Stories from the Road

SFTR: New Orleans in Nutshells

2012-01-27T18:51:00.003-06:00

I have learned many things from my recent experiences in New Orleans. Here is a select list of these important findings.

--If the song "Silent Lucidity" plays in a restaurant before the meal is served, it will probably be a top 5 meal of the year.

--A homeless man does, sadly, feel shame in leaving a urine stain on the sidewalk.

--Bad saxophone players cannot ruin good beignets.

--The last place I want to be on a hot summer day is in a New Orleans streetcar.

--There are good tapas in America.

--Giving an oral presentation after less than one hour of sleep is extremely hazardous to your health.

--Chad's Lemma #2043: Do not eat hash browns after 1 am local time.

--There is a reason bone marrow has been identified as Anthony Bourdain's death row meal.

--There is an important difference between ham and jamon. It is best to learn this distinction early in life.

--The phrase "who dat?" should not be used publicly in jest.

--Providing me free things is a precursor to public embarrassment.

--When attending the Avenue Pub, it is best to bring long sleeves and a history of sleep.

--As much as Brian Eno's music wants to put me to sleep, it has a history of exceptional failure.

--Fountains can and sometimes do produce fire.

--When a person named Angela tells you the next streetcar stop is yours, add two more stops.

--There is no such thing as a free lunch.

--The term "huge ass beers" is a misnomer.

--I really, really like gumbo.

--Amateur photographers need only stroll in the French Quarter to realize they are really no good.

--For instant entertainment, take your mother to Bourbon Street.

--Duck is quack, not whack.

SFTR: The Maple Leaf Adventure

2012-01-04T18:17:00.003-06:00

I used to write these blog posts daily, or almost that often. I just do not have that kind of time anymore, and I have no expectation for this to change in the foreseeable future. However, I was touched that a couple of you have written me to encourage me to continue writing occasionally about my travels. One day, I hope to publish something about my travels, perhaps with a focus on my photos, but I cannot see when that will happen. As such, I resort to the ubiquitous blog approach. I'm an everyman, I guess.

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This past summer, I spent a wonderful week in southwest Canada. My mother joined me on a 5000+-mile road trip to Vancouver and the Canadian Rockies with the start and end point of Lincoln, NE. When asked, I describe the trip as the vacation of a lifetime. Cliche, I know, but it certainly was the most wonderful week of traveling I have ever experienced. As much as I look forward to flights to Europe and Asia in the near future, there will always be something about the road trip that remains closest to my wandering soul. Here are a couple of short vignettes regarding the trip...

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Short Story 1: Vancouver, BC

Getting to Vancouver required 27 hours of driving between Mother and me. We had a stopover in Ogden, UT (beautiful), before driving to one of my favorite routes in the US: Interstate 84 (western US). There is something special about the vast landscapes of northeast Utah and southern Idaho, the dry hills of eastern Oregon, and the steppes of northern Oregon that thrill me like no other freeway in the country. We reached the Washington Cascades by dusk, and had a painless transition to Canada.

We arrived in Vancouver around 11 pm local time. We stayed in a small hotel in the downtown area that was once an apartment complex. The floor was "close to burgundy", according to Mom, and the rooms smelled of very old cigarette smoke. As pleasant as this sounds, I loved the hotel. It seemed strangely authentic. The hotel was what I expect hotels in major cities to be like. My experiences in New York City, Toronto, and Montreal have been very similar. Cosmetically, the hotel is a zero, but figuratively, they are strangely appealing -- even quirky.

As Mom and I escaped the lung cancer early the next day, the beauty of Vancouver emerged. There are some cities that deserve a nighttime arrival. Las Vegas comes immediately to mind. The blinding light that spans the horizon driving over the mountains to the south is one of my most memorable traveling experiences. Vancouver does not deserve this approach, however. The key to Vancouver's beauty is its symbiotic relationship with nature. The towering mountains to the north, the deep blues of the water, and the high-albedo glass of the man-made towers all gel in such a magical way. Vancouver at night is beautiful, but Vancouver in daylight is sublime.

We first walked to Stanley Park, and during the trek, we gradually realized just how stunning of a place this was. We emerged from the glass towers to a beautiful and big city park that provides endless views of the skyline. Really, this is the best way to appreciate the city. It's big, it's beautiful, and it knows it.

After a six-mile walk around Stanley Park, Mom took a short nap, leaving me to experience downtown on my own. After stopping for an obligatory Asian meal, I walked to Canada Place. It turns out that Vancouver thrives when the sky behaves. The views of the city in the hours just before sunset are some of my most treasured. There is something electric about the photos I took here. The beautiful blue sky, the stunning glass towers, the alpenglow, and the complementary water all seemed vibrant and alive. It's a walk that I remember fondly and fiercely today.

I've talked about these moments before. Transcendental experiences, which are virtually always unplanned, that only observing can provide. The fact that I was alone at the time made it all the more mystical. It was as if I was the sole arbiter of this confluence of events -- that I was somehow manufacturing this scene. I'll never forget it.

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Short Story 2: Lake Louise at Dusk

A trip to Banff National Park requires a stop at Lake Louise. It is the quintessential tourist trap, but the natural beauty of the scene overwhelms the man-made nonsense. It is absolutely one of the most beautiful places in the world, and I remember thinking as I watched the mystical clouds left over from a passing shower that I may never see something as beautiful again.

At the time, the magic of the scene overpowered the obviously depressing conclusion I had just made. If I were to never see anything so beautiful again, would my travels from here on forever be "almost as good" or "second tier"? I walked in the streets of Banff that night, asking myself, "What do I do from here?" Will I ever see anything as satisfying again? Not a question I wanted to be asking myself at age 29.

Then again, I had briefly forgotten what travel is about. The best moments, the most cherished memories, are the spontaneous ones. I would hardly call Lake Superior the most beautiful place in the world, but a drive at sunrise to the tune of "The Fortress of Solitude" will be one of the greatest vacation moments I will have. It's not always about scenery, in other words.

The following day, Mom and I returned to Lake Louise to hike the Plain of the Six Glaciers trail. We reached the top of the trail after a glorious two-hour hike through the beautiful snow-covered spires outlining the lake. And at the top features a beautiful log cabin offering tea and assorted snacks. The meal with the pitter-patter of raindrops hitting the logs already exceeded the lake scene the previous day.

I know people who exclusively travel in a small area surrounding their home. I know people who won't travel outside of the US, even though they have the financial capability to do so. Here I am, in this treasured moment, rain falling in the fog-laden mountains. Nowhere else in the world I would rather be. A neighboring table features a family of four from Japan. The other side of us, two lifelong friends hiking all over the world share some hummus. Below us, a group of sixteen kids is treated to a hearty lunch and hot cocoa from their proud adult leaders. Nowhere else in the world could I have had this experience.

Lake Louise is beautiful, but the memories only begin with the photographs. What I vividly remember are the moments, like this one. All at once, everyone sighs. A glacier clinging to the mountain has calved, and a thunderous cascade of melting ice flows down the cliff. The pitter-patter of rain was our universal applause.

Christmas Letter 2011

2011-12-21T22:09:00.003-06:00

Greetings:

The year 2011 is about to close, so it is again time for the Christmas letter.

The year began with me starting a new job as an assistant professor at the University of South Alabama. Strangely, the year ended with me still in the position.

The job has been fun but also quite a challenge. I enjoy teaching immensely, but a first-year professor has very little quiet time. I had to prepare two classes in two weeks, and then try to keep up the rest of the semester. With two conferences during the semester, I was drowning by February and was saying "glub, glub, glub" by May. The unspoken truth about being a professor is that your life disappears in work, and you spend the rest of your life trying to reappear. After one year, it is not clear whether I will reappear. But I'm having a lot of fun trying.

I teach physical meteorology, radar meteorology, and severe weather. Exactly none of the classes have gone smoothly, and I still have much to learn about teaching efficiently and effectively. However, the students make it worth it, though they have this uncanny youth to their appearances that I can only comprehend in my quickly fading memory.

I have lived in Alabama before, but Mobile is a whole different beast than Huntsville, except for the color red. I know that genetics has a sense of humor, because I cannot see the color. Makes sense, given my political leaning. But as politically red as this state is, it's more of a "Roll Tide" hue. I've been asked ad nauseum if I'm a Tide or Tiger fan. When my response starts with "boomer", I get the nearly universal response of "who?". Well, after this football season, I guess that makes sense.

I like Mobile. A lot. The food scene is great. Aside from a scary-bad menudo incident at my favorite Mexican restaurant in town recently, I've rediscovered my love of pho and absolute obsession with duck and all things foie gras. Nevertheless, they seem to talk about the seafood here most. To end the year, I will be partaking in a seafood buffet in Biloxi, MS. Thirty dollars, and thirty new pounds. What are New Year's resolutions for, anyway?

It has been a very hard year for me personally. Besides moving to an entirely new place and starting from scratch, my closest college friend died suddenly in October from a pulmonary embolism. Derrick was an inspiration in many ways, but I remember most fondly his storytelling ability. If something that happened to him wasn't interesting enough, he would just make a new one up. He ended up with the nickname "Big Fish", from the movie of the same name. His death was devastating, and it has taken a long time for me to get over it. I suspect I never will.

I have traveled quite a bit this year. For spring break, I spent the weekend in the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and had my first bread and breakfast experience. It was wonderful, and the snowy hikes were amazing. My second time there, and it will not be my last.

In May, I returned to Norman for my last graduation. I then went with my friend Somer to Arizona to visit Petrified Forest National Park, Wupatki National Monument, Sunset Crater Volcano National Monument, Grand Canyon National Park, Meteor Crater, Walnut Canyon National Monument, and beautiful Sedona. All were firsts for me -- not sure if any were firsts for Somer. She seemed to enjoy herself, though, which is amazing given she was in a car with me for four days.

In June, while attending a conference, my friend Charlotte and I visited my sister in Denver and friends in Boulder. We also hiked ... a lot, and much of it was in snow. The first hike was to the Chicago Lakes, and I nearly died from altitude sickness on the way back. Maybe it was that very steep snow-covered hill to the Upper Chicago Lake that my compadre wisely avoided. Our next hike was the ill-fated Lake Isabelle or Isntbelle. We're not sure, since we hit an avalanche-prone area just short of the finish line. Charlotte was in shorts with feet of snow on the ground, yet I looked much more out of place. My life story, really. We also visited Mount Evans on the clearest day I've ever seen up there. There were bighorn sheep and mountain goats, which Charlotte promised and I dismissed as not going to happen. My life story, really.

In July, I took the vacation of a lifetime to Vancouver and the Canadian Rockies with Mom in tow. It was a 27-hour drive to Vancouver, but our effort paid off. Vancouver is one of the most beautiful cities in North America (behind perhaps only Ottawa). Our visits to Stanley Park, Granville Island, and Gastown were particularly memorable, but taking a walk near Canada Place at sunset was probably my favorite city experience ever.

We then trudged along to Banff and Jasper National Parks. We stayed at a quaint bed and breakfast in Banff for two days and a rustic hotel in Jasper for the next two. During the day, we basically hiked. A lot. We went to Sulphur Mountain, Moraine Lake (the most beautiful lake I have ever seen), Lake Louise (a close second; pictured), the Plain of Six Glaciers (tremendous hike), Bow Lake (another stunner), Peyto Lake (life imitating a postcard), Athabasca Glacier (first time I touched a glacier), Athabasca Falls, Maligne Canyon, Medicine Lake, Maligne Lake, Path to the Glacier (including Angel Glacier, Cavell Glacier, and Cavell Pond -- all of which were jaw-dropping), and Parker Ridge overlooking the fitting finale of Saskatchewan Glacier. As I said, this was my absolute favorite vacation. This is a must for any outdoors fan.

Over Labor Day, I visited Washington, DC. I had a great time reminiscing my MDL internship days with Valery. I saw Donna and fiance for the first time in a while. I had a great day on the National Mall. Great trip.

In the next year, I plan to go to New Orleans at least three times; Charleston, SC; another Colorado bonanza; Alaska (including Denali and Kenai Fjords); and a Northeast trip (including Montreal and vicinity). More stories and photos to come.

Here's hoping your 2011 was great, and your 2012 will be even better.

Wheel of Rants

2011-12-12T01:09:00.003-06:00

Home from a lovely but work-filled weekend, I wish to rant on a few things that I've come across recently...

A friend recently mentioned how much he hates it when people put copyright information on their photographs (specifically, so that it completely distracts from the image). I couldn't agree more. I've always thought the copyrighting of photographs to be a sign of hubris, but that's not what bothers me about the incorporation of the copyright tag on photos. To me, every single pixel of the image is a necessity. Why in the world would any serious, or even semi-serious, photographer want to inject something so inharmonious into the image? I've always had the same problem with artists signing their work. This completely demystifies the art. Leave the creation alone. There are other ways of signing the image.

If people are so worried about others infringing upon their copyrighted imagery, there are a substantial number of alternatives that prevents self-vandalizing of the photographs. First, you could only provide the image to the public at a cost. That is, make people pay for the right to look at and/or have your photographs. Second, place a copyright note on the webpage in which it is provided. No need to do this on every single image you present -- yet it still covers all of the images you provide. Third, prevent people from copying/pasting your imagery elsewhere. This is done on several reputable sites, and is certainly a nice way of enforcing your copyright in a more active manner. The list goes on.

But what you've done, in my mine, is destroy your own art -- your own creation. Basically just to say that you made the art. Hubris self-vandalism.

My thoughts on photography -- share it. I keep the photos for memories, and share the ones in which I don't mind sharing the memories. If someone wants to claim it as their own -- strange, yes. But I'd probably consider it a compliment.

By the way, there is no better way to improve a mood than by going to a photo website (like flickr) and going through a slideshow of something that makes you happy. I usually choose "glacier", "mountains", "Canada", "Norway", "fjord", or "alpine". You may have your own list.

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I understood the divisive nature of Tim Tebow when he was in college. Every single damn announcer mentioned him, even in situations in which his inclusion in the conversation made sense to nobody. The negative attitude toward him was one of overuse.

Now? I don't get it. Although several players/coaches have expressed doubts, whose opinions I value much more than a typical layman, the vitriol with which the general public and several (unqualified) television announcers have shown when panning Tebow's efforts is sickening. Who the hell cares, anyway? Or, maybe I should be asking, why do you care so damn much? He's playing football, not curing cancer. Tebow may be a particularly stirring example of a religious athlete, but he is far from the only one -- and not even the most zealous. And his leading of a team that has made a string of victories against almost uniformly underwhelming teams is hardly a miracle. But it does prove that he can lead a team, and win in the big leagues. We should be happy for him, not metaphorically throw him under a bus in a jealous rage.

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You know, I love Alec Baldwin as a performer. And who knows what happened on that plane, but if the stories of his behavior on the plane are true, I certainly would have clapped when he was escorted off, after yelling for a half hour that he was probably making me miss my layover.

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I have recently become a fan of trip hop, but in this discovery, I've learned just what a fine line I draw between good music and absolute garbage. There is a strong association with the inclusion of the harpsichord, particularly if joined by a solo violin. I've also reaffirmed my general hatred of songs with lyrics, which explains in part my embracing of the trip hop genre.

I'm not sure why I hate so much music, really. There is an abundance of high-quality lyrics out there, but it's often complemented by the most unoriginal music. Then, there are those songs where the music is outrageously good, or at least fun, but the lyrics are a complete joke. It seems incredibly difficult, and incredibly rare, that both are better than embarrassing. I guess I'm too demanding.

I'm usually booed out of the conversation when I express my usual disdain toward a particular song or band, but I'm also often asked what makes for a great song or piece of music for me. I'm not really sure, but most of my favorite songs fall into a few categories:

1) Classic rock ballads with very few lyrics (e.g., "The Rain Song" by Led Zeppelin)
2) Piano sonatas, particularly Beethoven-era (Appassionata, e.g.)
3) Short trip hop pieces with a piano and a female voice (e.g., "Greenland" by Emancipator)
4) Post-1990 rock without the use of drums (or very little use of drums; e.g., "Just One Thing" by Finger Eleven)
5) Any soundtrack by Thomas Newman or Bear McCreary (American Beauty, Road to Perdition, Battlestar Galactica (2003), The Walking Dead)
6) Any song with inclusion of the gamelan or erhu

So if I don't like your song, just remember, my musical taste is eclectic and certainly mock-worthy.

The rise and fall of false heroes

2011-11-11T13:59:00.002-06:00

Everyone in the college football world has an opinion, many very strong opinions, regarding the fallout from the Penn State scandal. As some are aware, I have very strong opinions on the matter. However, it is fair to say that my opinion should only be regarded as my own, as one who has never attended Penn State, who has no ties to any of those involved, and little knowledge of the actual goings-on that led to this week's events.

