Swish-wumph.
"I am the walrus."
Swish-wumph.
"I am the walrus."
Swish-wumph.
"I am the walrus."
What's that supposed to mean?
Swish-wumph.
"It's my mantra."
Your mantra? That's a stupid mantra, Denny. "I am the Walrus?"
"It keeps me going."
Swish-wumph.
Swish-wumph.
You've been climbing for a bit now, man. This is spring snow, and it's really deep and heavy. Why don't you take a break?
"No can do. Long way to go."
Yeah, but this hurts! Your calves are screaming right now, man! And there's a couple pieces of dried mango in your backpack you can eat.
Swish-wumph.
And do you hear how your bindings are creaking? Your skins are probably coming off too. Have you checked the-?
"I checked the tip and tail."
These skis are ancient. I can't believe you're trying to telemark up this backcountry wilderness. You don't even know how to ski properly.
"These skis are from the '90s."
Yeah. Ancient.
Swish-wumph... WUMPH!
Whatwasthat?"Whatwasthat?"
Ok. No need to panic. Look up.
"Nothing."
Right. No avalanches coming down. But what was that?
"Wind slab?"
Must be. Careful now, man. Pay attention.
Swish-wumph...
Swish-wumph...
"Skis sound normal on the snow. Maybe the slab's not very big."
Normal is good. Holy crap! Wouldja look at that. You're about to reach the ridgeline!
"Yeah. Good thing too, my legs are jelly. I am the walrus."
Moron.
"Alright. Almost. There. I. Am . The walrus.
I.
Am.
The walrus.
I. Am. The walrus!
Yes!"
Geez, that wind is howling. But, hey... Look...
"Oh
my
god."
This is incredible. This is beauty. The mountains marching off in every direction, snowy white and luminous... The wind, swirling through the tree branches, slipping ice crystals under clothes... Hey! Don't start crying up here, man! That shit'll freeze. Put your coat on.
"Ok. Yeah. Coat's on, helmet's on, goggles on. Let's see... Good to go?"
How many times have you done this dude? Your boots are still unlocked, and your heel lifter bars are up. Your skins are still on, and you haven't checked your zippers. This is downhill, Denny. In the backcountry. Get your head in it.
"Oh, yeah. It's just, everything's so beautiful, and I'm trying to catch my breath-"
Stow it. You could've taken a break back there in the aspen grove, but you wanted to get to the top. Now you're there. Do it right.
"Ok, cinched down bootstraps, bindings are good. Ripping skins. Skins ripped. Backpack on. Zippers closed. Ready to go."
Then go.
"What!? Oh. Right."
Go.
"Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit. Holy shit."
Breath. Bend your knees. Pick your line. Soon, the trees will disappear, and the only thing left will be the spaces. You will exist as part of the snow, caressing it, being caressed, losing yourself in the turns. Twist silently through this place. Be beauty.
Now, step to the left. Drop into the bowl and float...
"Step to the left. Drop into the bowl and float..."
Swish.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Friday, March 25, 2011
March
he swept past her
anciently
grooming the night
for the final
sparkling pilgrim
to rush upon
flagrantly
a new moon's
last little hope
lustfully
for a new direction.
anciently
grooming the night
for the final
sparkling pilgrim
to rush upon
flagrantly
a new moon's
last little hope
lustfully
for a new direction.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Copper Lake
On Monday I will attempt to ski all the way to Copper Lake. Again. Usually easy to hike to; a quick 3 hour jaunt through a gorgeous valley with some fun stream crossings, winter makes Copper Lake a tantalizing distant goal. I've attempted this ski four times already, each attempt ending in frustration. I have declared Copper Lake my nemesis.
Copper Creek Trail starts just below Judd Falls, the now invisible waterfall that brings Copper Creek down into the East River Valley, somewhere just northeast of Gothic. The trail is not difficult. It's a well marked mining road that crosses over Copper Creek three times and two other creeks on the way to the northern end of the valley where one can find the amazing high-altitude lake of the same name. Copper Lake is in a high basin surrounded by evergreen trees, flanked by East Maroon Pass on one side, and the beginning of Triangle Pass on the other. While in the summer this popular and secluded lake is a great fishing and camping spot, and can be a fantastic spot to sit and reflect in solitude upon nature and man's place within it. However, in winter the lake is frozen and snow covered, and the trail to it a challenge for a novice skier like myself. In fact, I'll bet it's a challenge for almost any skier. So far, I haven't seen any tracks head out that way besides my own, and I'll bet that no human has been there since December, if not earlier.
