August 2007 Archives
- To meet the needs of most modern people, the primary mode of transportation would have to be the horse and buggy or the horse-drawn carriage; each requiring one or two horses.
- People who drove SUVs would likely buy covered wagons that required four or more horses (or one elephant).
- Teenagers wanting the equivalent of muscle cars would hook four horses up to a buggy. They would probably watch shows like Pimp My Hooves and Monster Stable.
- Motorcyclists would learn to ride horses outfitted with chrome saddles.
- The equivalent of a Toyota Yaris or Ford Focus would be a donkey.
- People who liked hybrids would ride mules.
- Parking lots would have to be outfitted with hitching posts, water troughs, and parking attendants.
- In big cities, parking garages would be converted into multi-story barns.
- Gas stations would be feed and watering stations. There would be three qualities of hay: regular, premium, and unleaded (because folks can only handle so much change at one time).
- Fast food restaurants would have ride-thrus instead of drive-thrus.
- Mechanics would have to take crash courses in veterinary medicine.
- Auto dealerships would become horse dealerships. Domestic horses would have to compete with horses imported from Germany and Japan. To increase sales, Japanese horses would be advertised as being "Bred and Fed in America".
- At home, families would likely have to convert their garages or driveways into stables or pens.
- Those families you see with three or more cars out front could have six or more horses roaming their property.
- The DMV would have to change it's name to the Department of Horses or DoH.
- Instead of this video, David Hasselhoff would have made "Jump on my Horse"
- As for me, I probably wouldn't have a horse until I had received the proper allergy shots. In the meantime, I would be relegated to riding a bicycle, deriving what little pleasure I could from spooking horses by ringing my bell.
I like the time of morning when the sun shines only through the top half of the clouds, their peaks snow white and their bellies a gentle shade of blue-gray.
Today is my birthday and I'm treating myself with a train ride to work. In honor of my big day, the local transit agencies are offering free rides to everybody until 1 PM. At least that's what they told me. The fact that it's the second Spare the Air day of the year is sheer coincidence.
I thought about taking the day off, but there's an important meeting I need to attend this afternoon. A random reader might say, "It's your day. Skip the meeting." To which I might reply, "I would, but there are only three people attending and I think they'd notice if I wasn't there... at least I hope they would."
With the exception of an exciting sushi dinner tonight (mmm... sushi), I'm expecting today to be mellow, which I must admit is just the way I want it to be. I don't mind big noisy bashes just as long as they aren't big noisy bashes for me.
If I had the day off, I would have driven to the coast. Escaping from the minor heat wave to someplace like La Selva Beach or Pajaro Dunes sounds extremely enticing.
Since I'm planning to hike in the Forest of Nisene Marks this weekend, this article (found on Two-Heel Drive) about two mountain bikers injured in the park earlier this week caught my eye. According to the rangers, it was one of the worst biking accidents they've seen in recent memory. Both bikers suffered life-threatening injuries, but are said to be in stable condition. I'm thankful they weren't killed.
The story worries me because part of my planned hike will be on a steep and curvy fire road used by mountain bikers. The last thing I want is to have a biker zip down the mountain and run me off the road or veer off a cliff to avoid crashing into me. The likelihood of it happening is small, but it's still cause for concern.
For local Discworld fans, I just read that Terry Pratchett will be signing books at Kepler's Books in Menlo Park, September 25 at 7:30 PM, as part of his Making Money tour. The last time I saw him speak was two years ago, when he visited Capitola.
(With emphasis on the "random" in "random curiosity", here is a silly tale with a beginning, middle, and that's about it. It's worth at least a chuckle or two. Enjoy!)
According to legend, before deregulation, there was only one goddess of electricity. Her name was Peggie and though she was only a minor deity in the pantheon of gods, the people adored her and worshipped her devoutly.
During the Puce Age of Deregulation (puce is roughly eighteen steps below gold), several gods were demoted. By dividing powers and responsibilities among a greater number of lesser gods, deregulators hoped to decrease deity unemployment while improving response time to prayers and pleas through competition.
Peggie took her demotion particularly hard. She had always been a fair and receptive goddess. She had never been greedy - asking for her own priestess and temple or requiring firstborns or virgins as sacrifices. She was quite content to be represented by a shared priestess in a common temple (as long as it had an unassuming statue of her somewhere smart) and only asked for a modest basket of lemons or limes once every three months. And even when the people failed to present a basket, she was never spiteful. She didn't stop electricity from flowing or summon swarms of Energizer bunnies.
