterprise that, after backtracking to Hwy 107, I took it on to
Fort Craig, despite that being a rather boring section of road.
And thus I circumnavigated the Magdalenas.
Salome, August, 2006
Went to "Salome". This is the first time I've seen it with subtitles,
and what a difference it made. Although I could follow the plot well
enough without, from reading the synopsis and bits of the libretto, it
apparently took a good deal of intellectual energy, which was much
better spent on registering how the music fit in with what the players
were saying. I now understand better why the opera was considered
quite shocking when it first came out. (But it was very popular, too.
The program notes contained the story that Kaiser Wilhelm said, after the
first performance, "That young man has done himself a great deal of harm."
To which Strauss replied, "The harm includes a villa in Garmish.")
So, the synopsis. Opera opens with John the Baptist (Jokaanan) locked in
an underground dungeon below the stage. He sings, prophesying the coming
of the Messiah, and, as an afterthought condemning Herodias, the wife
of the Tetrarch, for marrying a man who is her half-uncle and also the
brother of her first husband. (He seems to regard this as improper.)
Salome, Herodias's daughter wanders through and wonders who is singing.
When told it is John the Baptist, she asks to see him. She is told
that is absolutely forbidden. She vamps Narraboth, the captain of the
guards, who has quite a crush on her, into letting him out of his hole
to come talk to her. She then proceeds to hit on him unmercifully.
He isn't having any, and tells her to seek spiritual enlightenment instead.
When she tries to force a kiss on him, he retreats to his dungeon, where
he can get a little piece and quiet.
Narraboth is quite undone by all this, and, realizing it is at least
partly his fault in letting her see Jokaanan against explicit orders,
kills himself.
Herod comes in, and, lest the audience view him too sympathetically,
notices the body (after slipping in the blood), and asks whose it is.
When told, he replies "Why? I didn't order him killed." Herodias
comes with him, and complains about the noise from Jokaanan, and, in
what is apparently a longstanding argument, urges Herod to have him
killed.
Herod, dirty old man that he is, proceeds to hit on Salome. After a bit
of that, she proceeds to extract his promise to give her anything she asks
if she dances for him. She proceeds to do the dance of seven veils.
At its end, she asks for the head of Jokaanan on a silver platter. He
tries to talk her out of it, while Herodias is muttering "Atta girl" in
the background. He finally yields to the plea that he has sworn his
royal oath, and cannot then renege. When the head is brought, she makes
it clear that she had it done not because Jokaanan was saying bad things
about her mother, but because, bad though it is to scorn the advances
of any woman, to scorn a princess is infinitely worse. She finally seals
her revenge by kissing the head on the lips. This is too much for Herod,
and he orders her killed on the spot.
These people are all crazy. The only halfway normal person in the cast
is Herodias, and she is a scheming, backstabbing, bitch.
Footnote: There are too dang many Herods. Herod the great was born in
Judea, and led the political opposition to the Hasmoneans. He lost and
was kicked out of the country. He was raising an army to get back in
when it happened that Octavian and Cassius were moving against Marc Anthony,
and thought they might need a little help. As a reward for picking the
winning side, he was made King of Judea, using Roman troops. He is the
Herod of the visit of the Magi in the book of Matthew. He died in 4 BC.
He had made enough of a nuisance of himself to the Romans that they did
not permit a new King of Judea to be named. His son Archelaus was named
Ethnarch of Judea, and the outer parts (the Four Cities) were split off
and given separate rulers. His son Antipas was given the title of Tetrarch
of Galilee, and took the name Herod Antipas. This is Jokannan's Herod.
Archelaus was fired by the Romans for incompetence, and, for a while Judea
was ruled by the Roman governor of Syria. Then Herod's grandson Agrippa
sucked up to the emperor, and was made King of Judea. He took the name
Herod Agrippa, and is the Herod of Acts, and possibly, the crucification.
He accused Herod Antipas of treason and had him executed, and made similarly
short work of the other Tetrarchs, to again reign over the lands ruled by
Herod the great.
Food, August, 2006
Several culinary adventures lately.
Anglo calabacitas.
This dish showed up at a church potluck couple of weeks ago. I decided
to try it, but in observance of the male credo ("Never ask directions").
Came out pretty good. Recipe: take a little olive oil, a large onion,
three zucchinis, and a can of condensed cream of mushroom soup; cook,
eat.
Reduced balsamic vinegar.
I bought a bottle of cheap balsamic vinegar. Dumped it into a saucepan.
Boiled it (just one step more difficult than boiling water). Reduced
by half. Poured back into bottle. OK, but maybe should have reduced
by two thirds. I fill the seed cavity of an avocado, and munch away.
(My calorie counting book doesn't approve of avocados. Tough. Doesn't
approve of eggs, either. Ditto.)
Hummus.
Actually, I was trying to make baba ganoush. Recipe said to put in a
third of a cup of chickpeas for body. But then I had an open can of
chickpeas, and what am I going to do with that? Dumped it in entire.
Came out tasting like pretty good hummus. Bought a packet of that round
Swedish crispbread (about the size of a wheelbarrow wheel) to go with it.
(Store didn't have pita; sometimes they do.) But with the hummus not
in the context of a dish in the middle of a platter of pita wedges, I
was more inclined to just fork it up. (Store didn't have tahini, so
I used sesame. Worked OK.)
Coffeemaker diatribe, August, 2006
My coffee maker quit. The light on the front comes on, but nothing gets
hot. Either a loose connection near the switch (easy to fix) or an open
in heating elements connected in series (impossible). So I thought
I'd open the case and see which. But, like many modern appliances, it
doesn't intend for you to open the case. Half a dozen clips, which can
be opened by a screwdriver, but they need to all be opened at the same time.
And a phillips head-like screw, only with three slots instead of four.
I considered solving the puzzle with a hammer and cole chisel, but decided
it wasn't worth the aggravation.
Went to Walmart. They had no eight cup coffee makers. Four cups is absurd.
Twelve is too much. Bah. Bought the twelve. But it uses a different style
of filters. And I had just bought a box of a hundred filters. In fact,
I had just bought a box of a hundred filters because I had forgotten that
I had bought a new box of a hundred filters a month ago.
And it has a clock on the front. Another dang appliance that will flash
"set me, set me" whenever there is a hundred millisecond power glitch.
I know, I could have bought the one without a clock on the front, for
forty cents less even, but this one has the good sense to turn itself off
if I forget to.
And where do the coffee maker makers get off, measuring things in six ounce
cups. Who the heck drinks a six ounce cup of coffee?
And if you think this note is disgruntled, think what it might have been
had I not had a nice cuppa coffee with dinner.
Wet in the Gila, Labor day, 2006
I thought New Mexico was supposed to be a desert.
The prediction for the labor day weekend was "Afternoon and evening
thundershowers Saturday, scattered showers Sunday, widely scattered
showers Monday." I thought that was close enough to have a try at
the Gila Wilderness.
My first mistake was to decide to drive there by the shortest route.
Actually, it wasn't a mistake, just a wrong-headed decision - I knew
what I was getting into. Headed for Snow Lake on the most direct
route. About twenty miles out, I met a group of guys on ATVs that
regarded the Honda most dubiously. They said that there were a
couple of washouts that they were pretty sure I couldn't get over.
I accepted their advice immediately. The Honda is not a good mud car.
It reminds me of my mother's description of her old Dodge in the mud -
"She shakes her hips a couple of times to straighten her skirts and
then settles down like an old setting hen."
So, a few miles back, and around by Beaverhead. Beaverhead is not
very hospitable. The sign reads: "Beaverhead Ranch. Beaverhead
Ranger Station. No gas. No telephone. No trespassing."
Got to Snow Lake early afternoon, and set out down the Middle Fork
of the Gila River. The river meanders down its valley from wall to
wall. Which means the river trail crosses and recrosses the valley
to stay on the flats. The river is about knee deep (maybe a couple
inches more in the deepest places) and about fifteen feet wide. One
wades a lot on that trail. But it is not as bad as might be. The
thing that makes crossing lesser streams treacherous is the slippery
biofilm on the bottom rocks. The Gila was carrying enough sand that any
such film was sanded into oblivion. Of course, a certain amount of that
sand was deposited in my shoes at each crossing (and stones up to pea
size), but still better than slick.
The thing that I did not anticipate, and should have, is that the dog
hated crossing the river. She had to be forced into the water at every
crossing. Once in, she swam very well, and had no real trouble, but she
really, really hated it.
It rained a bit on us on the way, not very hard, and I don't particularly
mind a bit of rain while walking. After the ninth water crossing, I just
happened to notice a stick floating down the river. When a couple more
sticks went by, I stopped to watch, wondering what was going on. More
sticks and miscellaneous trash. Then I noticed that the willows at the
edge of the river seemed to be on islands, which they hadn't been before.
Then I noticed a couple of fair sized logs coming down the river. About
the time I noticed water coming down the trail I was standing on. I
thought it might be well to look for a nice camping spot, up next to
the mountain.
Indeed the camping spot was extremely nice, in a little prairie of the
sort of grass whose seed pods look like little purple banners at the ends
of the stalks. I can't remember another camp site where I could wander
around barefoot in complete comfort.
It started to rain about 2 AM. The dog, who thought the tent was rather
stifling if it wasn't actually raining, came in to join me. It rained,
gently but steadily, until after 11 AM. There were a couple of short
intermissions which served for bathroom duty and a bite of breakfast, but
mostly I stayed in the tent and read. I don't mind a bit of rain on the
trail, but I really hate to break camp in even a mild drizzle.
The river went down sometime during the night - when I woke up at 2 AM
the noise was a lot less than when I went to bed. I went over to it, and
could see the high water marks two or two and a half feet above the present
surface. It would have been at least waist high, and plumb dangerous to
try to cross, and worse than that for the dog.
I figured we were two river crossings short of the nice dry trail up Iron
Creek Mesa, which I had planned to walk. But it was late in the day, and
I was really hating the thought of forcing the poor doggie through the river
crossings. So I decided to get that unpleasantness out of the way, and
head for home.
At the ninth crossing we had a scare. Doggie, as usual, landed a few yards
downstream of where I did. She landed in a tangle of willows and other
trash, and couldn't get out. And I couldn't see her, either, until I waded
into the river again where I could see all the bank. It took quite a few
minutes to find and rescue her. We were both very glad when it was done,
but then she hated river crossings more than ever.
On crossing number five things came to a head again. She resisted so
strongly being forced into the river that her collar broke. I had no more
means for coercion.
It took a while, and about three attempts, to rig a satisfactory means of
forcing her to cross. For a while, I was worried that we might have to be
rescued, all because of a broken dog collar and a willful little dog.