My first attempt was in December, with John and Ira before our Texan friend headed out of winter to go play in the Grand Canyon for a couple of months. We had a happy ski up the valley one afternoon, the three of us taking turns breaking trail through the fresh snow. Luckily, the first stream crossing was snowed over in places, and being the largest of the crossings, that meant that the rest of them should be covered as well. All was right with the world as we laughed and joked on our way north. We made it as far as the last crossing, where tired and hungry, we decided to take a break, take some photos and have a snack. After sitting down for a while, we decided to turn back home. Fresh tracks leading downhill, a setting sun, and an endless winter stretched out before us all seemed to make Copper Lake a hazy, distant goal; certainly not something we needed to conquer right then. So, with little disappointment we headed home.
That was to be the last time that I attempted the Lake with these friends, and perhaps my best chance of reaching it. It would be Christmas before I tried my hand (or my feet if you will) at Copper Creek Trail again, and the next trip was to remind me just how brutal winter can be.
I set out by myself a few weeks later, early in the morning to avoid having the sun set on me. The ski started wonderfully, if a bit chilly, and I made it to first crossing within a short 30 minutes. It was there that I realized that in the middle of winter, the sun is far to the south and its light doesn't reach Copper Creek Valley until after noon since there are great big mountains in the way. No matter, so I would ski in the shade. What could be the problem with that? The problem was that I chose the morning after the coldest night of the year for my ski. After a bone-numbing -34 degree night, I was skiing in unbroken snow that wasn't getting any warmer sitting in the shade. My boots were moving through frozen water particles that were well below a safe temperature. After only a couple of miles, I could no longer feel my feet. By the time I got to the last crossing, things were bad. I can only recall a vague sense of wanting to cry every time I shifted weight from one foot to another. There was no pain, no feeling at all really. While determined to make it the last mile or so to the lake, I decided that the best thing to do would be to go back home. Frustrated and reeling, I turned around. When I got back home, my feet were frozen through. Black, purple, and yellow, they emerged from my socks like frozen sausages being peeled from their casings. I won't describe the pain and the fear that went into thawing them, and into trying to ascertain what kind of damage I actually did, but I will tell you that I still have all my toes, even if they don't feel anything anymore.
A few weeks later around Christmastime, Jonathon, a friend of mine who I met here years ago, decided to come for a visit. After an eventful ski in from town, Jon decided that he'd rather use snowshoes to travel around for the remainder of his visit. My feet had healed, and the memory of frostbite was fading, so the day after Christmas we strapped on some snowshoes (a very pale and somewhat retarded cousin to XC skis if you ask me) and again attempted the trail to Copper Lake. Now this time I made another mistake. While not crippling in the physical sense, this mistake was still pretty crucial. I didn't inform Jonathon of where we were going. I had it in my mind that we were attempting Copper Lake. He thought we were going up past Judd Falls for some pictures. To make a long, and rather beautiful story short, we again made it to the final crossing before Jon admitted his fatigue, and his lack of preparation for such a long hike. I realized then that I had made assumptions about a place and a trip that he had absolutely no knowledge of. Thanking him for putting up with such a long endeavor, I turned around again.
A few weeks ago I tried again. This time, armed with food, water, emergency foot warmers, and the conviction that this time would be "it," I set out again for the seemingly mythical waters of Copper Lake. The day was beautiful. It was warm for the mountains in winter, the sun was out, and I was in my stride. After months of skiing, my legs and arms were up for the challenge, and more. I made it to first crossing within minutes. I made it to the final stream crossing within a couple of hours. Things were looking good indeed. At the last crossing I stopped to have a snack and rest myself for the intense uphill battle that was to follow. I remembered from several hikes that the last portion was the most difficult, winding steeply through the trees to reach the basin that held Copper Lake. After my snack I started forward again.
I made it only 10 yards before I came upon the place I had hoped to cross. The river was open. The past few days had been warm and glorious, great for playing outside, but also great for melting the ice and snow that was supposed to be covering the river. Instead of a dubious covering of snow, I looked down into a ravine and saw running water and rocks. This is not the correct medium for skis. I spent an hour skiing up and down the length of the creek looking for a place to cross, but it was all steep, all open, and all very dangerous. Once again, this time for a reason beyond my capabilities and preparation, I had lost. I turned around and headed home yet again.
