Top 10 Reasons Why My Dog Should be Our Next President:

10: If looks count for anything, he's way ahead of the human competition.

9: He is undeniably loyal, and acts only in the best interest of the pack.

8: He would give his life to defend his pack, instead of hiding like a pussy cat whenever strangers come around.

7: He lives to serve the pack, has no cronies, and can't be influenced by lobbyists.

6: He loves his job, and is ready to work 24/7.

5: His love for the pack is pure and unfailing.

4: He can learn new tricks.

3: He knows when natural disasters are imminent, and will respond appropriately.

2: He is an excellent hunter. (Just let him sniff one of Osama's socks.)

1: He is smarter by far than our current head of state.

So I urge you to consider the true independent candidate, and his choice for VP - look forward to Lucas/Yoda in 2008.

And that's just a little bit more than the law would allow.

I Just got back from Nashville. Working for Arizona Bob with the Hooligan Crew, we were in residence for the weekend at The Gaylord Opryland. This place is a mind blowing absurdity of indulgent waste. Example: at the burger joint they individually wrap each veggie so you can build your mediocre meat burger yourself and then discard the custom made plastic box that previously encased each pickle or tomato slice. The whole place, in fact, is in a giant box made of glass and steel. A huge, individually wrapped, self contained model of life on the moon, or some sterile fabricated future of climate controlled outside inside world. Seriously weird. I really wanted Pauly Shore to be show up, somehow thinking an appearance by the Weaz would ease my mind and take the reality out of this all too real place. It was not to be.
After two days in the dome we started joking about the "outlands" and told tales of something called fresh air. Our destiny was to stay, however, four nights and three days in the Gaylord, where I never saw this Gay Lord, by the way. I could only sense his presence hovering above somewhere, ensconced in one of the inaccessible glass turrets that topped each of the four humongous atria, watching the plump tourists mill about in his perfectly manicured little world of wonders.
The smallest atrium was about two acres, surrounded on all sides by the walls of the hotel room wings. Each atrium was filled with plants and waterworks. One had a giant island where we found a glorious buffet. This impressed me dearly, as I personally regard the concept of the buffet in very high esteem - if managed correctly that is. It is one of the crowning achievements of modernity, after all, though also often one of the most poorly executed.
Another atrium was home to what I could only call the Degobah of Nashville, a bubbling steamy lily pad laden soup where Cirqe du Soleil cast-offs played bizarre cantina band covers to imbue the atrium with an ambiance that bordered on jungle madness. I dared not linger here, lest my sanity be lost.
Our work was dirty and thorough. We fixed about 200 rigging points to the ceiling of a massive event room, a space where one could have assembled a life size replica of Red Square. Apparently the convention business is alive and kicking in Music City. We rocked out the job in under three days, and on Sunday night we hit the town, leaving the safety of the Gaylord for the first time since our arrival.
Contrary to our fears, none of us were afflicted by the so called "outland syndrome," another purported danger of leaving the enclosure. A few pitchers of the local Yazoo, and our anxieties relaxed. Life was just the same as ever. We could come and go from the glass house at Opryland as much as we pleased, with no ill effects. They must put something in the air in that place, the way they do in Vegas, to keep the guests inside and in a docile state of mind. No wonder so many of the other Gaylord denizens were so well endowed of girth. There was little more to do there than breathe the sweet air and sup from the buffet, the burger joint, the pizza place, the many breakfast nooks, the sushi bar, the Old Hick'ry manor house where one evening's tab was in excess of $900.00, or the Jack Daniels tavern where the band faithfully covered Waylon Jennings - to name just a few of the available feeding troughs.
A few days outside the glass and I can see the place clearly for what it is; a well disguised factory farm, where humans are the livestock and the end product is a stupendous amount of cash in the pocket of Mr. Gay Lord, whoever that may be.
During my stay I felt always a degree removed, as a true outlander along with the rest of our crew. We were often dirty and unkempt from the efforts of our labor, roaming about in a pack like coyotes, indulging ourselves in pleasures we would not normally enjoy.

Yes, I'll go back. Wouldn't you?

Three days in Chicago

It was a short trip, packed with plenty of activity. We saw a lot of friends and ate a lot of pizza. Not the over loaded and over hyped "Chicago style" pie, but real normal pizza made by real normal Chicagoans. I know a few people who say Giordano's stuffed pizza is the best, but in their heart of hearts they know they are fooling themselves. It's tolerable stuff, but it just doesn't compare to a good quality thin crust. This has nothing to do with New York. Nothing at all. Their pizza is as good or as crappy as anywhere else and they can do whatever they want with it as far as I'm concerned, so long as they keep it in New York and stop bragging about it.
I see a few places here in Tucson that try to call themselves "Chicago style," as if that means anything. If you want to savor a place, go lick the pavement there. A city is not defined by the food they serve, I think it is more likely the other way around. It is equally easy to find good and bad selections of any given cuisine in any well heeled city. Some places, like Chicago, are greater metropolii with greater populations of big fat egos. They may claim they are the preeminent city of X "style" of food, but at the end of the line it's usually the same imported labor teams assembling the same haute cuisine. Supervised by Mr. Food, overseen by Mrs. Sauce, masters on high who refuse to respond to any name if not prefaced by "Chef (insert name here)". The people who actually do the work are part of the labor-borg, the same faces from town to town, a vast army of choppers, slicers, dicers and platers assimilated into one being. They move the food that moves the earth.
I was trapped in a high end kitchen for a lengthy a/v install this past winter, so my presumptions are based on a limited exposure - I beg correction from any who have an opinion that differs from this reality.
I do not consider myself a foodie, but I do recognize talent and good craft, and I respect it tremendously. The truth is, I like to make fun of the people who act as if the food they serve deserves more respect than the underpaid kitchen staff that put it on the plate. Or the wise-ass a/v installer. All food winds up in the same place at the end, and the people who pay too much to eat it are probably more concerned with how they look and who is watching them eat than what the stuff tastes like. Give me honest pizza.

