Always searching....always seeking.

Dostoevsky writes......

But man is a frivolous and incongruous creature, and perhaps, like the chess player, loves only the process of the game, not the end of it. And who knows (one cannot swear to it), perhaps the only goal on earth to which mankind is striving lies in this incessant process of attaining, or in other words, in life itself, and not particularly in the goal which of course must always be two times two makes four, that is a formula, and after all, two times two makes four is no longer life, gentlemen, but is the beginning of death. Anyway, man has always been somehow afraid of this two times two makes four, and I am afraid of it even now.

Granted that man does nothing but seek that two times two makes four, that he sails the oceans, sacrifices his life in the quest, but to succeed, really to find it - he is somehow afraid, I assure you. He feels that as soon as he has found it there will be nothing for him to look for.

Fyodor Dostoevsky......excerpt from....Notes from the Underground

On the Road....#6

If your thumb is your guide, and the community of drivers your ride, you best plan ahead for nightfall. Overnight rides did occur, but not a desirable option. He preferred a good night’s sleep in his bag and a cup of hot coffee while bent over a roadmap come morning.

This particular day ended late at night in downtown Tacoma, Washington. He set his pack in the corner and sat wide-eyed at the counter stool of an all night Denny’s. Coffee, grilled cheese, a great book, and an overly friendly waitress made up his current world.

After three hours of cup refills and charm had led to a dead-end, he decided that he best push on and attempt a late night ride. As he walked across the parking lot adjusting the pack on his back, he felt himself rise up off the pavement. No, it was not the coffee. In fact, he had forgotten to pay his bill, and two gents in cooks’ attire were carrying him by his forearms, back into the Denny’s to make good. A counter of truckers and the like had a good chuckle with their meal.

It did not take long for a police cruiser to pull up to him standing on the on-ramp toward Portland and explain the law against hitchhiking in that location. This community servant was rough, rude, and ready for any backtalk. As the squad car turned out of site temporarily, and recognizing its inevitable return, he quickly considered his options. Then suddenly, and strangely instinctively, he ran across the pavement to the landscaped on-ramp dividing median, hopping the three foot shrubs that bordered it, and laid flat on the ground. Moments later he peered out from the bushes and watched the cruiser drive past, pausing slightly, and then drive away down the ramp to the rest of his life.

He rolled out his bag, climbed in, and slept very soundly.

He was woken by the warmth of the sun, and car radios dialed to the Monday morning commute. As he stood up stretching widely, he saw that lanes on both sides of him were backed up with cars waiting for their chance to enter the freeway, and get to work on time. One guy, with his arm hanging limply out the window, and Johnny Cash singing from an 8 track in his pickup, said “hey fella, need a ride”?

Never a sweeter question when you’re on the road.

Many ideas...one drum.....

There is something engaging about numbers. When ideas are represented by many, these ideas demand and deserve to be heard. When we see large numbers of humans out in the streets protesting, marching to a single drum, we cannot help but look and listen.

But many would dismiss this collective action as being simply many ideas mixed amongst many disgruntled fellow beings. And some of this must be true. People respond to a public gathering in a variety of ways, and hope to air their grievance to the big eye watching. And they are anxiously watching.

Not one voice and one view, but many voices, sharing the common ground of humanity.

The big eye must come down from the top floor peering through the shades, where they have spent their time since the restlessness of the working man first stirred in the streets below. Those same leaders, driven by the greed that is part of a culture passing by, and not the primary characteristic of the human condition, who have led us to the edge, need to step off and ride their parachute down. Forget them, there’s work to do.

Many folks are under the illusion that we can patch things up, pile on some regulations, print out some stimulus, and things will go back to what we knew, what we are comfortable with. A wait and hope strategy will only prolong the inevitable, and cause us to selfishly pull back what’s ours, rather than extend a hand.

The great American experiment has thrived best when facing a cause or challenge. Think about our short history. This is such a rich opportunity to stop pretending how great it is to be an American, based on the soil we spilled out upon at birth, and actually become one.

Think about it, talk about it, and then step into the march.

Or perhaps not.

djs

Exploring Land Use....#2

This ongoing writing will attempt to explore land use comparisons between our Wilderness Areas, National Parks, National Recreation Areas, and National Monuments, specifically in relation to the debate concerning conservation and preservation, and based upon actual experience on the ground. See archived posts for introduction and definitions.

Glen Canyon National Recreation Area (Arizona)

Early on in his travels he encountered the “debate” directly. Crossing the enormous dam he was overwhelmed by the immense human playground the adjoining reservoir had created. The gate fee allowed him to drive right down the dunes and camp at water’s edge. Around him his fellow campers were enjoying a festive atmosphere, similar to a crowded day at the beach. In front of him was what once was the Colorado River, now resembled a large lake. This is an example of a federally controlled, intensely managed, multiple use land designation; the National Recreation Area.

Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument (Utah)

Riding north into Utah, it took a while to realize that there was no particular “monument.” While sipping coffee at a remote general store he was told, “It’s sort of all around”. Sure enough. He discovered many square miles of wild lands. Hike where you choose but do not expect any marked trails or even signage at the significant natural areas as delineated on the topography map.

One such area, though both natural and historical, is the Old Paria Town site. Located a mile and a half off the paved road, access is limited to hiking or a very rough ride. Upon returning from his hike he noticed a couple in a minivan. They asked “is it worth the walk?” He tried to explain the value and the effort to experience it. They said goodbye and drove off down the paved highway. Is there a relationship between easy access and public use?

Ashley National Forest (Utah)

It quickly became apparent that the best places to camp were in the national forests. Camping is allowed anywhere within the national forest for no fee, and in this case, a very pristine setting.

The fact that the Uintah Wilderness boundary is adjacent to this national forest is evidence that Congress and agency knew not where to strike the delineation line. Camped right at the confluence of the Yellowstone Creek and Swift river provided a great opportunity to run the rapids in his sturdy Old Town canoe. It was much to his surprise, while navigating a swift section of water, that a cattle rancher had strung a barbed fence line across the width of river. He was forced to the shore. Is this not a public river?

Uintah Wilderness Area (Utah)

Just a simple sign post marks the beginning of the wilderness. Hiking on the trail thickens and becomes nearly non existent in less then two miles. After that, one is left to his own devices. And devices such as a GPS unit are invaluable.

Camped at a small remote lake, he realized he was short on food supplies. Fortunately, his collapsible fishing rod caught two fine trout for dinner. Moments later, where he thought he was completely alone, a ranger, who had been spying on him from across the water, approached the campsite. He arrested him for “wanton destruction of a natural resource”. True story. He had caught a protected species of trout, restricted solely for the local Native Americans.

The next morning he traveled twenty five miles by dirt road to the town of Minnela, the county seat. After a long discussion with the Judge, concerning why her grandchildren can no longer catch crayfish without a permit as she had done as a child, she let him go. If the wilderness areas cannot remain wild, where then?

Glacier National Park (Montana)

As opposed to Yellowstone or Yosemite, Glacier does not offer long lines at the park entrance. A well managed system moves patrons through quickly. However, once inside, the tram-like procession with the other autos was unlike any previous experience on public lands. Stopping at each scenic vista is required just to take in the grandeur fittingly preserved by Congress in 1910. This stopping and pausing behavior is mimicked by others and soon a group of cars form a “tourist pack”. This can only be avoided by leaving the car behind and hiking in to see the land from a different vantage point.

It appears that the needs of most attendees are met by our national parks, considering the full spectrum of access available. Should such a large amount of engineering and capitol be exhausted to provide such easy access, when the same scenery could be simply viewed in a coffee table book? (Elitist commentary)

(to be continued)

On the Road....#5

The best rides were in the fresh air swirling about in the bed of a truck. Although he savored the long conversations ridin’ shotgun, it was the thoughtless view of the landscape, and the steady bump of the road under his ass, that he most enjoyed.

He jumped into the back without much discussion as to where, other than West. The two Native American’s appeared pleasant , and anyway, he had been waiting long enough to lose the desire to be choosy. Motoring across the last quarter of the big state before Idaho, he developed a real admiration for this territory. Big alright, in fact, more expansive than he had ever been witness to prior. Then again, his was just a young life.

He was quick to his feet when the truck rumbled to a stop, just outside Plains. They had pulled off and aimed the pickup North. No sooner had his boots met the gravel, when the passenger with the long braided hair grabbed his backpack and tossed it into the grassy ditch alongside the road. Not a word was spoken, and they drove off. He noticed it first, as was he shaking the sawdust off his jeans, that his camera, which he had hung on the top rack of his pack, was gone.

It did not take long for the guy to make up his mind. The driver of the old red Cadillac, so overweight that the wheel rubbed back and forth over his belly, who stopped without invitation, was convinced that the reservation Indians had stolen the camera. Harv, as he introduced himself, shifting his derby-like hat back on his sparsly rooted topside, insisted that they make this wrong right.

He had just about convinced himself to forget the loss, assuming it lay innocently in the sawdust, and now he was headed North up to the Flathead reservation. The music on the radio blared redneck, and the speedometer topped a hundred, more than once.

This situation was just the cause the heavyset fella needed to act out some sort of fantasy. So this just unfolded without any resistance, because it was a time in his young life when he was more apt to experience what was happening, then to try to alter or control its outcome.

As they drove slowly past dilapidated mobile homes (the new tepee), he glance back and forth with his chin on a pendulum, searching for, and secretly hoping not to find, the red pickup. Enough was enough when they realized that all the pickup trucks on the Flathead Reservation were painted red, or so it seemed. Oh well, security in numbers he guessed, though certainly not in twisted treaties.

bust.....Boom.....BUST!