But I eventually concocted a rig that got her across crossing number 5.
The reason the trail kept crossing the river was that at every turn the
river swept against a fair sized cliff. The cliffs looked two or three
hundred feet high, and quite approachable from the back. Doggie had
always been of the opinion that a few hundred feet gained and lost again
was a welcome trade for a couple of river crossings, and after the
struggle at crossing five, I tended to agree. So we set off bushwhacking.
I hate to bushwhack in a pack - it does not help your balance, as well
as being a few thousand more foot-pounds to generate. But anyway,
managed to detour crossings four and three that way. But not two and one.
It looked like a long slog along a very tough terrain with no guarantee
that one could descend at the right place. So back to the river, and
across crossings two and one. I thought my rig, improvised with straps
from my pack worked very satisfactorily. The dog may have thought
otherwise. Nor did I really miss my quota of river crossings. For
crossings two and one, I made one trip for the pack, back across, and
another for the dog. On crossing five, I made five trips - one for the
pack, back to try to improvise a harness for the dog, back again to get
more material from the pack, back to the dog, and finally across with the
dog.
I am actually amazed that I did not fall down on one of those crossings,
soaking me and pack and all. I came very close to losing it two or three
times, but managed to recover my balance in the end. What a mess that
would have been.
So, all back healthy and sound. And as soon as we got out to radio range,
we heard about more flash flooding in southern New Mexico.
Sermonette, September 8, 2006
Every now and then, I see in the newspaper something about "parental rights",
usually in the context of a biological parent of a kid a few years old
appearing and wanting custody, claiming he or she had not properly
relinquished their parental rights, or had not had them legally revoked.
As someone who has been through the "parental" experience, and even the
"stepparental" experience, albeit a good many years ago, I offer my comments,
which are not in conformity with the common law.
I do not believe that "parental rights" exist. Parents have duties and
responsibilities - oh boy, do they ever - and, to carry these out, they
have certain powers. For instance they must be able to control their child's
schooling and medical treatment, and, especially, to administer appropriate
discipline. But "parental rights"? No. I think the concept of "parental
rights" is an anachronistic holdover from the days when some people owned
other people.
Mill Canyon, September, 2006
Well, I took the Honda up a road worse than the Potato Canyon road.
Mill Canyon road. Five miles, and just under an hour each way.
Actually, right at an hour coming down. Going downhill gives you a
little more freedom to slow down for the bad spots. Including at least
three places where you get your wheel in the wrong rut, and that's it
until somebody shows up with a winch.
Mill Canyon trail, at the end of all that, is not much, short and steep.
It aims your toes straight at the mountain, and up you go, without mercy
asked or quarter offered. A thousand feet in just under a mile.
Having attained the Magdalena ridge, I moseyed off to the south for a
few miles. Ended up at the lovely meadow that leads up to the South
Baldy summit. Turned around there after a picnic lunch. Might have
had the get-up-and-go to go on up to the summit, though get-up-and-go
was running a little short, but I didn't want to take a chance in
having to drive that road in less than optimal lighting conditions.
Made it back to the car by 4 PM.
The aspen were a few days short of their peak, but still very nice.
Some stands had turned completely, in full color. Others were still
green. But there were a couple of stands with a beautiful green and
yellow streaked effect. The meadow was very lush after the wet
summer we've had.
There were some crows in the meadow, that didn't much approve of
Artemis. They would swoop over her, about four feet up, with their
claws down and flapping their wings. She didn't seem to regard them
as much of a threat, and, at thirty-odd pounds, she is a bit large
for the crows to really tackle, so they didn't get too close. But
when I stopped to picnic on a granola bar and water, she decided to
lie down between my feet and the rock I was sitting on, just to be
extra safe.
Sermonette, October 5, 2006
Do we behave ourselves because we should (that is, are we driven by the
dictates of conscience?), or because social rules (especially the
codified ones called laws) force us to? What happens if the two forces
tell us different things?
I have never really found myself in a position where there is a strong
conflict between conscience and the law. This is not an accident. I
have ordered my life in such a way that such a conflict is unlikely.
Some would call it cowardice, refusing to face the most burning issues,
refusing to empathize with those who need help most. There is some
justice in that viewpoint, but I have not so ordered my life.
I recently read an interview of a Quaker lady in her late seventies,
on the occasion of her going to jail for a few months, for trespassing
onto the military base housing the "School of the Americas." The
School of the Americas teaches counterinsurgency techniques to Latin
American armies and police forces. It has, certainly in the past and
perhaps still, taught techniques of torture and terror. She found
the continued existence of the school incompatible with the dictates
of conscience. She joined the annual protest against it, and in her
third year of doing so, she was arrested, charged, convicted, and
sentenced. She accepted her jail sentence, and did not accept the
proffered alternative of a fine. "I've been arrested before, but never
sentenced. It will be a new experience." That's courage.
There is another conflict between conscience and the law, in quite
another direction, in current political discussion. This is the treatment
of Muslim extremist prisoners. The Administration argues that it must not be
fettered in its options to keep Americans safe, and that the laws
should reflect that need. They argue, "Suppose we had a prisoner
who we have reason to believe knows about an imminent attack
that will kill tens or hundreds of Americans. Wouldn't you do anything,
including torture, to get that information and prevent that attack?"
If I believed that torture would be effective, yes, I would. And if
torture is illegal, as it should be, I would expect to go to jail for
it. In fact, since I strongly support the legal banning of torture,
I would not only expect but hope to go to jail for it.
The administration argues that a law is needed to protect the CIA
operatives from prosecution in an international court (never mind that
the US does not acknowledge the jurisdiction of the World Criminal
Court). They then have a possibly viable defense of saying, "We were
unknowingly following orders and the US law." Which leads me to an interesting
mental picture, of the CIA man leaving the house in the morning and
saying, "Bye, bye, dear. We have quite a long torture session set up
for this afternoon, so I may be a little late getting home tonight."
This is what Hanna Arendt called "the banality of evil."
In fact, the United States has several times come to the realization
that her laws were an offense against conscience and humanity -
chattel slavery, the internment of the Nisei, Jim Crow. Always,
we need people of conscience to examine what we are called on to do
by the laws we have ordered to govern us, and encourage the reformation
of the law to conform to conscience.
I believe that most Americans profoundly misinterpret the Lords Prayer.
When the Bible says, "Deliver us from evil," most Americans think
that means, "Don't let anything bad happen to us." But reading the
passage in context with the preceding, "Lead us not into temptation..."
it clearly means, "Keep us from doing evil things." Our goal is to
keep from doing evil things, and the goal of the law is to construct
a set of rules such that when they are followed, evil rarely follows.
The conflict between law and conscience may be rare, but it is sometimes
profound. And should always result in the most careful consideration
of which choice leads to good (not necessarily to justice, but to good).
The choice should not be made banal by bad law.
Chupadera trail, November, 2006
I guess the clue to walking is familiarity and low elevation. A couple of
weeks ago, I set out to walk the Timber Peak trail, which I have never done
before. The sign at the trailhead says "Helispot 38 5 mi". I suppose a
helispot is a helipad without a pad, but I can't think why somebody would
locate and number 38 plus of them. In any event, I didn't get there. The
trail is high, mostly above 10,000 feet. The first mile, past Timber Peak,
is a fine walk, the trail clear and well defined. Thereafter, it becomes
an exercise in trail finding. After losing the trail for the third time,
about three and a bit miles in, I decided to give up on finding it again,
and turned around. By the time I got back to the car, I was totally pooped,
after only seven miles on a nearly level trail.
There are four methods used in New Mexico to mark trails. First is trail
surface, which works well in high traffic areas, but in less dense areas,
a good trail surface can just mean that a lot of other people made the same
mistake you just did. Then there are tree blazes. I've always thought these
were a bit cruel to the tree. I understand that in the east, blazes are
applied with paint, rather than an ax. I urge the adoption of this more
humane method. Third are cairnettes. Not very permanent unless you make them
pretty large, or are willing to go repair them after every major storm.
Trouble with having both blazes and cairnettes is that one gets used for
following, say, blazes, and you come to a place where you would swear that
the trail has vanished completely, until finally it hits you that there is
a great big cairnette staring you in the face. In New Mexico, it seems to be
the custom that if there is a big flat meadow, there is a big cairnette where
the trail comes into it, and another where it goes out, and you are free to
find your own way between them. The fourth method does not work very well
IMHO. This is to drop you in the bottom of a steep-walled canyon, and then
totally ignore you until they start to think about getting you out again.
This method totally underestimates my capacity for taking the wrong turn -
I usually know which way the trail will leave the canyon, and there are
always animal trails heading up the wall in this enticing direction, and
I've never come as far as I think I have.
But anyhow, back to the point about low elevation and familiarity. Yesterday
I made my annual pilgrimage up the Chupadera trail, roughly ten miles
(the sign says nine and a half, but I'm not sure they count the few hundred
yards beyond the wilderness area boundary to the summit), a couple of thousand
feet of elevation gain (but at low elevation to begin with), and when I
got back I was feeling like, "OK, now, what shall I do with the rest of the
day." (Actually, there was an expression of feeling from my knees that they
did not want to participate much in whatever I settled on, but never mind.)
I'm not very adventurous in winter walks, ever since I gave up on Ladrone
Peak. There are a few old friends I like to revisit - Chupadera, Polvadera
Peak, the little walks in the Quebradas - Las Canyas hill and the Little
Coyote Peaks. I'm thinking of adding Jordan Canyon - a straightforward
ascent that would be a lot of fun with a little snow in it. I'd sort of
like to revisit Strawberry Peak, but I'm so slow these days that I doubt
if I could get up and back in daylight in the winter.
Christmas in Boston, December, 2006
So the family decided to descend on Bill's new large house for he holiday.
We put Bill to a good deal of trouble driving to the airport, everybody
arriving on different days. I showed up on Thursday, Doree had been
there a day or two, and Megan's arrival, after being indeterminate for
quite a while due to the snow travails of the Denver Airport, finally
occurred on Sunday. Rini and family arrived by car on Friday. We
bought a Christmas tree on Friday, so that the small people could be
assigned the job of decorating. At 11 (Jasper) and 6 (Thea), they were
fairly much self-starters at the project, with just a little help needed
from the taller side for the upper part of the tree. There was a minor
blip - there were homemade playdoh ornaments, of flour and salt, that,
it turns out, the dog liked.
So Christmas came and went. From my point of view, the highlight was
reading "The Night Before Christmas" with a six year old girl in my lap.
We had two big excursions. The first was to the Science Museum, where the
big deal was the display of partially disassembled plasticated people, and
the electrical show. The latter featured a large van de Graf, which was
left over from being an atomic accelerator in the 1930's, before Mr.