What about the other two days?

Glad you asked.

The weather was good, the company was pleasant, and the futon put kinks in my spine. I am glad to back in my own bed. I know we've lost something in a few relationships which were made convenient by proximity, but others have grown stronger with absence.

Birthday in the Land of Sand and Eggos

I turned 33 on Labor Day. Melissa and I were in San Diego, just having a good time vacation weekend. We stayed with my cousin Ben and his wife Lydia, the expecting young parents of a real human baby. Saturday evening we watched the sun disappear into the Pacific.

For dinner we ate at a Persian restaurant featuring a madman on synthesizer who accompanied the Persian equivalent of Robert Goulet, singing in his mysterious foreign tongue. By the time the belly dancer emerged, I was so stuffed with lamb that my view of her contortions was filtered through a shimmering meaty haze. At some point during our repast Ben sneaked away and paid the bill, clearly illustrating "The San Diego Way." I shook my fist at him in rage and gratitude.

Sunday we slept in, and by late morning made our way down the coast to La Jolla. We strolled along the shoreline, watching scores of snorkeled pink tourists bobbing about in the water. I marveled that more of them didn't drown, or founder and become dashed upon the rocks. They drifted around in a delirious mirth, somehow staying afloat in spite of lacking any sort of flotation devices. Melissa reminded me that it was salt water and furthermore, fat floats. A few seals appeared, but mostly they seemed to prefer the depths than give show to the masses.

We ate brunch at a cafe on Prospect street where the service was rude beyond the pale, but the food was decent and the fruit was fresh. I have been told that all avocados in California are hand picked by blonde lifeguards, but I was unable to verify this claim. We strolled the streets of La Jolla for a couple hours, then drove south past Sea World and Mission Bay to Ocean Beach.

I had a boogie board, but something about the volume of humanity already at sport in the sea deterred me from even sticking a toe in the surf. I complained that the ocean was more fun when you went at it with a friend, but Melissa doesn't go in the water. In retrospect I realize that the ocean doesn't give a crap who your friends are and will generally try to throw you out of it no matter the company you keep. We gave up the broasting sands and walked under the pier to the rocks. Along the way some grubby youth requested that we support their acid research program with a small donation; we politely declined. Further along we encountered some apparent subjects of severely failed research projects. We had to leave the side walk to avoid stepping on the needle mottled limbs and torso of one subject in particular. He only moaned at the sky, while his silent companion slumped into himself like a deflating Barney the dinosaur forgotten in the scorching sun.

We made it to the rocks. Here the sea was bold and refreshing, clapping and bursting against the stubborn stone, hurling through crevices and erupting in foamy heaves. Tiny crabs danced around in their tide pools with sideways choreography, and countless pea-sized snails did nothing interesting at all.

Later that day we drove to Oceanside, where my Minnesota college accomplice Steve made a tidy home with his wife behind the gates of a hilltop subdivision. The well known Scott Silbor joined us there, having navigated the treacherous 5 from the Palisades with one arm in a sling. Two days prior he himself was dashed against the sands by the insolent Pacific, resulting in a torn deltoid. After dinner (including more of the afore-mentioned avocados) we set about making music in Steve's home studio. There may exist somewhere some recorded evidence of our impromptu cover of the Sesame Street theme. Anything can happen.

My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning. I had been awake at 4, and was drifting in and out of semi-sleep until the beeping peal commenced. Melissa had a shower while I loaded surf boards and other necessities into the truck. BY 6:30 we were back at OB, where Rob Stevens was pacing the shore in wait. My first lesson in Surfer Boarding Man began, and I spent the next three hours eating a vomitous quantity of sea foam. By the end of it I was totally taken by the thrill of the sport, though my oceanless desert residence does make regular practice a bit of a hassle. Maybe next time I'll actually stay up for more than ten seconds. Maybe I'll find myself riding on the face of a wave instead of looking up at it from below the surface. Or maybe I should just focus my efforts on the thousands of feet of granite in my own backyard. I'm sure I'll try surfing again but my real game is on the rock, on the end of a rope, the other end of which is tied to my beloved Melissa. The falling is not as much fun here for the landing is far worse, but the escape is much easier. At any given beach there is but one focus, one direction, and all interested parties are in it at once together. In the mountains the paths are countless and varied and your limits are set only by your will to walk and your skill to climb. The farther you push yourself, the fewer people you encounter on your journey. I don't know exactly why, but for me that is an essential element to the satisfaction of my soul.

We hit the road by noon and made it back to Tucson just before seven. It was a very good 33rd, and I am extremely grateful to all those involved. To those who reside in CA whom I was unable to see; my apologies, and I know we will meet again.

Our Resident Python

There is a bull snake thriving on our property. We like him being here, as his presence would imply a reduction in the local pack-rat population, but we learned the other day that he enjoys a more complex palate. Recent opportunity afforded the snake a less movable feast, as these pictures will show.

Two Tales From Down East

As a teen I used to go to Martha's Vineyard every summer, spoiled brat, but something about real world responsibility has gotten in the way for the last several years. Until now. Next week I'll be taking Melissa there for her first visit, and our first vacation in a long time. The trip is actually a wedding gift to us from my cousin Rachel, who has lived on the Island for some time now. Her other home is the Island's polar opposite, NYC. I guess about the only thing these two places have in common is that they are surrounded by water.

I am sure the Vineyard has changed in many ways since the last time I was there, around the turn of the century (what a time to be alive), and I wonder what things remain the same. Thinking about the island in anticipation of our trip floats two stories to the surface of my mind. Here they are, unfortunately without photos since those previous trips took place before I had a digital camera, before I had a cell-phone, before I had an awesome wife. Anyway, this is just a taste of the past. Most likely a new blog will come along to tell of whatever trouble we get into next week.