That isn't to say she was a pushover. When displeased, she was known to make people extremely susceptible to static, which doesn't seem so bad until you've zapped yourself and your loved ones for several hours straight. That's when you realize a basket of fruit is a fair price to pay for not having to flinch every time you touch something or someone.
After Peggie left, a struggle for dominance in the dominion of electricity ensued. Gods offered more power and greater reliability for smaller and smaller sacrifices. Some offered free deity bobble heads for those who converted. Fighting between the gods was common and electrical surges were prevalent during this period.
Time passed and eventually equilibrium was restored. Where there was once one goddess of electricity, there were now three gods: Ronnie, Eddie, and Dookie. To keep the deregulators from demoting them, they formed a secret pact and promised not to undermine, annihilate, or pull the classic hand buzzer trick on one another. They also agreed to feign competition by asking for different quantities of lemons and limes (they had adopted Peggie's old ways) and covertly met at crochet club gatherings to evenly redistribute the fruit (cleverly hidden in balls of yarn).
Their arrangement worked well until Afelicio, the god of unions, intervened. Seeking to increase his influence, he petitioned Zeus to unionize the gods. Zeus refused, but Afelicio tricked him into playing a brutal game of Rochambeau and beat him. Zeus granted his petition and he wasted little time in establishing his first three bylaws...- No god is allowed to work more than eight hours a day.
- Every god is entitled to full dental coverage and two weeks of leave a year for feasts and orgies.
- Every god will deduct no less than two percent of his or her offerings to maintain mandatory membership in the union.
Fearing an increase in competition and an end to their secret arrangement, Ronnie and Eddie approached Afelicio to strike a deal. In exchange for the status quo, the gods of electricity promised to abide by the bylaws and provide the god of unions with one hundred pairs of crocheted slippers (gods have notoriously cold feet and wear through footwear quickly).
Before they left, the two gods also claimed the coveted day and night shifts, leaving Dookie with the most demanding shift of all... the swing shift - the time of day when people came home and needed tremendous amounts of electricity to cool or heat their dwellings and power their televisions and game machines.
And where was the future swing shift god of electricity during these proceedings? Why, he was sitting in a dental chair, having his teeth whitened, as it was now fully covered by his new union-mandated benefits.
That evening, when he heard the news, Dookie was furious. He had received the short straw and it was either that or no straw at all, so he fumed, gritted his newly brightened teeth, and started working his yarn and crochet hook furiously.
By morning, thirty-three pairs of slippers lay at his feet. Ronnie and Eddie let Dookie sleep in, neither one wanting to wake and tell him he still had one more pair to go.
From Friday through Sunday, we were visiting Chandler, Arizona. Chandler makes up the southeastern portion of the greater Phoenix glob. (During the other three seasons of the year, it's an area, but during the summer, the heat melts the neighboring municipalities into one big, sticky glob.)
We flew out of San Jose on Friday morning. It took two minutes to get through security, which was disappointing. The last few times I flew, security pulled me out of line just to say hello and search my belongings before sending me on my way fifteen minutes later. It passed the time and made me feel special. This time, I actually had a chance to eat a cheese egg mit from Noah's Bagels, drink coffee, and relax before boarding. It made me edgy. I almost went back to the checkpoint to ask them to search my backpack anyway, just to calm my nerves.
Because the point of the trip was more to visit friends than to see the sights, we didn't do a lot of wandering. They're a young family with a two-year-old and a one-month-old and since they had already been so kind to invite us to stay with them, we didn't want to burden them with entertaining us as well. We just tried to be low-key and undemanding in an effort to make the weekend as much of a vacation as possible for everybody.
As soon as we were out of the airport, my camera was out and snapping shots of the local scenery. This was one of the first photos...
After dropping off our backpacks at the house, we had brunch at Brunchies, a country kitchen establishment that is famous for its American and Mexican style breakfasts. What it should be famous for is the talking horse's head mounted on the wall. The thing freaked me out. Fortunately, it didn't start babbling until after I had finished my Brunchies Omelet (a three-egg omelet with cheese, avocado, and bacon).
That evening, M and I cooked cheese raviolis covered with ground turkey and tomato sauce. After dinner, I received a refresher course in toddler endurance. I've never seen a child push a train around a track so many times without tiring or losing interest. His enjoyment never flagged. By the time he was done, I was choo-choo-ed out and ready for a good long nap.
On Saturday, we visited Phoenix's Desert Botanical Garden ($10 per person). Thanks to thunderstorms the night before and that morning, temperatures were only in the nineties, a welcome relief from the previous day's 100+ high.