However, I am compelled to write my own thoughts because I think this issue speaks to a lot of others that need some intense scrutiny, despite the obvious ones at Penn State.

For example, it bothers me to the nth degree that everyone thinks they know what Joe Paterno did or did not know. At best, we've heard vague descriptions of the conversations he had and of the various (sometimes very specific) policies in place regarding the alleged child rapist Joe Sandusky. Therefore, it is not fair and illogical to claim that he didn't know anything. However, the extent of his knowledge remains a fair (and legal) question that necessitates investigation. Paterno is no longer obligated to stay quiet, under the purview of Penn State. He is no longer employed by Penn State. He may, however, be obligated to stay quiet owing to legal concerns. Otherwise, he should have no qualms about stepping forward and disclosing his knowledge of the situation from beginning to end. At the very least, he owes his fans and Penn State alumni an explanation, and perhaps more importantly, the alleged victims and their families.

On the other hand, those using the "what about Sandusky?" argument to claim that Paterno has been victimized by the public, I think, are instead, to some degree, motivated to clear Paterno's name prematurely. Sandusky is an alleged child rapist. Of course he is the biggest villain here (again, alleged); to think otherwise is simply absurd. Note that he is charged with a crime, whereas Paterno is not. Legally, Sandusky is in a much graver situation than Paterno, as he absolutely should be. This argument reeks of being a diversion, or a distraction of some sort. As Sandusky is not (and was not the time the scandal broke) a coach for Penn State, the focus on him in the world of college football is simple: he's a (potential) child predator. Arrest him, and move on.

As one who watched the events at Penn State unfold over the news this week, what I saw was a chess match between Paterno and Penn State officials. That dance simply exacerbated the scandal (which was already going to be the worst in college football history), and made it a crisis of chaos. In what could end up being the perfect metaphor, no one had the guts to do the right thing -- and remove everyone involved from Penn State's coaching staff (and superiors) immediately. Paterno preemptively struck by announcing his retirement, but the situation was already out of control. This was not an issue that was going away, and his continued employment would only bring more attention to it. Paterno should have and could have taken the high road, and immediately have resigned. Instead, the ugly events of Wednesday unfolded.

This brings me to another point. There was no other option but for Paterno to step down or be fired immediately. His guilt of anything is not of principal concern in this situation. College football (and universities, in general) is (are) a business, and business decisions can be made without the justice system making decisions. Therefore, there is a right and wrong decision to have been made here. As college football consists of recruiting students, and the notion of coaches either enabling the rape of or actually raping young children on premises, the only business decision to be made is to remove everyone involved. The fact that a grand jury has already reached decisions on this matter with some of the people involved is more than enough reasoning to make the right and only decision of firing the coaches and superiors involved.

The riots after Paterno's firing are another ugly stain on this scandal. Maybe riots is hyperbole; I actually think it is. But there is no question that many, many students (and others) protested, and some violently, Paterno's firing. This is completely unacceptable, and frankly, appalling. It speaks of religious zealotry -- how football is so important to so many people that they overlook the more important matter of child rape. As expected, families of the alleged victims are reported as being "offended" by the riots -- probably a euphemism. People have right to their opinions, of course, but the public has every right to respond with our own. The insulting response of these students (and others) shows a naivete, an ignorance, that fundamentally reeks of (some) sports fans' priorities that are astoundingly jaded.

Should Paterno be demonized? I don't know. As I said, my knowledge of his actual knowledge is limited, at best. However, there is little doubt he knew "something", and that alone leaves me incredibly uncomfortable. Should his legacy be tarnished? Yes. To what extent, I do not know. But this is an issue of child rape, and however much he knew, he did not do enough. Some have provided the "you don't know what you would have done" excuse. That bothers me fundamentally. If there was even potential of someone molesting/raping children, or even "acting inappropriately" around them -- we should ALL be compelled to immediately notify the proper authorities. To do otherwise is unthinkable, to me. This is a topic in which zero tolerance absolutely applies. Some may relish Paterno's fall from false heroism. No one should. But it also does not mean he should remain on the pedestal.

Finally, I think it is high time we start putting sports in perspective. It always amuses me when Americans make fun of Latin Americans or Europeans for their rabid fandom (and sometimes violent fandom) of soccer. I'm no longer amused. Now, I'm simply saddened. We easily note the faults of others, but not ourselves. Perhaps our zealotry with all things football should be placed in a similar perspective. At the very least, perhaps our propensity for propping up false heroes should be examined. Because, inevitably, some of the mighty fall -- and fall mighty far.

A dedication to my friend

2011-10-08T01:40:00.002-05:00

I have never much liked the notion of "best friends". In fact, I tend to sneer at people who use the term. For better or worse, though, everyone has one. Whether he or she is a best friend of convenience, proximity, dependence, or pure genuineness, often that friend is all you have.

I lost my best friend at an early age. He died when I was 17. I suppose his death is one reason I cringe at the use of the term. Maybe, actually likely, I have never fully recovered from his death. It is something I think about often.

This week, I am sad to say, I have lost another one.

My friend Derrick was an unbelievably smart, very funny man. He was infectiously engaged in whatever he was doing, and he tended to avoid those who were not. He was a master of quips. I have never forgotten the story of how he met his fiancee. They met at a party in college, and she introduced herself:

"Hi. My name is Kitty."

His reply? "What, is that a euphemism?" She laughed, as that's just what you are inclined to do around him. Derrick liked people who could make fun of themselves, and so they naturally clicked. He was to marry her next year.

Derrick was no stranger to tragedy. His father died in a car crash when he was 15. He remembered his father fondly, often referring to him as "Pops" in stories, which always reminded me of the Albert Finney character in Big Fish. The memories were full of exaggeration and flavor, but I suspect that is exactly how he remembered them. One day, he uncharacteristically wept when remembering his father saving a run-over cat. Even then, he talked of his father leaping off their porch (like Superman) when he witnessed it. Let me tell you, there was a not a dry eye in sight as he told the story.

Derrick and I referred to each other as "phone friends". We rarely saw each other after college, but he is one of the few people where you could go a year without talking with him, and still start up the conversation exactly where you left off the last time. I marveled at this.

I have dealt with a lot of loss in the past couple of years, more than I imagine most who are reading this realize. This one has just been devastating for me. I have caught myself multiple times this week reminiscing one of his gloriously exaggerated stories. It begins with him being stuck in a business meeting, late for an anniversary date with Kitty. His meeting adjourns at 6:45, more than an hour after it was intended to last. He races down the stairs, because the elevator is broken. He dashes across the city street in the pouring rain, running...running...running to the restaurant where he's reserved a table for 6:30. He enters the restaurant soaked to the point of shoe-squealing. He searches the restaurant, desperately hoping to find her. Fortunately, she's there, and he takes the engagement ring out of his sopping pocket.

Kitty later told me he asked her at an Applebee's on a Sunday, with clear skies. But he happened to tell her the same story before he asked her, but it was about his Pops. Kitty knows the circumstances, but she remembers the story.

Derrick taught me that the most important thing in life is perception. "If you don't like a memory, tell it the way you want it. Soon, that becomes the memory."

As for you, Derrick, I won't have to change a thing.

SFTR: Yukon Ho!

2011-07-11T00:20:00.003-05:00

In two weeks, I will be in Canada.

Canada is the butt of many an American joke, but in many ways, Canadians have the last laugh. Two of the most beautiful cities in North America are in Canada: Ottawa and Montreal. I'm guessing that Vancouver will be among the top tier cities after I visit for the first time. The Canadian Rockies are simply glorious, the maritime regions are postcards in the making, and the people -- well, they're among the kindest I have ever encountered.

I'm beyond thrilled to be returning to Canada. One of my favorite vacations was my trip to Ottawa and Montreal back in 2006, even though it included a car crash (Dyer, IN). My opinion is that Ottawa is the most beautiful city I have ever visited (though that list is unfortunately short) -- Parliament Hill is a stunning sight, full of outstanding Neo-Gothic architecture. Montreal is just a thrillingly diverse city, and Toronto remains shockingly accessible despite its enormity. Niagara Falls was as advertised, and a trip across Ontario remains one of my favorite road trips of my life.

That trip marked my first time out of the country, and I haven't left the US since then. Before embarking on what I hope to be several trips to Europe and Oceania in the next decade, I wanted to visit this country once more to experience the "outdoors" side to the country. I have several hikes planned, and I intend to devour as much of the Granville Island food market as I can.

Vacations for me are glimpses at lives I will not have. Travelers learn this very quickly; there is so much out there to experience and to learn. The wonder of travel is that you get to live these experiences, if only for a little bit. The curse of travel is that you realize you will never be able to live all of it for a lifetime. Travel makes you acutely aware of the small sliver of experiences available in a lifetime. It is depressing, but it is absolutely invaluable to me. Without these experiences, I would not appreciate what I have as much, or dream of what I could have.

I'm an alpine lakes and snow-capped peaks guy. Banff is synonymous with paradise for me. Some head to the beaches; I head to the tundra. We all have our utopias. The tops of mountains seem to be mine. It'll be wondrous to visit some in a country not my own.

I am not a religious man, but I am a spiritual one. I've often described my hikes and travels as transcendental experiences -- I still remember my first visit to the Wild Basin in Rocky Mountain National Park as the longest stretch of my life of pure happiness. I've had such experiences elsewhere, including Carmel Bay in California, Washington Pass in the North Cascades, Lake Superior in Minnesota, Lake Champlain in Vermont, the Highline Trail in Glacier National Park, Wupatki National Monument in Arizona, and (recently) Upper Chicago Lake in Colorado. The one constant with these places is that I remember every small detail -- the sound of the crashing waves in Carmel, the reflection of sunrise in Superior, the stillness of the air at Upper Chicago Lake, the passing cars at Washington Pass, the floating clouds above Highline Trail -- for me, these images are the memories I cling to hardest. They are but glimpses of pure happiness. Nothing, and I mean nothing, makes me happier than these experiences.

I love my job, the science I study, the people I know -- but these experiences, notably solitary ones, are what make me happiest, and what I strive for more than anything else. I have no illusions about my professional aspirations; I have no wish to be remembered eternally. I only hope that, before I die, I can have more of these moments, in faraway places -- glimpses of lives I will not have, lands I will not inhabit, experiences I will never relive. My goal is to travel. Not lofty, without ambition. I only seek to see as much as I can, in what little time I am given.

Canada taught me this, and so I owe her a revisit.

Postcards from the Edge

2011-07-09T00:10:00.004-05:00

You know what's difficult about addiction? Everything.

I was going through a journal I wrote during college, after I was instructed to keep one as a means of coping with withdrawal. I've kept it after all these years, despite my predilection for hating diaries and hating even more that I succumbed to it. I no longer use or really need one, but learning of Betty Ford's death tonight, I was inclined to reminisce about a darker time in my life.

I was staring at the mirror. All I was hearing was the drip-drip-drip of the faucet and the whiny sound of the restroom fan. I wasn't sure how much time had passed. I was hypersensitive to sound. Each droplet falling from the faucet sounded like a bomb. A plane flying over my apartment sounded like an approaching tornado. And the fan continued to change pitch, now slightly lower.

Thirty minutes had passed before I came out of it. I wasn't even aware my roommate had returned home. I don't think he noticed, but I doubt he would mention it if he did. I'm not really sure why it happened, but it seemed I was stuck in time -- awake and comatose. The drip-drip-drip will haunt my dreams for days.

A couple of days ago, I was playing a video game. That's all I remember about that day. As I'm writing this, I can't remember really playing the video game at all. I've played that game so many times, that I'm not sure if I should. But soon it was over, and it was the next day.

I'm still not sure how I should be acting, but I go to class, talk to my roommate, hang out with friends, and keep a smile on my face. I've recently begun going to bars, and after the initial trepidation -- it almost seems like a new life. They check for my ID, and my involuntary reaction is to say, "Oh, I'm the designated driver." I'm not sure if there's such a thing as a "new normal", but if there is, this is what it is.

I don't say much at the bars. I generally listen to others, laugh at jokes, and watch the slowly draining steins. I still wonder why they drain so slowly, but the urge to drink has been replaced with something more fundamental. My urge is to be like them without having to do what they do to be like them.

I can't stand montages on TV. So pedantic, so melodramatic, so manipulative. But damned if I don't live these moments in super slow motion, with the same hypersensitivity as the mirror incident. Gulp-gulp-gulp, just like the drip-drip-drip. The clink of glasses, the ding of an ice cube hitting the bottom, the unmistakable sound of an opening beer bottle, the rising bubbles -- magic to the senses, even after everything. I still see and hear all of it as magic.

Mostly, I just observe. Gulp-gulp-gulp.

[Name omitted] keeps telling all of us that recovery is a lifelong process. I've always wondered if recovery is a misnomer. I see it as substitution. I had one life, and it wasn't working. So now I have another, and I don't know if, in the end, it will work. I'm pretty sure that staring at a mirror for thirty minutes without being cognizant of it is not "recovery". Then again, I haven't changed my new life yet, and I haven't gone back to my old one.

What is addiction? To an addict, everything. To a recovering addict, everything. Still. Always.

Betty Ford should be remembered for many reasons, but her courage above all else. An addict perceives everything through the very thing he/she is addicted to. Ford fought back, and helped others in the process. That is amazing.

Conversations with Strangers

2011-06-02T22:19:00.003-05:00

After a very troubling 48 hours, I've come back to the blog to cope. So tonight I will write about some bright spots in an otherwise rather terrible couple of days.

I've been spending most of my free time either running in place (gym) or surfing the Al Gore invention for trip ideas. Arizona really pulled a number on me. I absolutely loved the Great Smoky Mountains during spring break, and after my somewhat spontaneous, way-too-brief visit to Arizona a couple of weeks ago, I've been in travel bug mode ever since. After a euphoric week ogling photos from the phenomenal road trip, I've now entered the "post afterglow" stage of traveling. Strangely, it feels like the five stages of dying. Can denial manifest itself as web browsing? It would appear so.

Usually, I start with New Zealand. It has always been the country I've wanted to visit most. I thought the Lord of the Rings films were overrated, but the scenery was spectacular. It seems rather unfathomable that there are places on this planet so stunning, even though my own country is full of them. So I spent a couple of hours looking at photos of Fiordland National Park, Mitre Peak, Routeburn Track, Fox Glacier, Kepler Track, etc. Then I looked at plane tickets. Guess I'll have to move on (for now).

Then I move on to Switzerland. Ah, the Alps. So beautiful, so peaceful, so expensive.

Then Norway. Oh, Oslo, you don't have a lot of letters, but you require a lot of green.

Right now, it's Iceland. Had to watch a TV show shot in Iceland this evening. Some clips of the Ring Road. What a gorgeously desolate, strangely alluring country. I can't pronounce basically any natural attraction, but I'd photograph the hell out of them.

Iceland is pricey, but definitely the tamest of places I've seen so far.

Thing is, I'm going to Canada next month, and probably Mallorca this fall, and maybe Mexico in January. Shouldn't this satisfy me?

No, a traveler is never satisfied. "Don't tell me what a man knows. Don't tell me what a man says. Tell me where he has traveled." Hopefully, soon, I won't be afraid of these words.

---

It occurs to me that television is about to get very exciting. White Collar returns in a week, Burn Notice later this month, and No Reservations and Breaking Bad in July. After a spectacular second season of Justified and third season of Parks and Recreation, these shows have much to live up to. (Not to mention the glorious final episodes of Community in its very fine second season.) On the other hand, Supernatural had its worst season, and House has become a total disaster. The season finale of House was astonishingly bad -- unforgivable, actually. I'm not sure I'm sticking around for Season 8. Fortunately, Margo Martindale redeemed everything, and made Justified a contender for my favorite drama right now -- at least Mad Men level quality.

Television is constantly panned by people who don't have a clue. Right now, it is infinitely better than film. More reliable, more thought-provoking, more intelligent, more daring. Writers, directors, and actors at the top of their game, giving performances of their lives. All you have to do is click the remote, and do a little research. There's more out there than American Idol and Dancing with the Stars. What is popular is commonly not what is good...

---

The soundtrack to Solaris (2002) by Cliff Martinez is finally available on YouTube. A strange, ambient, quiet, beautiful set of pieces that make the movie far better than it deserves to be. I absolutely love this soundtrack, particularly "First Sleep", "Is That What Everybody Wants?", and "Will She Come Back?" A travesty that such an interesting work is overlooked in the movie music industry.

---

It was 101 on 1 June where I live. Why is this a positive thing? Well, my air conditioner works. Never mind. All negative.

---

Tomorrow is Friday, and I'm having ham, egg, cheese, and a croissant. That's good enough.