Lawrence invented the cyclotron. It produced pretty satisfactory sparks
maybe up to a couple of meters long. The neat thing was that the gap
would start to glow well before the sparks would leap. They had a couple
of Tesla coils that could throw sparks more than half a meter. van de
Graf accelerators are pretty obsolete, as the docent mentioned, but then
so am I. I remember Willy Fowler investigating nuclear reactions of
astrophysical interest with a van de Graf in the late 50's (much higher
beam current than cyclotrons at the few hundred keV energies of interest).
And, in 1955 or so, I visited the GE High Voltage Laboratory, where they
developed all the stuff for high voltage transmission lines. Those guys
didn't play around. They had a transformer driven Jacob's ladder twenty
feet high that must have dissipated several hundred kilowatts, and their
artificial lightening wasn't a puny van de Graf, it was a capacitor bank
charged in parallel and switched to series, and they demonstrated blowing
a couple of feet of two-by-four to splinters, while vaporizing the wire
that connected it.
The other big excursion was to the Aquarium. Highlight was the lunch at
Legal Seafood across the street. In the aquarium itself, the doggy types
went to watch the seal and sea lion training, to compare and contrast, I
guess. The rest of us mostly enjoyed the jellyfish.
The above snide remark about doggies arises from the fact that, once Megan
arrived, she and Doree proceeded to preview their border collie talk show
being developed for the "All Dogs, All the Time" cable TV Channel.
After Christmas I went back to Ithaca with Rini. We went on at least a
short walk every day. I'm sure the dog regarded me as an asset to the
household because of that. Small world department: in the Ithaca
Children's Science Center, we met a couple (and their small babe) who
had met and gotten married in the Methodist Church in Socorro. (They
currently live in Albuquerque, and were just touristing through themselves.)
I didn't make timely arrangements to get myself back to Boston, so in the
end, Rini had to drive me to Syracuse to rent a car to drive myself back.
Flying on January 2, I left Boston with the temperature 44, sunny, with
occasional light mist. I arrived in Albuquerque with temperature 18,
with a foot of snow on the ground, and people still digging out from the
biggest snowstorm in decades. A couple of kind parking lot people helped
me chip the snow and ice off my windows, but I got back to Socorro (which
had only an inch or two of snow) with a nice eight-inch layer of snow
on my car roof (probably not good for the mileage).
Sermonette, January 3, 2007
There are many words used only in discussions of religion, which we think
we know the meaning of, but, when pressed, we find it hard to come up with
an exact definition.
Prayer. The common meaning of prayer is asking for something. In classical
religion, this took the form of simple bribery. "I have given a ton of
brass to his temple, so the god should do something I want." In modern
Christian belief, things are a bit more sophisticated. Christians define
prayer as a conversation with God. But this usually takes the form of,
"OK God, here's what I think are the problems. It's up to you to do
something about them, if You can see Your way clear to do so." Not quite
bribery, but close. Jesus had the interesting idea that instead of
asking for things, you should ask for the improvement of your soul. The
most famous exception emphasizes that point by its minimal nature - "Give
us this day our daily bread." As nearly as I can recall, this is the only
"thing" that Jesus asks for. This form of prayer, requesting moral
guidance and improvement, impresses me as one of the few forms that ask
for good to come to me but does not also ask for evil to befall someone
of contrary interests. Intercessory prayer is an interesting variant:
"OK, God, if so-and-so were praying, this is what he would ask." Less
selfish than the simple bribery forms, but still along those lines.
Lord. When the King James Version was written, everybody knew what a lord
was. It was the guy who lived in the big house up the road, and you better
do what he said or there would likely be trouble. First century Middle
East was not quite so well organized, but there were still people who rated
the term. In twenty-first century America, we like to think there are no
such people. Therefore we have forgotten what the term means. As nearly
as I can tell, it is used as a simple synonym for Yahweh, by those who,
along with the ancient Jews, feel it is unsafe to pronounce the Holy Tetraglyph
except on the most solemn occasions. The only other modern use of the word
appears to be in irony.
Worship. I have very little idea what this might mean. The common use of
the word is a synonym for "adore". But that doesn't seem to be what
Worship Services are about. There one recites litanies, sings hymns, and
listens to instructive homilies. There is some variation in this. For
Mohammedans, worship consists of prostrating oneself in prayer. For Quakers
worship consists for the most part of sitting in silence. For Buddhists,
it consists of meditation. For the various polytheistic religions, it
consists of anything from self-sacrifice to having sex and getting drunk,
depending on the particular god. All in all, I am at a loss to define this
word. I hesitantly offer a definition based on no insight to speak of:
"Worship is trying to do what you think the god wants you to." Not a
good definition - the same phrase is also the definition of theistic
morality - but I seem to be unable to come up with a better.
Bless. Again, a very difficult word. I see very little in common between
what Isaac did to Jacob and what Jesus did to a piece of bread. The general
idea seems to be something like "Point out with approval", but surely
there must be some relationship with God implied, or religious types
wouldn't use the word so extensively. The secular use ("you have my
blessing") seems to mean "What you want to do is OK by me." Doesn't seem
to me very close to any of the religious meanings, though not too far
distant from the Isaac/Jacob thing.
Medical Event, January 2007
It was, basically, a 24 hour stomach bug that got out of hand.
I woke up at 4 AM Thursday, and went in and threw up, quite violently.
I continued to throw up every few hours through the day. Finally, at
about midnight Thursday/Friday, I noticed that the vomitus had a distinct
red color. This was sufficiently alarming that I decided I should turn
myself in. After spending ten minutes or so contemplating whether I
could safely drive myself to the ER, I decided 'no', and called 911.
At the ER, they took an X-ray, and concluded to insert a naso-gastric
tube. The insertion procedure is rather unpleasant, but once in it
causes surprisingly little discomfort - a very minor sore throat feeling.
About 4 AM, the ER doctor told me they would send me to Albuquerque.
About 6 AM, he came in and told me nobody in Albuquerque would have me.
He offered me the choice of remaining in Socorro, with the warning that
if things went really, really badly, Socorro had no gastroenterologist
who could do something about it nor a sufficient blood supply to prevent
me from exsanguinating while one was sought. Ever the optimist about
matters medical, I accepted this option, rather than looking further
afield for a bed. (I have always envisioned my deathbed scenario as being
something like: somebody comes into the room, and says, "Barry, you
look really terrible." I reply, "Well, yes, my heart has stopped beating,
but, then, maybe it will start again.")
Things went quite well until about 4AM Saturday morning, when fresh blood
appeared. And the doctor on call again began searching for a way to get
me out of there. No luck in Albuquerque again, so she tried Santa Fe,
then finally found a bed in Las Cruces. So they started to arrange
transport. Seems there was a minor complication. It was snowing between
here and there. They didn't want to load me into an ambulance and send
me off if there was any chance at all that they might close I 25.
So they arranged air transport. This turned out to be a very nice
turboprop supplied by Lifeguard. I thoroughly enjoyed the flight,
despite the fact that they put me too low to look down out of the windows.
(Some of the time I could see down by looking at the reflection of the
left-hand windows in the right-hand windows.) The crew were the pilot,
a very cheerful nurse, and an EMT who was new with the company. The
EMT spent most of the flight learning how to work the company software.
(I resisted the temptation to ask her to turn the screen so I could see too.)
Would you believe we landed in Las Cruces in a snowstorm (it never snows
in Las Cruces). The nurse asked the pilot how close to minimums we were.
He replied that Las Cruces had a good approach and a good ILS, so the
minimums were very low, a 200 ft ceiling, half mile visibility. We had
800 ft, one mile. We beat the ambulance to the airport (the suspicion is
that all the ambulances were seeing to crashes of snow-bedazzled drivers).
So we had to wait a while. I didn't much mind; from my point of view
it wasn't much different from lying about the hospital. And the nurse
didn't much mind - he remarked that the monitor in the airplane had
probably never seen a set of vitals closer to nominal than mine.
The hospital was very nice and pleasant - I recommend it. As soon as
I arrived, they wanted blood. Always they want blood. The admitting
doctor didn't show up for two or three hours. He was a very nice but
very busy Indian fellow - he always showed up an hour or two later than
the nurses expected him. He confessed that one reason he admitted me
was that he was sorry for the Socorro doctor, practicing without many
resources available. (Actually, I rather suspect that she played the
"damsel in distress" card.)
The gastroenterologist didn't show up until nearly 7 PM. He was wearing
a colorful, loose-knit sweater and matching watch cap, a most un-physician
like image. (On reflection, probably a good sign - I should think that
somebody who breaks the image and is not very good at his job would get
intolerable social pressure from his colleagues.) He said, "I have read
your chart and concluded you should have endoscopy tonight. I have called
in my team." (OK, that's the physician image.)
The endoscopy was carried out, they tell me, not under general anesthesia,
but with an opiate and a tranquilizer. I was extremely weirded out by the
drugs. The tranquilizer dose was enough to induce amnesia. All I remember
is that after the procedure, the GI said, "As we expected, the problem was
a tear where the esophagus joins the stomach. I have treated it." The
second sentence was uttered in a tone of voice that implied "and therefore
it will not dare to cause further trouble." I remained pretty drugged out
most of the night - I asked for nausea medication a couple of times because
throwing up seemed like a very bad idea indeed, despite the fact that I was
unsure whether the nausea sensation was arising in my body or in my mind,
which seemed curiously detached from my body.
Come Sunday morning I was fine. They even let me eat, sort of. Cranapple
juice, an excellent chicken broth, a good lime jello, and an appalling drink
that tasted like three parts water to one part corn syrup, thickened with
carageenan, and flavored with something chemical tasting that was probably
intended for peach.
My doctor didn't show up until mid-afternoon, at which point he told me
they would keep me another day, just to keep an eye on me. He did say
that I could start eating real food, and in fact noted that my serum
albumin was a little low, and maybe I should add a couple of cans of Ensure
every day to add high quality protein. My wits were not quick enough to
ask him if it were not possible that my poor nutrition might be due to
the fact that I hadn't had a real meal since Wednesday evening. (Groucho
Marx: "He said he hadn't had a bite for four days. So I bit him.")
So Monday, I was presented with the situation of being released from the
hospital a hundred and fifty miles from home, with no car, no money, no
credit cards (I had taken my wallet to the Socorro hospital, but they
forgot to send it along), and, most importantly, no pants. Fortunately,
friends from Socorro (from the bridge group and work) volunteered to come
fetch me.