The garden, located in Papago Park, features cactus, succulents, wildflowers, and other plants that thrive in the desert, more specifically, the Sonoran Desert, which extends from Mexico, through Arizona and California, and into Baja California. My favorite plants were the octopus cactus, teddy bear cactus, and saguaro cactus. The first two are pictured below...
The garden also featured Childhood Dreams, a living sculpture by Patrick Dougherty.
Afterwards, we ate lunch at Aunt Chilada's, where I had a two-enchilada plate (shredded chicken and shredded beef).
We then drove to Dobbin's Lookout in South Mountain Park (free). It's a popular spot (easily accessible by car) that offers a magnificent view of the greater Phoenix glob.
On certain Sundays (called Silent Sundays), the roads inside the park are closed to vehicles. Only hikers, runners, cyclists, and equestrians are allowed full access. It's a great concept. I wish I had seen it in effect. Actually, it would be great if they enforced it seven days a week. The crowd at the lookout would have been a third of the size and there would have been less litter. It's sad to see empty soda cans and water bottles strewn across the mountain landscape. After seeing a teenager drop his empty bottle on the ground, I was tempted to toss it (and the rest of the litter) into his car. Instead, I surreptitiously dumped it in a garbage can.
For dinner, we had barbecued chicken and hot dogs. Afterwards, we watched an entertaining episode (or three) of The Backyardigans. Then, after the little ones had gone to bed, I watched 300, one of bloodiest and most melodramatic green screen movies I've ever seen. If I had my way, I would have added a penguin named Pablo and had the Spartans sing "The Worman Polka" (Yip yip yip!).
On Sunday, we drove thirty miles southeast to the town of Coolidge and visited Casa Grande Ruins National Monument ($5 per person), the location of an ancient agrarian community of people known as the Hohokams. The Casa Grande, or "great house", is one of the largest Hohokam structures still standing. The four-story building is over 700 years old and is now protected by steel roof.
We spent the rest of the afternoon relaxing and spending time with our friends. They kindly dropped us off at the airport and we caught our flight home without trouble or "special" treatment (darn you, TSA!). When we got home, I had just enough energy to empty my backpack, dump my dirty clothes in the washing machine, shower, and jump into bed.
The next time I visit Arizona, I hope to go during the spring or fall. I also hope to stay longer. A road trip through the state would be ideal. There is the Grand Canyon still to see, as well as Canyon de Chelly and the Petrified Forest. In the Phoenix area, I'd like to see a Spring Training game or at least watch the Diamondbacks play. It could also be fun to visit Rawhide (a western theme park) and couple of genuine ghost towns. In any case, it's a state I want to see again.
Finally, I leave you with a parting shot from Casa Grande Ruins...
You can see more photos here...
It has been a day since we returned from a weekend trip to Chandler, Arizona. I spent an hour yesterday sorting through photos and writing down details before I forgot them. I'm hoping to post pictures and a snazzy narrative about it some time this evening.
As with every trip, after I get back, it's hard to believe I ever left. It baffles my mind that not so many hours ago, I was alternating between roasting every time I stepped outside and freezing every time I stepped inside. People in Arizona aren't shy about using their air conditioners. I've never seen electric meters spin so swiftly.
The only part of traveling I dislike more than packing is unpacking. Thankfully, unpacking was a painless process this time around. M and I limited ourselves to a backpack each to minimize the hassle of getting through airport security. When we got home Sunday evening, it only took a few minutes to dump the dirty laundry in the washing machine and put everything else away.
Now that I'm back, my thoughts immediately turn to where to go next. With a holiday tacked onto the upcoming weekend, getting away sounds tempting, but with everybody else having the same thought for Labor Day, it might be better to stay close to home and keep the traveling radius under triple digits.
Campgrounds will be packed, so day trips may be the way to go. I'm still keen on hiking in Pfeiffer Big Sur and The Forest of Nisene Marks State Parks. It might make sense to do them back-to-back and save the third day for staying home and mounting an offensive against the invading army of clutter.
- Arizona (Aug. 24) - Tomorrow, we're headed out for a short weekend trip to Arizona, somewhere in the vicinity of Phoenix. Hiking opportunities are minimal, but that hasn't diminished my excitement.
- Season 1 of Heroes on DVD (Aug. 28) - The show returns for its second season in a month, which gives me just enough time to plow through this seven-disc set. I can't wait.
- 3:10 to Yuma (Sep. 7) - It's a remake of a 1957 western film based on a short story written by Elmore Leonard. Russell Crowe and Christian Bale star in it.
- Making Money by Terry Pratchett (Sep. 18) - Moist von Lipwig, the man who transformed Ankh-Morpork's postal service, will take on the challenge of printed money and the city's mint. Good Discworld fun!
