A couple hours outside Eugene, on the eastern side of the Cascades, coming up on the little town of Chemult which sits along both sides of the road enticing travelers with amenities for a temporary stop.
"I can't believe we aren't even half way there yet," Red laments. We
have reservations in Reno for that evening. We have many hours yet to
go.
"How about I take over driving?" I ask Red. She agrees. She's driven all the way from Portland and I can tell she needs a break.
I point to a ramshackle old cafe and convenience store ahead on our right. "Let's stop there," I said. "I could use a cup of coffee."
Improbably the sign on the exterior of the burger joint offers espresso. Inside I immediately regret my decision to stop here. The place looks vintage mid Twentieth Century. Often I like this kind of place, just for the atmosphere, but wanting coffee, I am dubious about the quality. I can see the stale pot of afternoon coffee on the machine. I'm hoping they can come through on the espresso, because no way I'm drinking a cup of the stuff I see.
Most of the store is empty. We head over to the window of the little grill inside the restaurant. Red heads off to use to restroom, which later turn out to be filthy, as she reports. Not promising.
An older middle aged couple is tending the grill. I order an americano. Red gets a milk shake. The folks behind the counter take their time making it, but we are patient.
In the meantime, as we wait, a group of young folks come into the store, two young men and two young women. They are in their early twenties, lithe and tan, as if they have spent much time in the outdoors. They have loose and little clothing on.
We had been wondering when we might see our first Burners, heading towards the same location as us. We had passed a few vehicles outside Eugene that might have contained fellow participants, but it was hard to tell if they were Burners. Now it seemed we had certainly found our first true candidates.
From their accents, I can discern they are Australian (one of the young women actually looks part aboriginal, with her curly hair) but when they order, I get the impression that they are trying to hide their accents. They are trying to sound American. When one of the young women orders, she mentions she is a vegetarian. I look at Red and she snickers a little, without being observed by the Australians.
We take our beverages and head back to the car, passing the large old van that the Australian kids are traveling in. It has British Columbia license plates. On the exterior is graffiti and on the top are affixed bicycles. Yup, Burners for sure, I think to myself.
I get behind the wheel of the car and we start to drive away, passing behind the Australian's van. I take one last look and notice the hand-lettered cardboard sign: "Burning Man. Got a ticket? We need one."
I immediately pressed the brake and stop the car. One of the Australian guys is standing beside the van. I motion for Red to roll down the window. I call out to the guy by the van.
"You looking for a ticket?" I ask him.
"Yeah," he laments. "One of our group doesn't have one yet. We went last year but this year we didn't get enough tickets. We're desperate."
"Wel,l I've got an extra one to sell," I say matter-of-factly.
His face breaks out in a huge smile. He seems incredulous. I assure him that I am not kidding. He hurriedly tells his friends and all four of them come over the car. He ask me how much the ticket is, and I tell him face value---380 bucks.
It turns on the guy who needs the ticket doesn't have the cash, but he runs over to the gas station to find an ATM. In the meantime we chat with the other Australians. By now the facade of the non-accent is vanished. We exchange names and hugs with all of them, as if we are already on the playa.
The other guy comes running back with his money. He counts out the twenties and hands them to me. I give him the spare ticket in my possession.
They can't believe their luck. All of them are overjoyed that they can all go this year.
"Well, now I get to cross off something from my to-do list in Reno, " I tell them.
They tell me their camp location, using the Burning Man city coordinates. I tell them I will look for them on the playa, since I know what their van looks like. I tell them to look for our Icelandic flag. They don't know what it looks like, so I take it out of the car to show them.
We drive away, leaving them very happy. t's as if Burning Man has just started this year, improbably in Chemult. I had been wondering who that extra ticket would go to. Now I know.
Saturday, August 23, 2014
Wednesday, August 20, 2014
Little Iceland Taking Shape
Getting ready for the playa with a little last-minute PVC carpentry in Portland.
If you are going to be out there next week, please drop by for Icelandic glacier water coffee, or perhaps a Bárðarbunga Martini.
And yes, of course we will have Brennivín!