Graduation Day

2011-05-09T14:59:00.002-05:00

This week, I will attend my (hopefully) final graduation. Sadly, I'll be attending many more graduation ceremonies, just not mine. Actually, I'll probably find those more enjoyable, since I will have taught some of them prior to graduating. Nevertheless, my disdain for these ceremonies is well-known and deeply felt.

However, I am compelled to attend, primarily out of being voluntold to by my dear mother. Happy Mother's Day. So I will attend, and smile for the camera, and perhaps earn my third volume of Severe Convective Storms. This time, I am promised a hooding, which I guess is supposed to tantalize me into attending the ceremony. "You only get hooded once!" O....k, but doesn't that just mean I only get a Ph.D. once, which is not necessarily true anyway?

Graduation day, for me, has always been about the other people, not the one graduating. Commonly, this sort of thing would irritate me, but not in this case. Graduation is a process of community. Ultimately, it falls on the individual, but there is no way that individual can graduate without the love and support of his mentors, peers, and family. Graduation SHOULD be about the other people. It is an accomplishment for those who have helped almost as much as the graduate himself!

To this end, I wish to thank those who have helped me along the way. I'm pretty sure I would not have made it without my fellow graduate students. Who else would I get to complain to about the little things, or even the big things? Who else would I eat my second plate of Pad Thai, or third plate of fajitas at Chelino's, or fourth plate of everything at Himalayas? Who else would understand my rants on RKW theory, or on irresponsible storm chasing, or the latest bureaucratic nonsense at the Intergalactic Weather Center?

The administrative assistants deserve all the credit in the world. I'm not sure how often Celia or Nancy or Marcia or Judy or Becky saved my metaphorical behind, but I'm relatively certain the equivalent number of tropical cyclones in a year would require usage of some Greek letters no one has heard of. Anyone graduating anywhere should shake hands with the school staff and say thank you. You would not have made it without them, even if you didn't know it.

Having mentors as wonderful as mine is not just a rarity, but an absolute privilege. There is no question that the quality of my advisors was instrumental in me getting to where I am. Lance, Mike, Chuck -- thanks for everything. In particular, for still putting up with me.

And to my family -- especially my dear mother. This one's for you.

So I will attend graduation, smile for the cameras, receive...something, and go on my merry way. I'll do this for you, because you've earned it. All of you.

The End's Not Near

2011-05-05T20:40:00.002-05:00

This semester has just flown right by.

They all do, but as a first-semester professor, the tempo is more presto than allegro. I remember being nervous for my first lecture, and then being less nervous for my second lecture. Now, here I am, one semester down, and lectures just kind of roll off the tongue.

Needless to say, particularly from the students, it's been a bit of a rocky start. I'm learning by trial and a lot of error, but I'm getting the hang of some things. I know how to use the projector now. I know where the chalk is in one of my classrooms. I can and occasionally do remember to put notes and homework online. Still have a little trouble reading my board handwriting, but hey, at least my students can! No, no, they can't.

I can, however, say that I feel better about things than I did a couple of months ago. I could see students perking up a bit more by the end of the semester. Answers on homework and exams seemed more complete, and more earnest. This despite the ever-looming reminder that summer, and perhaps the real world, were waiting for many of them. That's a start, I guess.

As a student, I was a bit aloof to a professor's life. I knew there was lecture, and preparation for that lecture, and grading of homework, and maybe if there was time, the other thousand things that have to be done (primarily research). I remember feeling that the last thing I wanted to do was get in the professor's way. So I spent very little time taking advantage of office hours, or saying hello before or after class. I came in, sat down, opened a notebook, wrote down some notes, occasionally laughed annoyingly loud at a couple of jokes, and walked out.

I doubt this is universal, but as a professor, I sort of want the students to chat with me. Even if it's not school-related. Here all of these students come in to class and give you permission to riddle their ears with knowledge for 50 minutes without so much as a peep -- you start to wonder: "Who are these people? Why in the world are they listening to ME? What do these people do besides listening to me?" It turns out, they do many of the things I did while in college. Imagine that. But I can tell I was wrong as a student -- professors don't mind chatting with you. Many times, they enjoy the diversion. I sure do.

One student exclaimed during my first class that I looked so young. My response? "Think how it looks from my end." A 21-year-old telling a 28-year-old they look so young -- that's a new one.

Today was the first day that a student has shaken my hand. Hopefully not the last. That alone is enough incentive to give it another go. Maybe next time, I'll find the chalk before class starts.

24 Hours Later

2011-05-02T19:22:00.004-05:00

War is hell.

When I first heard the news last night, I wasn't happy. I wasn't sad. I wasn't really feeling anything.

Osama bin Laden was dead, and I didn't feel anything. It didn't seem right. I was listening to people outside of my apartment singing "God Bless America" in a complete daze. Everything seemed surreal (overused word, but nonetheless). I heard people say "Fuck Obama!" and "USA! USA!" in response. (Please note: Received two comments already: No, that is not a typo.) There are two American flags on balconies today that were not there yesterday.

No one really talked about it at work today. It was brought up, but more of a "I can't believe it" than a "We did it!" sort of way.

I still don't feel anything. Not one damn thing.

I knew somebody who died on September 11. I was a "good acquaintance", at best, but it is fair to say that the attacks that day affected me personally. Indeed, they led me to a very dark time in my life, but that's a story only a small number of people know and should know. I have recovered from that dark time, and I am a better man for it.

But I'm not feeling anything ... anything.

I listened to a few "Here's what I was doing when..." stories last night, with a maelstrom of tears and beer. What was meant to be a celebration quickly turned into a group of people drowning their sorrows in alcohol, the only elixir they could find. I know the temptation all too well.

People were shooting off fireworks, wrapped in flags, bouncing beach balls, and cheering wildly in the streets throughout the country last night. Many have used the sports metaphors. Others have compared our reaction to that of some of the Palestinians after 9/11. Me? Well, I see it as a parade after a war being over. The parade is full of pride, excitement, relief, and sorrow. And tomorrow, there will be leftover confetti on the streets, a couple of people in jail, and a rising sun. All of this has happened before, and all of this will happen again.

War is a human construct and an eternal reality. Conflict is in our nature. We are animals, savage beasts with brains capable of recognizing this fact. Sometimes we are capable of transcending this fact. Most of the time, we change the scoreboard.

Osama bin Laden is dead. One less evil person in the world. A stain on our collective history, yet one casualty of war. But this war has lived longer than we have, and will outlive all of us. We don't live in "interesting times" or at the cusp of some new, unforeseen future. We're metaphorical hamsters.

Some are preaching us to be joyless, some are claiming we are no better than the other side, some have found closure in whatever way they can find it.

I feel nothing. I'm too busy running on a treadmill.

Some Thoughts on 27 April 2011

2011-04-30T21:48:00.005-05:00

One of the most significant tornado outbreaks of the modern era occurred on Wednesday in much of the East, particularly in Mississippi, Alabama, Georgia, and Tennessee. The number of fatalities has exceeded 300, with still hundreds unaccounted for. Such a tragically high number of deaths has sobered the meteorology community, particularly given the relatively excellent forecast of the event by today's standards.

My thoughts on the outbreak, in general, have been proffered by others. However, at the very least, they deserve repeating, as the last thing the meteorology community and the public can afford is a slow dwindling of the memory and a repression of the tragedy. Complacency is unacceptable, given the appalling number of fatalities from Wednesday's event.

Although it is obviously premature to propose the reasons (and their relative importance) behind the number of fatalities, it is fairly likely the reasons were in the communication arena rather than the meteorological. Many, if not most, of the tornadoes had substantial lead-times, given each storm's ease with which it produced tornadoes. The Storm Prediction Center (SPC) had heightened awareness of the event, even out to five days in advance, and by the 0600 UTC Day-1 convective outlook, had issued a high risk. Particularly dangerous situation (PDS) tornado watches soon followed, and NWS warnings were inundated with "heightened" text. News media were covering the event very well. So what went wrong?

I offer a few thoughts...

1) It is clear to me that antecedent convection played a role in one almost undeniable way and one potential way. First, much of northern Alabama was without power after early morning convection from a severe mesoscale convective system (MCS). The MCS produced substantial wind damage and even a few tornadoes that morning in the Tennessee Valley, contributing to widespread power outages in much of rural northern Alabama. Thus, there was little if any means of communication with many of those affected by the subsequent tornadic supercells. It is very likely that these power outages contributed to the loss of life totals, particularly in northern Alabama. The second way, I suspect, is that many people have the "one-and-done" philosophy with severe convection. Once severe thunderstorms affected northern Alabama that morning, I suspect there was reduced interest in impending weather and heightened interest in recovery. This may stem from preconceived notions that multiple rounds of severe weather are very uncommon within a 24-h period. I am somewhat unclear on how this possibility was conveyed to the public at large, but it was reasonably well forecast by the SPC and NWS offices in the affected regions -- nevertheless, the frequency with which multiple rounds of high-impact weather affects the same location in a 24-h period is possibly low enough to contribute to reduced awareness, particularly when there is limited means of increasing that awareness thanks to the power outages.

Because power outages almost undoubtedly contributed to loss of life in this event, we must find a means of conveying the necessary information to the public without the luxury of electricity. This potentially excludes (outdoor) sirens, which likely depend on available power. (More on sirens in a later blog post.) Cell service is potentially helpful, but given the potential for cell service to be disrupted and the questionable availability of cell service in particularly rural portions of the region, this is only one potential option. Note that NOAA weather radios can (and should) be battery powered, but these are not immune to power outages either, as the Huntsville NWS has discovered. Clearly, this should be a primary focus in the communication arena to prevent a repeat of this event.

2) It is downright irresponsible to claim that it is impossible to survive an EF4/EF5 tornado, given the imagery of the tornadoes affecting Smithville, MS; Tuscaloosa, AL; and Birmingham, AL. Although there is some evidence that entire housing was essentially completely destroyed and displaced from foundations, even with reasonably strong grounding, making this claim can lead to the unwise decision simply to refuse to take cover in subsequent scenarios. The "intervention of destiny" syndrome is NOT what the public should be led to believe when tornadoes occur. Although being underground may have been the only way to survive in exceedingly rare circumstances of these tornadoes, the public should be encouraged to take cover in the best way they possibly can.

On a side note, it is my belief that the best way to survive a tornado is to get out of its path. In this manner, this means driving in a direction perpendicular to the track of the tornado well in advance of the tornado's approach. As a meteorologist, this is relatively simple knowledge to obtain. It certainly could have led to a better result than the notorious Andover overpass incident, for example, which subsequently led to loss of life in the 3 May 1999 tornado outbreak. However, I worry when some bring up this prospect when urban areas are in the path of tornadoes. I suspect that mass panic may result, with a large number of drivers erratically and irresponsibly taking risks to avoid the tornado, which they may not know how to do anyway. The last place people want to be is in a traffic jam as the tornado approaches. I caution people who propose this idea, at least until more research on this potential shift in philosophy is conducted and completed.

3) It is time to increase research regarding increased population and potential impacts from tornadoes. As most in the severe weather community are aware, nonmeteorological artifacts inundate the severe weather reports archive. A relatively untested artifact is the magnitude and trend of population density -- would this tornado outbreak have resulted in such substantial loss of life in the Great Plains, or if the tornadoes were displaced x number of miles north/south of their actual tracks? Such research can provide insight on the uncertainty regarding the overall impacts from a meteorologically significant severe weather outbreak (or other type of hazard, such as a hurricane or winter storm), and also may provide an improved means of comparing this event to those of the past (e.g., 3 April 1974).

4) Although there is some statistical evidence that there is at least locational dependence of major tornado days to ENSO, it is scientifically (and certainly statistically) questionable to associate individual severe weather outbreaks, and even collective significant severe weather outbreaks, to this weather-climate phenomenon. The sample size of the outbreaks is too small, and their dependence on so many other variables, some of which we still are not completely aware of, too great to make such a daring conclusion. My thoughts, then, on associations with global climate change should go without saying (and thus, will go without saying).

5) It is absolutely imperative that the meteorology and social science community make a considerable effort to identify the breakdowns that led to the calamitous casualty count, and propose solutions to these breakdowns. There is no excuse! It is our responsibility as scientists and as forecasters. Increased effort to research, rather than speculate, on these causes is of utmost importance. Tornado outbreaks of this magnitude will happen again, and if current trends continue, even more people may be affected in the future. Although loss of life in these types of events is virtually certain, we can and must do more to ensure that we can limit, if not completely eradicate, that number.

Such effort includes breaking down and solving the inherent complexities of such interdisciplinary research, eliminating science-vs.-social science nonsense, and refusing to fall into the trap of assuming we know the answers without actually identifying them scientifically. Our attempts to bridge these gaps so far have not been adequate. We can and must do more.

Although the science questions of this case are plentiful (e.g., what processes on the mesoscale occur to promote nearly universal development of tornadoes with supercells on days like 27 April versus a much smaller ratio on others, what antecedent environments appear to exist with tornado outbreaks and are these environments relatively few and predictable, etc.), the social science aspects appear to be just as important, if not more so. The tragic events of 27 April 2011 should be a call to arms in the severe weather community!

Weather Or Not

2011-04-23T14:32:00.002-05:00

During last weekend's three-day outbreak of severe storms, it became clear to me that there are some aspects of meteorology that are becoming bloodsport. As the reports of tornadoes kept coming in, many of them duplicates or updates of initial reports, the tornado count was climbing like the "ka-chings" of a cash register during rush. Reports of "catastrophic damage" and EF5s, "violent" tornadoes, and debris balls on radar filled my Facebook feed like termites in a crumbling wall.

I love severe weather, but not at all because it tends to destroy things. The thing is, I'm not sure everyone else feels the same way anymore. Should I take the exclamation points in a status update to mean alarm or rapture? I fear it is the latter.

The beauty of deep moist convection is in the visual grandeur, and the physics. The collateral damage is our, at times, perilous existence. Severe weather can destroy lives, even end them. So seeing a radar screen of supercells with "chaser convergence" surrounding these things like vultures observing the latest kill leaves me in a morally ambiguous zone.

I understand that most people who chase storms do it because they appreciate the beauty behind these storms. I admire that feeling, and share it. But now, I believe, this admiration coexists with something else. Adventurers waiting for their next dollar. Receiving money for the latest tornado video, which shows somebody losing everything because of it, is an ethical quagmire to me. Broadcast companies extend their hands full of stash at the nearest sign of a rocky clip of debris spinning around. Something doesn't sit well with me given this reality.

I have mentioned many times my ethical dilemma with storm chasing. I have already vowed never to chase on high risk days again, after the calamitous rural traffic jam on 19 May 2010 in central Oklahoma. And I continue to see these drool-laden clips of revelatory excitement from destructive tornadoes, again and again and again. I just don't know anymore. I love the science behind tornadoes, and they do look quite beautiful. But I see a big downside to them, and I can't help but feel ... well, conflicted by the latest brouhaha on YouTube showing shaky video of a house lifted off its foundation. Enough already.

---

With the "miracle" of social networking, meteorologists have, more and more, warned others of impending danger via Facebook/Twitter, etc. I don't know why, but I find this trend increasingly annoying.

For one thing, it seems concerning to me that people would be on Facebook during a tornado warning. I would hope they were not online at all, but rather in a place of safety. Of course, it is naive of me to expect everyone to be doing this, but then again, my fear is that people will come to depend on Facebook during times like these, when I think their interests should be elsewhere (online or off).

The other thing that bothers me about it is that there seems to be a lot of overwarning going on. Alerting people that they are in a tornado watch/warning is fine, but exaggerating the risk seems doomed for the "cry wolf" syndrome. Seeing someone say a tornado watch is in effect, followed by "city X" is in "grave danger" during the next few hours is ... well ... a bold statement. And I'm not sure people will take it too seriously if they receive no such grave danger.

Then there are the "five-minute" updates of warnings, followed by "take shelter, take shelter"! If the warned people haven't taken shelter by your third of fourth update of the storm, Darwin is stirring.

---

I've mentioned this before, but please, for the love of "God", refrain from the default, robotic, meritless statement proclaiming "prayers to the victims of the tornadoes" after showing video, radar data, etc. of your adventures enjoying them. It screams hypocrisy, and I find it simply deplorable. I am sure many if not most of you mean the words, but they sound as hollow as their actual worth. First, virtually no one affected by the tornadoes will see/hear your prayers on Facebook/YouTube. The very people you offer them to won't even be aware of them. Secondly, they do NOTHING, and I mean that in every sense of the word ... NOTHING ... toward actually helping them. Instead of offering your prayers, donate some money/time to volunteer groups, the Red Cross, etc. Do something meaningful.

On vegetarian fundamentalism

2011-04-18T20:41:00.002-05:00

I made a mistake today, a very big mistake. I was browsing the interwebs in between meetings, and I stumbled into an interview Anthony Bourdain had a few years ago on his book, The Nasty Bits, in which he explained his distaste for vegans. I then stumbled into articles written by a sample of those vegans, probably unrepresentative of the population, but enough to prompt me to write a blog sharing my distaste -- not for vegans, but for what has been colloquially termed "vegetarian fundamentalism".