- Autumn (Sep. 23) - Cooler weather and less mosquitoes make it the perfect season for hiking. There are also fall colors to consider. It's one of my favorite seasons of the year.
If you had been heading south on Highway 101 towards Monterey yesterday evening, you would have seen the strangest sight. You would have seen cars using an on-ramp to get off the freeway.
A rollover accident in Morgan Hill had caused a six-mile backup during the evening rush hour. Eighty-mile-an-hour traffic had come to a halt under the Bailey Avenue over crossing. All four lanes were at a standstill.
I was in the slow lane, softly cursing myself for not taking the back roads home like I normally would. I kept thinking to myself, "If I had only taken the Bailey Avenue exit a few hundred yards back, I could've avoided this mess."
As I inched past the Bailey on-ramp, my mind's eye envisioned a daring stunt car move. I would veer to the shoulder, yank the car into reverse, peel up the ramp, and drive off into the sunset at 55 mph on a parallel road.
This refreshing image was playing through my head while "With a Little Bit of Luck" from My Fair Lady played on the car's tape deck. Just then, three vehicles ahead of me, a silver sports car pulled over to the shoulder.
It sat there for ten seconds before the rear lights came on and the car started rolling up the on-ramp. The driver was a man in his twenties with short spiky hair, wrap around sunglasses, and a tan that would make George Hamilton proud. A blonde woman, two shades lighter and around the same age, sat in the passenger seat.
In the time it took for my car to crawl a hundred feet forward, the sports car had backed halfway up the three-hundred-yard-long ramp and three other cars had found the courage to embark on the same backward journey.
After another hundred feet of progress, I looked in my rearview mirror to see the reverse procession had grown to eight cars. More were lining up as bravery found a foothold in numbers.
Luckily for all of them, Bailey isn't a busy street. For every three cars using the on-ramp to get off, one car used it for its intended purpose and that was only until the driver of that vehicle realized he or she was heading into a traffic jam.
Soon, there were two lines of vehicles driving in reverse up the on-ramp. I swear I've never seen anything like it before.
If this were a karmic universe, there would have been a highway patrolman sitting at the top of the ramp, handing out tickets to his heart's content, but since it isn't, I have a feeling every car that went up the ramp, drove off into the sunset, on a parallel road, well above the speed limit.
I went my first murder mystery party on Sunday. It was to celebrate a joint birthday and it was good anxious fun (three parts fun, five parts anxiety, which isn't as bad as it sounds since the "typical party" ratio is usually one to seven).
I'm just not a party person. Parties are for mingling and while most people derive a great deal of pleasure from mingling, I'm not one of them (unless sweating profusely, being unable to think of single thing to say, and feeling an overwhelming sense of dread are telltale signs of pleasure and I just never knew).
The good and bad thing about a murder mystery party is that it forces people to mingle. People have legitimate reasons to...- they want information
- they want to sell you something
- they want to buy something from you
- they want to blackmail you
- they want a paternity test
The reasons aren't always the most pleasant, but at least they're legitimate. Of course, these may also be some of the same reasons why people mingle in regular parties and I just never knew.
There were between twenty and thirty people at the party. Everybody had been assigned a character and given a one-page biography beforehand. The primary goal of the game was to solve the murder. The secondary goal was to have the most money by the end of the night.
Some people were really into the game. They wore costumes and had the details of their characters' lives memorized. I wasn't as well-prepared and kept having to refer to my cheat sheet to remember my name, profession, relationship was with the deceased, and what the heck I was doing there.
Overall, I think I did a good job of hiding my anxiety. I'm certain everybody thought my constant laughter and wisecracks were due to a naturally cheerful disposition and not to an underlying desire to disappear.
After a couple of hours of mingling, the party organizers broke everybody into five groups. Each group pooled their information and came to a consensus as to who they believed to be the murderer.
Two of the five groups chose correctly. My group wasn't one of them. If I had been more adamant about my choice, we could have been, but I deferred to the majority. It's the way I am in a group. Even if I know I'm right, I'll state my opinion, but won't fight for it to avoid being seen as disagreeable. It's a bad habit I don't know how to break.
If you were wondering, I didn't achieve the second goal either. I managed to finish with ten-thousand pounds, which would be impressive if it weren't for the fact that the smallest monetary denomination in the game was ten-thousand pounds.
Anyway, as I said at the beginning, it was good anxious fun. I don't think I'll ever host a murder mystery party, but if I'm invited to another one, I'll go. Next time, though, I'll learn my character thoroughly, if for no other reason than to make the game more enjoyable for those around me, and I'll be more vocal about who I believe to be the murderer (I'll be wrong, of course, but at least I'll be wrong and vocal about it).