So tomorrow, Monday 28 February, I will try again. We've gotten lots of snow, temperatures have been moderately low, Ira is back, and the weather should be nice. The trail will have to be broken, but with two skiers trading off that responsibility, we should be able to make decent time and not exhaust ourselves too much. We'll pack a lunch, some extra socks and gloves, and once again head up into a valley who's indifference towards humans should be a clear warning sign that I do not belong there. However, humans have a tendency to go where they don't belong, and knowing the risks, my sense of adventure will not let this one lie. I'm going to steal an hour from Mother Nature to look at Copper Lake. I'm going to go once again to the wintry solitude of the upper valleys, and this time I will be victorious. Why, you may ask. Well, in the words of mountain climbers everywhere- because it's there.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
The History of Gothic Part III: The Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory, or It's a Bug's Life
In September of 1911 a man by the name of John C. Johnson was riding a narrow gauge train over the continental divide at Marshall pass, his first trip to the western slope. He was on his way to Gunnison, Colorado to help start the Colorado State Normal School at Gunnison. Originally a school with the sole purpose of training students to become teachers, the Normal School has since evolved into Western State College. Not only was John C. Johnson instrumental in the history of Western State, but he underwent his own evolution through the years he spent in Colorado, and the impact he made on the Gunnison valley in general, and Gothic in particular, has been huge.
Far from having an academic family history, John C. Johnson was born to Swedish immigrants living in a house made of sod on the eastern plains of Colorado. While I have friends who have an earnest passion for reconstructing the lifestyle of poor farmers, I'm sure that young Johnson was eager to escape the life of toil in agriculture that wedded people to the land. Of course, the son of a farmer wouldn't be used to having things in life handed to him easily, and John C. Johnson took the lessons of hard work he learned from his family and applied them routinely to his life in academia. In 1911, after graduating from the Normal School in Greely, Johnson hopped on a train to Gunnison to start another school. On September 12, the Normal School at Gunnison was fully operational.
Now, "fully operational" a century ago meant something a little different than it does today. Today, Western State College has a huge campus, a proud (but losing) football team, and many other organized sports teams. They offer classes in Holistic Shamanism and Outdoor Recreation, as well as your more conventional standards like Business or English. In 1911, the doors opened to 13 students. Sports teams were non-existent, and terms like Holistic Shamanism probably didn't even exist in the English language. John C. Johnson was instrumental in changing all of that.
He started with the sports teams. Within two years, he personally organized the first basketball team and football team. Johnson rented an old church and converted it into a gymnasium, since for strange and complicated reasons the gymnasium at the college had a ceiling only eight feet high. How the engineers of the late 19th/early 20th century could build a transcontinental railroad, but fail to make a gymnasium big enough to actually play sports in is something that confuses and perversely delights me. In any case, the problem allowed Johnson to exercise his brain and his social skills while looking for a way to exercise the body. Johnson, also the coach of the school's fledgling teams, somehow managed to obtain everything the school needed for a sports program; from a building, to backboards, to opponents. Also immediately popular, and foreshadowing the eventual economy of the Gunnison valley, was the ski team Johnson started in January of 1912.
Between 1911 and 1928, Johnson served as coach, faculty, and then dean of the Colorado State Normal School, which became Western State College in 1923. Also during that time, Johnson made the trek up to Gothic, and fell in love with the East River Valley. He had been operating the Rocky Mountain Biological Station in Taylor canyon, under the supervision of Western State College. By 1927, however, the political climate in Colorado was changing, and due to a change in leadership in both the state and the school, Johnson found himself a target of the Ku Klux Klan, and both his position at Western State, and the RMBS were terminated. These were dark times for Western State College, but out of them came the birth of the Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory in Gothic.
Having learned the pratfalls of being involved in an institution that was subject to the whims of policy and politics, Johnson was determined to continue his work in biology free from the fetters of a government funded institution. In 1928, with the help of his wife, Vera Adams Johnson, he started renting some buildings from Garwood Judd (who may or may not have had the right to rent them) in Gothic, and established the Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory. With Aute Richards, A.O. Weese, and L.A. Adams, John and Vera Johnson incorporated the lab, and began the exciting, but often tedious work of documenting the biological processes that occurred in the high mountain valley. Through the years, Johnson put much of his own money into the non-profit lab, buying standing buildings and renovating them, building new laboratories and cabins, and conducting painstaking research. While for most of its history, the lab has been hanging by a financial thread, Johnson's spirit of putting his own sweat, blood, and money into the lab has persisted to this day. As recent as a decade ago (before complicated building code regulations were being enforced) researchers and staff would still come together to build the newest house, outhouse, or community structure that was needed.
