"Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity..." --John Muir, 1898

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Although, I wonder how much there is to say, really, when you are a dutiful cog in this machine. Or that machine, depending on where you are or what shift you are working. It is, of course, the beast. It is the graven image. It is the subterranean dynamo upon which the crust of western hemisphere existence sprawls from sea to shining sea. But duty is noble. Is it not. Is not it. It is not. We turn in shifts, Comrades, we turn in shifts. I am below with the swelter-tongue, oil-tang stench for nine hours and then surface, numb, sticky, and disoriented into the light, while your eyes are just starting to adjust to the world for what it really is. But not for too long! God help us if we see for too long what the world really is. What it really is. How would the machine run then, Comrades? What would become of us then? Rice bowls and distended stomachs, that’s what. And what to do with all those clocks. In every form imaginable. So you take your place behind the levers just as I am squinting, staggering up from the shafts, paying my fees at the door before I lumber off to lick my wounds and spend my earnings on whatever nepenthe will comfort, distract. As I lie whimpering, sniveling over some inconsequential gash that won’t, for God’s sake, won’t stop bleeding. For numbness is life. Numbness is the petrol, the calories, Comrades. It is what the gaping maw of the beast requires. That and our progeny. This is why it is imperative, Comrades, absolutely imperative that you train them up in the doctrine we now profess and hold dear. That doctrine whose icons we salute and on which we dry our tears and in which we wrap our naked bodies. There is nothing else. All is vanity but vanity and vanity of vanities. For you are not here to feel, Comrades. You are not here to touch the void or drink too deeply from what might be beyond the celluloid soporific ric-tic-tic-tic flickering mesmeric projectors you worship. No. There is nothing. Nothing behind the curtain. Defiance is death is fear is paralysis is poverty is unhappiness is sullied white gloves, Comrades. Sullied white gloves. We need not revert to puritanical names like Mammon, of course, for what did that fool know after all? Crazy, dirty, impoverished, desultory—slaughtered, after all. For God’s sake, is that really an example to follow? Come, now, Comrades, let us reason together. What is this? It is, simply put, a fee for what you cannot, must not live without. Incidentally, another one has gone missing this morning and so you, friend, you must take his shift as well as your own today. The congeries awaits you. Oh, the nobility and pride and satisfaction you must now feel! 25 Oct, 2007

Friday, October 19, 2007

Meditation: Poem

Your skin: fiction—
Your words: fustian—
Your soul: insuperable—
You turn away with the ease of
Ice on hot macadam
And I wonder how you keep from feeling as desperate
As I do

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

Hike: Hesperus Mountain


Rebuffed again.

My annual hajj to the west La Plata Mountains this year was supposed to include a picnic on a blanket by a pond, a walk through golden aspens, a view of the magnificent Hesperus Mountain, and blue October skies. When will I ever learn.

Despite the weather predictions, my aunt Kathy and I decided to attempt a climb of Hesperus Mountain anyway. It was cloudy and cold, the summit of Hesperus alternately clouded and denuded by descending snow-laden clouds. We bundled up and left the Jeep around 10 am. In less than an hour we noticed the first bits of snow/graupel falling. The weather progressively declined from there. We left the trail to begin the ascent up the steep western face toward the western ridge of the mountain. From there, we were to summit from the south. The directions I had were about as clear as the decreasing visibility. The climb was steep and snow was beginning to collect and moisten the talus, making hiking more difficult. From our height, we could see the waves of sleet and snow falling over the valley below like torrents of rain in summer, and spindrift was swirling on nearby Lavender Peak, striking up in monochrome stolidity. At one point the sky opened slightly (and temporarily) over the valley to the south, the sun pouring over a forest of golden aspens.

The going would have been difficult even with dry earth, calm winds, and good visibility, but in light of the absence of all of these, I decided we should descend. It was a good decision, I believe, because the weather only worsened. High winds pelted us with graupel on our descent, the snowfall getting heavier all the time. Entering the forest was a relief from the winds and became quite a wonderland of snow where only a few hours before none had lain.

On our drive out, the snow continued, but the lower we descended, the thicker the fog became, lending great atmospherics for some photo making. Thanks, Kathy, for indulging me!

Here are a few photos from the trip. I played around with some watermarks after post-processing in Photoshop and I hope they aren’t too pretentious or distracting.








The Shark's Tooth slowly succumbing to sheets of snow.








Aspens to the south from high on the trail.







Nearing the top of the west ridge, where we turned around.







Before and After. Kathy (reluctant model, good sport) in the same spot before we left for the hike and after we'd returned.







Waves of pelting graupel from high on the trail.







Deep aspen woods.







Foggy autumn road.







A parting gift for the contestants, just for playing along...




Monday, October 1, 2007

Hike: Water


I went for a hike after church yesterday up Catamount Creek just five minutes from my house. I had been there before, at least on the first half of it, but instead of going all the way to Catamount Reservoir, I turned around near the the top. Just past the Garden of Eden Meadow, I found a "side" trail, unmarked. I took it out of curiousity through the trees and discovered it followed Catamount Creek as it fell steeply through a narrow, deep, dark canyon of pine, towering rock, turning leaves, waterfalls, and half-light. It was as if I'd left a sunny Colorado afternoon and entered a magical autumn evening. I hope you enjoy a few of these glimpses.