Because pessimists have been needing an alternative to the ever-optimistic Life is Good brand, there's now Life is Crap. The site only has a few t-shirt designs available, but it has a whole gallery of crappy life moments. My favorites are the camping and coffee designs...
(via Freezer Bag Cooking)
Hobbes and Calvin are sitting in the shade of a tree...
Hobbes: You know what I like about summer days? They're just made for doing things. ...Even if it's nothing.
Calvin: Especially if it's nothing.
It takes a special kind of energy to do nothing. It's an energy that keeps the legs from walking, the lips from flapping, and the fingers from drumming a dope beat on the back of the seat in front of you in public places (like the theater, bus, or police car). It's an energy that lets the ears tune out and the eyes close. It's an energy that lets the body relax and sets the mind free, but prevents the snoring from kicking in.
Sometimes, it's difficult to do nothing. With so many things to do, I'm always punting it to the bottom of the list. And it isn't like other tasks that can be done simultaneously, like scrubbing the tub and ironing bath towels. Doing nothing requires one's complete attention. Even the most diligent multitasker can't mop and do nothing at the same time. You're welcome to try, but all you'll end up with is a shiny, slippery floor and a whole lot of nothing to do afterwards.
Perhaps the reason I keep putting off doing nothing is because it's actually too easy to do. One can do nothing anywhere, at anytime. It doesn't cost a penny and doesn't harm the environment. One doesn't have to purchase special equipment or reflective gear or footwear (unless one is doing nothing in style). One doesn't need to buy special accessories or rechargeable batteries.
To be good at it doesn't require a skill, a gift, or a knack. It doesn't require practice or stretching or a thirty-minute idle period after eating.
When one does nothing, it's always the latest and greatest nothing. It doesn't require patches or upgrades. There aren't plug-ins to install or manuals to read. There's no need for a tutorial or an instructive DVD. It doesn't need an internet connection or have a next generation (Nothing Whatever.0).
As you may have worked out by now, this entry is absolute (and unadulterated) drivel. It was written with the hope that it would unblock the creative clog my mental pipes have been experiencing this past week. Think of this as the textual equivalent of industrial strength drain cleaner (now with 25% more rambling and nonsense (and 53% less humor)).
- Randy Morgenson
Eric Blehm's The Last Season tells the story of Randy Morgenson, a legendary ranger who patrolled the backcountry of Sequoia and Kings Canyon National Park for 28 seasons, and the intense search and rescue operation that followed his mysterious disappearance in July of 1996. It's the story of a man who was passionate about the mountains and nature, who made it his personal mission to "protect the people from the park and the park from the people", and who loved the wilderness and the isolation it offered to the detriment of his wife and friends.
Blehm intersperses accounts of the search and rescue operation with the story of Morgenson's life. We learn about his childhood in Yosemite and his friendship with Ansel Adams and Wallace Stegner. We see his love for nature develop while in the High Sierras and the Himalayas. We see him find his calling as a backcountry ranger and see him become a legend. We see him romance and marry the woman of his dreams, build a life with her, and then slowly and regretfully lose it all.
The details of his life are critical to understanding the mystery surrounding his disappearance and the frame of mind of the people leading the search. Some believed he was alive and missing. Some believed he was alive, but on the run. Others had theories ranging from fatal accident to suicide to foul play.
Like any good mystery, every possibility seems viable until clues are revealed and pieced together. Blehm does a good job of maintaining the suspense until the very end.
Besides giving us a deeper understanding of Morgenson, Blehm gives the reader a glimpse at the inner workings of the National Park Service. We get to see how it operates and how it treats (and undervalues) its seasonal rangers. Backcountry rangers have one of the most difficult jobs in the service, yet they are treated like second-class workers compared to their "frontcountry" counterparts.
This book was an engaging read and is another contender for my top five books of the year.
I'll finish with two quotes from Randy Morgenson. The first is from page 63 of the book. Morgenson wrote it in the peak register of Mt. Solomon in 1971...
"We are the greatest bulldozers to walk erect. Will we ever permit, in as small place as here, Mother Nature - truly our Mother - to do her thing, undisturbed and unmarred? Will we ever be content to play a passively observant role in the universe, and leave off this unceasing activity? I don't wish man in control of the universe. I wish nature in control, and man playing only his just role as one of its inhabitants. I want every blade of grass standing naturally, as it was when pushed through the soil with Spring vigor. I want the stones and gravel left in the Autumn as Spring meltwater left them. Only these natural places, apart from my tracks, give me joy, exhilaration, understanding. What humanity I have has come from my relations with these mountains."