The RMBL has, over the past 90 years, amassed some of the most important long term data sets the scientific community has at their disposal. Year after year the "bugologists" would come up through Gunnison and Crested Butte to research everything from the behavior of marmots (large rodents that live in complex social groups,) to wildflowers and the insects that pollinate them, to stream ecology and, more recently, molecular biology. Having information about how a population of animals lives for 50 or 60 or 70 years is a gold mine (see what I did there?) for biologists. Being able to track populations in relation to climate, food sources, and predators gives a very good picture about what is really happening in the world around us. It can even give us insights into ourselves.
I sat down with the director of the lab, Dr. Ian Billick PhD, to talk about some of the applications that come from spending years with his face in the dirt looking at the minute processes that make up this ecosystem. He brought up an interesting example to illustrate how the natural world can show us a mirror into our own lives. Apparently, insects in a stream will act differently when trout are feeding. This may seem intuitive, but a "fear" mechanism, just like anything in science, must be documented and proved before it's considered valid. Anyway, the insects responded not only to predation, but to the potential of predation, to the "fear" that now governed their lives, since trout were around. This draws interesting parallels to our own society, and to how we're governing ourselves in the wake of the September 11th bombing of the World Trade Center in 2001. There is scientific evidence that indicates that regardless of actual death, populations will react to a predatory situation with fear, and change their behavior accordingly. More people die from smoking each year than died in the WTC bombings, yet that act of terrorism has governed the very principles by which we live for a decade now.
The RMBL has always been on the cutting edge of science. There have been numerous instances of conflicts between the "Old School" and the "New School" within the lab as science and technology have changed over the years. Out of these robust discussions, and from the research of dedicated scientists, the lab has been instrumental in our understanding the world, our impact on it, and the consequences of that impact. Michael Soule, the founder of Conservation Biology worked here for a while, and the revered (by some) Paul Ehrlic, author of "The Population Bomb" has been a member of the lab for decades. The idea that organisms evolve constantly, in response to each other, has been explored here, indicating that evolution is a process and not a road to a predetermined "perfect" end. With over 1300 peer reviewed publications coming from the lab, and innovative experiments like a warming meadow kept at a few degrees warmer than its surroundings to imitate climate change, the lab has been instrumental in furthering our understanding of how this crazy world actually functions.
Science is constantly changing, and it has always been a struggle for the lab to change with it. Without the funding of a large university or the federal government (which also frees the lab from political agenda,) the lab must rely on individual donors, fund raisers like the annual 4th of July Marathon, and grant money to continue operation. Through these funds, the RMBL continues to move forward. In 2011, a new building with state of the art laboratory space will be built, and there are plans to construct a visitor's center soon. The business model of the lab is evolving, and interaction with the non-scientific community is increasing as our world shrinks and our links to each other become closer, more immediate, and more urgent. The future of the lab rests on the shoulders of the people who come to work here, and relies on the blood and sweat of its members, as it has since John C. Johnson started buying buildings in 1928. Having met and worked with lab members, these students and scientists from around the world, I'd say the future looks pretty bright.
Johnson, by the way, returned to Western State College in 1966 after a 38 year absence. He died in 1973.
"In June as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day. No man can heed all of these anniversaries; no man can ignore all of them." -Aldo Leopold, Conservationist.
If you'd like to make a donation to the lab, please follow the link below.
www.givedirect.org/give/givefrm.asp?Action=GC&CID=4737
Bibliography for The History of Gothic
1. Johnson, John C. Jr. and Dorothy Johnson. Recollections of W.S.C. and R.M.B.L. 2000.
2. Vandenbusche, Duane. The Gunnison Country. Gunnison, CO: B&B Printers, 1980.
3. Haase, Carl Leroy. Gothic History. 1971
4. Wolle, Muriel Sibell. Stampede to Timberline. Denver, CO: Sage Publishing, 1949
5. Billick, Ian. Personal interview. December 2010.
6. "Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory." Available at www.rmbl.org. December 2010
 |
| Dr. John C. Johnson |
Far from having an academic family history, John C. Johnson was born to Swedish immigrants living in a house made of sod on the eastern plains of Colorado. While I have friends who have an earnest passion for reconstructing the lifestyle of poor farmers, I'm sure that young Johnson was eager to escape the life of toil in agriculture that wedded people to the land. Of course, the son of a farmer wouldn't be used to having things in life handed to him easily, and John C. Johnson took the lessons of hard work he learned from his family and applied them routinely to his life in academia. In 1911, after graduating from the Normal School in Greely, Johnson hopped on a train to Gunnison to start another school. On September 12, the Normal School at Gunnison was fully operational.