In my mind, vegetarian fundamentalism has traits like many of the religious fundamentalist counterparts. Fundamentalism is, for one thing, blatantly and intentionally controversial. It provokes "us against them" mentality, often supported in the believers' minds by anecdotal "evidence" or blind doctrines of, at best, questionable validity. Fundamentalists also are advertisers, if not propagandists, seeking fear in the "nonbelievers" by exaggerating or completely fabricating "evidence" in support of the philosophy/lifestyle.

Anthony Bourdain has called vegetarianism, particularly the vegan sects, "rude". He frequently gives an example of an impoverished family who grows food and offers you the one animal they have available on a particular day. A vegetarian would turn it down, saying "No, thanks". "It's antihuman. It's antisocial," he says in this interview.

He's right.

But he alludes to a far better point about one of the main sources of "evidence" that vegetarian fundamentalists use in their propaganda campaigns: They do not take into account the peoples who simply do not have the luxury of deciding meat or plants for dinner. Bourdain hosted an episode from Namibia, in which a nomadic tribe hunt for their survival. They live, and die, by the day's hunt. With Bourdain as a guest, they were lovingly offered wart hog, an animal many if not most Americans would sneer at. But I ask you: Would you turn down food offered by someone who could very well die if they can't find the next meal? If so, you are, in Bourdain's words, "rude". And you are. And you are completely unaware of the world around you.

Those who claim that meat-eating humans are contributing to global warming are certainly onto something. Plenty of studies exist showing that fossil fuel usage for a certain amount of protein is much higher than an equal portion of plant-derived protein. Of course, the problem with this argument is that converting from this animal-growing to pure plant-growing world is simply impractical. Because plant-growing is certainly climate-dependent, what are the farmers going to do in the High Plains if the plants they would need to grow can't grow there? What if the plant-growing they convert to is not sustainable, or profitable?

This argument, yet again, ignores the impoverished people of the world, who simply have no choice but to eat what they can grow/raise for themselves. It's naive.

My two favorite arguments with vegetarian fundamentalists are the animal's right not to be eaten, and the "we will die if we eat meat..." claims. An animal has a right not to be eaten. Uh, huh. Certainly that is supported by the wealth of predators forgoing eating prey in the unspoken number of years this planet has existed. Do you think a cow will survive in the wild if there's a coyote around? Will a bear pass the next salmon stream? This argument is so absurdly funny, that I cannot even believe it has metastasized. Animal cruelty is one thing, but let's get one thing straight: any death of an animal by another animal is inherently an ugly, painful, cruel way to die. It is also fundamentally natural.

Now torturous deaths of animals for food, in which some strange version of pleasure is derived from the pain the prey has before its death, is certainly abhorrent and completely indefensible. But even a quick, relatively painless death, is still by nature savage. But there is no dignity in death, ever.

The more problematic argument is that people who eat meat are destined for an early grave. That argument is, simply, an exaggeration -- a simplification. In the statistical sense, there certainly is evidence of this -- or, perhaps better worded, there is statistical evidence that suggests that vegetarians, on average, live longer than omnivores. However, the findings are quite variable and not overly convincing. Some studies show a life span increase of up to a decade, whereas others show 1-3 years. Study after study, website after website, show rather conflicting data, which suggests inherent uncertainty. Many of these studies also do not consider a cornucopia of ethnic groups, or citizens of multiple countries/continents. There are also various uncertainties associated with these studies, including underlying tendencies to use alcohol/drugs/tobacco, inherent knowledge of nutrition/health, etc. Although I believe it is certainly reasonable to conclude that vegetarians/vegans may live longer in a statistical sense, I wonder if there are correlations with other variables, including exercise, habits, religious practices, social interactions, geography, climate, etc. Given the underlying uncertainty associated with these studies, it appears this topic deserves further scrutiny.

Thus, claiming that people shouldn't eat meat because it will kill you sooner -- is just naive. Individually speaking, it's fear-mongering. A particular individual's susceptibility to premature death via meat craving is not clear-cut.

I don't have a problem with a person's choice of being vegetarian/vegan. I whole-heartedly support it, actually. I do have a problem with the propaganda campaign, though. Spouting moral superiority is just nonsensical, incredibly insulting to the people who could very well perish without their next kill, and ignorant of the world around you. People are starving all around the world, so scaring people into ridding people of steak knives seems misplaced to me. In many ways, I wish people were as passionate -- more passionate -- about preventing human cruelty versus animal cruelty.

I wonder if, given some worldwide calamity -- what would a vegetarian do if the only means of food around him/her was an animal? Would that person choose suicide? If so, his/her beliefs are rock solid, but the natural world will have the final say. Darwin would not be on that person's side.

Our Endless Numbered Days

2011-04-01T22:52:00.002-05:00

It's been a rough week, as a dear friend of my mother's finally succumbed to melanoma, and several people close to me are going through some very difficult times. Typically, during periods like this, I tend to write a lot, and somewhat strangely, that means I've been pretty productive at work. I've also dabbled with a screenplay I've been messing with for a number of years now. Unfortunately, I tend to mess with it during a period of melancholy. This is a problem, since I want to make the screenplay "lighter" than it currently is. It also needs to be a little longer than it is; otherwise it will play like a TV episode.

I also write somber blogs, of which this will be another.

Death is a part of life, and our tendency (rightfully) is not to like this part of life. The unfortunate thing about death is that it makes life meaningful; otherwise, living as a construct or an "activity", if you will, would be irrelevant. I've never bought the comfort of eternity; in fact, I sort of abhor the idea. An eternity of living, thinking, reacting, doing seems destined for torture. Boredom is an inevitable outcome of something that lasts forever. Even our planet will die. Its life will be much longer than yours or mine, but the fact that our planet will at some point far in the future no longer be a planet gives me a strange comfort.

This may seem strange to most people, but I find the opposite feeling stranger. Stagnancy is often received poorly. Droughts, monotone lecturers, and dynasties in sports are often ridiculed by the majority of people. (How do you like that for three wildly different examples?) With time, people tire of what always remains the same. The sheer fact that our sky is blue for our entire existence may seem to be a counterexample, but remember, we have cloudy days too. The fact that our lives, and our habitat, are dynamic gives me great joy. For the alternative is the ultimate in tedium.

I do wish my life were longer, but I certainly don't wish for it to be eternal. I am grateful for the time I have, and hope that I make the most of it. There are constant reminders I need to do so, like when a family friend passes after a brutal disease. The fragility of our existence cannot be overstated. The deaths of others, even the predictable ones, are constant reminders of our perilous existence. And it seems that with age, these reminders become more and more profound. Partly from experience, partly from the increasing realization that my own death is only approaching, never receding.

You only get one shot at this. For some, that chance is nothing more than a snapshot. For others, it is a mercifully wonderful opportunity. Its randomness, its unflinching objectivity, its cold iron fist is instructive. We can adapt to it, or succumb to it. One thing we cannot do is escape it. Our exit from it is always the same. The looming oblivion is a reminder to look in the mirror once in a while, nod silently -- maybe with a smile -- and give yourself a little extra push to make the most of your chance.

Pardon the Rant: 2012 is so last century

2011-03-18T23:42:00.002-05:00

I was actually going to add this particular rant in with my hotly contested rant-rage of my last post, but I decided to give this one its own piece.

After the Japan quake, there were many -- and I mean many -- people who made the so-clever-it-never-was-clever reference to 2012. Soon, I began to see silly ways of adding up 21st century disasters to the Mayan end date. First, I should note that it's not 2012 yet, if there is any confusion. Second, and more sincerely, haven't we referenced this "end of the world" bogusness enough?

I've heard 2012 jokes since I can remember, and this was before the Y2K shenanigans began. Remember those? At least those were based on genuine fears of technological disruption. There was even a TV movie made about it, airing in 1993. (I remember, because there were previews of it during the Cheers series finale.) I had friends who were petrified that 1 January 2000 would bring about weeks, months, or years of global chaos. Instead, we shot off fireworks in a youthful drunken stupor.

We've made another (embarrassingly bad) film, now about 2012. The movie was as serious as can be, but I'm sure its makers do not honestly believe the world would end in 2012. And no one who makes jokes about it actually means it. But -- why are we making movies about it, and still joking about it light years after its cleverness whittled away?

I propose a few theories. (1) Some people think it's funnier the closer we get to the event. I have a rebuttal. The more you tell the joke, the fewer laughs it will receive. It is, in fact, like hearing the same song on the radio ten times in a day. You'll never want to hear the tune again. Classic example? Free Fallin'. "Well, I'm free. Free fallin'." Over and over and over and over again. It's not good once. It's scratching a chalk board ten times. Same with this.

(2) Some people are not completely convinced it is untrue. Superstition is a human flaw as a result of a biological necessity. We are aware of our mortality, paranoid of death and harm, and often we seem to provide mysticism toward it. The idea of heaven and hell, gods controlling nature, pre-game routines, stepping on concrete blocks rather than the cracks between them -- all are steeped in our genuine and biologically useful need to be aware of potential dangers and eventual death. Unfortunately, we take it too far. We tend to cling to it, even without evidence. Groupthink brings about an idea that festers for so much longer than it should.

Get off the paranoia bandwagon and join the masses who realize that the Mayans may not have known everything about how the world works. Please.

(3) Some people like to be reminded about the precarious nature of our existence. I feel that this is healthy, for the most part. We should remember that our existence is tenuous, at best, with frequent (seemingly random) reminders through natural disasters or anthropogenic conflicts. The Japanese earthquake/tsunami is a dramatic example of nature completely demolishing large chunks of very developed peoples and societies. In the end, the earth will always win.

Then again, O(~10,000) people perished in the event. The earth has O(~7,000,000,000) people residing in it. So, get real.

When I read blogs or op-eds about societal calamities or end-of-civilization macabres created by socio-political clashes, I frequently roll my eyes. Hyperbole, more often than not. We live in very troubled times, and there are genuine threats to our civilization's longevity. Then again, there are a lot of people around that are pretty reasonable and have the intellectual capability and, more importantly, the drive necessary to prevent such a future. We aren't dead yet, in other words, and it WILL take a lot for us to get to that point. Being worried about our "end" is healthy, but let's not get too carried away. Yet.

I should note here, in somewhat of an aside, that if there is any talk about the fall of civilizations in the current age, they will be the direct result of a biological/ecological truth. We (humans) are overpopulating the planet. The greatest danger to our existence is ourselves. Namely, how many of ourselves we have and how many more we will make. Want to help prolong our existence? Reproduce less!

But back to the original point. It is healthy to remember our existence is not guaranteed. But referencing 2012 does not give such an argument a lot of credibility.

And it's just not funny. Never was.

Pardon the Rants

2011-03-15T20:23:00.007-05:00

Updated: Fixed a couple of grammatical errors, and outlined what "Step 9" is explicitly.

Ed. note: I have received a lot of comments on this post via email/Facebook, and I will try to respond to them in a subsequent post later this week. The original post is below...

---

I was mildly irritated a few days ago, at many things. I had so wished to be in front of a computer, writing my thoughts down. The one-liners, snarktastic streams of bile-ridden words, and insulting innuendos were coming one after the other. It was epic, stinging commentary on the nature of the world.

But it was Friday, and a tsunami happened. Soon, I was glued to a television, watching the latest in a series of seismic-related disasters to affect our world. It may deserve reminding that Chile and Haiti had devastating earthquakes in 2010. And don't forget New Zealand's earlier this year. And the Haiti earthquake killed on the order of 100,000 people, which is two orders of magnitude higher than Japan's (so far). Thus, calling the Japan event the "worst ever" is simply not true, both in casualties and quantification of physical (scientific) variables. Having said that, the footage from Japan is just gut-wrenching. Some of the most dramatic footage ever filmed of a tsunami -- scenes that before this past week, I would say were products of CGI. Another cataclysmic event in a world seemingly full of them right now.

Not exactly the most heartwarming introduction to a post full of rants. Nevertheless, I begin with a rant regarding the "supernatural" and the Japanese earthquake/tsunami.

I see a lot of people a lot of the time saying that life is beautiful, and their god or gods are so gloriously good for blessing them with such fortunes. But I never see this god or these gods under ridicule when events of this magnitude occur, particularly when that person is involved. So how come this god or these gods get all the credit for the good stuff, and none of the credit for the bad stuff? (Of course, one response is the typical "God works in mysterious ways" cop-out, a comment which I scorn to the very fibers of my nonsupernatural being.)

Seriously, where is "God" or the gods in this discussion? Why the hell should he (He) be lauded for his successes when there are clearly so many calamities? And, as I have been told on occasion, if this is indeed the work of the "Devil" or whatever, what does that say about the power of this god?

Some people have attacked the problem head-on. Those of the ilk of Glenn Beck have decided to insist that "God" is sending us a message of some sort. How is this not as ridiculous as the members of the Westboro Baptist Church claiming that the deaths of our soldiers are the result of homosexuals? And shouldn't the message be a little clearer? Does "He" have a problem with the Japanese? With the world? With island inhabitants? And what would this problem, or these problems, be? And why not just tell the world, or the Japanese, or island inhabitants, or whatever, what the problem is?

You know what I think this message from "God" is? That "He" doesn't exist. At least, that's the message that provides me with the most comfort. Because one who allows for these events, or even purposely constructs them, is a supernatural being worthy of scorn and rebuke, not our impassioned love and irrational support.

The fact that this event can be explained, entirely actually, by natural events/causes is also a sign, I would think.

This brings me to a follow-up. Why do people insist upon praying for others' well-being? Instead of praying for them, why don't you actually DO something? Instead of praying for the Japanese, donate some money to help relief efforts. Hell, if you're particularly devoted, why don't you actually go over to Japan and personally help them out? (I actually know someone who is making plans to do just that.) Praying may help you out, but it certainly isn't doing a damn thing to help those who are actually being affected by this catastrophe.

Next rant? How in the world is the Michigan "martial law" episode not getting more press in our country? This is a move that is downright totalitarian! (If you don't know what I'm talking about, check out this CBS article.) This is a move reminiscent of rising dictatorial power, and in fact, virtually ALL rising dictatorships appoint people to positions of power that were previously elected offices. Am I saying that the Michigan governor plans to overthrow the government and become a dictator? No. But it is a significant step in a direction that points that way.

In college, I took an Aztec history class, from a professor who was an expert in Aztec warfare. I took this class during the Iraq invasion in 2003, and he said that America had reached step 9 in the 10-step decline of a civilization (Step 9 being unsubstantiated and financially unsupported invasion of a new territory). Step 10 was overthrowing elected officials, which commonly started at a local level. This would be Step 10 in action.

Now, I'm not saying that America as we know it will be gone forever. And one way that I hope I can keep from saying that is for the complete and utter contempt for this form of governing. This is absolutely outrageous, and should be immediate cause for (1) court action and (possibly, or if necessary) (2) removal from office. That being the governor, not the elected officials the governor wants to get rid of.

Now I could rant about my complete lack of faith in the Obama administration, and Democrats in general, but Chuck has done that eloquently on his blog.

SFTR: Pedestal Rocks, AR

2011-03-04T20:08:00.006-06:00

There is a hike in the Ozarks that is commonly alluded to on hiking website after hiking website focusing on the region. In the photos corresponding to the hike descriptions, there are these enormous rock structures that look like they will tumble at any moment. Dozens of them, narrow spires seeking the heavens from the plant-ridden abyss below.

The canopy of the Ozarks makes a sound. You can hear it through the subtle breezes and the cacophonous locusts. It sounds like "dead air" on a television screen. A loud, somewhat high frequency whir. I imagine it as the trees sweating. Maybe because, well, you do a lot of sweating on summer hikes in the Ozarks.

The hiking websites make muffled warnings about the hot weather. They seem to forget the part about the bugs. I am deathly afraid of most bugs. That is because I am deathly afraid of wasps, and in general, I associate all bugs with wasps. And there are many, many wasps in the Ozarks. There were moments on the sweltering hike when I was dead-sprinting, for fear of what turned out to be a horsefly or, at one point, a butterfly. How I confused a wasp for a butterfly, I will never know. But it was small, and it flew, so I ran.

Most people who have known me for a lengthy enough period recognize the yellow backpack. It has been with me for a decade, and I have no intentions of letting go. My backpack has been on many hikes with me: from Glacier to Carlsbad, from Yosemite to Acadia. I have taken the backpack across America time and time again, and the more I travel, the more I refuse to give up that bag. I want to be buried with that backpack, preferably with some beef jerky and chex mix. A man's gotta eat, even when he's decaying.