The other is from page 324 of the book and was recorded in one of Randy's many journals...
"I wish only to be alive and to experience this living to the fullest. To feel deeply about my days, to feel the goodness of life and the beauty of my world, this is my preference... To be thoroughly aware each day that I'm alive, to be deeply sensitive to the world I inhabit and the world that I am, not to roam roughshod over the broad surface of this planet for achievement but to know where I step, and to tread lightly."
(By the way, books 33 and 34 were Psmith in the City by P.G. Wodehouse and Flashman and the Mountain of Light by George MacDonald Fraser, respectively.)
Poem on my mind... "The Worriers' Guild" by Philip F. Deaver, as heard on The Writer's Almanac.
The Worriers' Guild
Today there is a meeting of the
Worriers' Guild,
and I'll be there.
The problems of Earth are
to be discussed
at length
end to end
for five days
end to end
with 1100 countries represented
all with an equal voice
some wearing turbans and smocks
and all the men will speak
and the women
with or without notes
in 38 languages
and nine different species of logic.
Outside in the autumn
the squirrels will be
chattering and scampering
directionless throughout the town
because
they aren't organized yet.
A week passes fast, especially when one swears off calendars for the week in question and attempts to divine what day it is based on the contents of one's refrigerator. For future reference, a half-gallon of milk, a head of lettuce, a cup of yogurt, three pieces of cheese, and eight slices of bread means it's Monday. It also means I'm having a cheese and lettuce sandwich for lunch.
When there was only a gallon of milk in the fridge (or two Fridays ago), we were car camping in Uvas Canyon County Park, located eight miles south of San Jose.
We arrived at the park that evening and easily found our designated campground, which was roughly a third of a mile from the entrance. Our group of ten occupied three of the park's thirty campsites.
Each site has enough parking for two cars. Each also has a picnic table, grill, and food locker. The campground has restrooms with running water, but no showers.
On this trip, we got to use our new tent. A while back, we thought it would be a good idea to have something roomier than our 2-person backpacking tent, so we invested in a 6-person tent that was on sale for $40 at a big box store.
Instead of focusing on the price, I should have paid attention to the dimensions. The tent is ten feet by twelve feet, nearly four times the size of the backpacking tent. It's six feet tall and comes with a dividing wall. I understand the deluxe version comes with bay windows, walk-in closets, indoor plumbing, and a loft.
Saturday morning was cold, but mostly clear. Because temperatures were expected to reach into the nineties, M and I wanted to hike as early as possible.
Although we knew there wouldn't be much water flowing, we hiked the Waterfall Loop Trail, a 1.5-mile loop that leads hikers past four waterfalls: Granuja, Upper, Basin, and Black Rock Falls. Only Granuja and Upper Falls were active.
The trail is somewhat steep, but well-shaded. It's also moist and well-populated with mosquitoes. Standing still to take photos was an open invitation to be swarmed and bitten. Bug repellant only made them meaner.
After we returned to the trail head, M went back to camp and I ventured to Knibbs Knob (elev. 2,694 feet), a steep 3.6-mile out-and-back hike. If I'm reading the contour map correctly, the trail climbs 1,400 feet over 1.8 miles. The trail is a fire road, which accounts for the steepness.
It took an hour to reach the summit. There wasn't much to see at the top, only a secluded picnic table.
It was on the trail leading to the Knob where one could soak in the incredible views of the green canyon and the valley beyond.
On the return trip, I ran most of the way down, figuring it was best not to fight gravity. The downhill trip took about twenty-five minutes.
It was warming up by the time I reached camp. I spent the rest of the day avoiding the heat, either reading or playing games I had never heard of before. I won once, but that was through clueless beginner's luck.
After dinner, we all played a rousing game of Pictionary, where I drew words like Saturday night, box of chocolates, and logo with varying degrees of failure.
On Sunday, our last day, I was the first one awake in camp. The morning was cold and foggy. Knowing everybody would be leaving after breakfast, I decided to do a quick hike to the old logging camp at the end of the Alec Canyon Trail.
The hike is a moderate 2.6-mile out-and-back trek. It's steep in sections, but not as steep as the trail to Knibbs Knob. The whole trip took less than an hour, and like the previous day's hike, I didn't encounter another soul along the way.
The end of the trail lacked any evidence of an old logging camp, which was rather disappointing. I had hoped to record how I explored and ran screaming from the dilapidated, haunted structures.