I Should Have Walked

The long lagoon between Vineyard Haven and Oak Bluffs has always been a fine spot for water games. Every summer allowed for many days of great fun motoring up and down the mile long lagoon, where the water was calm and less populated than the rough and busy harbor of Vineyard Haven Sound. Any island kid with either gumption or fortune would do his best to acquire a boat capable of pulling a skier. Such was the case with two of my mates, Marin and Zeke. Marin was well possessed of fortune, while Zeke had labored hard to afford his craft. Marin's boat was a thirty-four foot cabin cruiser which we used as a base station. It was well appointed with comfortable deck accommodations, a galley, a long bowsprit, and every one's favorite, a poop deck. Zeke had the ubiquitous "Boston Whaler," a sixteen foot flat boat with a double V hull and a 50 horse out board Evinrude motor. Perfect for water skiing.

We spent a long day playing in the lagoon waters, seven or eight of us in all. I don't recall exactly who was there, but for sure the group included myself and the two boat owners, as well as my cousin Rachel, and our friends Aaron and Amy.

Around five in the afternoon Zeke had to quit the fun and get back to Oak Bluffs to serve chowdah and lobstah to wealthy tourists. He roared out of the lagoon in his whaler, leaving us in his wake on the cabin cruiser with mild sunburns and salty skin. The tide was ebbing away with the daylight. We motored slowly toward a long dock, planning to unload everyone but Marin and myself, and also to pick up the little wooden rowboat Marin kept there upside down on the sand and well above the high tide line. About fifty feet from the dock I noticed that we were in very shallow water, nearly the same depth as the boat's draft. We were in danger of running aground so we turned back towards Marin's mooring, about 100 yards offshore in the placid lagoon waters. The tide was almost fully out, and we couldn't get near the dock. Time to come up with plan B.

At this point, with no warning whatsoever, Aaron threw himself overboard and swam for shore. His pale white arms shone against the dark water as he swam, clearly visible in the fading light. This kid never took any sun, in spite of all his time shirtless on the beach. We laughed at him, and yelled encouragement. After a few minutes he dragged himself ashore and made his way to the rowboat. He intended to row back out to us in order to ferry our party back to the shore. The rowboat was small, with room for three people and a few items, so we would have to make at least two trips. By this time we had reached the mooring, and in a few minutes we had the big boat securely tied up and shut down for the night.

The wind had been picking up for a while, and now it was steadily blowing across the lagoon. The little rowboat was light with only Aaron aboard. He kept having to adjust his course as a result, and before long his efforts proved too weak against the wind. He quickly drifted off course against his best efforts, loudly bemoaning his situation. I decided that I could and should swim out to him, and with two of us rowing as well as my extra weight in the boat, we would have no trouble getting back to the cruiser. The distance between us and Aaron was growing, however. Now he was becoming harder to see in the twilight, a pale white torso in a pale white boat. I hastily donned a PFD and grabbed a pair of diving flippers. No problem, I thought. Now I float, and I can swim even faster! I dove in, anticipating a hero's welcome from Aaron on the rowboat, and perhaps again at home among friends later that evening.

The water was cold and dark, but that didn't bother me. Sea grass and kelp interfered with my progress a little bit, but that didn't bother me. Aaron had given up rowing at this point, and chose instead to smoke cigarettes and comment on my progress. That bothered me. I splashed a little louder so I couldn't hear his witty remarks, and I wondered how he had managed to keep his cigarettes dry. The big boat was lost in the dark behind me, the shore was indiscernible but for a few distant twinkling lights. From my point of view, eyes at sea level, I felt tiny - engulfed in a vast briny darkness. For a few moments I thought I might just be lost at sea. I fixed my intentions on Aaron and the rowboat and swam with all my heart. Aaron finally stopped smoking and put a little effort into fighting the wind to meet me part way. After what seemed like an hour of swimming, though was more likely only twenty minutes or so, I was almost there. I was getting tired and not looking forward to the effort involved in rowing back to the cruiser, and somewhere during my swim it occurred to me that we might just have easily untied the big boat and motored out to Aaron in only a few minutes. I let that thought sink; it only interfered with my determination. At last I reached the rowboat.

Aaron yelled something useless with the intention of being helpful. I don't remember what he said, but it was probably something like, "Nice flippers!" Because I recall throwing them aboard since they had given me blisters on my Achilles tendons. Exhausted, I prepared to heave myself aboard. I grabbed hold of the gunwales and as I did so my body went from horizontal to vertical in the water. Just as I was about to pull myself into the boat, my feet touched the bottom of the lagoon and I stood up, barely waist deep in the water. Aaron was now just below eye level as he sat in the rowboat. He looked at me and started laughing. I looked back and saw the shadowy shape of the cabin cruiser, about a thousand feet away. A thousand feet that I swam, through only three or four feet of water. I could have walked the entire way. I thought I was saving the day, but clearly I had simply been wasting time. Utterly dejected, I positioned myself at the stern and began walking, pushing the still laughing Aaron and the rowboat back to the cruiser. Just then Marin fired up the engines and came to get us.


The Bounty of My Inter-Net

To this day I do not know why they call it Gay Head. You can do the research on that yourself, but as far as I can tell it is only a name. Gay Head is the Western highland region of Martha's Vineyard. Colorful clay cliffs drop in steep crumbling ripples to the long breaks of the Atlantic Ocean. This has always been a less populated area of the island, somewhat more remote and difficult to get to. Tourists frequent the one small public beach here, but mostly keep to the little shack-shops around the lighthouse at the top of the cliffs. Getting to the beach requires a fair amount of walking, a thing which displeases most tourists. My friends and I knew, however, that a thirty minute walk would give one access to one of the best beaches on the island.