The one flaw (well, maybe one of many) of the yellow backpack is that it is yellow. That color tends to attract bugs, primarily because a lot of plants/flowers are yellow. One of those bugs happens to be a bee.

The buzz of a bee is perhaps the funniest sound of nature when heard in isolation. It is heard on television, typically in jest. I can think of a few instances in which a show is shown in the perspective of the bee (or fly, or whatever) with that buzz burgeoning the speakers. The buzz, in the Ozarks, is terrifying. It never -- ever -- goes away.

But by the end of the hike, I had figured out why. A bee had followed me the entire hike, never once threatening to sting me. Instead, it was trying to pollinate my backpack. I imagine it was not very successful in its task.

Despite the brief sprints and the profuse perspiration, the hike itself was pretty amazing. Despite the pedestal rocks being well camouflaged from the permabrush, the rock formations were still beautiful. Occasionally, a long look at the horizon was available. At times, it seems the forest never ends -- a constant reminder of the incessant heat and humidity that these trees are prisoners in for their long, long lifetimes.

I think the Ozarks are the most underrated region of the plains, in part because they are not plains. Rolling hills, forests, and occasional rivers and reservoirs are endless here. And the roads are beautiful. Ever drive on a twisted road, in which the forest canopy only lets a brief glimpse of sunlight shine through? One of my favorite parts about driving -- the crepuscular rays of sunlight amidst dark needles in a haystack. Hiking here is the same -- except longer, maybe a little warmer. Buzzier, too.

A New Look and What's Ahead

2011-02-19T00:52:00.002-06:00

Needed a new background image for the website today -- not sure why, but I did. Anyway, it probably will not be difficult to determine where this photo was taken.

My schedule has not settled down to a level where I can update the blog frequently, and I don't see that happening anywhere in the near future. However, I can preview a few posts I have planned in the next few weeks.

Stories from the Road: Purcell, OK; Sioux Falls, SD (Christmas); the other "Golden Gate Bridge"; a "smashed penny collection"; and Christmas Light(s).

The Lonely Road takes on Raton, NM.

Growing Up outlines the correct procedure for being a social zero in a town of 2000.

Sweet Home Mobile talks chili. A lot of it.

There will be other posts as well, probably far more spontaneous. Nevertheless, thanks for reading. Off to the beach tomorrow. I can do that now, strangely.

SFTR: A River Runs Through It

2011-02-18T19:52:00.003-06:00

When I'm not in a good mood, my thoughts tend to wander to trips long ago. Although today was by no means a terrible day, it certainly wasn't a great one. And so I would often think of my vacations for the last few years. In general, I have been attracted to peaks and rivers, and have really not strayed from either one since I can remember.

I often wonder what is so glorious about the mountain peaks; if you think about it, few environments are more hostile. A lot of travelers call it "savage beauty", and it is tough to come up with a better phrase. I think a lot of people love what they cannot conquer. Even after the success of climbing a mountain peak, we're left with a view of the world through very insignificant eyes. What we see is a huge landscape that we could never survive on, and a big jaunt back down to the promised land.

As much as I enjoy the mountain peaks, I'm a bigger fan of being just below them, looking up at something much larger than myself. The mountain cirques, for example, are a phenomenal reminder of how little we really are. An ice cold glacial lake sitting underneath mounds of scree and snow -- I just don't think there is anything that really comes close to provoking such wildly conflicting emotions as something inherently hostile and gorgeous at the same time.

I think the same thing applies to the sea. Besides the nice climate that often comes with most beaches (most beaches, I say), I think people like looking out into nothingness, realizing they will never be able to live (for long, at least) anchored in the ocean. We see out into the blue, and know that it is always going to be victorious.

People are biologically -- naturally -- attracted to water, even water we can't drink (i.e., the ocean). A river valley or a gushing gorge or a dirty delta -- there is beauty in all of these things too. And yet, here are things that essentially give us life. A river is a primary means of energy (hydroelectric power), drink (obvious), waste removal (natural sewage), fertile soil, etc. And yet, these are often just as beautiful as the inhospitable wastelands of volcanoes and deserts.

Life is full of contradictions, and I have often thought about this one. I love the mountains, the ocean, the lakes, and the rivers. They giveth, and they taketh away. So many have died climbing the peaks, lost at sea, drowning in rivers and lakes. And yet, we go back, undaunted.

Talk about savage beauty. Every year, a migration in Africa results in a collision of zebras and crocodiles. Every year, the zebras know that many of them will die crossing a river in a persistent quest for food. Every year, they cross dying so that they can survive.

In many ways, we are comparatively nonsensical. I hear stories of climbers falling from summits too frequently, and yet I am always drawn to climb that very mountain. Why? My survival doesn't depend on making it to the top.

Well, maybe not. But we are natural explorers, and our curiosity is innate. Maybe we can't live there, but it sure would be nice to be there just for a while.

I've seen many rivers in my lifetime. The Snake, Columbia, Colorado, Missouri, Mississippi, Ohio, Connecticut, Tennessee, Red, Red, Platte, Niobrara, Big Thompson, Potomac, and Arkansas. I've rafted on some (Arkansas), canoed on others (Niobrara), swum in more (Missouri), hiked along others (Potomac). I've always been drawn to the river, and most of my stories from the road involve a river at some point. Some are tame; others are savage. Nature doesn't care -- the beauty is one and the same.

Stories from the Road -- Glenwood Springs, CO

2011-02-12T17:02:00.004-06:00

I visited Glenwood Springs back in 2008, as a part of a summer trip to Colorado. Glenwood Springs is a convenient location for a lot of places to visit in central Colorado, including Aspen (which a few friends and I would visit the following day). But there is reason to make Glenwood Springs a "destination" as well as a stopover.

One of the best reasons to visit Glenwood Springs is the Glenwood Caverns, located "above" the city. Some of the cave was manually built, and I found this section to be rather bittersweet. Although the rock formations were indeed beautiful, it always rang false to me because it was essentially created by humans. Now, I'm not one of those "leave everything on Earth alone" people, but there are some things that are ethical gray areas for me. As much as I love Mount Rushmore, a (small) part of me wonders why we thought it was necessary to carve so much rock (and, inevitably, habitat) into four Presidents. Sure, it's beautiful, both as a pure sight and as a memorial, but doesn't this seem a little overkill? And don't even get me started on the nearby Crazy Horse...

Then again, this argument can be taken to extremes. Golf courses are essentially altered habitats -- personally, I can't stand them, in general. So is farmland, cities, basically "anything" man has touched. Where does the argument end? Originally, I believed that it became troublesome when the natural destruction that ultimately comes with human construction provided virtually no benefit to humankind. Problem is, how do you define "benefit", and what gives me (or anyone) the right to claim when some sort of human construction is not benefiting someone at some point?

With some cases, such as Mount Rushmore, I see benefits: public awareness in our history being the biggest. With others, such as Crazy Horse, I see a group of people attempting but failing to do the same. Instead, I see an elaborate financial sinkhole, both for the tourist and for the architects. And I see a lot of damaged landscape as collateral.

With the first portion of Glenwood Caverns, I see a benefit and a disadvantage. Sure, there's a nice view, increased public awareness of local history, and even a scientific discovery element. On the other hand, there is a bigger, more beautiful, and far more satisfying natural cave just next to the man-made labyrinth. So what was the point, other than the view? (Well, to be fair, at some point in the past, there was a point -- mining -- but it still doesn't completely explain the destruction after the mining.)

The natural portion of Glenwood Caverns was exceptional. At the end of the (public portion of the) cave, an exquisite room full of stalactites and stalagmites awaits. Unnatural lighting provides an even greater "ooh, ah" moment when the cave formations are lit in wondrous yellows and oranges. It is an absolutely gorgeous sight, and one worth visiting if traveling through the Glenwood Springs area.

We visited during the summer, which inevitably means there will be storms in the area each afternoon. (A rare exception would be the next day, when we spent an absolutely splendid day in Aspen and the Maroon Bells area.) After our guided cave exploration, we exited the cave with a small spattering of rain and a beautiful rainbow over the Glenwood Valley area. Glenwood Springs is located at the intersection of the Colorado and Roaring Fork Rivers. Both form beautiful valleys/canyons near the city, and the views from the caverns are simply spectacular. The town itself is actually quite small (<10 000 people) and seems even smaller when viewed atop the mountain just to the north.

The visit to Glenwood Springs was a test balloon for me. I knew about the caverns, and have always loved taking tours of caves, but I had no exceedingly high expectations of the place. But Glenwood Caverns is certainly worthy of a visit, as is the quaint town located nearby. It's in the Colorado Rockies. What more do you need to know?

Facebook Security? Try Facebook Censorship!

2011-02-11T18:38:00.004-06:00

Edit 2: Found this article discussing the new option (which was built to reduce the size of the news feed -- i.e., as a filter), key word being new. Apparently, the default is set to "all" for some and "interact with most" for others. Interesting, and confusing.

Edit: A reader brought up the idea that this may not be a very new "feature" at all. As I recall, I do remember something a while back that required changing an option regarding something along the lines of "news feed" or friend's posts or whatever, but I do not remember the "friends or pages [I] interact with most" option. If I did, I would have raised this issue back then. Whether the "option" and default setting is new or not, this remains an entirely baffling concept to me, from a service that was built to encourage social interaction via the internet. Thus, my post remains unchanged below...

---

Earlier today, I discovered that the initially-scorned then universally-adorned Facebook news feed had changed in a rather profound way. I'm not sure how long it has been altered, but in hindsight, I would say I've noticed the effects for at least a week or so. In short, the news feed had been changed to include only those "friends" or "pages" with which you "interact with most". Which is interesting, because I've had virtually no contact with any pages I follow, and several of the friends I seemed to still be able to follow I have not interacted with on Facebook for months.

I suspect, actually, that the option is far more random than it sounds. It seems to me this is a technique that exists for no other purpose than censor particularly people from your feed. The motivation for this censorship could stem from a number of factors: data constraints, reader complaints, skullduggerous friends "you may not know", etc. Good intentions could very well be behind this otherwise bizarre change. What if the option actually was intended to prevent stalkers from stalking (one presumes, although this may or may not be true, that those excluded from a news feed on your friend list make you excluded from theirs), reduce very possible data size issues on Facebook (...maybe...), etc.

However, I think the move was far more malicious than this. The fact that the option seemed to work VERY badly, at least based on its definition: "friends and pages [I] interact with most". From what I can see, this is a total joke. And wouldn't this option basically just ensure that the friends I could see would remain the friends I interacted with most? What would happen to the remaining friends I interacted with least?

Instead, I see this as a change without the customer in mind. After all, why would the default be this, versus following everyone, based on a programmer's definition of what friends or pages I interact with most? And although the customer is provided this service (at least monetarily) for free -- the fact that such an option could be installed as a default with very little notice (I noticed it only after being notified by another user -- not from the service itself) is more disconcerting to me than the "we'll show your page and contents to unknown third parties" complaints I hear endlessly from Facebook users.

I wonder if this was also done as some sort of reaction to the security complaints. Which begs the question ... if so, why would Facebook censor a user's content from selected "friends" of that user? That wasn't what the complaints were about...

The motivation(s) is (are) unclear, and I am just speculating here, but the bottom line is that a service that intends to bring people together online (social network) just installed a function that intentionally prevents those people from interacting. How is that at all a service to the customer?

Security issues are one thing I can get behind, except that the safest way to be secure is to only share the information you want to in a (relatively) public forum. But censorship is another issue for me entirely. If Facebook continues to use such tactics on its predominantly ignorant customers, then it is doing a disservice to those customers. At that point, why use it? There are other social networks (or alternative means entirely) that (at least for now) won't prevent me from seeing what the others want to share and want me to see...

To be continued, Facebook.

The Lonely Road -- Monterey Aquarium

2011-02-10T20:39:00.005-06:00

I have a new series of blog posts that I'm calling "The Lonely Road", basically a "story from the road" that involves only me. I made the visit/trip with no one else, and wanted to discover something on my own. Often, these are the memories I hold dearest, for various reasons. I'm not (completely) sure why, but I tend to work best in solitude, and I hope through these series of posts that maybe some of these reasons will come through. Moreover, we shouldn't be afraid to try something new, and alone. I think people feel more comfortable with others trying something new... I say get over the discomfort. Go, discover something for yourself. You'll learn a great deal about yourself, your independence, your self-reliance. These trips undoubtedly have made me a better, happier person. I hope you will discover the same.

---

The Monterey Aquarium is an obvious stop on the West Coast. There's Big Sur to the south, San Francisco not very far to the north, and a veritable cornucopia of national parks a few hours east. This aquarium, one of my favorites in America, is reason alone to visit California.

Mom and I were visiting California on our annual trip, but she wanted to go shopping all afternoon. This may have been code for "Stay away from me for a while", which (to be fair) is an entirely understandable position once in a while ... maybe frequently. I saw this as an opportunity to visit the aquarium -- my second time. Maybe it was my mood, my penchant for pondering the big questions in melodramatic and cliched surroundings, or my lack of "alone time" in recent days...but the aquarium really was a revelation.

I found myself losing senses -- the world would be muted at various points, as I saw a fish floating effortlessly in his liquid cage. The comforting light and dark oscillations of the light hitting the waves in the water were mesmerizing. I can't even remember long portions of the visit. I guess I was so deep in thought I missed the "penguin" section and either skipped or blacked out while looking at the sharks.

Part of the magic of this aquarium -- and really, any quality aquarium -- is the ambiance. Have you ever noticed the music in the background? Quiet synthesizers, maybe some celesta, maybe a gamelan. The instruments are quiet -- never dissonant or fortissimo. The soundtrack unmistakably reminds one of water, and the comforting sounds it makes (or that are associated with it). The whish of a small wave reaching shore, a buoy ringing occasionally, the creaking of boats and docks swaying. I'm reminded of all of this when I'm listening to aquarium music. Whoever is responsible for this atmospheric approach -- job well done.

I have talked about my favorite room in the Monterey Aquarium before. Nonetheless, it deserves a reminder. There is a room you walk into in which the music is a little bit louder. Reminds me of the terrific soundtrack from Solaris, by Cliff Martinez. Little melody, just calming. My involuntary reaction was to look upward, only to see a room in which a giant school of fish swims in a circle over you...again and again and again. One wonders if the fish somehow hate this, or are driven to do this in some way. Whatever the case, it is completely hypnotic. I stared at those fish for over a half hour. Sadly, I took very few photos, no video, and any snapshot I took was staggeringly insufficient to capture this scene. It is, without question, the best that any aquarium has to offer anywhere.

And as I quietly moved from room to room, almost afraid to make a sound or to startle a fish, the sounds of quiet strings drowning out any of the nonsensical din, I lost sight of the sea horses, the jellyfish, and the Nemo fan club. All I can remember is this tremendous sense of calm. In a world of cacophony, this is a true reservoir of peace and quiet.

Sweet Home Mobile

2011-02-07T21:00:00.002-06:00

This blog series replaces "No Place Like Home", which was focused on the state of Oklahoma. Back when I lived in Oklahoma. Now, I live in Mobile, AL. Quite a change, and not at all a bad one. Besides having an "actual" job, I'm really enjoying the new surroundings. The Gulf Coast has a culture that is very fresh for me. I like the emphasis on food, in particular, but the relatively good nature of seemingly everyone is enough to turn any frown upside down.

So, in the coming weeks, I'll write about a post a week about the goings-on in Mobile. Where I'm eating, what I'm doing, where I'm going, when it gets too hot for me to handle. Sort of the Mobile expose, from an amateur city dweller and Alabaman.

Currently, I'm just getting acquainted. And that means driving.

Driving in Mobile is, well, interesting. There is a lot of traffic in this town. I suspect that if people had the choice of going in one car or three, they'd ask "Why not four?" Where are all of these people going? Are they taking the quickest route? Do they really need the extra cab space?

It's not as if there are only two roads in the town. In fact, one could argue there are too many rather than too few. Also, the name-changing roads are many and baffling. The roads do not necessarily change direction at an intersection; instead, the name just seems to change. I guess there were too many people to dedicate street names to. That and discontinuous city planning, I suppose.

As stymieing as the street planning is here, I'm still waiting to turn right out of my apartment complex. I've been waiting for a few minutes now. On a Saturday at 3 pm. I get it. People like to go out on the weekend. But so many? Alone in separate vehicles?

Everyone who lives in Norman knows about the red street lights. Every intersection, no matter what intersection, is a red light. Wait a minute, then see the left-turn-only light turn green. Wait some more, then go. Just as traffic begins to stop on the crossing street. Norman has mastered the "stopping everyone" traffic lighting. Well, Mobile has taken Norman's skills and gone pro.