Back at camp, it didn't take long to break down the tent and pack the car. We left the park well before the designated 1:00 pm checkout time.
All in all, it wasn't a bad camping trip. If I stay there again, I'll go at the beginning of the year, when the weather is cooler and the waterfalls are at their fullest.
Song on my mind... "Ticks" by Brad Paisley
Hey that gives me an idea
Let's get out of this bar
Drive out into the country
And find a place to park.
'Cause I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks.
On trips to Yosemite, after we've gotten tired of listening to the soundtracks from The Lord of the Rings (I keep forgetting to change the CDs kept in the car), we end up listening to a country station based out of Modesto. I can count on them to play a few amusing tunes, including the classic mentioned above.
It's now the song I hum when checking for ticks on a hike, while silently praying I don't find one.
Of course, if Mr. Paisley were to actually find a tick on the poor girl he took out to the country, I'm thinking that would kind of kill the mood. When you get right down to it, romance and ticks really don't mix.
- Junior Potter played by Bob Hope in Son of Paleface (1952).
I'm currently watching Son of Paleface for the second time in three days. It isn't that I think the movie is so great that it merits a second viewing so soon. It's just that I fell asleep during the first viewing, which reflects more on the comfort of my recliner than on the appeal of the film.
I don't know which parts I missed, but I have a hunch they were sequences where somebody started singing. Apparently, Bob Hope and Roy Rogers have such melodic voices that they send me straight to sleep. Two lines into "Buttons and Bows" and I'm out. They're more effective than Lunesta (and they don't have the nasty side effect of a glowing butterfly fluttering about).
I borrowed Son of Paleface because it was the only cowboy spoof I could find at the library. Why was I looking for one? It probably had something to do with still being <a href="http://randomcuriosity.com/journal/archives/001275.htmlon a Western wave while reading a Wodehouse novel. The combination cries out for a comedian in a cowboy hat (or so my brain would have me believe).
Cowboy spoofs, by the way, are rare critters. Hollywood has only made a handful of them. I had originally wanted to see The Paleface, but that movie wasn't available. (I just put it at the top of my queue, along with Jane Fonda's Cat Ballou and John Wayne's McLintock!).
If you find yourself in the mood for a good cowboy spoof, I would recommend the Paleface movies, as well as Blazing Saddles, Shanghai Noon, and Maverick. If you're in the mood for a bad one, I'd recommend Wild Wild West (a film I saw only because Kevin Kline was in it).
(Or, Cheep Alarm Clocks)
The world starts with the songs of a hundred birds.
My eyes snap open and all I see is the ceiling through the dim light of morning. My hand is already reaching for my glasses on the nightstand when my brain finally registers where I am.
I'm in a sleeping bag, in a tent. There isn't a nightstand, which explains the empty air my hand is grasping. My glasses are in a mesh pocket sewn into the wall behind me.
I squint at the watch on my wrist and note the time. Ten minutes to six.
I stare at the ceiling and listen to the birds. Perhaps there aren't as many as I first thought. A dozen, perhaps, but their constant cawing and chirping are so loud and intense that an imagined flock of a hundred doesn't seem so far-fetched.
After five minutes, the birds stop. I close my eyes.
The sound of a single footstep breaks the silence. It's alarmingly close to the tent. I hold my breath. A few seconds pass, then another footstep, followed in quick succession by three more.
I slowly sit up and peer through the mesh walls of the tent. To my surprise and relief, it's only a large blue jay. It doesn't notice me and hops away from the tent. It sounds like footsteps retreating.
I recline and tuck my hands back in the sleeping bag. I close my eyes again knowing I won't be able to fall back asleep. While feigning, I doze off.
Thirty minutes later, I'm dressed and outside. It's cold and overcast. The camp is quiet. No one else is awake yet.
To be one of the first ones up is a secret joy of mine. It's a head start on the day. It's an opportunity for an early morning hike.
As quietly as I can, I pack my gear and tiptoe out of camp. The way is covered with fallen leaves and every dry leaf crushed beneath my boot sounds like firecrackers. Nobody stirs.
By the time I return from my hike, an hour has passed. The camp shows signs of life, at least human life.
For now, the birds have disappeared high into the trees. They'll be back again tomorrow to start the world with a song.
Somewhere in the world right now,
- somebody just heard the news that Barry Bonds homered over the weekend to tie Hank Aaron's home run record.
- somebody else heard the news and couldn't care less.
- somebody still hasn't heard the news.
- somebody just asked somebody else, "What is a home run?"
- somebody thinks Bonds is the greatest baseball player ever.
- somebody else has no idea who Barry Bonds is.