Now, "fully operational" a century ago meant something a little different than it does today. Today, Western State College has a huge campus, a proud (but losing) football team, and many other organized sports teams. They offer classes in Holistic Shamanism and Outdoor Recreation, as well as your more conventional standards like Business or English. In 1911, the doors opened to 13 students. Sports teams were non-existent, and terms like Holistic Shamanism probably didn't even exist in the English language. John C. Johnson was instrumental in changing all of that.
He started with the sports teams. Within two years, he personally organized the first basketball team and football team. Johnson rented an old church and converted it into a gymnasium, since for strange and complicated reasons the gymnasium at the college had a ceiling only eight feet high. How the engineers of the late 19th/early 20th century could build a transcontinental railroad, but fail to make a gymnasium big enough to actually play sports in is something that confuses and perversely delights me. In any case, the problem allowed Johnson to exercise his brain and his social skills while looking for a way to exercise the body. Johnson, also the coach of the school's fledgling teams, somehow managed to obtain everything the school needed for a sports program; from a building, to backboards, to opponents. Also immediately popular, and foreshadowing the eventual economy of the Gunnison valley, was the ski team Johnson started in January of 1912.
Between 1911 and 1928, Johnson served as coach, faculty, and then dean of the Colorado State Normal School, which became Western State College in 1923. Also during that time, Johnson made the trek up to Gothic, and fell in love with the East River Valley. He had been operating the Rocky Mountain Biological Station in Taylor canyon, under the supervision of Western State College. By 1927, however, the political climate in Colorado was changing, and due to a change in leadership in both the state and the school, Johnson found himself a target of the Ku Klux Klan, and both his position at Western State, and the RMBS were terminated. These were dark times for Western State College, but out of them came the birth of the Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory in Gothic.
Having learned the pratfalls of being involved in an institution that was subject to the whims of policy and politics, Johnson was determined to continue his work in biology free from the fetters of a government funded institution. In 1928, with the help of his wife, Vera Adams Johnson, he started renting some buildings from Garwood Judd (who may or may not have had the right to rent them) in Gothic, and established the Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory. With Aute Richards, A.O. Weese, and L.A. Adams, John and Vera Johnson incorporated the lab, and began the exciting, but often tedious work of documenting the biological processes that occurred in the high mountain valley. Through the years, Johnson put much of his own money into the non-profit lab, buying standing buildings and renovating them, building new laboratories and cabins, and conducting painstaking research. While for most of its history, the lab has been hanging by a financial thread, Johnson's spirit of putting his own sweat, blood, and money into the lab has persisted to this day. As recent as a decade ago (before complicated building code regulations were being enforced) researchers and staff would still come together to build the newest house, outhouse, or community structure that was needed.
The RMBL has, over the past 90 years, amassed some of the most important long term data sets the scientific community has at their disposal. Year after year the "bugologists" would come up through Gunnison and Crested Butte to research everything from the behavior of marmots (large rodents that live in complex social groups,) to wildflowers and the insects that pollinate them, to stream ecology and, more recently, molecular biology. Having information about how a population of animals lives for 50 or 60 or 70 years is a gold mine (see what I did there?) for biologists. Being able to track populations in relation to climate, food sources, and predators gives a very good picture about what is really happening in the world around us. It can even give us insights into ourselves.
I sat down with the director of the lab, Dr. Ian Billick PhD, to talk about some of the applications that come from spending years with his face in the dirt looking at the minute processes that make up this ecosystem. He brought up an interesting example to illustrate how the natural world can show us a mirror into our own lives. Apparently, insects in a stream will act differently when trout are feeding. This may seem intuitive, but a "fear" mechanism, just like anything in science, must be documented and proved before it's considered valid. Anyway, the insects responded not only to predation, but to the potential of predation, to the "fear" that now governed their lives, since trout were around. This draws interesting parallels to our own society, and to how we're governing ourselves in the wake of the September 11th bombing of the World Trade Center in 2001. There is scientific evidence that indicates that regardless of actual death, populations will react to a predatory situation with fear, and change their behavior accordingly. More people die from smoking each year than died in the WTC bombings, yet that act of terrorism has governed the very principles by which we live for a decade now.