The condition is called a Mallory-Weiss tear, caused by persistent and
forceful vomiting. The first line treatment recommendation is to tell the
sufferer to lay off the booze. This, surprisingly, is said to suffice
"in most cases." When they were inserting the NG tube, I warned them that
I had a perforated nasal septum, whose most frequent cause is excessive snorting
of cocaine. I fear my medical providers may think I am more given to riotous
living than is in fact the case. The doctor speculated that the tear actually
occurred on my first throw-up, and that I was merely too dim to notice that
subsequent ones had a lot of blood in them.
Tuesday morning I had been unshaven for six days. I've never had
a beard because Betty didn't like beards, and I was interested in seeing
myself with a bit of beard. I was hoping for a distinguished, Sean Connery,
type effect. Instead I looked like a guy whose favorite gas station had
started locking their restrooms. I shaved.
Peace March, January 2007
Went to the Peace March in ABQ yesterday. Quite a different affair than
the last such thing I went to. That was four years ago, a rather solemn
candlelight vigil on the Socorro Plaza. This was slightly over the top,
with the "Impeach Bush and Cheney" crowd in full cry, and various other
special plea groups getting their oars in. I think the peaceniks smell
blood.
The event was slightly marred by the exactions of the war profiteer
running the parking lot nearest the kickoff point.
Otherwise, the day was a bit of a bust. There were three errands I was
planning. One, getting their good bulk granola from Wild Oats Market,
I got done. But Hillshire Farms had closed their kiosk in Coronado
Center. I got a turkey summer sausage there just before Christmas that
I quite like. The third errand was to find an eight quart stock pot
(long story). After going through three department stores, I found nothing
suitable. Actually, Macey's had a fairly nice one. But it was being sold
as part of a set. Other pieces of the set were separately on the shelf, so
I rather suspect that they had that pot also, back in the back somewhere.
But the line at the customer service counter was about six deep. I didn't
wait. I gave up and ordered a pot from Amazon.com after I got home. The
Web is facilitating my natural tendency to become a recluse.
Jordan Canyon, February 2007
Walked up Jordan Canyon yesterday. Was steeper and more strenuous than
I remembered. It couldn't be that I'm getting old. I blame it on the
snow. There was a longish stretch, maybe half a mile, where the road
was deep in a shadowy canyon, that the road was covered in snow. After
slogging through that, it seemed that all I wanted to do was find a
flat spot, and sit down and drowse in the sunlight. Which I did,
several times. But that's OK. Nobody will deduct from my paycheck
the time spent drowsing in the sun.
The pasture east of Magdalena appears not to have been heavily grazed
this year, so it's covered with nice tall grass, still golden. Driving
through, you see it interupted every few yards by a yucca or cholla,
or even a very occasional juniper. Viewed from the Magdalena ridge,
these little inperfections vanish, and the whole area looks as smooth
and golden as a fine woven fabric. It looks most artificial. You
want to call up the artist and say "How about putting a little texture
in here. Nothing in nature is that smoooth and that big."
On the way down, I slipped on the ice and fell down. No serious damage,
but just a little extra limp today.
Newspaper, February 2007
I guess the guy who abstracts the police blotter for the Mountain Mail
got a little bored.
Dec 25
An officer was dispatched to the 900 block of Walkway on a complaint
of noise at 3:10 AM. Officer found one drunken dude. Officer also
noticed that the suspect had damaged a window screen and a car antenna.
Apartment manager said he would settle with suspect over screen later.
Owner of vehicle not located. Suspect told to go inside and be quiet -
which always works, right?
Dec 26
A man reported at noon his Kodak digital zoom camera valued at $200
was missing from its case at his residence in the 1200 block of North
Sixth street. He said the camera was in the case before he left for the
weekend, and listed his daughter's good-for-nothing boyfriend as a
possible suspect.
An officer observed an underage drunken fool at 11:57PM in the 200 block
of Fifth street. The minor was cited.
Dec 31
A vehicle was stopped for a dragging muffler on Fairgrounds Road at
10:53 PM. The driver had two warrants and a suspended license. He was
arrested for driving a piece of crap.
Memorial Service, February 2007
Went to a memorial service Saturday, for Wally Bejnar. Enjoyed it a
good deal, as I usually do. A Quaker service. Quote from his wife
Kitty, "He considered Quakerism the least offensive of the Christian
denominations." He seems to have been an interesting and vital man;
a pity I didn't make his acquaintance until he was in his 80s. A
couple of things I much admire. About ten days before his death, he
told his daughter-in-law, a physician, "There's nothing more I have
to do now. I'm ready to die." A spirit I hope I can emulate when
the time comes. The other was that he insisted that the affair after
the memorial service should be termed a "party", not a "reception".
Additional quote from Kitty: "Over 60 years of marriage, I had many
feelings about Wally. But one I never had was boredom."
Perceptions, April 2007
It is always interesting, though sometimes disconcerting, to hear
about other people's perceptions of oneself.
1. The barber. A friend said her husband was having trouble getting
a haircut because he would stick his head in the shop, and if it looked
like he would have to wait, would just leave. I recommended my barber,
who makes appointments, and keeps them. I've never had to wait more
than a couple of minutes for him. So he went. He mentioned that I
had recommended him. The barber asked, "Then do you want a haircut
like Barry's?" "What's that?" "He shows up every four months or so,
and I skin him."
2. The invalid. True, I spent a couple of days in the hospital two
months ago, though I was never very sick with it. True, I had an
unfortunate encounter with an ocotillo plant a couple of weeks ago, and
had to ask a friend to inspect my leg lest there still be a spine embedded
because I now lack the flexibility to be able to inspect my shin myself.
But still, at least three times lately someone has said to me, "Gee, you
look like you are feeling a lot better now. I hope you're getting well."
I may start walking with a cane just so I'll have something handy to hit
people with.
3. The old woman. Friday was a big fund raiser for the local hospice,
with people selling daffodils all around town. I bought a bunch for myself,
to put on the dining table for my own enjoyment. I've never done that
before. I guess I'm becoming an old woman instead of an old man.
Polvadera Peak, April 2007
I made my annual pilgramage to Polvadera Peak on Saturday. Poor dog
got a sore paw, and had to walk about three miles back to the car in
a noticeable degree of pain. She spent yesterday morosely hopping about
the house on three paws, but seemed better this morning - she was at
least putting the paw on the floor, though limping.
I came through OK, although my knees started to bother me a little
by the end of the day. Another two or three miles would probably have
done me in. I actually felt less tired this year than last year,
though I took rather longer. Last year, when I got to the summit
and surveyed the miles and landmarks between me and the car, I thought,
"Oh my God, what have I done." This year, I had none of that, possibly
because I took my "summit break" early. About a hundred yards short of
the summit, there was a rock shaped just right for a chair, in full
sunlight, sheltered from the chilly breeze. So after a ten or fifteen
minute respite, I was sufficiently rested to proceed over the last
pitch to the summit and arrive in quite a cheerful mood.
The thing that gave out was not my legs but my memory. I forgot to
take a pair of trail socks with me, so walked the whole way in street
socks, which is hard on the feet. My right big toe is still quite angry
with me about that. Then when I got to the trailhead, and got all suited
up, etc., I totally forgot my trekker pole, which I have found helpful
for the last year or so. Net result of that is that when a rock shifted
under my foot and I put out my hand to steady myself, I put it in a
prickly pear.
The only thing missing from my usual winter repertory now is the Little
Coyote Peaks. This is a short trip, half an hour walk to a bowl below
the peaks, then half an hour per peak for zero, one, two, or three peaks.
I've been there twice this winter. First time, a breeze came up as I
was walking, and I wasn't dressed for that, so I turned back after only
one peak. Second time, I had decided that the walk was such a nice one
that the trail should be marked with cairnettes. I apparently wore myself
out rounding up cobbles (I put in about a third the number of markers to
make it a well marked trail), so that I only had the energy for two peaks.
So maybe I'll get back there before the weather gets too hot. (Though
people tell me Water Canyon Mesa is now clear of snow, so maybe I'll hit
the Magdalenas instead.)
Yellowstone, May 2007
Went visiting relatives and on holiday. First visited my brother Bill
in Salt Lake. He seems to be doing OK, though he complains a little,
mostly about his eyesight. He uses a wheelchair sometimes, though he
seems to do OK when he does stand up. I can see the motivation. I also
do OK when I stand up, but may have a little trouble getting there. In
my case, I'm thinking more of a stand-me-up chair. I do have Betty's
old stand-me-up, but it isn't nearly as comfortable as the Lazy Boy. Still,
I'd use it if I knew that getting up was going to be a maximum chore.
But I never know that until it's too late.
Bill treated me to a couple of "When I was your age"s, which is a phrase
I don't hear much.
The Larson girls (11 and almost 7; daughters of Bill's tenants/caretakers)
are really quite nice, considerate, entertaining little girls. Perhaps
surprising considering the irregularity of the household in which they are
growing up.
Then I met Rini and family, and their family friend Joyful, for a holiday
at Grand Teton and Yellowstone. I had visited both when I was in high
school, a bit over a half century ago, and had been impressed. This visit
was Jasper's idea, inspired by a fifth grade class project on national parks.
I had remembered that Grand Teton was a serious mountain, but I had
forgotten how serious. It is a Serious Mountain. It is a pleasure
to look at, and at my age, I don't see getting any more intimate with
it than that.
We walked around a little lake called Jenny Lake, and up the hill on
the other side to Inspiration Point (which didn't, apparently, inspire a
creative name for the lookout; another group of slightly winded hikers
called it Respiration Point). Actually, we cheated. After Inspiration
Point, the group split, some of us took a ferry (that's right, a ferry)
back across the lake, picked up the car, and met the rest of us after
two thirds of the way around the lake, stopping short of the full
circumnavigation.
Then on to Yellowstone, where we spent two days. After the first
(devoted mainly to geysers), we felt we hadn't scratched the surface.
After the second (devoted mainly to wildlife and hiking), we felt we
had.
A partial list of wildlife: ground squirrels (Thea was delighted when
one came up and licked her finger after she (contrary to Park regulations)
gave it a nut), chipmunks, marmots (I was the only one to see these),
a bald eagle (I didn't see that), elk and bison beyond counting, mule
deer, a patch of black fur plausibly a black bear, two grizzly bears (we
kept a respectful distance of at least 200 meters in both cases), a bull
snake, pronghorn, a red fox, and a moose. (I apologize to the rest of
the birds for only mentioning the eagle.) The snake, well over a meter
and a half long, was trying to get into a very small hole, whether to
pursue prey or just to take a nap we don't know. He made three or four
tries, withdrawing to worry at the entrance with his mouth each time,
until he could finally get his hips through, and vanish entirely underground.