Shanty Town 1930














Tent City 2009













“If Americans ever allow banks to control the issue of their currency, first by inflation and then by deflation, the banks will deprive the people of all property until their children will wake up homeless”

Thomas Jefferson



"I've never seen it like this before, and I have 30 years of experience working with the homeless," said Darlene Newsom, head of the UMOM Day Centers emergency housing project in Phoenix, Arizona, where the number of homeless families seeking services has doubled in the past three months.


"We're getting a lot more working people. We're getting more people with education. We're getting a lot more people who are working part-time or not getting enough hours to pay their bills," she said.


Keysia Bell, 38, had made a living as a caregiver for the elderly until full-time work became harder to find.


After a period of paying to stay with friends or relatives for weeks or months at a time, then renting a house she could no longer afford, she ended up at St. John's two months ago with her 17-year-old and 10-month-old daughters.


Homeless Shelters.............just one step away from the tent city.

Exploring land use.....#1

In May 2004, after dropping off his youngest to begin higher education in Arizona, he began a solo month long journey through the public lands of the western United States. The only self imposed rules for the trip were that he sleep at least 28 nights on the ground, avoid all radio or televised news, and restrict his cell phone use to one call per week.

What began as a mid-life mental cleansing, soon became a search, a search for the best available campsite, access to a navigable river (canoe on the rack), or even some level of solitude.

What he discovered was a variety of public land uses, ranging from state and national parks, where camping is fee based and confining, to national forests and national monuments where the same is free to the user, wide ranging, and self directed. The stark differences in regulation and use became apparent, and prompted inquiry into how and why public land use decisions are determined. Can a traveler still cross these lands such as was once done on horseback? This image proved worthwhile as he worked his way north on mostly unpaved national forest roads, resurfacing and re-entering only for supplies.

This periodic, but ongoing writing, will attempt to explore land use comparisons between our Wilderness Areas, National Parks, National Recreation Areas, and National Monuments, specifically in relation to the debate concerning conservation and preservation, and solely based on actual experiences on the ground.

For the purposes of discussion:

Conservation is defined here as: the managed use of the resource in a sustainable way by and for human consumption and enjoyment. This should be understood to be based on the utilitarian construct of scientific management acting on behalf of the public interest.

Preservation is defined here as the limited or non-use of a resource, preserved in a natural or unaltered condition, for ecological value, low impact visitation, and scientific observation.

djs (to be continued)

Direction unknown.....

It seems like a tug of war of sorts. It echoes below the surface of our day to day. The media, art, and the themes behind the movies ( a reflection of ourselves, no?) have amplified slightly the restlessness that invades us. There is talk of anti-consumerism, behavior modification, green-this and green-that, rationing our energy use, and a generationally unfamiliar concept of sacrifice.

The powers (including our new guy), have such a strong vested interest in keeping all things the same, with the exception of are larger role for our big brother. Is the way of life we have all become dependent upon and have identified with since “the Beav,” going away?

Typically no one, with the exception of an abused wife, or overused oil, wants change. Change is a political word which equates to “more for me.” Yet, intuitively and intellectually, many sense, and some know, that the next couple hundred years cannot be sustained like the last.

Perhaps there is a technological solution to this quandary? Yes and no, eh? Have you noticed a growing aversion to technology? The whole Jetson thing never really took hold, as we clung to the earthen mix in order to ground ourselves in humanity.

Back to nature? One thing we Americans do not do is go backwards. Ahhh, now you’re thinking. A mixture of the newest and greatest, developed by the best and brightest, and allowed to grow in a natural allotment of time. Time. This may play a significant role in getting beyond this restructuring resistance.

Technology needs to serve us, and not the mirror. When we move mind and matter outside the natural rhythms of the planet locally, and the universe more widely, we ourselves become unsustainable.

So there you have it. Simply design all our systems to work at a pace that considers rhythm first and function next.
Or perhaps not.
djs

and each time I roam, Chicago is.....

Kerouac, nothing but brick, a butt, and a book
.

One of the early works that dug deep was On the Road, by the beat generation bandit himself, Jack Kerouac. He was young, but Jack’s words spoke of experiencing the honest, raw, and unglorified existence of America in 1953. There was a draw to the cities for work and survival. The blend of humanity, the human density, the meeting of the most basic needs, the need for a man to sleep, eat and defecate. Factory work. No rules and no regulation. Each for his own.


But Jack would have none of it. He saw the world as a crazy place, a raucous dance, a hoot, and a dreary day to follow. He loved it all and hated it all. Jack embraced and expressed both sides of his coin. One of his early blowouts stayed near the surface….“The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn, like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes "Awww!”