It was to these fine sands that we walked on this particular day. There had been a hurricane a few days prior, far to the south on the Eastern American sea board. Though we had seen none of the familiar elements of such a huge storm, the seas were full of atypically large, beautiful waves. In short order I found myself happily body surfing. For some reason, my friends decided to stay ashore. After a few good runs I felt a strange little pinching sensation from within my bathing suit. I reached in and found a tiny little brine shrimp on my upper thigh. Plucking it off my skin I inadvertently crushed the fragile little mollusk, but satisfied that I had found the source of my discomfort, I swam out to catch another wave.

I surfed in, and in shallow water I again felt the pinching in my shorts. I removed another little brine shrimp. The waves were too good to let this minor irritant persuade me from the water, so I swam out for another wave. This time as I swam, I realized that the water was quite busy with the little shrimp. No wonder they kept getting into my shorts. I decided that I just had to catch a few more waves. On the next run in I distinctly felt the same pinching, but this time it was not only once, and not only on my upper thighs. Finishing the ride I stood in waist deep water. I looked down and saw that the water was not just busy, but literally teeming with the tiny shrimp. Millions of them. A pint of glass drawn from the water would have held a hundred or more, each less than a quarter inch long. Now my shorts sang with the pinching tickle of countless sea monkeys, focused primarily on my nether most regions. That was enough for me.

I ran out of the water and into the tall grass at the base of the clay cliffs. I didn't care if anyone could see me. Pulling down my bathing suit, I looked at my crotch and saw a veritable fisherman's bounty of brine shrimp spill forth from the built in netting of my swim shorts. The little bastards were all over me as well, tiny scales and claws causing tremendous frustration to my most sensitive parts. In a few frantic minutes I managed to remove them all, and after emptying my inter-netting I pulled up my shorts and returned to my curious friends. I simply told them, "I had shrimp in my shorts."

I did not go back in the water.

Rain Dogs and the Butterfly-Bigelow

Saturday, June 28, 2007


In need of a good long hike, M~ and I decided to take Lucas up to the Butterfly trail in the Santa Catalina mountains north of Tucson. We planned to finish the path that we started the week before. Short on time on that last visit, we only made about a three mile trip out of it, turning around and retracing our steps when time grew short. This trip, however, we were prepared. Plenty of food and water, and ample daylight to finish the roughly ten mile loop. Setting out from the trail head, M~ had the clever idea to take a digital snapshot of the trail map, clearly displayed on a large metal sign at the edge of the parking area. We could then use the in-camera zoom function to take a closer look at our course and track our progress. Good. I also penciled in a rough map on the little waterproof notebook that Carrie and Elic Bramlett gave me because they think I am some sort of amalgam of John Muir and MacGyver. I fail to see the resemblance, at least in terms of hair style. In light of our recent Mountain Lion encounter (see M~'s blog, "Thanks for nothing, Hummingbirds!"), I also decided that from now on I would keep my big knife close at hand. I'm not trying to be Crocodile Dundee. The knife isn't even all that big. What I really want is a good Roman sword anyway, but I imagine the park service might give me some trouble if they saw me brandishing that kind of steel. Trouble, eh? Just the stuff I am usually looking for... but I digress.

The logic behind the possession of a pointy thing, as discovered about twelve thousand generations ago, is of course to give one a slight advantage over Nature's guile. Be it a sharpened stick or a well shaped chunk of chalcedony, it might just be the thing that makes the difference between having a nice walk in the woods and being a nice walking buffet. With keen eye and patience we enviously watch the birds enjoy their freedom, but these same senses do not reveal the complete picture of life in the forest. Wherever one goes, if there are animals present they almost always know you are there long before you know they are there - if you ever do. In general, they prefer to keep it that way. Sneaking about in the attempt to come upon a bear or a mountain lion unawares is categorically futile. If you are deft enough to accomplish the feat, the most probable outcome is a mortally close observation of teeth, claws, fur, and mostly your own blood. I say 'mostly' because I do carry a knife, after all. The thing about bears though, is that they are so damn thick. And lions so damn quick. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but they suck against enraged carnivores. I realize the near uselessness of my big knife, yet I cling to that outside chance that it will save a life, if only by harming another.

The first two hours of the hike were pleasant, to say the least. The views of the northern slope of the Santa Catalina mountains and San Pedro valley are grand. For about two and a half miles the trail descends a thousand feet from it's starting altitude of 7,500 feet. The next three miles ascends roughly 2,000 feet to a saddle pass just below the summit of Mount Bigelow, where a service road meanders back to the trail head. We never saw this service road - but I am getting ahead of myself. The hike took us through a mile or so of dense undergrowth plants; ferns, tall grasses, brambles of all sorts that have overtaken the area after a devastating forest fire four years ago. To our delight, however, we saw that many new young Pine trees were growing through the choking thicket, not to be stopped on their journey towards the sun. With any luck we'll be able to come back here in about a century, then we shall see what a good healthy Ponderosa Pine forest looks like. By then the standing char and ashes that are here will be long gone, recycled through the course of things. By then maybe some of my own ashes can be scattered here.

A few miles along, Lucas suddenly perked up. He was keenly interested in something just out of sight. The walls of a steep canyon were gradually closing in, and something was moving down below us and around a slight bend. Normally Lucas fixes his intentions on squirrels or rabbits, but this time he behaved in a different way. He was more tentative, more alert (if that's possible) to whatever was down there. We took a momentary pause and fell silent, reading the dog's body language. Then we began talking again, to make a little noise. Suddenly a loud bugle call blurted through the woods, as if the devil himself was blowing on a rusty old horn, and a White-tailed deer went crashing through the bushes about sixty feet to our right. It was large female, fast but graceless as it bounced away.

