music: Geoff Scott’s Public House- 4/5/05
I thought better of attempting an explanation of the goings on of the past week and a half in Utah. Suffice it to say that I spent 10 or so days sleeping in a tent, not showering, eating simple pasty food, enduring hot days and cold nights, walking around the desert with substantial weight strapped to my back, and loving it. We tackled some major territory out there: Zion, Bryce, Glen Canyon, Natural Bridges, Canyonlands, and even a couple hours at Arches. We crashed in some out-of-the-way BLM management areas that looked like pictures from the Mars Rover. We were up late and out early. We cruised through Lake Powell on a speedboat, and yes, set our feet in the virgin sand of the Cathedral in the Desert. We left more undone and unseen than we did and saw; always a reason to return.
Some conclusions about the south of Utah after spending 10 days there:
1. Canyon country is a dynamic place. You can travel for 20 minutes and move from arid desert to alpine forest and back. But its beauty lies not in going up, but going in. Squeezing into those impossibly small crevices of rock and dirt. Save the mountaintop views for the Sierras, the Cascades, and the Rockies. Canyon country is all about getting down and in. And in between the La Sal mountains and the edge of the Great Basin there are uncountable places of beauty and wonder, most being more or less uncharted and hardly explored. I’ve now been to the National Parks; should I go back I would spend most of my time exploring the unadvertised corners of the Escalante Grand Staircase.
2. My reasons for travel are changing. Before this travel was more about discovery of the self. I used the second half of a blank journal this trip; the first half was of my compulsive, erratic spring break travels in New England six years ago. The person who hopped buses all over the Northeast and slept in fields and pastures in April of 1999 was engaged in many questions of identity. The identity of the person who just returned from Utah is much more solidified. It was surprising to see the contrast in myself in the six years; I can clearly remember being that person and still in many ways believe myself to be similar to that but the contents of my head this trip indicated that I’ve grown older. I’ve settled down a bit, I’ve concerned myself more with the experiential and not the symbolic. I sought no great lessons, although some arguably came my way.
3. I’ve had it with Boston. I’ve got to find a way to get myself on the other side of the Great Divide more permanently. Being out there was itself relaxing; when the plane touched down in Boston on Sunday night I felt my muscles tighten and blood pressure go up. I’ve been out on the East Coast for almost 9 years now and I think it has run its course. I’ve promised myself at least one more year at my job here but as soon as the summer of 2006 I see myself driving into the sunset and settling in a smaller town somewhere on the other side of the Rockies.
4. Crocs are the most positive basecamp shoes I’ve ever worn. Thanks to Sarah for the tip-off on these.
As for the trip itself, words won’t do it. They never do, but this time I’m not going to bother trying. Volker’s and my pictures are here. Tmo has a handful of pictures here. I’ve spent some time gazing upon them when I should have been whipping through paperwork or working through my post-trip clean up.
The sleep debt incurred over the past two weeks is catching up to me in a painfully big way. It’s misty and damp in Boston tonight. Hopefully I’ll dream of canyons and desert.
music: Wilco- A Ghost Is Born
A surprisingly rewarding week at work is still nothing but a bunch of time in between me and my spring break in Utah. Tonight I’m furiously grading papers in this Babylon system; in two days I’ll be walking in Zion. And Bryce. and Canyonlands. And some others. Ever since I left the south of Utah last summer it’s been quietly but persistently calling me back, dangling some of the most magnificent natural treasures on the globe just out of my field of view. Too much of this urban thing since I came back; I’m itching for some time down in a desert canyon.
Joining me will be tmo, the 1ey,, and the great state of Montana. Aptly, the 1ey points out, we four resemble the eccentric quartet depicted in Abbey’s Monkey Wrench Gang. I’m not sure who’s who just yet, but I have feeling that by process of elimination I’m the doctor.
Anyway, it’s far too late to be up considering the day I have in store, but all the exams the kids finished today are graded. I haven’t started packing yet, but I know exactly what needs to go in the ol’ Osprey. it should only take about 20 minutes for me to gather everything. It’ll happen tomorrow afternoon. Hopefully I won’t be so twisted with excitement that I forget something important. Whatever. As long as I have a nalgene and a headlamp I’ll be fine.