Look for poster at Center Camp message board for location and time(s).
Komið þið sæl og blessuð!
If you are going to be out there next week, please drop by for Icelandic glacier water coffee, or perhaps a Bárðarbunga Martini.
And yes, of course we will have Brennivín!
Look for poster at Center Camp message board for location and time(s).
Komið þið sæl og blessuð!
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
Mellow Shaggy Fellows of Carolina
"Hey Cancer Boy!"
The voice can to me from across the churchyard to where I was sitting on a stone bench, reading a book. Beside me were a wall of names of deceased and interred former church members and loved owns. The slabs were plain, with only names and dates. A few of the slabs had gold flowers wedge into them by recent visitors.
I looked up from my book. It was brilliantly sunny, and quite hot and humid. I could tell the voice had come from Red. She was walking towards to place beside the church where the photographer was taking pictures after the wedding ceremony, which had ended about fifteen minutes earlier in the chapel indoors. When I looked up at her she waved and smiled. Everyone was having a good time.
I knew that it would take a while, so I had brought a book, The Emperor of All Maladies, a paperback copy of which I had picked up in Colorado the day before my flight. When I told Red that I had bought it, I fumbled on the title, calling it The Emperor's New Malady.
By then we had been in Hickory three fulls days, after landing at Charlotte Douglas, and having been picked up at the airport by one of her family members.
One the first day we drove up to the Blue Ridge Parkway, and to the top of Mount Mitchell. In the late afternoon we followed the parkway down the switchbacks into Asheville. As we looked for a place to park, I told Red a little of the history of the town, especially as a location for tuberculosis sanitariums and hospitals, back in the day when that disease had been a terrible ravager of the people. I'd learned some of the history when I had taken the Thomas Wolfe tour in 2009. Wolfe had grown in the boarding house that his brother operated for TB patients and other convalescing folk. His father had fittingly carved cemetery ornaments.
Back in Hickory we stayed at the very comfortable Hampton Inn by the freeway, along with most of the rest of the visiting family members. Red isn't big on the powdered eggs that they serve at the Hampton's breakfast, so we instead ate our early meal at the Waffle House (first time since Tucson) and even at the Cracker Barrel (my first time since Binghampton, NY five years ago).
Except for the time we spent in the airport (alas CDL is an abysmal experience), the entire trip was one exquisite and fun experience. Our last evening featured a catered dance with an open bar. I taught Red the steps to the jitterbug during what was billed by the locals as the Carolina shag dance.
After the event was over, before getting on the freeway towards the airport or far-flung land destinations in other states, of of Red's family stopped and ate at the Mellow Mushroom, the local version of which is among the newer franchises of this 60's remnant Atlanta-based pizza chain. To reach our table, we passed a tall sculptures of the blissed out corporate mascot, as wells ones in and other 60's era counterculture iconography.
I ordered the Shiitake special, which comes with an olive oil base. Red got one that had a gluten free crust. As we waited for our order, I chatted with a fellow across the table. He lives in Los Angeles and does animation for a major studio. I knew he was originally from Buffalo so I brought up that city.
"Millard Fillmore," I said. He laughed at the mention of the name, and that it would be the first thing I would recollect from my visit there ten years ago.
"Buffalo is the birthplace of the modern American hospitality industry," I told him. The idea was completely new to him. I proceeded to explain why.
There is nothing quite like good conversation over pizza.
The voice can to me from across the churchyard to where I was sitting on a stone bench, reading a book. Beside me were a wall of names of deceased and interred former church members and loved owns. The slabs were plain, with only names and dates. A few of the slabs had gold flowers wedge into them by recent visitors.
I looked up from my book. It was brilliantly sunny, and quite hot and humid. I could tell the voice had come from Red. She was walking towards to place beside the church where the photographer was taking pictures after the wedding ceremony, which had ended about fifteen minutes earlier in the chapel indoors. When I looked up at her she waved and smiled. Everyone was having a good time.