The hike, like the Jenny Lake walk, was maybe five and a bit miles.
Unlike the Jenny Lake walk, it was not very level - it went more or
less straight up something called Specimen Ridge. The name is supposed
to derive from fossils found there. A bit more than halfway up, we did
go through what the guidebook referred to as the Yellowstone Petrified
Forest. The trees were covered in ash from one of the ubiquitous
volcanic eruptions, and then silicified by the minerals in the ash,
leaving a nicely detailed petrified log, of a yellowish color, from the
silicates in the ash. The book said it was arguably the largest collection
of petrified trees in the world. Maybe, but it wasn't very spectacular.
I guess it covered many square kilometers, but, on our trail, we only
passed six or eight vertical stumps, and one very large horizontal log,
which the book said was a redwood.
Thea (7) had been a bit grumpy earlier in the day, and we were a bit concerned,
but she took a very short nap on the way to the trailhead, which apparently
entirely restored her vitality. Especially on the last half of the walk,
the group rather strung out, with the kids gamboling on ahead, with Rini
chugging along fifty meters back to keep an eye on them, and with Joyful
and I trudging along 200 meters behind her. Larry buzzed back and forth,
dropping back to encourage the laggards under the pretext of the occasional
time consuming photo-op. Nice view from the top.
Then back to Salt Lake to get Rini back to the East. Turns out that
Ted was arriving from Hong Kong that evening, so we met him at the
airport, and gave Rini a chance for a brief visit, and a late supper,
before I went off with him. When we picked him up, he was in full
businessman attire, and looked like he had stepped out of a Nast
cartoon. He lacked only the dollar signs on his vest.
I had a couple of days visit with his family. I especially enjoyed
visiting with his three eldest daughters. They have grown into pleasant
and interesting young women, despite the familial heritage.
Matthew (10) was berserk about constructing and flying a model rocket.
(I saw a teacher's description of him as "goal directed", which I think
translates into "obstinate and obsessive".) After the first successful
launch, Ted got enthused with the program (he's always liked explosions),
and went down to the hobby shop and came home with two dozen rocket motors.
So they should be equipped for various "swooshes" for a while to come.
And so to home. The little dog was very happy to see me, and has enjoyed
bossing me around ever since I arrived. I haven't admitted to her that
I'd been taking walks without her.
Helispot 38, July 2007
For somebody whose thing is trailwalking, I'm not very good at it.
The sign at the trailhead of the Timber Peak trail says "Helispot 38,
5mi." On the 4th, on my third try, I managed to get a little over
4 miles. The last three quarters mile, I spent wading through waist high
scrub oak, threading my way through deadfalls, scrambling up or
(just as bad) scrambling down rock slides. None of these are fit
occupations for a gentleman of advancing years.
The first mile and a half, to the eponymous Timber Peak, is a nice
trail, well marked and heavily traveled. Then things go to pot.
The map shows the trail heading right down the ridge line, so whenever
I lost the trail, I'd head for the ridge and wait for it to show up.
This may have been a convenient lie for the map maker, but did not work well at
all in practice. There were places where the trail, when I finally
found it, was a quarter mile from the ridge.
Even if it was well laid out in the first place, natural sylvan processes
can take their toll on trails. These include:
Growth. The trail heads right for the heart of an impenetrable aspen
thicket, of trees with trunks maybe an inch and a half diameter.
(This one was easy to walk around, once you stop trying to penetrate it.)
And where the trail came out of that scrub oak I've no idea. And a
half mile of perfectly good trail I missed, despite the fact that it was
marked with a very nice two foot high cairnette where the trail left
the meadow, because the meadow is now filled with 2.5 foot high shrubbery.
Decay. Deadfalls happen.
Fire. One place the trail was beautifully marked with frequent blazes
on the trees. Until we got to a place where, a decade or so ago, a forest
fire went through.
When we got back about a mile and a half from the car, it thundered at us,
and the dog indicated she would like to crawl into a hole and wait it out.
I was sort of tired by then, and was not averse to an extended rest. As
so often, though, a little thunder was followed by a brisk breeze and a
shower. It even hailed a little, tiny stones that didn't even sting when
they hit, though they did make me nervous. But, what is wrong with this
picture: I'm sitting on a comfortable rock by the side of the trail,
dressed in my summer street clothes, and there is a breeze blowing, and
somebody is spraying me with icewater? Right. The same thought occurred
to me after about ten minutes. So I rousted the dog out of her hole, and
insisted we proceed. As long as we kept moving, I was tolerably warm.
And a good thing we did get moving. About the time we got to the car, it
was clear that the real storm was just arriving. So on the drive down,
we had sky-splitting lightening, great crashes of thunder, and gouts of rain.
Dog slept through the whole thing.
Sermonette, August 12, 2007
I read an account by a newly retired senior, and very respected, member
of the staff at San Quentin Prison. He was somebody who would carry a lot
of weight on parole recommendations. He said he had written supporting
letters for several men with life sentences. He said he would not do so
for someone who did not admit to a Higher Power, that without that stay,
he did not believe they would withstand the buffets of the life of an
ex-con. I was offended. The idea that people are only good, only
behave well, because they look forward to reward or punishment at life's
end is, I believe, one of the most harmful circulating. There is, it
seems to me, plenty of evidence for good atheists, good taoists, good
Buddhists. But, skeptic that I am, I had to admit that I have no
evidence against his hypothesis, though I believe he has none supporting
it either. Men are such complicated creatures, and who can evaluate
the importance of religion to their psychology.
In general, applying moral tests to religion, rather than from religion,
is a difficult argument. On the big things, Christianity tends to come
out far on the negative side of the balance. On the small, I think it
comes out positive, and there are far more cases. How many times does
it take of giving comfort to the lonely and dying to offset the excesses
of the Inquisition? How many times of the village pastor reconciling
feuding factions does it take to offset the Crusades? It takes one
more sure and more knowledgeable than I to draw up a balance sheet for
a religion.
But I do argue that that is the right question to ask. The rightful
realm of religion is that of right or wrong, of happiness and worthiness,
of the state of the psyche of men. (Stephen Jay Gould calls this the
magisterium of religion.) We can draw on an instinctive sense of right
and wrong, good and bad (never mind that this is probably entirely based
on strictures heard at our mother's knee), and judge whether religion
is fulfilling its assigned role. There are few absolutes here. Perhaps
the only is that pain hurts. I only urge the balance to be drawn on
the basis of observed pain, and that the balance sheet not be skewed
by the putative pain inflicted in the hereafter by a vengeful and
unrelenting God.
Purchases, August, 2007
For somebody in the time of life where deaccessioning should be the
watchword, I was a bad boy last week. I purchased another bookcase.
I had sworn I wouldn't do that, and give away books to make them fit
in the current space. But it was too hard.
And talk about buying something I _really_ don't need, I bought a sword.
A Mexican Army sword, from ca. 1840. The guy also had a US Cavalry saber,
ca. Civil War, but that was much more expensive, and I don't think it looks
as good, anyway. Mine's not much of a sword. My medievalist friend says
a serious sword weighs about a kilogram, and has a stiff back and heavy
point, so it does a little damage, even through armor. Mine weighs about
700 grams. It is clearly not designed for taking on people in armor.
It is probably something intended for a junior officer to wave over his
head to serve as a rallying point for his men, and an aiming point for
their opposite numbers.
Now I must buy a whetstone. What's the point in having a sword if it isn't
sharp enough to keep the grandchildren in line.
Daphne - Santa Fe Opera, August, 2007
Daphne is the original tree hugger, to the exclusion of all else, really.
Her childhood buddy, Leukoppos, thinks they ought to have a thing going.
But when he suggests they start dating, she demurs, and says she loves
him like a brother. He is unhappy at that, and stomps off, after
breaking his flute to show the depth of his upset. She says she is
happy only with the trees, and flowers and streams, and would eschew
human company if she could.
But her mother (a marvelous contralto, with a range well down into the
baritone) tells her she has to come to the party tonight, the feast
of Dionysus. (One suspects that her mother is thinking that the outlook
for grandchildren is not too good.) Daphne assents, like a dutiful child.
At the party Apollo wanders in, being rather smitten with Daphne. He
gets a little further than Leukoppos - he offers her the Sun (and why
not?). But when he comes to actually making a pass at her, she rejects
him as well.
Leukoppos shows up at the party, disguised as a maiden - the only way
to get close to Daphne. Apollo is annoyed (being a god, he readily
penetrates Leukoppos's disguise (as does the audience - the tenor is
not really very maiden-like)). He outs Leukoppos, who says he did it
all for love, and continues to court his love. Apollo continues to
be annoyed and keeps interfering. Finally Leukoppos looses his temper
and curses Apollo, who loses his temper in his turn. It is not a good
idea to have a god mad at you. A few arrows and thunderbolts later
Leukoppos is slain, and Daphne is weeping over his body. Apollo is
repentant, and apologizes to Dionysus for wrecking his party and to
Zeus for interfering in the affairs of humans.
Daphne says it's all her fault; when Apollo revealed himself as a god,
she should have told him to go back to Olympos, and leave the poor
mortals alone. She says all she ever wanted to do was to be one
with the trees. Then damn if she didn't turn into a tree, right
there on stage, in front of everybody.
Strauss's score is, I guess, what you would call lush. I've never
exactly known what that term means when applied to music, but yes,
the words and actions of the players were elevated to the cosmic
plane by the music. (A slight complaint that the music was just as
cosmic and portentous when there were a couple of shepherds on stage
discussing the grape harvest as when Apollo was apologizing to Zeus.)
Strauss is rather amazing - how can the same person write both
"Salome" and "The Fledermaus"? Cover the waterfront from the cosmic to
the sitcom? But then Shakespeare wrote both "Macbeth" and "Loves Labor
Lost".
Sermonette October 7, 2007
The classic theological question is about the nature of good and evil.
Being a humanist, evil seems to me to be naturally defined as human
pain and suffering. And this means visible pain and suffering -
I do not hold with those who hold that any pain and suffering in this
world is far outweighed by those in the world hereafter. Evil is
quantifiable, as is suffering. One may speak of the greater evil.
Evil may appear as the operation of nature, the classic fire, flood,
famine and pestilence. And against these evils, we do what we can. More
of a moral issue is that evil may appear as the result of operations of
humans. Crime, abuse, corruption, denial of justice - all cause pain and
suffering. All must be suppressed, says the moral imperative. But the
largest source of human caused pain and suffering is surely war.