Anecdotal evidence suggests that I stop at approximately 80% of streetlights I encounter in Mobile (west of I-65). A normal trip to work for me (about 4 miles) takes about 20 minutes, and the return home commonly takes a little longer (20-25 minutes 6-7 pm; 30-35 minutes 5-6 pm). As the lowest speed limit I have on the way home is 30 mph, there is some serious waiting time at street lights.

The busiest road in Mobile (again, west of I-65) is Airport Road. Basically, during the day, it should be avoided at all costs. During the evening, it's tolerable, but still a lengthy drive for short distances. At night, it's a ghost town. Who needs curfew when you have goody-two-shoes for citizens? Sadly, it is easily the quickest way to reach the interstate on the west side of town. Even more upsetting is the tendency for I-10 to drop southward to the west of downtown -- meaning, it takes a long time to reach either interstate from the area of town I live in. Having taken both routes, it turns out that taking Airport Road is, on average, faster but -- more annoying. More traffic, more waits at stoplights, and the frontage roads -- oh, the frontage roads! That shall be saved for a later post, however.

Oh, I can turn out of my apartment complex now. Yes, I'm moving! And the light in front of me is gre--, uh...never mind.

Perhaps a more substantive post on Mobile next time...

Stories from the Road -- Wahkeena Falls, OR

2011-02-05T16:27:00.003-06:00

It seems so long ago when Mom and I decided to head to the Pacific Northwest on our second annual road trip in 2008. People have asked me what my favorite vacation was. To me, it's the same as choosing your favorite child. Our first trip was to Toronto, Ottawa, and Montreal. Hard to beat southeast Canada. Our second included Yellowstone, Idaho, Oregon, and Washington. Our third was to Nevada and California. Our fourth was to Boston and Cape Cod. Very different places, and very different experiences. In a sense, it is a question of apples and oranges.

Not only that, but the day stops on each trip were vastly different. On the Pacific Northwest trip, we spent two days in Yellowstone, followed by a day along the Snake River in Idaho, followed by a day in the Columbia River Gorge. The amount of change Mom and I had seen in the landscape, in the culture, in the food, in the climate -- well, each day was a brand new experience. Just 24 hours before, Mom and I were in a barren landscape of brown shrubs and hungry lizards. Today, the air was oppressive, the vegetation was lush, and the water was plentiful.

Mom calls this day of our trip "Waterfall Day". Essentially, the plan was to drive along the Columbia River Gorge, and stop at six waterfalls. Each one was dramatically different. The first was called Horsetail Falls, and one look at it was all it took to explain its name. The second was the magnificent Multnomah Falls, a 600+ foot plunge that even has a hike to the precipice. After spending several hours at this masterpiece, we next drove a little further and hiked a little more to Wahkeena Falls. Now, Wahkeena is a glorious waterfall in its own right, but it could not live up to Multnomah standards. This was completely expected by me, but Mother was tiring quickly of the walking. (Too bad, as she had three more hikes to do after this one.) Her reception of the waterfall was, shall we say, far less forgiving than mine.

"That's it?" she asked with unabashed irritation. That's it? How often do you get to see waterfalls, dear Mother? And if you hadn't seen Multnomah, how would your reaction change?

"Not by much." she said. Eh, maybe so. I guess you aren't as big of a fan of waterfalls as I am. As it turns out, though, Mom later said that this was one of her favorite days on the trip. She soon declared Oregon to be the "prettiest state" she has been to. It's hard to disagree with her assessment. If one judges by the Columbia River Gorge alone, Oregon soars above most of its competition.

I actually loved Wahkeena Falls, in part because it was hot -- and this was one of the only waterfalls of the day that we could actually feel the spray from. And the hikes were, after all, getting warmer and warmer. Additionally, the surroundings were just stunning. So many trees, leaves, plants. So much vegetation. So much water in the air and on the ground. Growing up in treeless and relatively dry Nebraska, this was different. This was something new to me, something I have always looked at and admired. Amazingly, this was my first "rain forest" experience, and it exceeded all expectations.

The other reason I liked Wahkeena Falls was because it exemplified the banter Mom and I usually provide on these trips. After her unimpressed reaction to the waterfall, she would ask a few pointed questions while I was taking photographs and during our walk back to the car. "So is the next one just a trickle?" "Will I even know when I'm seeing the waterfall?" "How soon is my next torturous hike?" My answers were equally pointed. "How many smashed pennies have you obtained today?" "I think you'll know when you see the next waterfall when you see water...falling." "The next hike is about four hours long. That's not bad, right?"

She and I would smile, sometimes with a mixture of sarcasm and genuineness. Always with a sense that we were appreciative of the others' wishes. The other hikes were short, knowing that Mom would probably not want to hike to the top of more waterfalls that day. I made sure that the next day was a smashed penny extravaganza. I made sure to stop at a gift shop after the waterfall hopping. Here's a 60+ woman, vital as ever, hiking with me six different times on the same day. Sure, she'd provide some banter and an occasional sigh, but she refused to quit. I hope I'm alive, much less so active, at that age.

And she also banters. Personally, I love it. Someone who provides as much snark and sarcasm as I do on a day so worthy of anything but -- well, that's my cup of tea. The banter represents something more. Yeah, we're lucky to see such a beautiful place, but rather than going for the quick cliche (easy to do in blogs, by the way) -- she goes for the funny bone. That's appreciation. Even for Wahkeena Falls.

Stories from the Road -- Somewhere Under the Rainbow

2011-02-04T16:16:00.004-06:00

After a weeklong visit to Wisconsin last summer, two friends and I returned to Oklahoma a little tired and a little burned. A storm had developed on the last leg of the trip, and it was beginning to move off to our southeast. I decided to stop in Guthrie, OK, for a snack and to watch the sky for a bit. It was a good thing; there was quite a show.

Aside from the lightning, which itself was memorable, the sun began to sneak out to the west of the anvil. A sharp rainbow appeared immediately, and a secondary rainbow soon was visible. The sky itself turned a brilliant orange color, a type of orange that only Oklahoma sunsets seem to muster. Here we are, sitting in an Arby's parking lot, in a very unmemorable location. And now...well, now, it is forever etched in my mind.

Oklahoma sunsets are unlike anywhere else. The perfect conditions: a flat horizon, plenty of dust from the west, and a tendency for clouds of various types. Dry enough that a beautiful sunset is frequent. There have been nights where the clouds prefer a beautiful purple hue; others where yellow and orange are dominant. On the really good days, all are visible. The sunset here was predominantly orange, but more memorable than most because of the dual-rainbow.

Sunsets are all about evolution. Every second the sky is changing, and it can be easy to forget that when you're drawn into the initial image that made you pay attention in the first place. Soon, the sun has set, and you only have a few photos to remember it by. Sadly, this is exactly what happened to me on this night. Most nights, actually.

We were treated to many great sunsets on this trip. One was from Little St. Germain Lake in Wisconsin (shown below). Rain always seems to be a factor for me. With this one, a light rain was falling as the sky decided to show every single color a sunset is capable of making. With the spreading waves from each raindrop on the otherwise calm lake, the picture-perfect sunset was born.

Another was in the town of Escanaba, MI, during our Upper Peninsula lighthouse tour. The sky was a brilliant blue for most of the evening, after a very rainy morning and early afternoon. The clouds were slow to disintegrate, making for a postcard image along Lake Michigan at the end of the day. Add in a sun dog and a stunningly gorgeous lighthouse, and you have a sunset dreams are made of.

I guess a sunset was a very fitting end to our trip. And Oklahoma -- well, I'm not sure the scenery topped that of the North Woods, but the sky sure tried its best to outdo it.

Sightseeing is not just a "surface experience". Looking up is often just as rewarding. Most of the greatest photos of nature have about half the image devoted to the sky. The sky can transcend the scenery. The I-35 exit to Guthrie is a totally forgettable place. A gas station or ten, a few fast food restaurants, and the sound of truck engines do not make for a travel memory. The sky took care of that.

Stories from the Road -- The Christmas Eve 2009 Blizzard

2011-02-03T21:47:00.004-06:00

I have discussed at length in many other notes/blogs the tough stretch December 2009 was for me and my family. The matriarch of our family, with a heart of gold and a sense of humor unmatched by anyone in its perseverance, finally succumbed to Alzheimer's Disease. Her funeral was on an overcast day in Lincoln -- very typical by Nebraska winter standards. Cold, breezy, and barren -- the weather was a perfect symbol of our mood.

Grandma did not like winters. Her blood circulation was poor most of her life, and she was chilled easily. I'm not sure she would have been a fan of the weather at her funeral. "Brrrr!" she would have said. "Goodness!" Despite this, she loved Nebraska, and I have a feeling that would have won out here in the end.

The overcast, as it turns out, was a harbinger of much worse winter weather to come. By 23 December, the weather conditions deteriorated rapidly. Snow and sleet began breaking out in much of Nebraska, with freezing drizzle preceding it. Soon, the snow took over, and the winds began to howl. By Christmas Eve Day, blinding snow had encompassed much of the state, and actually much of the region. Travel was impossible. Walking down the streets was disorienting. The visibility was so bad, that I had trouble figuring out if I was on the street or off during an occasional walk into the displaced Arctic. During the night, the sky was a haunting orange color. The falling snow looked like asteroids from an Armageddon-like sky. It was stunningly beautiful, actually.

With horizontal snow and absolutely empty streets, Lincoln seemed like a ghost town on a day that normally is anything but. It was totally bizarre to see the streets of Lincoln completely empty during the day. And at night, the scene was just jaw-dropping. The orange glow overwhelmed all views. The snow was everywhere, and the streetlights were essentially useless. I was in complete awe.

Christmas was soon canceled. The interstates were closed and would remain so for a couple of days. No trip to Sioux Falls, no trip to my home town, nothing. My mother and I were stranded at her house. A few games of Scrabble, some television marathons, a little bit of cooking, and an exchange of gifts. Mostly watching the snow fall...and fall...and fall. Lincoln received a foot of snow, most of it blown for hours after it had ceased falling. We walked the streets on Christmas night. Amazingly, a couple of bars had opened. One or two customers per bar, drinking their holiday sorrows into oblivion. Mom and I walked our sorrows away. Piles of snow lined the streets, still largely empty. The only sounds were of wind and that stillness that only snow can make.

By the day after Christmas, some restaurants began to open. Mom was in the mood for soup, and we went to Panera Bread to satisfy her hunger. We didn't talk much there; instead, we listened to all of the families discussing their own level of Christmas disaster. One family was from Colorado Springs and had missed the birth of their grandchild. Another had missed two days of work and was worried about being fired. Mostly, families with cabin fever. Even in a restaurant, there was a sense of desperation. Everyone needed to leave somehow, somewhere. Mom and I? Maybe it was our genetic stubbornness of appreciating home, but we were happy to see life standing still for a little bit.

One thing you can count on once in a while in Lincoln... Slow down. Listen. Share. Life will return soon enough.

Stories from the Road -- Lombard Street

2011-02-02T22:39:00.004-06:00

What do you think of when someone mentions San Francisco?

Most immediately think of the classic Golden Gate Bridge. Really, who could blame them? Others think of Alcatraz, or dungeness crab, or those smelly seals on Fisherman's Wharf, or sourdough bread, or the absolutely incredible Asian food, or streetcars.

I think of Lombard Street. In my mind, there is nothing more quintessentially San Francisco than this strange concoction of road construction.

San Francisco is hilly. Very hilly. I don't much like running in the city. The steep hills just south of the bay are nightmares for the daily run. The scenery is great, but my heart can't take the punishment after so long. Even walking in various portions of the city is profoundly uncomfortable. I suppose that is a good thing, but sometimes I just want a quiet walk around the neighborhoods.

Lombard Street is San Francisco's quirky comment on the streets and hills it encompasses. It is, without a doubt, the most winding street in such a short distance I have ever encountered. Intentionally so! There is no need for it, other than it exists and it's something to discuss when you visit.

San Francisco is my favorite city in the West, although I've recently discovered the genuine wonder of Seattle. No, San Francisco is my kind of city. Big but small, one that loves food -- shoves it in your face. Its inhabitants speak their minds, sometimes crazily. Sometimes lazily. Sometimes loudly. Sometimes futilely. Doesn't matter. They talk, whether you want to listen or not. Thing is, they also listen and adapt. It is no coincidence that vegan restaurants sit right beside steakhouses. They may not always agree with each other, but they seem to find a way to live with each other. Variety is always underrated, and San Francisco is the haven of diversity.

The city also has a personality. A sense of humor. Perhaps tired of its own topography, Lombard Street was born. The street lasts for a couple of blocks, with cars humorously squeezing corner after corner. An occasional sharp brake or even a curb check. And I'm guessing most of these people are tourists. Surely no local would take such a ridiculously useless road. Then again, there was an instance when someone rolled down their window as I walked up the street yelling: "Go Giants!"

One thing I won't forget about Lombard Street: the views. You can see much of the city from here, and each hill proudly displays the unique housing and buildings that make each neighborhood wonderfully unique. And you don't have to worry about taking extra photos on the road. The next car coming won't hit you for quite a while. This is a street where the speed limit isn't a suggestion -- it's a requirement.

I've been to San Francisco twice now, but I feel a sense of home here. Any city with this quirky of an attitude gets a vote in my book. Mom kept asking me: "Why did they make this?" My reply: "Look around."

Stories from the Road -- Coral Gables, FL

2011-02-01T22:22:00.005-06:00

I have missed writing these blogs, so I return once again to tell some of my stories from the road.

---

I was in Florida one weekend in the fall of 2009 with a friend of mine, and she had gone to a football game with a friend of hers. This left me with an evening of exploring Coral Gables, a city that television actually gets right.

When I think Coral Gables, I immediately think of Dorothy, Blanche, Rose, and Sophia. The Golden Girls is set in this city, and the images of Coral Gables always consisted of warm-colored buildings and palm trees. I always thought this was a cliche, but it turns out that these two things are essentially Coral Gables. Not surprisingly, this made me a bit happy. Not often I was able to see the "tropical" architecture, natural and man-made. It turns out that I can no longer think of palm trees without seeing those buildings. They are forever intertwined.

Walking in the streets of Coral Gables, I immediately grasped two concepts central to life there. First, everything is always done outside. Eating indoors is what hosts and hostesses ask at restaurant entrances, not outdoors. Shopping in a store lasts for short periods of time. People tire of the air conditioning, artificial lighting, and echoes from the walls. Most restaurant seating features lawn chairs and umbrellas. To be honest, I could get used to this, but I wonder if this is true in August rather than October.

Second, the more, the merrier. Sure, there were a lot of couples, but there were even more groups. I would see groups of eight or more everywhere -- shopping, eating, walking, talking. The outsiders were the loners, and here I mean the "tourists", myself included. I'm afraid I stuck out like a sore thumb in Coral Gables, so worthy of mocking or those knowing glances from the locals.

My evening was spent walking around and around, watching a group of drunks falling into tables and a family of six order the exact same thing for each person. I loved it. People wear their hearts on their sleeves here, and are unabashed in their public behavior. Loud conversation is encouraged, and not distracting. After all, everything is outdoors -- public and open for discussion. Such a place would sound scary to me, but I found all of it to be strangely comforting. A small town attitude in the midst of an urban sprawl.

I noticed that most people walked as far away from roads as possible. One glimpse of the traffic, and you'd fall in line. Crazy. Speed limit signs aren't suggestions; they're eye sores. Pedestrians here are those empty trash bags in the open plains. Merely something to run over and watch swaying in the breeze behind you. It is best to look both ways before crossing the street, and then closing your eyes anyway when taking the leap.

When I walked into the more residential sections of Coral Gables, I was immediately struck at the familiarity of the scene. Although I didn't see the Golden Girls house, I constantly felt like I was walking down their neighborhood. The houses were beautiful -- typically long and single-storied. Colors were orange, yellow, maybe an occasional sky blue, often colors I couldn't see (probably red or various similar hues). The houses here looked happy, airy, warm, comforting. Just like the downtown area.

Going indoors in various places throughout the city was a letdown. Whereas the buildings on the outside looked colorful and inviting, the insides were dark, empty, and drab. Maybe the lack of people inside most stores and restaurants added to the mood.

I would quickly exit the buildings and go back outside. A slight breeze, the clanging dishes and silverware, and the recognizable laughter of group camaraderie. And those palm trees, happily sitting beside the next store. It was dark now, and I ordered an iced tea. Sat down at a table and listened. I could get used to this.

No Place Like Home -- Talimena Scenic Byway

2010-08-24T19:03:00.000-05:00

Recently, I wrote about Black Mesa, Oklahoma's tallest point and closest approach to the Rockies the state can muster. Today, I talk about a region far different than the barren (but gorgeous) wasteland that covers the western Panhandle. The Ouachita Mountains of southeast Oklahoma are a trip to a very different world, a world that seems impossible when the word "Oklahoma" is heard. Forest? Rolling hills? Green? These things do not fit the image most have in mind when thinking 'neath the Western sky.