I knew that it would take a while, so I had brought a book, The Emperor of All Maladies, a paperback copy of which I had picked up in Colorado the day before my flight. When I told Red that I had bought it, I fumbled on the title, calling it The Emperor's New Malady.
By then we had been in Hickory three fulls days, after landing at Charlotte Douglas, and having been picked up at the airport by one of her family members.
One the first day we drove up to the Blue Ridge Parkway, and to the top of Mount Mitchell. In the late afternoon we followed the parkway down the switchbacks into Asheville. As we looked for a place to park, I told Red a little of the history of the town, especially as a location for tuberculosis sanitariums and hospitals, back in the day when that disease had been a terrible ravager of the people. I'd learned some of the history when I had taken the Thomas Wolfe tour in 2009. Wolfe had grown in the boarding house that his brother operated for TB patients and other convalescing folk. His father had fittingly carved cemetery ornaments.
Back in Hickory we stayed at the very comfortable Hampton Inn by the freeway, along with most of the rest of the visiting family members. Red isn't big on the powdered eggs that they serve at the Hampton's breakfast, so we instead ate our early meal at the Waffle House (first time since Tucson) and even at the Cracker Barrel (my first time since Binghampton, NY five years ago).
Except for the time we spent in the airport (alas CDL is an abysmal experience), the entire trip was one exquisite and fun experience. Our last evening featured a catered dance with an open bar. I taught Red the steps to the jitterbug during what was billed by the locals as the Carolina shag dance.
After the event was over, before getting on the freeway towards the airport or far-flung land destinations in other states, of of Red's family stopped and ate at the Mellow Mushroom, the local version of which is among the newer franchises of this 60's remnant Atlanta-based pizza chain. To reach our table, we passed a tall sculptures of the blissed out corporate mascot, as wells ones in and other 60's era counterculture iconography.
"Millard Fillmore," I said. He laughed at the mention of the name, and that it would be the first thing I would recollect from my visit there ten years ago.
"Buffalo is the birthplace of the modern American hospitality industry," I told him. The idea was completely new to him. I proceeded to explain why.
There is nothing quite like good conversation over pizza.
Monday, August 11, 2014
The Jungian Duality of Wilderness
The yellow backpack that I had lugged downtown with me eventually wound up being transported by train and plane, and then automobile, to come to rest temporarily at the YMCA Camp of the Rockies, just on the edge of Rocky Mountain National Park---nestled right up along the border in fact.
One can hike from the camp in to the park, on a horse trail over a small ridge into Moraine Park, where one can see the top of the divide. Moraine Park is an expansive a flat elk meadows, carved out by a ancient glacier, perfect for aa easy stroll, which is all I had in mind at that point.
Keep going past the fourth of fifth mile and ones reachs the trail head to Cub Lake, where many cars were parked with license plates from Colorado and out of state. The trail there is pretty easy, albeit rocky, at least for the first couple miles. One sees many families out there on a day like this, and folks who aren't normally on the trail.
After two miles the trail gets dramatically steeper and the cascades of the streams are more plunging. The number of hikers drops off as well. By the time ones round the second switchback up the slope there, one is well up the hillside. I saw no families from that point on. Then one sees the lake---at least the west end of it--- amidst the trees, overgrown with big green pads this time of year. More of the lake comes into view as one goes up the gentle slow along the hillside over the water. There was a young couple lingering there on the rocks. She was admiring a flower. He was trying to speak to a chipmunk or squirrel.
One can keep going from there, if one chooses, on towards to The Pond---about a mile further along the canyon on fairly level ground.
But it was already past two o'clock and I was mildly fatigued. Wanting to head back to the camp, I decided that rather than backtrack, I would take the shortcut home, up the very zigzag switchbacks from Cub Lake to the top of the ridge, which is called Steep Mountain.
It was very rough going for a while, to keep ascending the trail. I had to fall back on my mentality of how to climb in snow shoes---very slow and steady, at my own thank-you-very-much pace.