- somebody believes Daniel Craig is the best James Bond ever.
- somebody else believes Daniel Craig is the best Barry Bonds ever.
- that somebody's friend just corrected him by saying, "It isn't Bonds. It's Bond, Barry Bond."
- somebody is thinking, "Mmm... donuts!"
It's Monday. The world is a wacky and random place. Enjoy every second of it.
When I was a kid, I remember reading a series of books about three teenaged boys who were amateur detectives. They lived in Southern California and set up headquarters in a trailer hidden under piles of junk in a salvage yard. For security, they had a number of cleverly disguised secret entrances.
The series was called The Three Investigators and Robert Arthur, Jr. created it in 1964. He wrote the first twelve books and a cadre of other authors continued the series after his death. I should track down a copy and read one for fun. According to IMDB, a movie based on the first book is set to be released in December.
I mention all of this because I was wracking my brain trying to remember the name of the series this morning. It took forever to pop into my head and now that it's here, this seemed as good a place as any to keep it from getting lost.
Anyway, before July ended, I read four more books. I wrote about Book 29 already, so let's talk about the others. All three were westerns and that wasn't by coincidence. I've been riding what I like to call a Western Wave1 for a little while now.
It all began with the first viewing of The Adventures of Brisco County, Jr. (you could say that's when I caught the wave).
Then, upon Elkit's excellent recommendation, I read Holmes on the Range by Steve Hockensmith. That took me right into the tube.
The book is a hilarious caper featuring the Otto and Gustav Amlingmeyer (or Big Red and Old Red), two cowboys inspired by the tales of Sherlock Holmes. Actually, it's Gustav who takes a shining to the stories and seeks to follow in his hero's footsteps of "detecting and deducifying". It's told from Otto's point of view, though, which adds a flavor to the narration that is engaging and addictive.
I liked the first book so much that as soon as I finished, I went out and borrowed Hockensmith's second book, On the Wrong Track. That one finds the Amlingmeyers seeking employment as Pinkertons and eventually working as railroad detectives. I have a feeling I shouldn't have rushed through it because the third book in the series won't be out for another seven months.
At the same time, I was reading another western (I was walking the board, if you will). Actually, it wasn't just any western, it was the western, which is to say, Owen Wister's The Virginian, Horseman of the Plains. (It's the second DailyLit book I've finished.)
It's easy to see why the book is considered a classic. The story is beautifully and simply told. It's set in Wyoming and is about a cowboy from Virginia who courts a school teacher from Vermont. It also has a card game, a train ride, a tall tale, a hanging, and a shootout (all of your typical western fixings). It is a strong contender for one of my top five books of the year.
If a book could be paired with a television show, like wine with food, then Holmes on the Range would pair nicely with Brisco County, Jr. They're both comical westerns with a solid footing in another genre (mystery and science fiction, respectively) that sets them apart from the mainstream.
As for The Virginian, I discovered it pairs nicely with television's most recent western, Deadwood. The contrasting presentations of The West (one romantic, one realistic) make them the perfect western odd couple.
I've watched the first four episodes of Deadwood so far. (HBO produced 36 in all.) The characters remind me of those in a Flannery O'Connor story. Deadwood is populated by grotesques - people I empathize with despite their despicable traits. I like the show immensely and highly recommend it to anybody who doesn't mind the abundant use of profanity. Most characters get by without it, but a few can't utter a clean sentence to save their lives (Al Swearengen and Calamity Jane come to mind).
I figure I'll ride in the glasshouse of this Western Wave a while longer, finishing Brisco and Deadwood before pulling out and hunting for a new set.
1 The recommended way to ride a Western Wave is on a surfboard sporting a saddle and stirrup design. The leash should resemble a lasso and the brand should go on the board's backside. For full effect, the bottom half of the wetsuit should look like chaps while the top half should resemble a denim shirt under a leather vest. To finish the look, a cowboy hat should be firmly attached to the head. Calling somebody riding a Western Wave "dude" is not recommended.
(Or, Why I Need a Longer Commute...)
It's the first of August or the 213th day of 2007. If we were downloading the year to a computer, it would be 58% complete, and that's with broadband. If we were using a dial-up connection, today would be January 17th.
On this morning's train ride to work, I was thinking about J.K. Rowling and how, according to legend, the story of Harry Potter came to her, nearly fully-formed, on a four-hour train ride to London. I began to wonder what type of tale one could conjure up on a thirty-minute train ride to San Jose.
I was just setting my brain to the task when the train reached my stop, so I don't have the answer yet. We'll see if anything (besides the strong urge to nap) comes to me on tomorrow's train.