In the first few reads, of which there have been many over the years, he so enjoyed the description of the westward trek toward Chicago. Hitchhiking in the rain out of NY, and struggling to find rides. His writing describes the desire to leave, and the resistance of the universe to free him. So when he finally hooks up with his buddy Dean in the windy city, anyone from these parts would have had to laugh……


"Great Chicago glowed red before our eyes. We were suddenly on Madison Street among hordes of hobos, some of them sprawled out on the street with their feet on the curb, hundreds of others milling in the doorways of saloons and alleys... ...We let out the hobos on this street and proceeded to downtown Chicago. Screeching trolleys, newsboys, gals cutting by, the smell of fried food and beer in the air, neons winking--'We're in the big town, Sal! Whooee!'



First thing to do was park the Cadillac in a good dark spot and wash up and dress for the night. Across the street from the YMCA we found a redbrick alley between buildings, where we stashed the Cadillac with her snout pointed to the street and ready to go, then followed the college boys up to the Y, where they got a room and allowed us to use their facilities for an hour. Dean and I shaved and showered. I dropped my wallet in the hall. Dean found it and was about to sneak it in his shirt when he realized it was ours and was right disappointed...



...But we forgot that and headed straight for North Clark Street, after a spin in the Loop, to see the hootchy-kootchy joints and hear the bop. And what a night it was.



'Oh, man,' said Dean to me as we stood in front of a bar, 'dig the street of life, the Chinamen that cut by in Chicago. What a weird town--wow, and that woman in that window up there, just looking down with her big breasts hanging from her nightgown, big wide eyes. Whee. Sal, we gotta go and never stop going till we get there.


Jack Kerouac On the Road 1953

Never "really" been there......

He says this too often himself. So when his traveling partner recently said, “I’ve never really been there before,” it struck a chord. Of course he was referring to various travel locations yet to be pinned to the proverbial map. But more importantly, he highlighted a reality that we all should own up to…. that so often we visit a certain local without due exploration. Some of you may be even thinking that you drove across a State, and wonder if you can claim to have “been there,”…really?

However, he challenges this notion with the concept of “been there,” as in being present. Perhaps it is not a matter of time spent, sites seen, states crossed, or ranges traversed (although he does have an appetite for accomplishing the latter). Rather, it is a state of mind that forms the allure of travel. Not time, not space, but mindful movement.

This must be accurate, evidenced by the reality that we can only be in one place at a time and never in all places in our time. So we live many days dreaming of the road, often living vicariously through those we read about, those stepping out, “into the wild.”

It makes him think of Lawrence of Arabia. Reading up, he notes the audacity of Lawrence to act out his dream once released from the dreary mapping office. Possibly unprepared, notably under skilled, motivated by sheer madness for adventure, he began to live out the daydreams of his mind. His mental preparation was all he required. For example, T.E Lawrence writes in The Seven Pillars of Wisdom, “All men dream; but not equally. Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their minds wake in the day to find that it was vanity; but the dreamers of the day are dangerous men, for they may act out their dreams with open eyes, to make it possible.”

Act out. Make it possible.

djs

On the Road...#4

He sat quietly alongside the edge of the road under the shade of his wide brimmed straw hat. Still vain at that age, he was surprised he had kept his mothers parting gift, but being in the country brought out his developing practical trait.

The pickup stopped well past and he had to run a long distance while the driver discussed the decision with the passenger. In the back, with him and his pack, was a full rack of children. All five laughed out loud over the broken muffler, as his straw hat blew off his head and out onto the pavement. Short life that hat.

Short ride also, as the truck pulled in to the first tavern that surfaced on the landscape. Ralph, as he called himself, needed a short pit stop. He sat with the kids in the truck, but ran out of small talk quickly. Just as soon as we were on our way, the truck pulled in and stopped, at another watering hole. And with each stop, Ralph said less and stumbled more, with an angry tone building. The wife was silent through the entire ordeal. Over the twelve miles to the next town, his original destination, the pickup stopped at five taverns, over four hours. He may have explored other options but were he not gripped by Pirsigs fabulous novel Zen and the Art……

The sun was setting when Ralph rumbled the truck to a stop in the front yard of his farmhouse. In a minute everyone scattered. He thought it was just a few miles to town and he figured to start walking. Suddenly, the oldest boy, thirteen, came around the back of the barn driving a rusty Oldsmobile. He waved for him to jump in and he would drive him into town. This old car had no shocks or struts and was a bobbin’ and weavin’ across the grass between other abandon cars, until we hit the pavement.

Without much size, the boy would give up the little visual he had when he would sink down to depress the accelerator to the floor. He talked nervously most the ride about his father “being alright,” cept after noon, when the bottle would git em. By now though the old man was snoring and the kids would be playing, or driving.

djs

Bail out.........your own boat.

Buried in a great read about working men…called Men’s Lives. Not Terkle mind you. Although, Studs was ripe for the talk.