I forced myself to walk in tiny slow steps, but to keep moving, resting only briefly. I still had plenty of water left, but the weather was turning. The sky had started out partly cloudy in the morning, but it was now obvious that a thunderstorm could catch up with me at any moment coming down off the continental divide. I didn't want to get caught out in it, with only my hiking shirt for cover. Foolishly I had left even my wind jacket back at the lodge. It was not waterproof, but would make excellent shelter until it got soaked through.
Fortunately I made it up over the top of the ridge before the storm really hit. The south side of the ridge was gentle and sandy, not really very rocky. Descending it was a merciful experiment.
The trail head was still a couple miles away along a gentle trail that went through a narrow gorge, where I made to make way for some horseback riders from the Y Livery, and finally the large grassy meadow at Hollowell Park.
By then my hat was well soaked from the rain, but I had managed to dodge the worst of it behind a thick tree. I still had half a bottle of water, out of the two I had started with.
It seems to be a requirement for me, a ritual. At least once I year I seem to need to go on a wilderness hike, overnight or day trip, and put myself in a position where I wander whatever could have possessed me to think it was a good idea to do such a thing.
Of course I was very glad to see the trail head, and especially the sign for the shuttle, which ran every minute minutes, back to the foot of the Y camp. I was tired but still had strength leftover (I would still need to climb the hill to my lodge).
The feeling you get when you see the trail head like that is one of the best reasons for doing this kind of thing. It reminds one of the awesomeness and beauty of both nature and civilization. At least for me it does.
One can hike from the camp in to the park, on a horse trail over a small ridge into Moraine Park, where one can see the top of the divide. Moraine Park is an expansive a flat elk meadows, carved out by a ancient glacier, perfect for aa easy stroll, which is all I had in mind at that point.
Keep going past the fourth of fifth mile and ones reachs the trail head to Cub Lake, where many cars were parked with license plates from Colorado and out of state. The trail there is pretty easy, albeit rocky, at least for the first couple miles. One sees many families out there on a day like this, and folks who aren't normally on the trail.
After two miles the trail gets dramatically steeper and the cascades of the streams are more plunging. The number of hikers drops off as well. By the time ones round the second switchback up the slope there, one is well up the hillside. I saw no families from that point on. Then one sees the lake---at least the west end of it--- amidst the trees, overgrown with big green pads this time of year. More of the lake comes into view as one goes up the gentle slow along the hillside over the water. There was a young couple lingering there on the rocks. She was admiring a flower. He was trying to speak to a chipmunk or squirrel.
One can keep going from there, if one chooses, on towards to The Pond---about a mile further along the canyon on fairly level ground.
But it was already past two o'clock and I was mildly fatigued. Wanting to head back to the camp, I decided that rather than backtrack, I would take the shortcut home, up the very zigzag switchbacks from Cub Lake to the top of the ridge, which is called Steep Mountain.
It was very rough going for a while, to keep ascending the trail. I had to fall back on my mentality of how to climb in snow shoes---very slow and steady, at my own thank-you-very-much pace.
I forced myself to walk in tiny slow steps, but to keep moving, resting only briefly. I still had plenty of water left, but the weather was turning. The sky had started out partly cloudy in the morning, but it was now obvious that a thunderstorm could catch up with me at any moment coming down off the continental divide. I didn't want to get caught out in it, with only my hiking shirt for cover. Foolishly I had left even my wind jacket back at the lodge. It was not waterproof, but would make excellent shelter until it got soaked through.
Fortunately I made it up over the top of the ridge before the storm really hit. The south side of the ridge was gentle and sandy, not really very rocky. Descending it was a merciful experiment.
The trail head was still a couple miles away along a gentle trail that went through a narrow gorge, where I made to make way for some horseback riders from the Y Livery, and finally the large grassy meadow at Hollowell Park.
By then my hat was well soaked from the rain, but I had managed to dodge the worst of it behind a thick tree. I still had half a bottle of water, out of the two I had started with.
It seems to be a requirement for me, a ritual. At least once I year I seem to need to go on a wilderness hike, overnight or day trip, and put myself in a position where I wander whatever could have possessed me to think it was a good idea to do such a thing.