Approximately two and a half hours in, we began heading up the canyon through which runs Novio Spring. A jaunty little creek, it babbled along over rocks and roots, forming clear pools here and there that invited Lucas to submerge his face and drink heartily. As inviting as the fresh stream water was, Melissa and I drank only from our pack bladders, full of cool water safe for human consumption. We spoke for a while about what has changed since the days when native peoples and pioneer explorers would not hesitate to quaff their thirst from even brackish pools, and how such a clean flowing brook would have been a very happy find indeed. Were people just stronger in those days? Were they better suited with a disease fighting bacterial soup in their G.I. systems, or were they just as susceptible to Giardiasis, Schistosomiasis, intestinal cysts, and who knows what else that swam unseen in that water? Of course the dog was fine.

Following the path upstream, we came to a well trodden area that seemed to diverge from the main path, though it was hard to say for sure where the main path went at this point. We continued along the waterway, and shortly came upon an unexpected sight indeed. Strewn about on the ground were large chunks of metal - pieces of an airplane engine, which later we learned were from a jet fighter that crashed there in the mid 70's. The wreckage seemed otherworldly, and there was a feeling that something was still functional about it all. We quickly determined that this was not the trail, just a well trampled area of great curiosity. Backtracking for a few minutes we found the proper path, and proceeded up a series of steep switchbacks.

Now the path kept climbing, gaining 2000 feet over a distance of a couple miles. Somewhere into the first mile, rain began to gently fall. It had been lingering in dark clouds over the ridge line northeast of us, with low rumbles threatening to dampen our spirits, but until now there had not been a drop. I paused and shucked off my pack, digging for my rain shell. At first M~ said she didn't need hers, but within a minute the rain intensified, and she changed her mind. Lucas just gave us a look as if to say, "What did you expect?" It had rained on our drive up the mountain, but the few hours of reprieve gave us the false impression that there would be no more, in spite of all those dark clouds. We trekked on up the path.

Ah, the path. Soon it was less a path, and more a stream bed. It was, after all, the only bare section of the mountain side, everything else overgrown with raspberry brambles and pine trees. The only other place that plants did not grow was on the sheer rock walls that surrounded us. Since the path itself was the way of least resistance for the water, gravity guided the flow directly down the way we were walking up. Within minutes our water proof shoes were full, demonstrating remarkable water retention abilities. Sock and toe soup was on the menu for the duration of our hike. The higher we climbed, the heavier the rain fell, and the wetter we got. I recognized a seldom seem expression on M~'s face. It was something between irritation and endurance, with a dash of exasperation that was kept in check by the simple knowledge of no alternative but to keep on walking. I felt something similar in my own cheeks and teeth, tightly clenched around that ever-present tooth pick. Lucas paused to shake off the rain, and like a wrung out sponge he immediately absorbed as much again.

Now more or less careless about the wetness, I concluded two things; First, we had plenty of daylight, and second, less than half the hike lay before us. We would certainly walk out of these woods before dark, and had no reason to suspect otherwise. Even should some calamity befall us, we were prepared to suffer through a miserable night. As hard as the rain may fall, it could not seriously injure us. As far as objective hazards go, rain is very low on the list. It is the secondary hazards that rain might bring about which began to play in my mind. Loosened rock tumbling from above. That enraged carnivore I mentioned before, now much more easily surprised since our progress was muffled by the sound of the rain. And most dire, the increasing frequency and proximity of lightning. I told M~ not to walk too close to me, reasoning that if one of us was struck, the other was less likely to be hit at the same time. I tried to remember my CPR training, telling myself again that I need to take a wilderness survival course. We pressed on, each soggy step bringing us closer to the radio towers at the end of the trail. We paused briefly along this penultimate stretch to snack on fresh sweet raspberries that grew in great abundance along the path.

A little over five hours into the hike we came to the high point, passing a very pleasant meadow and an impressive heap of giant boulders. This would, on a dry day, be the perfect spot for a picnic and a nap. This day, however, we made a mental note and kept trudging along our trail/stream. The rain kept falling, as hard as ever. We had already been in it for well over an hour. Here, near the top of the mountain, there was little ground above us for the rain to wash down from. Below us lay over six thousand vertical feet of catchment area for this flood to wash into. Anything that fell to the south of our position would end up, eventually, in the Tucson basin by way of ravine and creek, pretty little water falls maturing into massive and destructive torrents of debris-laden water. These floods are more like wet cement than water, full of sand, plants, boulders, all churning and mashing their way to the lowest possible point. This is how our desert landscape is formed, in violent burst of earth moving power, separated by long spells of dry calm.

We came to a trail sign marking an intersection of four pathways. An odd hum filled the air here, audible over the steady rain. It came from the direction of one of the paths. The sign indicated that this was the last short leg up to the Mount Bigelow watch tower, which was surrounded by a large array of communication antennae. I had been there once before, in high school. Under the circumstances, it was the last place I wanted to be now. Our proximity to so much tall metal only eased our minds a little, in so much as that any lightning strikes that hit in this area would likely be drawn to the towers, and not us as we quickly passed over the summit of our trek and began down the path towards the Catalina Highway. Our intended course would have taken us to the base of those very towers, where the dirt service road offered an easy four mile stroll back to the Butterfly trail head. Our plan now was to descend from here to the Catalina Highway, and take the less attractive but somewhat safer paved route back to our truck, that rolling island of comfort and safety.

It was a good choice. I was suddenly and involuntarily brought to my knees by a mighty crack and blinding flash, as the fabric of space was rent asunder by lightning. The world was momentarily an overexposed picture of white hot pink and orange, as the simultaneous sound ripped through my body. From far away thunder is foreboding, deliberate, mysterious. This close it is no longer thunder, but the shrieking agony of billions of atoms instantaneously charred into oblivion. Way too close for mortal flesh. Lucas looked back at me, still on my knees in the watery path. His wet dog glare seemed to ask, "What the fuck is wrong with you?!" I turned around to check on my wife, a similar look on her face. We walked much faster for a while, hunched slightly over. That was the second closest I've ever been to a lightning strike.