No, this explores the lives of fishermen in the coastal waters of the northeast. A primal independence, a pride unstated. Thriving and surviving requires many skills. Certain rawness in the hands, yet never a hand out. And then the fish, forever abundant, ran out. Take any job of work to live, and give up a life of living to work.

"Full-time baymen - there are scarcely one hundred left on the South Fork - must also be competent boatmen, net men, carpenters and mechanics, and most could make good money at a trade, but they value independence over security, preferring to work on their own schedule, responsible only to their own families. Protective of their freedom to the point of stubbornness, wishing only to be left alone, they have never asked for and never received direct subsidies from town or county, state or federal government." …..

Men's Lives....Peter Matthiessen

Active participation.....

1930 & 2008 Andes in Peru

When we think of glaciers melting, we think of back then. When we think of the great wars, the real wars, we think of those. A culture shift clearly happened in the 1960’s. History, as we are taught, is revealing, but by definition, after the fact. Yet all history, geologic, political, and cultural, we can agree, occurred moment by moment. Were humans aware of the transitions at the moment? Was there a clock tick when some one of us thought, “I am seeing and feeling change.” Most certainly, just not in mass scale, one must surmise.

However, if evolution is true to our understanding, we may have adapted technologically and cognitively to the speed of change. If you accept that as given for a moment, and are willing to trust the best science available, your intuitive nature, as well as the ability to wade through a nearly inexhaustible amount of information available at your fingertips; then just possibly we imagine, even see and feel, a significant shift occurring, at this moment.

“So what,” you say. That’s true, so what. Well, it appears that this evolutionary adaptation you accepted above momentarily, is why this all matters. We cannot accept the validity of science, the great works done in the name of our gods, the slow but steady rising of human consciousness, and not realize that we can affect and shape our existence through awareness and action.

If any of this is true, we can recognize this time as an opportunity to allow our behavior to cultivate the planet and shift the culture, in line with reason, and not simply the endless “wants” of the human condition.
Or perhaps not.

Reversing course.....

A current read has him thinking about plans, opinions, and the strength to change direction in the face of new information. History has shown us though, that when there’s no turning back, you move forward.

A sophisticated plan was in place and the men waited eagerly for their moment. New technological advances in weaponry allowed the British to fire at will from a considerable and safe distance. Once bombardment of German trenches and fortified bunkers was complete, these young British volunteers would charge across “no-man’s land” gallantly and with well documented enthusiasm and cheer. This was the preamble to the Battle of Somme, in July, 1916.

England’s best young men signed on in droves and trained in a tradition that translated unpleasant realities into romantic ideals, with promises of glorious sacrifice, great marches, and the “greatest of all adventures.”

Once the wave of bombardment ceased, and before the shield of smoke had cleared, soldiers jumped out of their trenches with intentions of driving the Germans off French soil. As word returned quickly to the brass, that not only had they miscalculated on the distances to the German trenches, but even the protective barb wire fence line was still in place.

The physical laws of inertia aside, men set in motion with conviction are not easily withdrawn. The attack would continue as planned. So wave after wave of young cheering men ran through the smoke and into well positioned German machine gun fire.

20,000 men were killed in the opening minutes of the battle. 412,000 men died in all.

Out walking......

In the effort to tell a whole story, to see it whole and clear, I have had to imagine more than I have known. The most insistent and formidable concern of agriculture, wherever it is taken seriously, is the distinct individuality of every farm, every field on every farm, every farm family, and every creature on every farm. To farm is to be placed absolutely.

Wendell Berry

The deer carcass that the dog’s beating nose had found, was decomposing without being eaten by either predators or scavengers. Strange. As most are aware, in a balanced system, this creature should have been eaten clean.

The old farmstead, once sited for development before the fall, had soil exposed to the sky for the first time, and in other areas the grasses had been buried under yards of clay. These actions have scattered the animals that once occupied these lands since the last tenants left, nearly a decade past. A couple of centuries of human survival, and the natural movements of wind, worm, and wildlife had disappeared to make room for multiple homes designed to repel the same. Or perhaps not.

Both dogs’ attention split between scent and intuition. It was if they, and later himself also, became aware of the ghosts that inhabited these lands. In the natural areas yet to be disturbed by machine, the sensation of the lives of the past seemed unusually apparent. He would have most likely overlooked these experiences, and even the strange voices, had it not been for his canine companions. They observe the natural world on a different level, one that he has, over many years, learned to trust.

djs

On the Road ...#3.....

Back when he had just earned the right to fight, and vote, the debate drifted back and forth in his mind. Should he walk in between rides? If dropped off near a town, then the thought was to stay put in case a ride did not materialize. This time however, he was let off where only a County road sign directed his previous rideshare north. So he walked.

Even though they call this State “Big Sky”, it will not stop the horizon from moving out of the suns use. In the early darkness, with no other choice, he climbed between the strands of a rancher’s fence and stretched out his bedroll in a furrow plowed over.