Of course I was very glad to see the trail head, and especially the sign for the shuttle, which ran every minute minutes, back to the foot of the Y camp. I was tired but still had strength leftover (I would still need to climb the hill to my lodge).
The feeling you get when you see the trail head like that is one of the best reasons for doing this kind of thing. It reminds one of the awesomeness and beauty of both nature and civilization. At least for me it does.
Sunday, August 10, 2014
A New Ticket Machine Map for Portland---Moore's Law of Cartography
"How often do you have to do that?" I asked the man, with the white mustache and baseball cap, standing on the curb of Yamhill, along busy Pioneer Courthouse Square.
He made a funny expression, of being puzzled, as if he had never thought about the question before. It seemed to have taken him off guard. After a second I realized that I was now interrupting his work, so I waived off my query.
"Whenever they change the route," is the most I got out of him, but I inferred that it had been a while since anyone had needed to pry off the oblong polygonal white maps of the Max route, that were on the front of the ticket machines along the curb.
He was using a long screwdriver to pry the old one off. It peeled as he pulled it off the machine.
It looked like this:
"The new one is up there," he said, motioning up Yamhill to the corner of the square. He then proceeded about his businesses, which required no small amount of physical strength. I took the opportunity to let him go back to his work, and slinked up the street, leaving my big yellow backpack along the curve back where he was working.
At the other machine I looked at the new route map and quickly decided it was far superior to the old one, which I had studied quite thoroughly when I saw the man with the baseball cap and mustache, and orange vest, approaching with the new maps under his arms. I knew this would be the last chance to see it on that particular machine. When he'd put down the new maps---he was carrying several of them---they made a solid metallic clunk on the sidewalk.
The new map had been necessitated by the opening of the new Max lines that crossed the recently opened Tilikum Crossing, the first new span across the Willamette since the Fremont opened in 1973.
The new lines had required much greater detail in the downtown area so the designers of the new had increased the scale for the central part of Portland. It was much richer in detail. The designers had used the lessons from the previous maps and had increased the depth of the detail in a way that seemed pleasing and natural. It was sort of like a Moore's law of cartography in effect---you can get finer detail of the design on successive iterations, based on successful experiments in visual/spatial representation on the previous larger scale. From those successful experiment, one can enhances detail on a finer lever in a way that the eye and brain natural follow.
But I'm just saying the obvious, I suppose.
He made a funny expression, of being puzzled, as if he had never thought about the question before. It seemed to have taken him off guard. After a second I realized that I was now interrupting his work, so I waived off my query.
"Whenever they change the route," is the most I got out of him, but I inferred that it had been a while since anyone had needed to pry off the oblong polygonal white maps of the Max route, that were on the front of the ticket machines along the curb.
He was using a long screwdriver to pry the old one off. It peeled as he pulled it off the machine.
It looked like this:
"The new one is up there," he said, motioning up Yamhill to the corner of the square. He then proceeded about his businesses, which required no small amount of physical strength. I took the opportunity to let him go back to his work, and slinked up the street, leaving my big yellow backpack along the curve back where he was working.
At the other machine I looked at the new route map and quickly decided it was far superior to the old one, which I had studied quite thoroughly when I saw the man with the baseball cap and mustache, and orange vest, approaching with the new maps under his arms. I knew this would be the last chance to see it on that particular machine. When he'd put down the new maps---he was carrying several of them---they made a solid metallic clunk on the sidewalk.
The new map had been necessitated by the opening of the new Max lines that crossed the recently opened Tilikum Crossing, the first new span across the Willamette since the Fremont opened in 1973.
The new lines had required much greater detail in the downtown area so the designers of the new had increased the scale for the central part of Portland. It was much richer in detail. The designers had used the lessons from the previous maps and had increased the depth of the detail in a way that seemed pleasing and natural. It was sort of like a Moore's law of cartography in effect---you can get finer detail of the design on successive iterations, based on successful experiments in visual/spatial representation on the previous larger scale. From those successful experiment, one can enhances detail on a finer lever in a way that the eye and brain natural follow.
But I'm just saying the obvious, I suppose.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)