The path down towards the highway was like something out of "Lord of the Rings." Huge blue-gray boulders interspersed with giant old growth pine trees and a clear under story littered with a bed of fallen red needles. The broken stone path was at times a gurgling runoff, and at times just bare slabs of weather worn granite. We practically skipped along on our way down, happy to be more or less out of harm's way. The path gave way to the highway, which we crossed. On the other side we took momentary shelter under the eaves of the visitor's center, near a sign which proudly declared the center "NOW OPEN." We decided against bringing our wet selves within, and took some time to wring out our socks and dump out the shoe soup. A hummingbird idled at a nearby feeder, seemingly indifferent to the rain. I wondered if any hummingbirds had ever been hit by lightning. It seems highly unlikely. M~ and I began laughing at ourselves, our general state, as a forest ranger poked her head out the door and asked us where we had parked. She had a look of bafflement about her. We explained where we had come from, and now she seemed both baffled and irritated - were we fools? She disappeared for a moment, then returned to say that a gentleman inside had offered us a ride up the highway to out truck. We thought about it for a moment then agreed, if only to put her at ease. It would have been a nice cool down, walking a few miles on a mountain road in the rain. The fellow with the car was a very nice guy. A dad with two young daughters who squealed happily as Lucas licked their fingers from the back of the vehicle.

Finally back at our truck about six hours after we left it, we shed our wet clothes and drove down the mountain wearing no pants. Lucas, naked as ever, quickly went to sleep in the back seat.

The scent of a rain, man.

I've been reading a book that M~ found at a little shop up on Mount Lemmon. The book is (so far) all about the way native people, specifically the Tohono O'odham (a.k.a. Papago), managed for centuries to live off the arid lands of the Southwest relying on only scant rainfall to produce an amazing diversity of crops. Plants you and I have never known, indigenous varietals of wheat, beans, squash, melons, you name it. Modern agricultural science has attempted to reproduce the same plants with modern hydrology, but the plants grow better with water that comes down from above, not up from below. Now we have removed so much of the ground water from this area that it may well be far too late to resuscitate the old ways, but some folks still manage to make it work. A century ago there were ten thousand acres of cultivated land out there. Now there are perhaps one hundred acres still farmed in the old ways, a mere curiosity in the face of mechanized progress.

These things have been on my mind in part from the book and in part from the current weather - the monsoon season - which has been tempestuous indeed. Yesterday I drove across town through a river that had once been Grant Road (See video #1: monsoon season in Tucson). People here talk about the way the desert smells after a rain. I did not have the time or inclination to stick my nose out the window, but this desert clearly smelled one hell of a lot like rain yesterday. M~ says it just smells like wet dust. It does, but I think there's something deep about that dust.

Since we just moved here, we're not used to the normal cycles of things yet. Back in Chicago it was increasingly difficult to identify normality - ten years there and I saw the seasonal predictability factor drop like a brick in deep water. Locals there will tell you that's the normality, but I do remember a time growing up in the Midwest when summer gave on to fall which turned to winter who set the stage for spring and so on. The last five years in Chicago I don't remember more than a weekend or two of autumn each year. The cold came fast and lingered well into April, even May. Then heat and humidity chased off the few weeks of spring conditions, and summer endured until late September. Normality? Any body's guess, but the chubby fist of GW increasingly seemed a likely culprit. Maybe because it's all the hype these days, the environment, the way we're messing up the weather. Maybe because it is true.
I know I will not miss another winter in Chicago, much as I love the snow. There we had plenty of snow, but it quickly turned to grey snot and packed ice that few landlords saw need to scrape off the walk in front of their property. Why put any actual work into the task when filthy chemistry can do a half-assed job for you? Scatter some de-icer out there and call it a day. Be thankful your tenants don't sue you when they deck out, perhaps saved from a broken wrist by the flab most of them are encased in these days. Sorry, bit of a rant, truth is we have many good and healthy friends back in Chicago. It is just a simple and unfortunate reality that the human baseline is getting dumber, lazier, and more greedy by the minute.

Today the monsoons are building up again, and I think I'll avoid driving down Grant Road. We're heading to Brooklyn Pizza for some good old cheesy grease and gluten. I don't subscribe to the %100 granola life. I can and will eat the occasional Junior Bacon Chee, and it will not kill me. I like a life of moderation, instead of daily indulgence - which seems to go hand in hand with ignorance. Let the weather indulge itself. Umbrellas are for the weak.

Middle of Somewhere: Quetico 2005 Journal

The Legend of Kashipiwi

Trip log of Damien “Gravel Pit” Geoffrion
Quetico Provincial Park, June 2005


First camp, Day 1:
Dell Lake, after two rugged and thankfully short portages. 76 rods of rock and pudding, easy. (One rod = 32 feet. The portages are measured in rods, according to the methods of the early Voyageurs, Lewis and Clark and their contemporaries.) The mosquitoes are bad, but we still smell nice on day 1. I anticipate my internal repellent systems will kick in soon. Must eat more garlic.

Should have been here sooner, should have been farther in tonight, The Quetico had other plans for us. We aimed for Kashipiwi tonight, but found no portage off Shady. Two or more hours lost for search and backtracking. Camp here on Dell is a nice spot. For dinner, grilled cheese with a fine stinky Dubliner cheddar, tomato soup. I am glad for the spork. Laying in my tent, I don’t sleep until near first light, just listening to the deep woods. The distant lightning, showing for a few hours over the horizon, finally closed in from the south under a heavy cloud mass. Moments before the wrath of the storm hit I saw a strange light weave through the trees along the edge of our camp, looking every bit the part of a lantern carried by an unseen hand. No explanation.