As it does each day for as long as he can remember, that sun eventually came around to his way of thinking. Eyes open during this gradual transition; he became aware of a presence all around him. Squinting he climbed out of his safe bag and stood to find a place to express his morning relief. Cows. All around him in the steaming morning light were cows. Standing very still he looked closer only to notice that it was not only cows all around him. Bulls.

He picked the wrong field this time. Slowly rolling his bed and carefully stepping backwards through the furrows, he edged out to the blacktop and the rest of his day on the road.

An open book exam....

It was always so easy and at times a welcome removal from the group. “Go look it up” were the walking orders, when the meaning or spelling of a word was in question. Although dictionaries provided answers, it was later in the encyclopedia that he would stare at the few color glossies and let his imagination be triggered. Not enough information for a full report, but plenty enough to hold your own if called upon.

And now, well you know about now. And it is good. And it is bad.

In fact, on a recent first time hike, as he was attempting to determine if this trail intersected the ridge to the top, or was he spending needless time on the wrong leg. He wondered. Yes he wondered if he should just place a cell call to a friend who then could get an aerial view from Google Earth and tell him the easiest route to the summit. Simple. Efficient. And pretty cool. An open book exam. No exploration needed. Hmmmm.

Roamin' & Stumblin' and Wondrin'

The dames of France are fond and free,

And Flemish lips are willing;

And soft the maids of Italy,

And Spanish eyes are thrilling;


Still, though I bask beneath their smile,
Their charms fail to bind me.
And my heart goes back to Erin's Isle,


To the girl I left behind me.

For she's as fair as Shannon's side,
And purer than its water,
But she refused to be my bride
Though many years I sought her.

Yet, since to France I sailed away,
Her letters oft remind me,
That I promised never to gainsay
The girl I left behind me.

She says: "My own dear love come home,
My friends are rich and many;
Or else, abroad with you I'll roam,
A soldier stout as any;
If you'll not come, nor let me go,
I'll think you have resigned me.

"My heart nigh broke when I answered "No,
"To the girl I left behind me.

An Unknown Irishmen (like most of em')


Some of us were raised to believe that this day was the real ground hogs day...(that being because when the late night Irishmen stumbles and lay unnoticed until the next day, the only question is whether he has frozen to death. If not, the spring drinkin' season has arrived).....

This land is your land....

Once California belonged to Mexico and its land to Mexicans; and a horde of tattered feverish Americans poured in. And such was their hunger for land that they took the land--stole Guerrero’s land, took the grants and broke them up and growled and quarreled over them, those frantic hungry men; and they guarded with guns the land they had stolen. They put up houses and barns; they turned the earth and planted crops. And these things were possession, and possession was ownership.

The Mexicans were weak and fled. They could not resist, because they wanted nothing in the world as frantically as the Americans wanted land.

Then, with time, the squatters were no longer squatters, but owners; and their children grew up and had children on the land. And the hunger was gone from them, the feral hunger, the gnawing, tearing hunger for land, for water and earth and the good sky over it, for the green thrusting grass, for the swelling roots. They had these things so completely that they did not know about them anymore.

Then crop failure, drought, and flood were no longer little deaths within life, but simple losses of money. And all their love was thinned with money, and all their fierceness dribbled away in interest until they were no longer farmers at all, but little shopkeepers of crops, little manufacturers who must sell before they can make. And as time went on, the business men had the farms, and the farms grew larger, but there were fewer of them..................John Steinbeck

Awareness.....

Each year around this time he attempts to catch it. Like a falling knife, one can be cut trying to pick the first moment of spring, only to be hit with additional frost or snows. Like the first cool winds of autumn, indicating the expected but resisted transition, the first moments of solar warmth on moist soil triggers a slow but stunning medley of orchestrated growth. His awareness ramps up as he anticipates his own moment, the first note.

Thoreau notes that doctors often recommend a change of scenery for the sick(cabin fever), but he slyly mocks this view, saying that the “universe is wider than our views of it.” He argues that it is perhaps a change of soul, rather than a change of landscape, that is needed. Thoreau remarks that his reasons for leaving Walden Pond are as good as his reasons for going: he has other lives to live, and has changes to experience. He says that anyone confidently attempting to live “in the direction of his dreams” will meet with uncommon success, and calls this dream life the real destination that matters.

His brother often laughs and notes how he always attempts to “create his own reality”. If not himself, then whom? Perhaps we should consider living our lives in concert with our dreams of what we want life to be and feel like in this moment. String together a series of moments and you have a day, and so on. Like wishful resolutions we all need a starting point. The silent explosion of the first buds provides just that.

Early indications.......

Up with the sun, gone with the wind,

She always said I was lazy.

Leavin my home, leavin my friends,

Runnin when things get too crazy.

Out on the road, out neath the stars,

Feelin the breeze, passin the cars.

Women have come, women have gone,

Everyone tryin to cage me.