So, an I an adamant pacifist? Maybe. I said that evil is quantifiable,
and it is possible, that as terrible a thing that war is, it might
be fought to resist a greater evil. Looking back at the history of
the United States, there are two cases in point, the Second World War
and the Civil War, in which the evils opposed approach the evils of
the war itself. These two I regard as too close to call. I do not
know how I would have decided had I been there at the time. These are
close, but I see no other US war in which we can take pride.
Theologians make much of "the problem of evil." I don't see a problem
with evil - some things hurt, some of those come from nature, some
from within the human heart. That is the way things are. I do see
a theological problem, on a rarefied intellectual plane, of good. What
is good? Is it merely the absence of evil? I instinctively rebel at
this definition. There should be a positive essence of good, to balance
the essence of evil, but I am having trouble finding it. Taking the
long view, the times in my life that I can look back to and say "this
was as good as anything that has entered my life" are all rather ordinary -
a child falling asleep in my lap, something I've built working as I had
envisioned it, a spouse's head nestled into the hollow of my shoulder,
the view of the valley from a high ridge I've walked up to. These
small things are what I call good. But how do I distinguish them from
things others call good - the picador with a lance well placed in the
shoulder of a bull, the Greek soldier with the sack of Troy, the high
of the cocaine user. I don't know. As I said, there seems to be to
be a theological problem of good. But I do tend to think that there is
a real, positive good. I think that Mother Teresa was good, far beyond my
capacity to be good. Gandhi was good. There are a myriad of people
that I would say are good, beyond the ordinary good, despite the fact
that I cannot really say what good is.
Resquiscat in pace canem amatem December 7, 2007
Poor old Artemis is no more.
She had a very bad night last night, and I decided enough was enough.
She cried in the night, something she has never done - she was never
a complainer. It seemed to me that there wasn't much room left for
her to be a dog any more.
She was 14, which is pretty old for a dog of her size. She aged very
quickly. We spent labor day in the Magdalenas, and she did OK, though
not the ball of fire she once was. By halloween she could hardly walk
across the street. This morning she couldn't walk at all, even if I
helped her stand up.
I'll miss her.
Christmas - December, 2007
What a lovely Christmas. Everybody came. People started dribbling
in on the 23rd, and the flow continued through Christmas day.
Christmas Eve we had a smallish party built around an enormous
pot of posole.
A small deficit in the very young. The two smallest grandchildren
are 7 year old girls, who are pretty sophisticated these days.
But still we had a nice Christmas morning tear-through-the-wrapping,
gorge-on-the-chocolate frenzy. Traditionally we've always had
turkey for Christmas, but I was a bit daunted by the thought of
a turkey, since I've not cooked one for more than a decade, so I
just bought a ham. Good enough.
The high point of the holiday (about 6400 feet) was walking the
Chupadera Wilderness trail. There were three children, two sons-in-law,
two grandchildren, and two canines. And, you know what - this
demonstrated that these people are, physiologically as well as
chronometrically, younger than I am. While that lot was chugging
along the trail, an alternate grandma rounded up a good collection of girls
and went to the mall in Albuquerque. De gustibus non est disputandum.
Anyway, a good time was had by all.
The visit to the VLA site was unfortunately rather too chilly and
windy for a proper walking tour, but we tried. Managed to scare
up one table of the bridge group that night - I had been hoping
that with a few people available to be pressed into service that
we could have two tables, but it didn't come to pass.
When we went to take one lot back to the train, My co-grandma I stayed over
and played at the Duke City Bridge Club, so we managed to get a bit
of a bridege fix anyway. Pretty much all the non-maniacs were staying home
for the holidays, so Judy and I were pretty much at the bottom of the
heap. But that's OK too.
For a birthday celebration after Christmas, we went out and overate at a
Brasilian grill in Albuquerque. Now, unfortunately, I need to continue to
overeat to dispose of all the Christmas leftovers before they spoil.
(Leftovers from up to 18 people, though a pretty small percentage, make
a lot of meals for one.
Walking and Church - January, 2008
I walked the Water Canyon Mesa Loop Trail today. It's something
I do when I feel like getting outdoors but haven't the energy or the
imagination to do something more creative. There was a little snow,
not enough to bother -- I guess 30% of the trail was covered by an inch
or two, but less than 1% by five or six inches.
I read the children's story yesterday at Unitarians. Pastor says
you need to have a children's story, even if there aren't any
children. The adults in the congregation are happy to have something
they can understand without working too hard. Anyway, I read the
Ugly Duckling, and said the moral was that just because somebody looks
different, or talks different, we shouldn't be mean to them or call
them ugly, because they might turn out to be the most beautiful of
all. One of the adults came up to me afterwards, and said, tongue
in cheek, I think, that the morals it seemed to him to have were,
"Physical beauty is the most important of all," and "Stick to your
own sort."
Trip Report - January, 2008
Pun intended
Ah, the perils of winter travel.
Headed off to Manchester for a committee meeting. (Ten people around a
table, each with a laptop in front of him. Somebody asked why we bothered
traveling.) ABQ->Denver went OK. Plane for next leg late getting to Denver,
so Denver->Chicago was a couple hours late. When I got off, I had five
minutes before next flight. Asked United if it was possible to make it.
They said to go to the gate and see if the plane was still there. Neglected
to mention that the gate was three terminals away. So of course it wasn't.
Asked lady at BMI desk what to do. She said I was United's reponsibility.
So, three terminals back. United said, "OK, we'll put you on the same flight
tomorrow." After I waved my arms for a while, they admitted they had a
flight to London yet to leave that night. So off to London, followed by
four hours sitting around Heathrow, followed by flight to Manchester.
Went to bed.
Attended committee meeting. Out to dinner at a very nice Thai restaurent.
Went to bed.
Attended committee meeting. Out to dinner at a pub type restaurant. Had
smoked Haddock with egg pie, fried black pudding, grated beetroot. (OK,
that was a little different.) Went to bed.
Set off for railway station in the rain. Store had nice cast aluminum
gratings into the storm sewer to catch water running down the face of the
building. Turns out these were slippery when wet. Went aflying. Thought
nothing was much damaged by the incident, and continued toward railay station.
By the time I got there (five or six blocks), I was limping considerably.
Just to be obnoxious, the rain stopped the minute I got to the train station.
I mean, within fifteen seconds after I stepped under the station platform
roof, the rain stopped like turning off a faucet.
Took train to airport. Managed to get through airport by virtue of the
fact that from the train station to the gate was less than half a mile.
Flew to Chicago. As we approached, they announced, "Big snowstorm heading
for Chicago. But we're going to slip in just ahead of it, no problem."
Uh oh. Set off through O'Hare. After about a quarter mile, I thought,
"This is not working". Asked a passing aircrew about getting a wheelchair.
They arranged for an electric cart to meet me at the bottom of the next
escalator, another hundred yards ahead. That delivered me to Immigration
and Customs. From which a wheel chair took me to my gate, where I was to
wait a couple of hours.
As might have been expected, the flight to ABQ was cancelled due to snow.
They were able to re-route me through Denver. Again, due to snow, the
Denver flight was delayed for an hour taking off. Arrived in Denver
expecting wheelchair to take me to next gate. Wheelchair paperwork was
lost. When the flight crew passed me still creeping wheelchairless, they
voluteered to investigate, and eventually managed to collar a passing
skycap with a wheelchair (who had been headed off to see her boss to ask
what next), who drove me to next gate, arriving approximately 60 seconds
before departure time. Doors were closed.
At this time, I screamed "enough", borrowed a phone from the agent, and
called my daughter Doree, who lives in Denver,
telling her to come get me. When she arrived, I had a walking
range of about 50 feet before a major rest, and was beyond irritable and
cranky to boot. So Doree took me home and gave me a bed. And three days
later, I had at least improved enough to navigate through airports without
a wheelchair, and so to home.
Still operating at about half speed, or maybe a little slower. But doesn't
appear to be anything permament.
Healing - February, 2008
Sue Simkin, to bystander, after having issued complete treatment instructions
for my wounded knee: "Well, somebody has to look after Barry. Marie looks
after him a little bit too, but she isn't tough enough. She had only girls,
I had boys." None the less, I think my knee is doing OK on its own. The
probability that a doctor could do it some good is, to within the uncertainty,
about equal to the probability that he would damage it further.
Went to ABQ yesterday (mild attack of cabin fevor). Big excursion was
Coronado Mall end-to-end. Found myself looking for a bench at midpoint,
both going and coming. (If I'd known Macy's didn't stock suspenders, I could
have stayed out of the west end of the mall and saved myself some effort.)
Decided today to see if my knee was well enough for swimming. Answer was yes,
but, it seems, the arms had decided to slough off during the enforced downtime.
I was happy enough to get out after only 500 yards. But I was amazed how
much better I felt afterward.
White Sands - March, 2008
Went to White sands for no very good reason. My memory was a bit hazy
since my last visit was half a century ago. Chief thing I remembered
was the amazingly sharp line between white dunes on one side and brown
desert floor on the other.
Walked the Alkali Flats trail, because of the curious conception I
have that you haven't really been somewhere until you've taken a walk
there. An amazing trail - I recommend it. Around practically every
corner was a "Wow, gee whiz". I've never walked a trail over sand
dunes before. I suspect maintaining the trail markers is a much
bigger job than for most trails. I like their attitude, too. Sort of
"If you want to walk off trail, please try not to get lost." Walking
off trail is both self limiting (walking up the front side of a dune
gets old very quickly) and self correcting (even a moderate breeze
quickly erases all trace of your passage). I was the first walker
that day on the Alkali Flats trail, and the whole two hour walk down
the main drag I saw exactly two footprints other than my own. (Not
two sets - two footprints.) Anyway, I like their attitude better than
that of most parks, which, if they don't have a sign saying "If you
leave the parking lot, you will die, and it won't be our fault because
we warned you," have one saying "Stay on the trail or else."
Gypsum (the white sand) is not nearly as hard as silica. If you have
a taste, you can sort of munch on it. It feels like it is competing
on a more or less equal basis with your tooth enamel, instead of
eroding it away, like regular sand.
Alamogordo itself is more of a metropolis than I remebered - they have
a Chili's, a Golden Grill, and a Long John Silver's.
Italy - April, 2008
We were considering how to celebrate my 70th birthday. Everything I
suggested was rejected as not spectacular enough. I finally suggested
a family reunion in Rome. I'd never been to Italy, so why not. Rini
came up with a set of bargain tickets, leaving from Rochester, NY,
near Ithaca. So I flew to Rochester and joined her and her kids, and away
we went.
First stop was Toronto (why not). We had a longish layover, so we headed
off to the Royal Ontario Museum. Spent a few hours wandering around.
They have a big Darwin exhibit. Part of the evolution wars, I guess.