Day 2 (6/27/2005):
First on the agenda today was clearing up the confusion of day 1, so we groused out the portage from Dell Lake back to Shady Lake. It was spotted with relative ease from the Dell side, pointing suspicion for the previous day’s foundering at malicious deadfall and bleached shore stones obscuring the way. On with the planned route we intend to portage from Dell Lake to Grey Lake. The Quetico troubles us again however, as somehow we run the Dell-Shady portage a second time by accident. It is almost baffling and several moments are lost wondering how in the hell we could screw this up. Apparently it is very easy, but we blame the trickery of these woods. We finally find our path; It was an uninviting bog that had to be crossed, 55 rods mucking between two impressive bluffs wrapped in tattered sheets of lichen. We finally made Grey Lake. Lunch of PB&J in tortillas, pistachios and Electrolyte powder, the last of which displeases Dances With Trees. The banquet table is an exposed slab of Canadian Shield, cracked and split and looking about as exhausted as the four of us. Portage Brutality. I feel a lot better after much needed protein and a dash of shade and shut eye. The bugs are mild as the sun is high and the wind is strong.

We paddle on to the next portage, 115 rods to Yum-Yum Lake. A very pretty lake, with 100 foot cliffs straight to the water’s edge, coated in brittle, flaking lichen. We were greeted by waving white caps and a head wind as we dug in and crossed the mile or so diagonal. The lee side of Yum-Yum Lake was a bit easier going. We close in on the last portage for the day, the way to Kashipiwi Lake. It is 280 rods, crossing the gamut of our civilized descriptions of life and occurrence in the portage community. That is to say, you had to be there. Roughly defined; much of this leg was passed staring at my own bog-blasted feet as they heaved me up and forward, under the rude beam of the pig boat Sawyer. Before long I saw the tracks of a very large cat, then moose scat, then crusty mats of what may have been wolf hair. Next, some unknown carnivore scat thick with hair and a few gnawed shirt buttons. Perhaps I imagined the buttons. My feet hurt. By now the trail has climbed a couple hundred feet up a steep and painful slope. Coming down again seems like a positive thing until the trail bogs out into muskeg again. Mmmm, muskeg. The air is still, stirred only by the wings of countless sinister insects, we are nowhere near any lake or stream. After twenty rods or so the soup gives way to another steep rise. High stepping up and over cracked stone slabs and ankle clutching roots, the goal is to find the path of grace and least resistance, the effort required to do so negating any profit over simply trying to keep my ass from tumbling into the curiously deep muck. Abu Patches and I double back for the last pack. One load too many. We announce our presence loudly, wary of the uninvited large mammal encounter. Seems like a good idea. This was a murderous portage, on a good day.

Finally on Kashipiwi, we discover The Island only moments before a white squall sits down to thunder for a spell. Hard and fast, we’re all soaked through. The storm exhausts itself briefly, enough for us to set up shelter and the impostor of dry space, then it returns. The rain is softer now, but prepared to spend the night.


Day4 (6/29/2005)

Slacking off now in James’ red birthday hammock, I watch through binoculars as two We-no-nahs, followed later by a third, land seven men on shore across the lake. It is perhaps a mile away. Probably not at all near that, but everything is perhaps a mile away when you are in a hammock, on an island, here in this lake. A mile or a damn great deal more. The group has landed by the remains of the ranger station. Scant rumors of a foundation, footprints and mortar crumbs. Deliberately placed on a rock lay a rusted barrel hoop and a quart jar. Left by whom? What? Perhaps the cabin itself rose up from its foundation and walked right into the lake, leaving only these odd clues behind. Perhaps… The lid of the jar is rusted on with age, and through the glass can be seen an unidentifiable substance. Blue and white and crystalline, it reaches the 4oz graduation line, creeping further here and there. Water-Strider and I saw all of this yesterday. I wonder if the seven paddlers, miniature on the far shore, think this is the place to stay the night. If the wind drops at dusk I think we should be able to speak to them across the water. It is still early, maybe they’ve only stopped for second lunch.

30 minutes later;

Another We-no-nah and a tin boat have come down Kashipiwi from the north. The Turbo Beaver makes its third and closest pass, visible for a brief moment over the tree tops far to the Southeast. Yesterday, from the top of the old watchtower we could discern no other sign of human presence – save for the bright red hammock on the island, perhaps a mile away – only well aged forest and lakes like long black fingers reaching to the horizon. Today humanity abounds in relative terms, giving a little peace of mind after all.

Yesterday Water Strider and I could have come to serious harm in any number of fantastic ways with not a human soul in reach for all we knew. (Patches and Trees had taken a day trip of their own, and were long gone to parts unknown. ) Perhaps a sudden unexpected encounter with a large and incensed animal - four distinct species were likely in the area. A slip on moss while ascending a long and sketchy 5.7+ climb with no protection. Electrocution while standing atop the tallest object for a hundred miles or so, which happened to be made of metal. Well, we’re no fools. We take educated risks, we find great joy in this. Praise be to Turbo Beaver!

We had seen the watch tower from our island, rising through the trees on a bluff across the lake, too inviting to pass up. We paddled across the calm waters of Kashipiwi and began bush whacking up a cliff and through tick infested woods. Finally we arrived at the base of the structure. The ladder didn't start right away - we had to climb about twenty feet up the over-sized erector set and traverse a thin steel beam to reach the first rung - then it was another 80 feet or so to the top, where a rickety wooden platform gave us a hexagonal perch about six feet across. No railing, just a little deck, swaying in the wind, 100 feet above the forest floor. At the top we rested, and took it all in. Endless beautiful insolent wilderness. I plucked a couple bear ticks off my inner thighs and flicked them into space.

Returning to the lake, we found Abu, paddling solo. We spent some time fishing here, and had some small success. Too late in the day and too tired to clean the small mouth bass, we released it to continue the life of a fish. I hear tell of old sturgeon in the dark depths of these waters, dwelling in the cold and lonely heart of the ancient, submerged mountains. Great scaly beasts that may live more than a century. I'm glad we didn't catch one of them.