The Ouachitas are actually my favorite part of the state. I love hiking here, and today, I will share the hiking experience that makes me laugh and cry at the same time. A companion on the trip refers to the hike as the "Death March", which is not an unfair description. I also gained a new appreciation for cell phones that day -- weird, given that the point of the hike (and hikes in general) was to avoid the outside world.

On a balmy January day, the leafless trees of the Ouachitas were graced by four rugged "old souls". One featured the distinctive yellow backpack, which (importantly) contained battery-less flashlights.

The hike was a round trip starting and ending at Cedar Lake and covering the steep side of Winding Stair Mountain. Winding Stair is a beautiful place, with nice vistas of the forested hills a permanent part of the trek.

Because of the distance from Norman, we left around sunrise but didn't arrive at the hike until 11 am. There were a couple of reasons for this -- specifically, a "missing" parking lot about a mile past the Cedar Lake trailhead. That extra mile, as it turns out, was very important. We ended up parking near Cedar Lake and began the walk past the trailhead. As it turned out, however, we lost the main trail and headed down a "tributary" instead. Our suspicions increased when we didn't reach the road with the "missing parking lot". As a result, we backtracked, losing well over 30 minutes on the hike. This was on top of the 30+ minutes to traverse the main trail that we were not expecting to do. So, we essentially began our planned hike well after noon. As this was January, the 10-mile hike was to be complete in about five hours.

Perhaps you know where this is going by now. That makes you smarter than the fo--, nah, it makes you smarter than just me. At 3:30, we reached the ridge top after a challenging trek up the hillside. The views were really great for Oklahoma standards, and having hiked in the area since then, I can assure you that this is must-see territory for hikers in the state. Even more beautiful in the fall. By this point, I was slightly ahead of the other three -- partly to see how far we had to go and partly to allow for more frequent stops to take in the views. At nearly 4 pm, the four of us were on the ridge -- a part of a lengthy trail near Talimena Scenic Byway. We hit this area for a while, seeing a nice fountain and nearly spraining ankles on rocks gracing the trek.

The hike began downward after a mile on the ridge, and the time was now 4:30 pm. The sun was ominously dimming in the quickly disappearing daylight. Apparently, it was at this point when I was certain we were in trouble. I had suspected it before reaching the ridge, but I never passed stage one (denial) in the five steps of stupidity.

The next hour was a race against time, and trust me when I say we were the Michigan Wolverines against the Appalachian State Mountaineers. Soon enough, and well before the end of the trail, we reached darkness. And battery-less flashlights.

The idea was to use the light of our cell phones to see the white blazes on the trees that marked the trail. It worked, but it was infuriatingly slow work. Everyone was tired, and I was impatient. At one point, I almost decided to dart off toward the sound of a highway -- call it a "Darwin is knocking" moment. The plan was working, though slowly. At one point, however, one of my fellow victims wondered if his camera battery would work in one of my flashlights.

Success! The rest of the way was easy breezy to the road with the missing parking lot. Two hours of darkness had passed. After cheers that would make Bring It On viewers chuckle, and a few kisses of the pavement, we walked slowly along the road to the Cedar Lake turnoff. After about another hour, strained ankles and deflated egos in tow, we made it to the car.

We sped off to Krebs, in time for a great meal behind closed doors -- to the gratefulness of the other customers in the restaurant. Not much talking here -- a lot of chewing, though.

Moral of the story? For great food, eat in Krebs. Or something.

---

The photos below are from a trip to Talimena Scenic Byway in May 2009.

The fountain

Cedar Lake

Stories from the Road -- Tuolumne Meadows

2010-08-21T18:23:00.001-05:00

Tioga Road is an amazing drive in an area of spectacular natural beauty. Everyone talks about Yosemite Valley at the much beloved Yosemite National Park. I wonder why we don't hear about Tioga Road as much. In many ways, I find this part of the park more beautiful, at times even breathtaking.

Tuolumne Meadows is a flatter section of Tioga Road just west of the pass and astounding Ellery Lake. The meadows are a natural "breather", a way of calming down after the jaw-dropping scenery in the Sierras. If I had been there only a couple weeks later, the swampy snowmelt would have been replaced by vibrant wildflowers and an assortment of hungry wildlife.

Instead, remnant brown shrubs and grass underneath puddles of frigid water cover the landscape. In fact, the road had been opened merely days before we drove through it. The snowbanks on the side of the road just before the meadows were a clear signal of that.

The sun was close to setting by this time, giving the land a goldish brown glow. The mountains and granite rocks reflected the sunlight as if they were on fire. In many ways, it was just as beautiful as the mountains we had just driven through.

What I've noticed about the mountains is that you can't appreciate them without the flat land surrounding them or intermixing with them. A land full of mountains is gorgeous, for sure, but my eyes often are caught up on the abrupt shifts in the slope of terrain. Beautiful valleys among two ridges are just as beautiful. A large plateau with the hazy peaks in the background -- stunning. The Tuolumne Meadows are much the same -- a natural flatbed underneath the distant snow-covered peaks. Nature provides its own auditorium -- and the mountains are the stage.

My mother was with me on this trip, and I honestly can't remember a word being spoken during our drive on this road. I think I was in too much shock. When you're in places this beautiful, nature does the talking. And I -- well, I listen.

Places like this also make me think about how short our time is with nature. If we're lucky, we see only a small glimpse of a place. We don't see how a place changes through the day, month, year, years. I know that the meadows will fill with flowers for a couple months, wildlife swarming the area, eating everything that smells good for miles. Then, the flowers will slowly disappear, clouds will reappear, and snow will begin to fall again. The ground becomes brown, and the snow soon piles up. The cycle of life in the meadows has to be astounding to see, and yet I only saw a few moments of one day.

Often, that leaves me a little dissatisfied. I mean, how awesome would it be to watch this annual cycle of life -- even once. What you have to remember as a traveler is that a place that you visit will never look exactly the same ever again. The world is full of "fingerprint moments". Think of how lucky you are to see that fingerprint, to have it. No one else will. That is the ultimate traveling souvenir. These photos are merely a reminder of that fingerprint -- but are worthy enough of sharing.

Ellery Lake

Tuolumne Meadows

Pictures from the Road -- Beacons of Light

2010-08-10T20:53:00.000-05:00

My love of lighthouses is without bound.

Tybee Island Light -- GA

Cape Meares Light -- OR

Closeup of Cape Meares Light

Alcatraz Light -- CA

Chatham Light -- MA

Nauset Light -- MA

Three Sisters -- MA

Highland Light -- MA

Wood's End Light -- MA

West Chop Light -- MA

Edgartown Light -- MA

Nobska Light -- MA

Brant Point Light -- MA

Sankaty Head Light -- MA

Upcoming: Stories from Atlanta, GA; Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite; Ottawa, ON; and the other Golden Gate Bridge. No Place Like Home visits Talimena Scenic Byway.

Stories from the Road -- Lake Tahoe

2010-08-01T23:59:00.001-05:00

There are certain words that, when spoken, elicit perfect happiness. These words are different for each person, but there are some unanimous favorites. For Americans, two of these are "Lake Tahoe". Everyone who has been here knows why. The lake is stunningly beautiful. Mountains surround the lake, often snow-capped. The lake itself is so clear, so shiny blue -- one almost involuntarily thinks of the Caribbean waters of the Grenadines.

My first view of the lake was just past Mount Rose on a highway traversing the mountains west of Reno. The lake shows itself as a large piece of blue glass. The mountains and trees are a perfect canvas for the first view. There is no mistaking that this is a mountain lake, but my previous experiences with mountain lakes led me to underestimate, substantially, the size of Tahoe. The lake is large and as beautiful as any I have ever seen.

On my trip to Lake Tahoe last year, I learned just how much my mother likes lakes. I knew she liked them, but I had no idea how much she could like them. As we approached the lakeshore, she quickly jumped out of the car and headed toward the rocky shoreline like a giddy child. And then she just stared. No wonder I like the water so much.

Mom had been to Tahoe before and couldn't wait to return. She had mentioned the blue color of the lake, but my imagination was no match for the actual confrontation. The water is absurdly blue and, did I mention clear? You could see the bottom of the lake well offshore, despite its quickly deepening trend. The oscillating light and dark of the waves reflected off the lake bottom's rocks was hypnotizing. We spent nearly an hour just looking out in total silence, completely in awe.

Tahoe is a recreational lake. Water skiing, boating, fishing, paragliding, kite-flying, sand volleyball, kayaking -- it's all here. The water was dotted with people of all kinds, soaking up the sun and sky. Normally, this would diminish my experience at a mountain lake, but at Tahoe, it only adds to it. It doesn't make sense to have such a beautiful lake unappreciated by the masses -- wouldn't be right.

Tahoe was packed on the Saturday we visited -- Memorial Weekend 2009. The weather was perfect -- sunny and warm but not hot. Only a small breeze. It was also one of the few places I have been in which everyone had a smile. The magic of Tahoe is unavoidable -- you can't fight it. The word paradise is overused, but in mainland America, there are not many competitors with this place. I can only imagine what this place is like in the winter. I suspect my imagination will be no match for the real thing again.

After all, this is Lake Tahoe. Imagination is not required.

Stories from the Road -- Silver Spring, MD

2010-07-31T23:04:00.000-05:00

Having lived in Silver Spring for a year, I have many stories from this place. A common theme of these stories is that I loved living here. My first year of true work, and my first year of starting out completely on my own. This was the year I grew up -- finally.

One of my favorite memories of Silver Spring is the bus ride. I've discussed using the Metro before -- one of the best, smoothest, most convenient public transportation systems in the country. Of course, I did not live next to a Metro station. Driving to it was possible, but why do it in an urban area full of terrible drivers when a bus conveniently stops at your apartment complex? Every morning before work, I waited at the bus stop next to my apartment wondering what new experience was to come on the 20-minute ride to work.

One thing you can expect in Silver Spring is an encounter with a drunk person. Public intoxication is not a crime -- it's a rite of passage here. Walking after dark in Silver Spring is an invitation for a bottle of vodka and a story from a stranger. And, like the sober companions needing a lift to far-away destinations, drunk people need public transportation, too.

On one bus ride from work to home, a very drunk man entered the bus and immediately began talking -- to me. I was an obvious target, as I was sitting near the front of the bus and happened to be alone. The man sat across from me and began spouting genuine nonsense as soon as the bus started.

At first, I didn't even know he was talking to me. He wasn't looking directly at me, and the gibberish was not exactly informing me that I was his intended listening target. Quickly, his voice rose in volume, and he began to glare at me rather menacingly. Soon, he started to shout. Mind you, absolutely nothing was coherent. The only meaningful material to be understood was whether he was asking a question or not.

The questions were dreadful, as I had no idea what he was saying and he apparently expected me to answer them. Responding "What?" over and over again became increasingly frustrating for the man, and his tone became quite hostile. He began asking questions without waiting for answers (not that I would be able to anyway). Slowly, conversations from other passengers ceased, and the only one talking in the bus was the inebriated man. He talked to no one else.

My willingness to respond to anything he said was wearing off fast, which was problematic, as the angry tone of the individual was becoming rather alarming. It was at this point that I had noticed we had not moved from the latest bus stop in quite some time. Other passengers were beginning to whisper to each other, and I was staring straight at the man. Although he was too intoxicated and too focused on trying to get me to say -- who knows what -- to notice the lengthy stop, I took no chances and kept him from looking around.

This was somewhat risky, as my complete befuddlement at his dialogue was obviously bothering him. However, I suspected that if he noticed the lengthy stop, that would irritate him more. As such, it was a race against time. The other passengers were squirming. The bus driver was not so quiet in responding to a dispatcher. And I stared straight at the sloshed man.

Ten minutes later ---

A policeman entered the bus. He said nothing, as the distilled-enough individual was, by this point, yelling venomously. He grabbed the man very forcefully, almost humorously so. The man didn't seem to notice, but changed his listening target to the officer. They both left the bus, and the man was yelling very loudly on the sidewalk. The bus then departed, with the bus driver saying nothing. The other passengers applauded. And I? Well, I sighed a little, and looked outside. A couple of passengers told me "Good job" and such. All I could muster was a weak nod. For some reason, talking didn't interest me much at that point.

As we approached my stop, I pulled the cord. I got up to leave, and I told the bus driver "Thank you". He told me it was the second time that happened this week. I nodded, gave him a nice tip, and left the bus. I looked over at the bench and knew that the wait the next morning would be a particularly long one...

Stories from the Road -- The Georgia Aquarium

2010-07-31T22:51:00.003-05:00

It seems I always write about how much I love places -- or at least write about the positive things in questionable places. This makes sense, because we generally tend to travel to places that we believe we will like.

Unfortunately, with conferences, you do not have the power to control where you travel. So it is with Atlanta.

Atlanta, America's answer for the generic big, ugly, cold (in feeling, not in climate), boring city. I try to find the good things about a place, but Atlanta does not have very many of them. The airport? A disaster area. The downtown? Completely uninteresting. The traffic? Self-mutilation (or worse). The food? Greasy fast food does not make me a fan.

I've known a lot of people who have lived in Atlanta at one time in their lives. Many of them rave about it. The ramblin' wreck of Georgia Tech (read that as you like). Home of the Falcons. The Falcons! We have a dome. A nice dome.

Sorry, I'm not buying it. If you have nice property you'd like to "sell", at least tell me it's in an exotic location. Atlanta? No thanks.

My question is...who vacations to Atlanta? And better still...why? If you have family in Atlanta, why don't you meet them somewhere cooler? Savannah isn't that far away. Chattanooga is an easy drive on 75. Charlotte is just a half-day's drive on 85. There are mountains nearby. Nice ones!

The American Meteorological Society, in all of its wisdom, likes to have the Annual Meeting here. So it was in 2010. I generally don't look forward to this conference anyway. My grant sure doesn't like the bill, and I get so little out of it science-wise -- that I tend to look forward to the extracurricular activities far more than the actual reason for being there. Perhaps one day I'll write a rant on the AMS. I've had one coming for a while -- maybe the time is coming. I digress...

One of the extracurricular activities involved (free) dinner (and drinks) at the Georgia Aquarium. This was easily my favorite experience during my stay in Atlanta -- but even this was a letdown. Perhaps my pictures from the aquarium express my indifferent mood. That's how I interpret them.

The aquarium was dark -- darker than usual for aquariums. It was after hours for the place, and not all of the exhibits were open. Not all of the lights were on. Fair enough. As it turns out, the photos I took here perfectly captured my mood of Atlanta. Drab, dull, boring. Despite the cool aquatic life I was seeing. Steve Zissou would have had a ball here. Maybe the fish would have been more cartoonish, but I could see him staring at a fish that killed his friend -- and he would say, "Wow."

Actually, the aquarium was beautiful. It's hard not to just stare at all of the life, mouth ajar, music filling your ears with the appropriate ambient soundtrack. But the dark silhouettes against a monochromatic blue backdrop were enough for me to remember it wasn't that much different outside of the aquarium. And some of the fish were sharks...

On the last night of my stay there, the hotel room window was open and the random sounds of city life were heard endlessly. It was relatively cool that night, and a breeze blew into the room. That is a favorite memory of the place. Why? Because I didn't see the streets, the buildings, the cars, the people. I imagined some place better.

Stories from the Road -- Bonneville, OR

2010-07-27T22:10:00.000-05:00

Oregon is such a beautiful state.

I first entered Oregon on I-84 from Idaho. I was in awe right from the start, with the dry, rolling terrain following the road for miles. I've always liked the look of hills without trees. For some reason, they seem more formidable to me. And the grass was brownish in color. It seems that when everyone thinks of Oregon, they think of rain forests -- the endless onslaught of rain coming in from the sea. Fog hanging on to the coastal hills, like a comforting blanket. It's easy to forget the open steppes and high-rising treeless mountains to the east.

Experiencing Oregon by driving through it is the way to do it. Seeing the land slowly become more lush, the trees thicker and thicker, the Columbia River wider and wider -- it's a gradual change, but an unmistakable one. Pay attention, and you notice the trees change, and with it, the wildlife. I was lucky enough to drive through here when the weather seemed to match the changes in habitat. As the rain forests began to appear near and west of The Dalles, a low stratus deck hung to the crests. A subtle mist could be felt as I stepped outside. Just miles to the east, the sun was shining and the temperatures were soaring.

The town of Bonneville is right along the Columbia River west of The Dalles. There is a scenic dam here, with a fishery and a bridge that caught my interest. Technically, the bridge is located in Cascade Locks -- but to me, the memory of the dam is forever intertwined with the Bridge of the Gods.

The reason this is the case (aside from their close proximity) is that everything seemed so lush and vibrant here. The grass was thick, the trees were infinite, and the hills added a sense of enormity to everything. By this point, the Columbia River begins to form the gorge, which becomes even more pronounced as it heads west to Portland.