The RMBL has always been on the cutting edge of science. There have been numerous instances of conflicts between the "Old School" and the "New School" within the lab as science and technology have changed over the years. Out of these robust discussions, and from the research of dedicated scientists, the lab has been instrumental in our understanding the world, our impact on it, and the consequences of that impact. Michael Soule, the founder of Conservation Biology worked here for a while, and the revered (by some) Paul Ehrlic, author of "The Population Bomb" has been a member of the lab for decades. The idea that organisms evolve constantly, in response to each other, has been explored here, indicating that evolution is a process and not a road to a predetermined "perfect" end. With over 1300 peer reviewed publications coming from the lab, and innovative experiments like a warming meadow kept at a few degrees warmer than its surroundings to imitate climate change, the lab has been instrumental in furthering our understanding of how this crazy world actually functions.
 |
| The Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory at Gothic |
Science is constantly changing, and it has always been a struggle for the lab to change with it. Without the funding of a large university or the federal government (which also frees the lab from political agenda,) the lab must rely on individual donors, fund raisers like the annual 4th of July Marathon, and grant money to continue operation. Through these funds, the RMBL continues to move forward. In 2011, a new building with state of the art laboratory space will be built, and there are plans to construct a visitor's center soon. The business model of the lab is evolving, and interaction with the non-scientific community is increasing as our world shrinks and our links to each other become closer, more immediate, and more urgent. The future of the lab rests on the shoulders of the people who come to work here, and relies on the blood and sweat of its members, as it has since John C. Johnson started buying buildings in 1928. Having met and worked with lab members, these students and scientists from around the world, I'd say the future looks pretty bright.
Johnson, by the way, returned to Western State College in 1966 after a 38 year absence. He died in 1973.
"In June as many as a dozen species may burst their buds on a single day. No man can heed all of these anniversaries; no man can ignore all of them." -Aldo Leopold, Conservationist.
If you'd like to make a donation to the lab, please follow the link below.
www.givedirect.org/give/givefrm.asp?Action=GC&CID=4737
Bibliography for The History of Gothic
1. Johnson, John C. Jr. and Dorothy Johnson. Recollections of W.S.C. and R.M.B.L. 2000.
2. Vandenbusche, Duane. The Gunnison Country. Gunnison, CO: B&B Printers, 1980.
3. Haase, Carl Leroy. Gothic History. 1971
4. Wolle, Muriel Sibell. Stampede to Timberline. Denver, CO: Sage Publishing, 1949
5. Billick, Ian. Personal interview. December 2010.
6. "Rocky Mountain Biological Laboratory." Available at www.rmbl.org. December 2010
Saturday, January 1, 2011
New Year's snow...
Do you long for something that you can't define? Are you looking for answers to questions that may not exist? I'm in a contemplative mood, and I hope you'll excuse me if I use this forum to get some free-form thinking done. Hey, if you don't like it, please fuck off.
I know I promised an article finishing up the History of Gothic with the RMBL this week, but after several aborted attempts at beginning it, I decided to just leave it alone for another week. Don't worry, I've got some really neat information tucked under my hat, and I will finish what I've started. It's just that I happen to like detours, and asides, and all the little things in life that kinda keep people from getting to the point. So enjoy (or ignore) this particular aside, and the sensation of letting words carry you to nowhere.
The isolation is palpable. Other humans in this valley seem to push its edge and press against this isolation like it's a bubble. They get close and I can hear them talking to me. Shit, I can even make them laugh sometimes, and we can share a genuine smile, but the bubble never pops. It's like seeing someones face all squished up against some used plastic wrap. We can have a good time, but I sure as hell ain't kissing those lips.
Now, I don't mean to say that what I'm experiencing is extraordinary, or even that unusual in the scope of human existence. Many people have lived in greater isolation than I, and have even thrived in those conditions. I just wonder how they dealt with it. I've worked hard the past few years, and have made some friends that should last for a lifetime. I can't connect with them right now though. As hard as I try, and as convenient as technology makes things, when I speak to people that I've shared my life with, it feels hollow and fake. Sometimes the feeling is so palpable that we'll cut the Skype conversation short, or communicate in terse, happy sounding emails that don't actually say anything. I'm only complaining a little bit, really I'm just trying to comment on this phenomenon. Under no circumstances would I admit a weakness of character, and cry to an anonymous world about my own petty problems. Certainly not.