We returned to the island as dusk set in, passing two gorgeous loons on our way across Kashipiwi. Of a species old and mysterious, these birds own the Quetico shores and show little fear of our human intrusions, as if to tell us "We'll be here when you are gone." I hope that this is true. That night, just offshore from our little island, the loons sang wild songs into the small hours. I wish I knew what they sang about.


Day 5 (6/30/2005)
Today I am staying on the island with Dances With Trees. Across the water the landers are now entrenched under a long blue tarpauline. I wonder if they’ll hike to the tower, brave the climb up the swaying ladder, and find the note Water Strider and I left there.

(The rest of this journal was written in Chicago after the trip, as the final two days offered little time for reflection.)

Leaving the comforting hug of the birthday hammock that afternoon, I set to exploring the island. The area of it was roughly three acres. Our base camp was at the top of a long slow rise of roots and stone, a natural staircase with soil filled ledges between the roots. At the bottom of this seventy foot slope was the canoe garage, a perfect little bay some twelve by fifteen feet, sheltered on two sides by sloping granite slabs, shallowing to only a few inches depth and with a fine sand and gravel bottom. On the island side of this bay the root mass overhung the water’s edge, providing a pleasant and welcoming first step ashore. This Northwesterly slope was clear of any undergrowth, probably the result of centuries of use, from early Ojibwe and hearty Voyageurs, to us in our high tech sneakers and fragile skin. Only mighty tall white pines stood here now. We would stay for three nights – the island too fine a place to leave without good reason. Small island camping is the best, but never forget that bears swim well.

The south side of the island was easily reached by a wide path running parallel to the west bank. Here along the path was room for a few more tents. Sudden granite buttresses rose at the end of the path, forming a headwall that dropped instantly to deep dark water. Normally I would have hurled myself off the rock, but I was spooked by the ghostly white fingers of a giant drowned pine, reaching up from the dark abyss, failing to break the surface but for a few feet. The headwall broke from the water into a loosely terraced slope which was covered with dwarf blueberries, and little white flowers that kept the bumble bees busy. Dwarf blueberries? Maybe just normal, not the typical GM variety. I picked about a pint over the course of three hours – this early in the summer each bush could offer only a few fully ripe berries. Yet the most tempting berries dangled out of my reach, growing right off the vertical rock, fifteen feet above the water. I didn't feel like swimming - not today, so I gave up on the berry hunt.

While I was busy on the far side of the island, Dances With Trees spent the day alternating between the hammock and the fishing rod. Abu Patches and Water-Strider had left camp at first light with the intention of running a fifteen to twenty mile loop through the Quetico interior, thereby connecting with passages made in expeditions from seasons past. We expected their return around dinner. Around dinner, however, the weather turned foul and we eventually gave up on keeping a strong fire. We just tried to keep the red beans and rice warm for the return of our friends, and mulled over various contingencies. Soon the rain worsened, and a strong gale began to blow, causing three foot waves to rake from south to north up the length of Kashipiwi, in the direction from which we expected the boys to return. More time passed, and the wind began to howl in the tree tops. We could only hide in our tents, or stand in the dark and driving wet, waiting for some indiscernible sign that they were almost home. We nested our brightest lights in the rocks at the foot of the little bay, hoping to provide a target beacon but only illuminating a narrow patch of the tempest. Around 11pm I thought I heard a shout. And again. The wind? I looked at DWT - he heard it too. The wind was indeed howling, but a third time there it was - no words, just a gutteral call. We ran to the end of the litte bay and shone our lights into the dark rain. Finally I heard paddles striking the gunnels of a canoe, and then actual words. They cried, "Get that light out of my eyes!" I pointed the light towards the calamitous surface of the lake, and soon the kevlar bow of our We-no-nah came into the light, followed by the hunched form of Strider, and then Patches at the stern. The boat was half full of water, within a few minutes of being swamped by the waves. They struck shore and we pulled them out of the water. Later map consultation revealed that they had paddled over 40 miles in fifteen hours, with little more than a couple Cliff bars and a demonic will to fuel them onward. A man's a man, for all that.

A long and much needed night of rest, and we struck camp for the trip out. The weather had improved, slightly. With ambition driving our souls (and thoughts of pizza and beer in Ely, MN) we decided we would paddle out of the park that day. We knew the path, and we had strong motivation. As it happened, however, the weather was much stronger, and utterly indifferent in regards to the pizza and beer. We made it to the last big lake crossing and were greeted by a seething mile of white caps under a wicked headwind. We let the current bank us up on some barren split rocks among several small islets. Taking a break and looking for some moss to nap in, we kept a baleful eye on the water for signs of a clear crossing. The waves were just too big, the wind too strong. To capsize in these conditions surely would mean losing gear, swimming and drifting with the swamped canoe for a few miles until making some random and uninspired landfall, well off course. As if to prove the point we saw two tin boats, probably boy scouts, make a feeble attempt against the wind. Both were swamped within minutes. They barely managed to pull their boats and themselves ashore on a miserable little island half way between us and the far shore. We decided to camp on this dark little patch for the night.

The following day the wind had calmed sufficiently, and we set out for the last ten mile paddle to our first put-in. Nearly sprinting our final portage into Basswood lake, we were driven by a redoubled desire for civilization - showers, hotel beds, a hot tub, maybe seeing a pretty girl or two. We could not paddle hard enough across Basswood. The lenticular clouds looked just like pizzas, the lake itself began to smell like a fine sudsy Northwoods brew. Perhaps because this lake in particular allowed for motorized boat traffic, but whatever gave us that extra push. Finally the dock drew into sight, our arms and backs aching, our canoes driving nearly surfable wake behind us. Dry ground. My filthy SUV. A twenty hour drive to my future wife. Life was good. Our trip had come to an end.

Abu Patches: James Janega
Dances With Trees: Matt Cassidy
Water-Strider: Scott Steiner
Gravel Pit: Damien Geoffrion

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