Pictures and stories are certainly forthcoming. Hasta.
music: Bob Dylan- Bringing It All Back Home
Now that the trip to Utah is less than a week away, I can safely start to let myself get excited about it. The south of Utah is one of the most incredible places I’ve ever been, possibly one of the most incredible places on earth. The drainage of several of the major rivers of the West have created some mind-boggling rock formations and hundreds — perhaps thousands — of canyons. The Grand Canyon is a prime example. It is of course the largest and most famous of the canyons of the Southwest. Its hype is well-deserved; the Grand Canyon is indeed a staggering thing to take in, and I’m sure the millions of people who drive up to the edge and snap a quick photo will agree.
But some of the lesser-known parts of canyon country hold the most wonder. The tributary to the Grand Canyon occupied by the Havasupai Natives, for example, is a bona fide desert oasis, complete with hanging gardens and the most spectacular waterfall I’ve ever had the fortune to see. And while the natural wonders of places like Zion, Bryce Canyon, and Arches are well known and recognized, I can’t help but wonder what some of the lesser known corners of canyon country might hold. My friend Molly, who visited the south of Utah this past winter, gave the sage advice to spend more of our time in Canyonlands. The lesser-known (and much bigger) national park is home to a handful of smaller canyons carved out around the confluence of the Green and Colorado rivers, and is often passed by in favor of those parks whose paved roads lead directly up to their main attractions. Canyonlands NP, however, is still a highly-trafficked area. The undiscovered magic of canyon country, I’d wager, lies outside the bounds of the National Park system.
Unfortunately, one of the most spectacular canyons of the American Southwest is under water. What we now know as Lake Powell was once the Glen Canyon, a stretch of river-carved rock that was apparently one of the most beautiful places on earth. The story of the demise of Glen Canyon went something like this: the government, in an attempt to meet the water demands of the American southwest in the 1950’s and 1960’s, decided to dam rivers, which would flood certain canyons and turn them into reservoir “lakes.” They were considering flooding the Grand Canyon, but environmentalists convinced them otherwise. One of their suggested flooding sites, the Glen Canyon, was not as well-known largely because it was not heavily explored (aside from John Wesley Powell, namesake of lake Powell and allegedly the first white man to float the Colorado through the Grand Canyon). After the legislation was passed, David Brower, the leader of the Sierra Club took a trip to Glen Canyon, immediately realized what a horrible mistake he had made, and spent the rest of his life trying to restore the Glen Canyon. What was so inspiring to him and the handful of others who had the fortune to visit (including Edward Abbey) was submerged under the backflow of the mighty Colorado river. Lake Powell and its immediate tributaries is now supervised by the ironically named Glen Canyon National Recreation Area.
In planning our trip to Utah we thought only of the National Parks: Zion, Bryce, Canyonlands, Arches. Until, that is, AJM forwarded along a little piece of news: because of the drought and demand for water, Lake Powell’s water levels have dropped off significantly, revealing some of the all-but-forgotten features of the original Glen Canyon. One of these features is the Cathedral in the Desert, a natural sandstone ampitheater with sandstone walls, hanging gardens, and a waterfall of its own that is supposed to rival any natural wonder of the world in terms of scale and beauty. It has been under water for over 40 years, but this spring it has resurfaced. The catch is that when runoff from the Rocky Mountains makes its way into canyon country, Lake Powell will rise again and the Cathedral (along with hundreds of other canyons) will be resubmerged for an indefinite amount of time. They are saying this will happen by the beginning of June.
It appears, then, that we’ve planned a trip to the south of Utah in the short time window that these uncovered remnants of the mythic Glen Canyon will be available to explore. While it’s uncertain whether or not we will be able to reach the Cathedral itself on foot, there will be other recently exposed nooks and crannies in canyon country to explore. And explore means just that; this is as close to unexplored terrain as we will ever come to. There are no maps here. Rather, on all the maps you can buy (and I bought a map of the Rec Area today) it just shows water. But no more, at least not for the next couple of weeks.
In a paper I wrote last year, I made the argument that humans can no longer truly experience the wilderness because the frontier is no more. Everything has been discovered and mapped out. How many places have we gone in our lives that have not been quantified by cartographers? Even in our “wilderness” travels, how many times have we forsaken maps and walked from the path into unknown land? For a few short weeks it will actually be possible to walk off the edge of the map in a corner of Southwest Utah, and it appears that 1ey, tmo, and I will have a chance to do just that.
music: Tea Leaf Green- 3/11/2005, Petaluma, CA
It was the first legitimately nice no-jacket day of the year today and people seemed to be in good spirits all around the city. I decided to conduct a mini-experiment as I was walking from the 1-2 to Davis: make eye contact with everyone that I walk past and smile. I passed 27 people. 11 didn’t look at me at all. The other 16 averted eye contact as soon as our eyes met. No discernable smiles, although some close call tight-lipped grimaces. There was, however, one biker who I made eye contact with, and he actually crossed the street and pulled over to say hi. It was Peet.