Some were so sweet, I barely got free,

Others, they only enraged me.

Sometimes at night, I see their faces,

I feel the traces they left on my soul.

Those are the memories that made me a wealthy soul.

Bob Seger

Sitting in the classroom of a large parochial school in 8th grade he dreamed up his escape. A large white paneled van that he would eventually forever call “the chicken truck”. The idea of driving West with shelves of chickens doing what chickens do, and stopping in small towns to sell eggs at local markets was the quiet image that satisfied his fantasy of travel. Looking back he sees a sense of sustainability in his plan, eh?

Of course a life of travel in his mind or on the road, would not have been possible without some support and encouragement. This came in spades from the two that born him into this fish bowl. Early on, when obstacles arose or friends bailed, they simply suggested that he should “just go,… alone”. And so he did.

Once, while out on an Indian reservation in Arizona, he was standing in a phone booth (remember those?) and he told her that the booth was surrounded by Indians. And it was, however they were just sitting around in the early morning sun posing him no threat. Never one to worry, she just responded, “now you just call me back some time when you have something positive to say”. Click.

It occurred to him that perhaps although people love and care about you, ultimately they have no control over life’s variables. In other words, it’s not that they don’t care; it is that they cannot care for you.

O' the joy.....

Large rock formations jetting out made it impossible to get around even at the lowest of tides. Up and over was the only path. No path though, or road either for that matter. Just light rain, scrub brush and pine. A bit of bushwacking required here, when trying to get a vantage point of the merging of the Salmon River and the Pacific. Very strange feeling indeed as one inches up a steep slope hugging the edge for a view….

" I ascended the first spur of the mountain with much fatigue, through an intolerable thickets of small pine, added to this the hills were so steep that I was compelled to draw myself up by the assistance of those bushes".
“O’ the joy…. we are in view of the ocean, this great Pacific Ocean which we been so long anxious to see. And the roaring or noise made by the waves braking on the rocky shores may be heard distinctly."
Lewis and Clark (November 13, 1805)

Clinching the grassy slope with both hands and feeling the force of the wind, he is reminded that the edge of the continent is in his hands. Squinting out at the cycle of tide and wave, he thinks of those that may not be cognizant that they actually can stare out with all of America at their back. Simple really…..but he has met many in the inner city and rural towns who have yet to know this beyond television. Step away the lens and into the view.

Expectations....

He was often reminded by the one who planted the seed about the one who planted his seed. And while still alive, it was easy to look elsewhere and gravitate to the strong and straight. Eyes and minds look high and think young. The soil simply reclaims and we have neither the time nor the stomach for that.

Remember the clarity of the very early years? Lack of age equated to lack of expectation. The only other ones who can have this freedom are the elders, if we notice them.

So as he stood about the broken burning redwood branches, gathered in a form that produced warmth and companionship, his eyes could not retreat from the tall wide shafts that towered over with no end in sight. Each one four feet in diameter and holding that width all the way up as far as the firelight would illuminate. No branches at all until the tape would read, say 200 feet, with another hundred feet blocking out any view of the stars. These numbers added would suggest age.

He must have noticed that his beer was empty, because he finally let go his upward gaze, and there in the shadows was the elder, squatting. Closer inspection with the pocket torch revealed a redwood stump roughly ten feet round, sawed off, and left standing at about eight feet tall. On top the stump was enough established organic matter to grow a disguise of ferns. He did not even notice these old folks earlier while he set up shelter and gathered dead debris for fuel. Yet now as he searched the dark woods he found many.

These fallen giants were felled at their peaks with hand saws. Any memory had been extracted and hammered into homes, furniture, and fence lines. But as he stood there and stared at the seed that planted the seed, he began to wonder about the expectation of things, and freedom….to grow. This forest, now preserved, has no pressure of use, and can once again stimulate the clarity of youth and age.

Resistance....

Resistance plays a role in three aspects of road travel. Even with significant anticipation and preparation, the first three days away often generate a sense of resistance to letting go and relaxing. One might conclude after consideration that this occurs because of the routines that we perform daily, almost unconsciously, and the detachment is difficult for the mind and heart.

During those first three days he may not be as quick to laugh or worse yet, to force a laugh as a result of resisting the freedom now available. He may find he is more aware of his cell phone there in his jeans pocket. His sleep pattern is affected. He might be thinking that today is garbage day. Trust me, this all wears away after the third day.

Secondly, if the travel takes him to unknown lands and people, he may experience what many describe as culture shock, which is another form that resistance can take. He always attempts to have some time in the hills before this occurs to assimilate and adjust, hoping to bring forward a calm and content heart to his interactions with others. Excessive drinking can speed this process.

By now one is beginning to enjoy the full spectrum of time on the road. As he digs out a calendar he realizes that there are only three days till he re-enters his daily life. Here in lies the greatest sense of resistance. Once you are in the flow of travel, resisting the inevitable return can be disconcerting. First the thought of extending the trip occurs, along with the inevitable sense that this life could be permanent. A constant nomad.