But whatever. Then back to the airport for the usual evening departure
for Europe.
We flew into Rome. Much to our surprise, Bill and Ann met us in the airport,
at the baggage claim. So we hopped the train to Roma Termini, which, it
turns out, was just a few blocks from our hotel. The hotel was in a great
location. The historic parts of Rome are in a rather compact area, and our
hotel was pretty well in the middle. We arrived at the hotel before check-in
time, so we stashed the bags, and went out to lunch (at a place called
"Danny's"). Back to the hotel after lunch, we found Ted there, just planning
to retrieve the rest of his family from the airport. We left him to it and
went wandering. We headed in the general direction of the Colosseum.
Arrived at something labeled as the Tomb of the Unknowns. Soldiers, I
guess of the wars of unification. Monumental statue of Garibaldi out front.
A totally impressive building. Had it been constructed a century before it
actually was (in the 1930's), one would have labeled it a monument to
somebody's colossal ego. But, I guess, republics can be excused excesses
repugnant in individuals. At least il Duce did not have the gall to put
himself on the horse out front. We chose not to wander the extra block and
a half over to the Colosseum at that time, but instead found a beautiful
little park tucked into a corner (or rather tucked up on a hilltop, sealing
itself from the bustle of the streets around by floating twenty meters above
them). There was a lovely view of a Church, and of the Monument, from the
park, nice walking paths, orange trees, and several sorts of flowers.
Rini's kids had a great time climbing the orange trees to retrieve a couple
of ripe oranges. A bit sour though. Back to the hotel to find that the
rest of the crew had arrived. Seems that the travel agency had messed up
a little - we had prepaid vouchers for six rooms, but they had told the
hotel to reserve only four. But the people at the hotel were very nice
about it, and worked hard and effectively for us to get things straightened
out. That night we had our first experience with going out to dinner in
Italy. We made a reservation for seven thirty, after being informed that
there was not a decent restaurant in Rome that would accept a reservation
at seven. Reservation at seven thirty, finishing dinner at 10 o'clock was
our pattern for the rest of the stay.
Next day was the Colosseum, the forum, and the Circus Maximus. Again,
the amazing thing was the scale of things. The Colosseum was a 50,000
seat stadium, employing a staff of many hundreds of stage hands, physical
plant people, performers, and trainers. And the stadium was designed to
get its audience in and out in just a few minutes - it is thoroughly
up-to-date in its people handling methods. The Circus Maximus, next door,
was even bigger - it could seat 250,000, a quarter of the population of
Rome. The Circus Maximus was for chariot races. And the movie "Ben Hur"
had it right. The track was narrow and the turns at the ends very sharp.
The skill of the drivers was tested on those turns, and not unusually found
wanting. The crowd went as much to see the crashes as to admire the skill
of the drivers. Unlike NASCAR, there was little safety equipment, so crashes
were at least as frequent as at NASCAR races, and a lot more bloody. The
crowd of the times apparently loved it. The forum also has its megascale
structures. The great arches (or basilica) of Constantine, constructed
to provide a bit of shelter for commerce on rainy days, are awesome.
The palaces of various important families lined the forum, and above the
whole thing towered the Palatine Hill, with the house of the emperor
(from Augustus to Nero, anyway). But all this is in an area of just a
few square blocks. The two triumphal arches, I think named for Titus and
Dominitan, bounded the forum at either end, but they are only four or five
blocks apart. The great triumphal marches went from one arch to the other -
no Rose Parade for Cleopatra in chains. All the talk about seven hills of
Rome had deceived me of the scale of things. If you had seven hills in
New Mexico, they would occupy quite a spread. But strolling from the top
of the Palatine to the Quirinal takes a few minutes and little energy.
Circling the seven hills would have been a pleasant evening's walk.
Next day was spent at the Vatican, again a pleasant walk from the hotel,
albeit in the opposite direction. Morning in St. Peter's square and in the
Church itself. Very big. How big is emphasized by the fact that the
tomb of St. Peter is fifty feet high, and stops well short of the ceiling.
The Church houses Michelangelo's Pieta. I had seen it many years ago when
it made a visit to the US. I had remembered a snowy white marble, but it's
actually rather cream colored. Due to the attack by a nut with a hammer a
few years ago, it is kept behind glass, and the view we had of it was not as
good as I had seen in the US. A shameful aspect of that attack that I had
not been aware of was that bystanders had scarfed up the pieces of marble
knocked off, and taken them home for souvenirs Shameful. Afternoon was
the Vatican museums, ending up in the Sistine Chapel. I was stunned by the
sheer volume of art masterpieces - room after room of pious paintings by
medieval and renaissance masters. Too much to take in. Almost to the point
that the Sistine Chapel was anticlimactic - its paintings are for the most
part familiar friends, and being in their presence didn't add that much.
Then off to Florence. The train was a modern, efficient high-speed
electric. From Rome to Fierenze in just over an hour and a half, despite
dropping to something like 100 km/hr in the urban areas. Really booking
along in the countryside. Still early spring. Lots of green everywhere.
A few vineyards were in leaf, but most were not. Poppies bloomed at
trackside. The redbud trees were in spectacular blossom. (As Chaucer
says, "Then longen folk to goon on pilgrimages.", and pilgrimage we did.)
As soon as we got in, we headed off to take a quick look at the Duomo.
An incredible building in white and green marble, it looks like it has
been rather flashily painted, until you get close enough to see that it is
all stone masonry with different colored marble. Then it started to rain
on us. We had an appointment to meet Ted in front of the Duomo. But after
getting rained upon standing across the street from the front of the Duomo
for half an hour, looking for Ted, we gave it up and headed for the hotel.
Meanwhile, he hung out on the other side of the street for an hour, looking
for us. Not easy to recognize people across a crowded street filled with
umbrellas.
Next morning off to the Academy of Fine Arts to see Michaelangelo's David.
A giant, just short of four meters tall. He has a great body and a smooth
and rather angelic looking face, though perhaps a bit arrogant. His hands,
especially the right hand, though, are rough and cruel, and perhaps a bit
larger than proportionate, the hands of a conquering emperor. Then to the
Duomo, to see the inside. There is a rather amazing clock on the wall
opposite the Dome. It is a 24 hour clock, and its hand (there is only
one) turns anticlockwise. So the Duomo was built before all the conventions
about such things got straightened out. Then, of course, we had to ascend
the dome, or at least some of us. Doree sort of chickened out when the
sign said 454 steps. Rini decided enough was enough when the route led us
around a little balcony inside the dome, sixty meters or so above the floor,
so she and Thea took a short cut home. But Kevin, Jasper and I continued
up to the cupola. A truly magnificent view. And the route is a very nice
one too - very medieval. For much of the way, it was indistinguishable from
the stairs up the towers at Notre Dame. It was somewhat less nice on the
descent. I pretty much blew out my knees. After the Duomo we went to the
Piazza dei Segnorini and the Palazzio Vecchio, where stands the Donatello
copy of David, perhaps just a hair shorter, but still the same guy. (We
later saw a bronze casting; I guess you could infer that the Florentines
are fond of their David.) Having softened up my knees with the Duomo,
Rini led us on a death march across the Arno, up a steep hill, beside
Fort Belvedere, and into Boboli Gardens, which we walked from one end to
the other and back again, a couple of kilometers. I must admit, the Boboli
Gardens are well worth it, though. They are a well planned and carefully
executed horticultural tour de force, but so constructed as to look very
wild and rustic. The trees were all pollards; that is, the main stem
was cut twenty feet above the ground, and a thick growth of several branches
spreads out from that point. Rini said they looked like the sort of trees
that would reach out and grab little children who stayed out after sunset.
(But the children didn't look very impressed.) Despite the earliness of
the season, the gardens were in full leaf, and the various flower beds were
colorful, though perhaps not yet at their summer prime. We didn't get much
into the art museums in the palace itself, though we did visit the Grotto
of Brunelleschi (or somebody like that), which was all done in a coral theme,
with the usual gods kicking around. "These are pearls that were his eyes,
and everything has suffered a sea change into something rich and strange."
Next day, catering to my knees, we went on a bus tour of Florence. First
stop was Fiesole, a small town three or four kilometers away, up on a hill
overlooking Florence. Besides the view, the attraction was ruins. There
was an Etruscan temple, with a Roman temple built in front of it, and a
large Roman bath complex. There was a little museum with various recovered
artifacts, mostly Roman but some Etruscan. A delightful place. Then back
on the bus to the Piazzale Michaelangelo, where the bronze casting of David
is. (I like the marble ones better.) Across the street was a very impressive
working church and monastery, San Miniato al Monte. We wandered about a
small corner of their vast cemetery for a while. The guidebook says that's
where the author of "Pinocchio" is buried. Seems a small enough claim to fame.
And so, back to the hotel, up in the morning, back on the very nice train
to Roma Termini, to the airport, through the numerous formalities at the
airport, onto the airplane, fly to Toronto, clear customs (they had to
dispatch an airline guy to find my bag when it didn't show up after all
the others from our flight), on to the puddle jumper to Rochester, where
I caught a train back to Albuquerque, completing the whole gig with three
days of planes, trains and automobiles.
Colorado - June, 2008
Just a little trip near home to pick up a couple of those things you
never go see, just because, well, they're always there, aren't they.
Went to Bandalier, which I've never gotten around to visiting, despite
having spent a few days working at the VLBA-LA radio telescope, which
is practically within walking distance. Cliffside Pueblo dwellings.
The Canyon has a steam which flows year-round, so a pretty good place
to live. In the Monument, there were a couple of nice ruins, on a
walking tour. Abandoned about 600 years ago, as much of the area seems
to have been, with no obvious reason why. But Bandalier is not all that
far from their descendents, the Pueblos of new Mexico. Not as strange
as the abandonment of Colorado which occurred at about the same time.
The walking tour designer was rather fond of Pueblo style ladders. Jasper
and Matthew and Thea would have loved this - adult sized playground
equipment. Rini might have elected to take a pass, especially for the
house that required climbing three of the things.
Northern New Mexico, southern Colorado is just plain beautiful, fantastically
so. On the drive north from Espanola to Chama, mile after mile of
lovely grassland, decorated with healthy sage, and pinyon and juniper
forest covering the hills. In the background, the snow-streaked peaks
of the Sangre de Cristos to the northeast, and the virga painting fringes
around the sky to the northwest.