What is it about certain people that they absolutely MUST seek out adventure? I know that for myself, it's not an option. I don't sit around thinking "well, should I climb that mountain, or should I find a job?" That question is easily answered, and I promise it doesn't end with an application and an interview. And it's a valid comparison too. Climbing a mountain takes a lot of individual effort, very little conversation, almost no physical contact with other humans (if you're even climbing with others,) and a very personal sense of reward. Working a job establishes one's place in society, exposes him to other people, and requires stability of place and personality. Is the difference part of an established societal description? Is it as easy as comparing introverts to extroverts? Or "turned on" people and mindless sheep? Or slackers and hustlers? Somehow I don't think so.
Whatever the differences are, it is true what they say: no man's an island. I can't confirm this, but I'll bet that even the most hardy of mountain men, the most intrepid of explorers, and daring adventurers all feel loneliness. The desire for human contact is intense, and is a part of anyone who's ever had a mother, who wants to mate, or needs some help with something. As for me, it all applies. I miss my mother, I'm going crazy without a mate, and I could really use some help from time to time.
I love my mountain solitude, and aside from the growing loneliness, I'm happier than I've ever been. The natural beauty, the peace, the opportunities, and a certain something mystical all call to me, and I've answered. Now, if I can just learn what I need to learn, and share it with everybody else...
I know I promised an article finishing up the History of Gothic with the RMBL this week, but after several aborted attempts at beginning it, I decided to just leave it alone for another week. Don't worry, I've got some really neat information tucked under my hat, and I will finish what I've started. It's just that I happen to like detours, and asides, and all the little things in life that kinda keep people from getting to the point. So enjoy (or ignore) this particular aside, and the sensation of letting words carry you to nowhere.
The isolation is palpable. Other humans in this valley seem to push its edge and press against this isolation like it's a bubble. They get close and I can hear them talking to me. Shit, I can even make them laugh sometimes, and we can share a genuine smile, but the bubble never pops. It's like seeing someones face all squished up against some used plastic wrap. We can have a good time, but I sure as hell ain't kissing those lips.
Now, I don't mean to say that what I'm experiencing is extraordinary, or even that unusual in the scope of human existence. Many people have lived in greater isolation than I, and have even thrived in those conditions. I just wonder how they dealt with it. I've worked hard the past few years, and have made some friends that should last for a lifetime. I can't connect with them right now though. As hard as I try, and as convenient as technology makes things, when I speak to people that I've shared my life with, it feels hollow and fake. Sometimes the feeling is so palpable that we'll cut the Skype conversation short, or communicate in terse, happy sounding emails that don't actually say anything. I'm only complaining a little bit, really I'm just trying to comment on this phenomenon. Under no circumstances would I admit a weakness of character, and cry to an anonymous world about my own petty problems. Certainly not.
What is it about certain people that they absolutely MUST seek out adventure? I know that for myself, it's not an option. I don't sit around thinking "well, should I climb that mountain, or should I find a job?" That question is easily answered, and I promise it doesn't end with an application and an interview. And it's a valid comparison too. Climbing a mountain takes a lot of individual effort, very little conversation, almost no physical contact with other humans (if you're even climbing with others,) and a very personal sense of reward. Working a job establishes one's place in society, exposes him to other people, and requires stability of place and personality. Is the difference part of an established societal description? Is it as easy as comparing introverts to extroverts? Or "turned on" people and mindless sheep? Or slackers and hustlers? Somehow I don't think so.
Whatever the differences are, it is true what they say: no man's an island. I can't confirm this, but I'll bet that even the most hardy of mountain men, the most intrepid of explorers, and daring adventurers all feel loneliness. The desire for human contact is intense, and is a part of anyone who's ever had a mother, who wants to mate, or needs some help with something. As for me, it all applies. I miss my mother, I'm going crazy without a mate, and I could really use some help from time to time.
I love my mountain solitude, and aside from the growing loneliness, I'm happier than I've ever been. The natural beauty, the peace, the opportunities, and a certain something mystical all call to me, and I've answered. Now, if I can just learn what I need to learn, and share it with everybody else...
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