Returning occurs and is quickly embraced. Life is good with those you love. The trip needs to be shared, and future trips planned. And of course the garbage needs to go out today.

Headin' out........finally!

He has a brother that lives along the Deschutes River in La Pine, Oregon. That's all you need to know for now. Back 3/8/09

Getting lost.....

He once was lost and now he’s found,
Was blind and now he sees…

No…no….no…he has always wanted to be lost. From a young age he relished the chance to blend in and camouflage himself. So you would think that being one of only two gringos in a mid-sized Mexican city (Xalapa, in Veracruz State) would leave him anything but blending in. While standing at least a foot taller that the average local, he had a clear view of his brother as they wound their way through the streets at a fair but recoverable distance from one another. Just in town, and no roots as of yet, a quick turn and he could be alone for hours if not indefinitely. By the time his brother’s mind surfaced from its current absorption, they would be separated by endless thin streets meandering through centuries old Spanish architecture.

So he pokes his head into a local barbershop. Not like he has ever seen but clearly the woman of the family cut hair. It had been warm and his shag long. She smiled gratefully for the opportunity. He sat back and had little concerns except the lingering thought that his travels may have just become solo. As it is, so shall it be.

Like homing pigeons, brothers find one another. They headed out of this larger enclave of culture by autobus through the mountains toward Coatepec (10 kilometers South). This smaller community offered cold beer, delicious food, and locals who played proud guides for free. A strenuous hike left us on top of the peak overlooking it all. But still they wanted to get lost further.

Down the road another 5 clicks or so they found a real hideout. Xico was a very small and friendly place. All things are quiet and dark at nightfall. Climbing down a jungle path just south of the last stone street, they found a rare roaring river. They passed on viewing the cascade to the West and agreed to spend a couple nights in a tree fort wedged up in the rocks over-looking and over-listening the constant force of the water on the rocks. They could not hear one another and settled in to the wonderful feeling of lost.

On the Road...#2.....

The back seat on that old Chevy was as big as a boxcar. The miles clicked by with the wind blowing through all the retracted windows, country music on the radio and two Montana brothers feedin’ him stories that resonated clearly as tall tales. He did raise a “sure thing” when one brother claimed the bounty on an 11’ mountain cat, killed with a 22 rifle. “It was as long as a Volkswagen, bumper to bumper,” he persisted. But who could argue with a ride that would take him clear across the state to Missoula.

Passing through Butte mid aft, the car took a turn off the main road. In no time we were winding up a gravel road with a view of the big sky over the town. He overheard something from the front seat about “proving my point.” Soon we came to a stop in front of an old ranch house and one brother hustled him out the Chevy door spilling Bud cans out into the dirt driveway. Ma and Pa’s ranch they offered as we stumbled inside. Sure enough…..there hanging over the fireplace was a stuffed cat, “as long as a Volkswagen,” just like he said.

We arrived in Missoula and drove directly up the side of the mountain and parked in a wooded area. A large “M” was etched into the side of the mountain above the university. There were hundreds of folks listening to fiddle music on a makeshift stage. He chain- locked his backpack to a tree and wandered around. Evidently the university spent the annual surplus on this festival and all the beer and music were free. Sunshine, music, happy students, cold beer, and his first up front view of the Rocky Mountains. No worries.

He awoke face down on the ground to a morning sunrise. As his eyes focused he first saw a sea of plastic cups in every direction. Looking closer he noticed that aside from a lump like him here and there, no one was around. While stretching out the stiffness near the stage he looked down and found a guitar pick from one of the musicians. His stomach hollered hungry. So he unlocked his pack and started the cool refreshing walk into town. Another day on the road was ahead.

djs

On the river.....

Men may dam it and say that they have made a lake, but it will still be a river. It will keep its nature and bide its time, like a caged animal alert for the slightest opening. In time, it will have its way; the dam, like the ancient cliffs, will be carried away piecemeal in the currents.

Wendell Berry

Nothing reveals the natural world to him quite as clearly as a river. Keep your lakes that go round and round with no outlet. Nice for a summer day, but eventually the stagnation brings him back to his original thought, and that won’t do. No, the movement and continual replenishment of the river is what stimulates the mind. The river, a collective of droplets beginning somewhere far from here, or far from there, and eventually flowing past him, if only briefly.

When traveling a river he always has an option. He can push up stream either by paddle or petro, counter to natural flow, unwilling to going along. Or he can let go and flow with the current, excepting all that comes his way as if the choice lay elsewhere. Either way, an option exists.

The favorite scene in his mind or movie is the early morning escape. Awoken on the shore by those in pursuit, they slip into the canoes, gear quickly and quietly stowed, and ease into the current and drift undetected downstream.

djs