0 for 27. Must be because I don’t have a beard anymore. Although I’m tempted, I’ll withhold making conclusions from the gathered data because it’s just too discouraging. Perhaps more randomized trials will have to be implemented.
—
In better news, my travel guitar arrived today. I’ll give it a field test in Utah before bringing it along to parts unknown this summer. It’s good to know that I’ll have a guitar to pick while sitting around campfires deep in the outback…
music: Portishead- PNYC
I woke up this morning, stumbled into the bathroom, and shaved off my beard. It had been growing since I rolled out of Milwaukee last June. To add to the effect (and because I fumbled the clippers a little too much), I went out and got my hair cut short. I’ve lost four or five years of street cred. My face is raw. I don’t quite look like myself. This will take some getting used to.
music: Phish, 4/4/1998, Providence, RI
(The clock is now working against me. I downed two jade liquid-filled capsules about 3 minutes ago which means I have about 27 more minutes until I’m involuntarily horizontal and drooling all over myself. I’m looking forward to the cold medicine stupor.)
We attribute significance to the dates of the Gregorian calendar, numbers which are assigned loosely to the turning of the heavens. We could be much more in alignment with the spinning of the Earth of the phases of the moon, but the dates we have are close enough for ritual. I find that I rely heavily on the meaning I attribute to certain dates, perhaps moreso than most. We all signify certain events with dates: July 4th, September 11th, the last Thursday in November, and so on. This weekend is a big one for me: the first weekend in April is when we Spring Ahead.
The extra (extra?? more like a repaid debt of 60 minutes from late October of the previous year) hour of daylight has always signified a turning point in my life. For one, it means that spring is hear in earnest, that snow is pretty much done, and that we can all start to come out of our burrows, shake the darkness from our underused muscles, and warm our faces in actual sunlight. It means that I am entering the homestretch of the academic year. It somehow makes the universe much more possible to navigate. Spring Ahead, for me, is a marker that I’ve made it through another cold winter, and that better days are around the corner.
I’ve had an especially difficult and dark eight months. They say that it’s like that your first year of teaching, and I’m banking on it getting easier. It had better get easier, damnit. I’ve been in a steady habit of letting out and then dropping my sails over the past eight or so months as to not capsize in Missa Toss’s maelstrom. And as a result, almost all of my personal voyages have been nipped in the bud, boats left in their harbors to float in the eddies of my mind. Every time I talk with my mother she asks what is new with me, and every time I falter, unable to think of anything that is new with me, and I say ‘nothing,’ and I’m telling the truth. I’ve spent more than a good amount of time by myself. I’ve found myself staring into absolutely nothing and allowing my mind to run wild, splashing disjoint images and memories up against its insides. By all measures my mental health has slipped significantly in the past eight months. Still, the music playing in the background (Phish over the first weekend of April, 1998: an island of sanity in a far worse maelstrom) reminds me that seven years ago the condition of my mind was far, far worse.
April of 1998 is a story for another time. So, now, to this evening.
(I’ve exceeded my allotted cold-medicine time limit and my head is growing lighter and lighter as the viral C-clamps at my temples release a bit. Waking is currently a slippery business, but perhaps it should be so.)
Perhaps I need a good stumble down the rabbit-hole, a dip into the Dreaming, and ultimately a re-emergence on the other side of things when the daylight lasts an hour longer in the evenings. Despite the grey and the incessant rain, my head being full of mucus and snot, and this weekend being a complete waste of my time, I feel positive motion on the horizon. Tomorrow I’ll wake up, stumble around a bit in cold-medicine aftermath, and when my hands are steady enough I’ll shave my beard off. Then this coming week: the beginning of Spring League Ultimate, the addition of a keyboardist to the band, and a potential visit from my two college roommates.. Then hiking in Utah, only two weeks away. And the biggest dangling carrot: Australia/Hawaii this summer. Now close enough to start making solid plans, outfitting myself, and getting very, very excited about it.
Franklin intended to save daylight in his crazy scheme of putting an hour’s time on loan between October and April, but the result in my reality is much more momentous, much more saturated with symbolic meaning. What I attribute to the first week of April is not unlike what major religions attribute to their Spring holidays: a rebirth, a new sprig of hope. No, I am not actually saving daylight in this displacement of Gregorian time. Instead, I think the daylight is saving me.