And that's only the dull part of the trip. In the morning, I took the
narrow gauge Cumbres and Toltec railroad out of Chama, to Antonito. The
first part of the ride is gorgeous, as the Pinyon and Juniper forest
gives way to spruce, Douglas fir, and ponderosa pine. Much of the way
it follows the valley of a nice little creek, or, elsewhere, working its
way out of the valley to climb the pass at the 4% slope tolerable - just -
for trains. I bought a first class ticket, and was glad I did. The
benefit is the same as for airlines - lots of space and a hostess offering
drinks and snacks - but being able to hop up and go to the open car on whim,
without having to crawl over people, greatly increased the pleasure.
Stopped midway, at Osier CO, for lunch, then down to Antonito, CO, and
back by bus. Train ride is six hours, less an hour for lunch. Bus
return trip was about an hour and a quarter. Train mostly went about
twelve miles an hour, which is really quite nice; it gives you time to
see things - not as much time as hiking, but lots better than driving.
The ride down to Antonito was not nearly as nice as up from Chams, and
I'd recommend doing that part twice instead of proceeding to Antonito,
except for one item. The glimpse of the Toltec Gorge only lasts a few
seconds, but makes up for the mundane nature of the rest of that half
of the trip. The Toltec Gorge is a narrow, steep, slot canyon cut in
solid granite, set among pine forests and waterfalls. Wow.
The trains probably could run quite a lot faster, and probably did in
the freight hauling days - they run the trains at twelve miles an hour
for the benefit of us tourists. They said that westbound from Antonito
to Cumbres Pass, the ruling grade is 1.4%, and that an engine of the
sort that pulled our train could haul 36 loaded freight cars. I'm
guessing that a 36 car train would weigh about three million pounds,
or maybe a little more. The locomotive boiler runs at about 200
pounds pressure (I asked), and it looked to me like the pistons
were about 250 square inches in area, eyeball estimate, so about
50,000 pounds of force at the cylinder, cut to maybe 40,000 at the
wheel because the crank attaches about three quarters the way out.
So 40,000 pounds is about 1.4 percent of three million pounds; it
all works out - isn't engineering wonderful. Thing I wonder, though,
is that eastbound from Chama, the ruling grade is 4%, so they could
get only about 12 cars per locomotive. Sounds like a difficult pitch.
Next day, went up to Wolf Creek Pass, because I can remember crossing
it as a small child, and stopping the car and being allowed to run
around at the 11,000 foot altitude. I loved it. I still do. At
the top of the pass, there was one of those Forest Service structures
which usually hold information about trails, but it was completely
empty. There was a nice trail heading off across the meadow, though,
so I followed it a couple of hundred yards up to the mountain side.
At which point it appeared to stop. I'm guessing it vanished under one
of the snow drifts there, and proceeded up the mountainside. Usually
when that happens you can trace the course of the trail by where the
rangers have nipped back the branches to make more room for the hikers,
but there was no hint here - the trail just vanished. So I followed
a guy's irrigation ditch maybe a quarter mile up to his headworks,
and then walked up the stream bed for a couple hundred more yards, when
I encountered a little back country road, and followed it through the
forest for a couple of miles. It was very peaceful and isolated. There
were vehicle tracks on the road, but I think from last summer, not this;
there were a couple of snow drifts that didn't look like they had had
a vehicle over them, and a eight inch diameter spruce log, ditto.
The road wound, more or less on a level, through a wonderful ponderosa
forest, then out onto the mountain side with great views of the
peaks. But then the road decided it wanted to plunge down a canyon,
and I had no desire to go downhill, so back to the car.
Had a nice visit with my niece Donna. She is talking about maybe getting
a job in Michigan. Told her I didn't see why she wanted to move out
of paradise. She was much into food and other alternative medicine stuff,
as usual. I thought I best decline her offer to feed me, and instead
to throw myself on the mercy of the local Durango eateries. Just a
couple of blocks from her house, there was something called "Serious
Texas Barbecue". It was an interesting example of an anti-chic
establishment. I went in to their serving counter. "What would you like?"
"A pulled pork sandwich." The servitor plunked down a plastic tray,
added a square of butcher paper, opened a large roll on it (an extra
cost option, by the way), pulled on a transparent plastic glove, reached
into a large vat of meat and grabbed a handful, which he arranged on
top of the bun. "You want sides?" "Yes, potato salad." "In the cooler
behind you, second shelf." I pulled a Shiner Bock out of a tub of ice
(no beer opener in sight, so use your fist), grabbed a plastic fork, and
headed to a table outside. Napkins were a roll of paper towels in the
middle of the table. Barbecue sauce in reused one liter booze bottles
(probably illegal), with labeling intact, including the warning to lay
off the sauce if pregnant. A fairly good meal, and very filling, but
chic, no.
Spent the entire day at Mesa Verde, and still didn't cover everything.
Lots of cliff dwellings here, all over the place. Toured Balcony
House, because, of all the tours, that one lets you get most up close
and personal with the ruin. More adult playground equipment.
Walked out to Pictograph Point, actually a petroglyph site. (Yeah I
get confused by the two terms too; at least I know they aren't
lithographs.) It was rather unlike, say, Inscription Rock. There,
the pre Spanish inscriptions, like the post Spanish inscriptions, were
pretty much "I was here," with maybe a clan symbol to qualify "I".
But the Mesa Verde petroglyph seemed to be a continuous whole, telling
a story. The interpretation is that it is the story of the migration
from Sipapu, the umbilicus of the earth, to the dwelling places of the
various clans. Thee were hand symbols, which I guess said "I did this",
and possibly a few kachina, but mostly a linear story with clan symbols
spaced along the track.
Nearly as I can remember from my last visit 30 years ago, they didn't
then have an excavated pit house, the dwelling of the ancestors of the
ancestral pueblos, from over a thousand years ago. Now they have several,
and they are quite interesting. They are buried a few feet, with their
upper walls and roof of logs and, on the outside, wattle and daub. They
are really sophisticated and comfortable looking dwellings. Not at all
clear to me why they chose to move out into apartment house style pueblos.
The guides were flogging a theory that the pit houses were the origin of
the kiva concept. As people moved out of the pit houses into above ground
apartments, out of sheer conservatism, they kept a few pit houses n which to
perform the traditional ceremonies. Over the years, the pit house sank
further into the ground, and became first hexagonal and then circular,
but remained the proper place for ritual. At least in Mesa Verde, the
Kivas seemed not to be communal, but belonged to a family or extended
family; the ratio of kivas to bedrooms was only a few to one.
I had been thinking that my car didn't get as much milage as when it
was new, but I guess that it was just that I haven't been doing as much
rural, non-interstate driving. About three quarters of the trip was
on one tank of gas, 544 miles at 42 miles per gallon, which is OK
by me.
Billy Budd, July 2008
Billy Budd is set on an English battleship in the Napoleonic Wars.
Billy Budd was pressed into service, but seems to thrive on it. He
is cheerful, patriotic, hardworking, and, generally good. This
annoys the hell out of John Claggart, the ship's Master at Arms
(read police chief). He is a nasty bit of work who prefers that
everybody else be primarily motivated by fear of him and his minions.
He finds this much more satisfactory than all this junk about
patriotism, friendship, and loyalty. Billy Budd's increasing popularity
among the crew throws a spanner in his works, and he conspires to
do him in.
(The singer portraying Claggart did a really excellent job. Somewhat
overblown, of course, as is all opera, but still a believably nasty
guy. Ever notice how the villains make much better drama than somebody
who is all sweetness and light? Richard II is much more dramatic
than Henry V, and Iago trumps them both.)
So Claggart frames Billy on the charge of fomenting a mutiny. Captain
Vere is not much inclined to believe him, and has the two of them
to his cabin to have it out. Claggart makes his charges, and Captain
Vere asks Billy to answer them. In moments of stress Billy is
susceptible to stuttering, and is unable to get a word out. In his
frustration at being unable to defend himself, Billy strikes Claggart
on the forehead with his fist, killing him.
Both striking a superior and murder are capital crimes, under the
articles of war, and Captain Vere feels he must convene a Court Martial.
The court martial is bound by the facts of the case, and cannot consider
extenuating circumstances. Billy pleads to the captain to intervene
and save him, but the captain, though he recognizes the right of the
case, feels duty bound to let it proceed. Billy is sentenced to hang.
It is only at this point that Billy's essential goodness becomes apparent
to the listener. He understands that he has broken the rules in a time of
war, and begs his friends not to try to rescue him or to demonstrate
in his favor. When the time comes, his last words are "God bless
Captain Vere." Here, as in the book of Job, the way of God with the
world transcends human understanding, and both Billy and Captain Vere
(in an epilogue) look forward to a future life, in which it will all make
sense.
The opera, by Benjamin Britten, is, of course, based on the book
by Herman Melville. It is, I think, an improvement (I read the book
several decades ago, so I could be a little wrong there.) Billy's
goodness in the first act is not as well transmitted by dialogue as
by the description in the book, but the drama from the court martial
on is really intensified by the music, and the opera, unlike the book
makes Captain Vere into somebody who is completely conscious of what
he is doing.
Melville's book is based, very, very loosely on an actual incident.
This incident is really quite different, but also very, very sad.
It occurred on the brig Somers in the American navy, not an English
battleship. The Billy Budd character was an ensign, not an able seaman,
and was seventeen years old, or thereabouts. He was drawn in by a couple
of hard bitten and reprehensible old sea dogs, who where plotting a mutiny.
They were interested in the young ensign because of his ability to
read maps, which they lacked. The three were overheard plotting, and
the captain, quite rightly, had them cast in irons stapled to the after
rail. The rest of the crew rather thought he had gone overboard in
the treatment of the ensign, who was, after all, just a kid. When
the captain overheard the crew muttering, he lost it. In a panic that
a full-scale mutiny might be imminent, He convened a court martial, and
beat on them until they found the three guilty of mutiny, and hung them
from the yard arm, with the officers standing with drawn swords to cut
down any crew member who objected, sympathized, or even failed to lend
a hand on the whiplines that raised them. A sad and unnecessary set of
deaths; there is little question that they ship could have safely returned
to Baltimore and handed the conspirators to the proper tribunal. "Billy
Budd's" life would have been scarred by his criminality. but not over.
(Actually, I'm strongly in favor of the juvenile justice code of today,
wherein a single misstep is forgotten if the threshold to adulthood is
otherwise successfully crossed.)
My sympathies go out to Captain Bligh, who was the object of a major
mutiny, but one in which no lives were lost. A good mariner, but perhaps
a rather strict disciplinarian.
So that is the way a major novelist works, converting a sad, tawdry
and very human affair into a confrontation between good and evil, taking
place in the miniature world of a warship. Each art form has its own
conventions. Opera is not a novel, and a novel is not historiography.
Each can be accepted on its own terms. The fact that I prefer documentaries
and opera to most novels and movies is a personal quirk, not a claim
that one form of conventions is better than another.
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