Unquestionably, there is a sense that the world closes in on you as you head farther downstream, deeper into the gorge. A sort of natural claustrophobia is created, as the trees approach the river, the hills become higher, and the river widens. It's a beautiful squeeze play for drivers along the route.

The sound of the spillway at the Bonneville Dam is overwhelming, but away from the dam, there is nothing. No sound. The wind was nonexistent, and the mist silently rested upon anything everywhere. This was my first rain forest experience, which would only become more and more pronounced after our stop in Bonneville. Nevertheless, it was here that I realized that all of the stereotypes of rain forests were true. It was almost so green that even I could see it.

I spent a lovely couple of hours at the hatchery and the dam -- watching little kids point out the newest fish seen behind the glass. I always find it somewhat disconcerting that I cannot hear the sounds of water behind the glass. It adds a bit of mystery to it. It's like watching a film, in which the sound is suddenly taken out. Often, a director will choose slow motion during these scenes. In hatcheries and aquariums, it is always involuntary for me to do the same. Everything is slower, more amplified. A subtle shift in direction of the fish is immediately eye-catching.

And then, looking at the dam, the water turns into a blur. All of a sudden, the only sense I can remember is sound. The sound of water falling furiously into the river below -- the drops becoming one white rush -- indistinguishable from all of the others.

A curious combination -- both enhancing one sense at the expense of the rest. And in the rain forest of northwest Oregon, it makes perfect sense. With the world seemingly caving in on you, everything slows down. It's a good chance to observe what we commonly miss and frequently drive through -- at our ignorant misfortune.

I-84 in eastern Oregon

Columbia River just west of The Dalles

Bridge of the Gods

Cascade Locks

Cascade Locks and the Bridge of the Gods

Bonneville Dam

Near the fishery/hatchery

A stream just south of Columbia River in Bonneville

Bridge for the train in Bonneville

The hatchery in Bonneville

No Place Like Home -- Black Mesa, OK

2010-07-21T16:27:00.002-05:00

I'm on the move starting tomorrow and will not be writing entries for the rest of the week.

---

Black Mesa is as far away from home in the state of Oklahoma as I can get. It has characteristics of the Oklahoma I have come to know, but its views hold promise for what lies just beyond the border. Black Mesa is a tease for the weary soul longing for changing terrain -- yearning for something different.

A theme of Oklahoma that I will probably harp on time after time is its vastness. Everything is big here...everything. With endless horizons and an overwhelming sky, Oklahoma is a place that reminds you very quickly how totally insignificant you are. Living here is not far from surviving. Plant life in the panhandle is sparse and tough -- painful to the touch and ugly to the lovers of forests. It is breathtaking in its harshness.

One thing I have always believed is that, most of the time, the more unlivable the conditions of a place, the more beautiful it is. The cacti of Arizona, the vast sand dunes of the Sahara, the permafrost of Alaska's North Slope, and the lonely snow of Antarctica -- all are seen as scary but beautiful places. Only the strong survive here, and we find the plants, animals, even people of these places, completely mesmerizing.

In many ways, Oklahoma is not that much different. The harsh climate, never-ending winds, insanely dry air from the deserts and the insanely moist air from the Gulf of Mexico -- combine to make Oklahoma a violently evolving terrestrial wasteland. In the panhandle, where there is more dry than moist, the plant life is unmistakably arid in origin. The animals are few and far between. Lizards and snakes crawl hurriedly across the landscape, and the brushy cactus whispers harshly in the gusts.

The sky is unrelenting. It pierces the skin quickly and furiously. Water looks strikingly beautiful here, because of its scarceness. I've never seen a sky match so beautifully with the landscape below than in the Oklahoma Panhandle.

A walk to Black Mesa in the summer of 2009 was one of my favorite memories of Oklahoma. It was hot. Very hot. The sun blasted through the high clouds and contrails as if they were not even there. The smell was of dirt and dung...cow dung, to be exact. And there were cows. Annoyingly, they were especially numerous at our destination: the highest point in Oklahoma. It has a statue and everything. Not that we'd know, since a few shall we say protective bulls were keeping it all to themselves.

It turns out, as in most things that our imaginations allow for, that the cows were a perfect metaphor for Black Mesa -- Oklahoma itself. At times, humans are not at the top. No, I wasn't worried the cows would eat us -- or even harm us. Then again, there's no reason to give them a reason to harm me. The cattle are big in Oklahoma too.

My friend Bryan and I saw the highest point in Oklahoma -- from a distance. We saw a few mesas -- another "big" thing in this state. We saw lonely windmills, mooing cows, slithering snakes, and flowers in cacti. Oklahoma isn't paradise, but then again, it doesn't have to be.

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After about a week's hiatus, I'll return with stories from Bonneville, OR; Lake Tahoe; Atlanta, GA; and Silver Spring, MD.

Stories from the Road -- South Beach, FL

2010-07-19T21:46:00.001-05:00

I've only been to Florida twice, and given my love for traveling, oceans, and thunderstorms, I find this completely embarrassing. What's worse, my two trips to Florida are most remembered for the beds I slept in. I will discuss the second trip's "bed to remember" presently.

I went with Somer to Miami in the fall of 2009, as she attended the University of Miami as an undergrad and OU was playing Miami that weekend. One view of the city at night is all you need to love this place, and it only gets better in the daytime. The palm trees are everywhere, the glorious white sand almost blinds the eyes, and the puffy cumulus clouds are a certainty by early afternoon. You can't help but catch yourself hearing the ocean, whether you're actually in sonic range or not. Even the traffic sounds like the ocean...

So, yes, I loved Miami, but I'm telling a story about a bed. Somer's college friend Chris was gracious enough to let us both stay in his apartment for the duration of our stay. It was a nice apartment -- very nice. Except for one thing, reminiscent of Martin Crane's ugly chair in the television show Frasier. The second bedroom, which basically was used as a study, had a bed that my back will remember for the rest of my days. I am convinced that this mattress is the reason there are all of these commercials promoting the absorbent impacts of a jumping child or a brick. That is, this mattress is the antithesis of the advertised no-impact bedding.

Because of the setup of the room (no carpet, little floor space), Somer and I were forced to sleep on this mattress-on-a-shingle. Any movement -- anything -- from tossing and turning to using the television remote control resulted in a shock wave on this thing. After several doses of Dramamine, the inevitable drowsiness was just enough to overcome the high surf on this non-waterbed. Several games of Sudoku were played, and the scribbling numbers made the game nearly impossible to complete after a few tiles were filled.

By the final night in town, I was a sleepless wreck. After enjoying a beautiful day in pristine South Beach, the repetitive sounds of ocean waves crashing to shore were too much for me to fight. This resulted in one of those rare instances where the position I fell asleep in was the position I remained in for the entire night. The crater that formed on the bed was a sight to behold -- my body's vengeful retaliation for the previous nights' insomnia. Never had I scorned the thought of a waterbed so much.

As much as I loathe that bed, the stay in south Florida was fantastic, despite the oppressive humidity. As I went outside for the final time in Miami, I could hear the imaginary ocean again. Roaring cars, the breeze in the palm trees -- replaced, by the smell and desire of the sea. It constantly calls you to the beach, and when you're away, it relentlessly beckons you to return. I would in an instant, even if I had to sleep on that damn thing again.

No Place Like Home -- 'Neath the Western Sky

2010-07-17T14:31:00.001-05:00

I'm starting a new series on the blog focusing on the place in which I am currently living. For now, that means Oklahoma, though the jury is still out on where it will be a year from now. After rummaging through a number of titles for the series of blog posts, I decided to embrace the cliche. There is, after all, no place like home -- no matter where you are and how long you live there.

It's what I tell myself about Oklahoma and what I tried to convince myself of for 18 years in northeast Nebraska.

Actually, it takes very little convincing. For example, the sky in Oklahoma is enough evidence that this is a place unlike any other. It is true that the sky is always telling you something, but in Oklahoma, it seems as if the sky is a canvas to an invisible painter. Whether the artist is a master of dada or impressionism, I don't know. It seems to depend on the day -- maybe the artist is temperamental.

Rarely a day goes by when I don't see a new picture of the Oklahoma sky. A meteorologist capturing the latest sunset, a traveler joining the deep blue sky with the endless landscape, a farmer taking a photo of a decaying barn underneath bubbling cumulus. As an extremely amateur photographer, a couple of years in Oklahoma has taught me to always make the sky a part of the image. Whether or not my imagination is at play here, the same land always looks different on a daily basis here. The soil absorbs the light a little differently, the lake twinkles the sunlight slightly differently.

To experience Oklahoma requires looking upward as well as outward. Living here gives you an appreciation of the word vast. Nothing is small here -- sweeping horizons, gusty winds, and reverberating echoes of history. It is a common theme of Westerns that all of the characters are ants in a large, unforgiving world. The climate is harsh, and the land makes no mistake about it.

Oklahoma is not a scenic wonderland, but there is beauty here. There is something to be said for the empty land and the unrelenting sky. It is not everyone's paradise -- certainly not mine -- but it is often worthy of photographing. Sometimes, it's even worth calling home.

Cedar Lake -- May 2009

The Wichitas -- February 2009

Mt. Scott -- February 2009

Black Mesa -- June 2009

Talimena Scenic Byway -- May 2009

Norman -- May 2009

Elk City -- April 2009

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Check out my sister's latest blog entry on bird watching in Belize!

Stories from the Road -- Winthrop, WA

2010-07-15T18:47:00.001-05:00

From my discussions of traveling, I have observed that most people associate a trip with something simple and sometimes seemingly unrelated to it -- perhaps a song, a memory, a color, a movie. For example, when I was eating at a restaurant on Hyannis Harbor in Massachusetts, I heard the song "Viva La Vida" from Coldplay and have since associated that trip with that song. The track "Fortress of Solitude" from the soundtrack of the movie Superman reminds me of Lake Superior, as that was the song I was listening to at the time I first saw it. Anthony Bourdain associated Brittany with the color blue, whereas that color reminds me of the Pacific Coast Highway (PCH).

Typically, the association matches our impression of the place. As my favorite color is blue, you can imagine how much I liked PCH. I also like "Viva La Vida" -- perhaps to unhealthy levels. I associate New Jersey with the color orange -- my least favorite color. Wanna know what my opinion of New Jersey is? Read about my rating of their license plate in the Facebook archives -- though I think the association of New Jersey with urine and jaundice may be (was) more appropriate.

For my trip to Washington in 2008, I think of the movie My Darling Clementine. For those familiar with the film, this may startle you. That movie was set nowhere near Winthrop, an isolated and beautiful town just east of the Cascades in north-central Washington. However, after watching the film, I kept thinking about the small-town streets of Winthrop, with buildings looking like they have been untouched since the 1800s. I imagine the character of many a man in the town similar to Henry Fonda's Wyatt Earp. A man of concise words and admirable actions, wearing his heart on his sleeve and with eyes that could see through a weaker man's skin.

For Mom and I, Winthrop was a rest stop on a long day of driving. We started the morning in beautiful Burlington, on the windward side of the Cascades. By afternoon, we had driven through glorious Washington Pass, one of the best stretches of highway in the country. We would end the day in Idaho after passing Spokane. Winthrop was an oasis of rest for two weary but very satisfied travelers.

In many ways, that is the setting of My Darling Clementine -- set in the vast desert of the Southwest just as civilization was developing. I think of Earp dancing in public with his new love interest, and the rest of town clapping their hands in joyous celebration. It reminds me of this place -- with the smiles of kids devouring their ice cream cones, parents elated that their kids aren't making noise, and travelers like us sighing with relief at the sight of an iced tea hitting the wooden table with the local waiter charm.

A river rushes through Winthrop, giving the westward-bound traveler all the necessary foreshadows of mountain scenery. For me, it was a reminder that a beautiful stretch of land was in my recent past. As I ate a sandwich and fries at a restaurant that hadn't much changed since the 1950s, I looked outside the curtained windows. I heard someone yelling "Hello!" to another. The restaurant's dog raised its head with only lackadaisical curiosity. I stirred my iced tea, cheerfully listening to the ice rotating on the sides of the large glass.

There's a beautiful scene in My Darling Clementine where Wyatt and his brothers sit reclined on a porch just before church. If ever there was an image to associate with Winthrop, this was it. Relaxed, friendly, old-fashioned, western.

Mountains near Washington Pass

A beautiful valley just west of Winthrop

Winthrop, WA

"The" intersection of Winthrop

A typical downtown visual

Mom resting in a Winthrop diner

The river in town

Bridge on east side of Winthrop

Pictures from the Road -- Martha's Vineyard

2010-07-13T11:41:00.001-05:00

More pictures from my trip to Cape Cod with Mom earlier this summer...

Later this week, I'll have stories from the road from South Beach, FL, and Winthrop, WA.

View from the ferry in Wood's Hole on mainland Cape Cod

Entering Vineyard Haven

Edgartown housing

Edgartown neighborhood

Edgartown Light

Ferries to Chappaquiddick Island

Oak Bluffs

Gingerbread cottages in Oak Bluffs

West Chop Light

More cottages in Oak Bluffs

Mom overlooking Martha's Vineyard

A common sight on the island

Pictures from the Road -- My Friends Traveled the West, and All They Gave Me Were These Lousy Pictures

2010-07-12T17:36:00.000-05:00

In celebration of this year's R&R with Somer and friends, here are some pictures of the Ericksons the last two years in the West. Posted without permission...

Stories from the Road -- Mount Rushmore National Monument

2010-06-29T21:29:00.000-05:00

It seems that every American, at some point in his/her life, visits Mount Rushmore. Maybe it is patriotism, maybe it is a desire to visit tourist destinations, a goal to see every national park site, etc. And it seems that every American loves the place. Indeed, it is impressive. Four giant, well-sculpted faces on the side of a mountain. Four American Presidents by which all others are compared. The row of flags as you walk toward the monument enhances the patriotic experience. There is a sense of pride here, a sense of unyielding respect.

When I visited the site in 2009, a friend had asked me what my feelings were of the monument. She had asked this with something specifically in mind -- is the beauty of something that is crafted by man worth the modification to the natural environment? In other words, why permanently change the landscape to sculpt images of four people respected by a country?

I can imagine a lot of people would scoff at such a question, but it is a fair one. Think about it. Despite the stunning artistic achievement here, what purpose does it really serve? Not much, really. And it sure did change the landscape -- certainly at some cost to area wildlife.

I marvel at man-made achievements all the time -- spectacular bridges, towering lighthouses, tall buildings, old churches, gargantuan dams. Nearly all come at a cost to the environment in some way.

History reveals that civilizations modified their world in dramatic ways. One only needs to think of the ancient Egyptians and their towering pyramids for an example. These places are tourist lightning rods presently. There's a reason there are natural and man-made wonders of the world. People like blockbusters of the terrestrial world. The Hoover Dam, the Golden Gate Bridge, the Great Wall of China, the Statue of Liberty, the Leaning Tower of Pisa...

I'm not sure if Mount Rushmore should be in a list with the man-made wonders listed above (maybe the Leaning Tower), but it is an astonishing achievement. I'm not sure I'd recommend destroying more mountainsides for similar monuments of idolization.

Then again, the tourists flock here, and parents buy kids books on Presidents and history. Sounds like a purpose I can get behind.

Pictures from the Road -- Two if by Sea

2010-06-29T00:12:00.000-05:00

I believe it is important that this country sail and not lie still in the harbor.

JFK Library

Fanueil Hall Marketplace

Beacon Hill

Granary Cemetery

The Old State House

Plymouth Harbor

The JFK Memorial in Hyannis

Chatham Light

Nauset Light

(Two of the) Three Sisters

Nauset Light Beach

Highland (Cape Cod) Light

Pictures from the Road -- I Never Sang for My Father

2010-06-15T18:26:00.000-05:00

As I will be vacationing for much of the next two weeks, thought I would submit a Father's Day entry in the "Pictures of the Road" series. Dad's home and favorite location is Table Rock Lake and surrounding areas, so these photos show a few of his go-to spots.

The Roaring River Spring

Father's favorite hatchery -- Roaring River State Park

A sky view of the hatchery

The Shell Knob Bridge over Table Rock Lake

A common view from his boat

Looking up in his front yard.

His balcony view -- bird's eye.

His favorite lake -- Table Rock

Looking for an eagle soaring over the dam.

A favorite place to shop -- Branson, MO

Stories from the Road -- Kansas City, MO

2010-06-15T01:16:00.001-05:00

Kansas City brings back wonderful memories of childhood. I met one of my closest friends here, if only briefly. I spent many hours waiting for the Country Club Plaza trolley with my grandmother, who was healthy at the time. I've spent still more hours sitting in the Crown Center lobby, finishing a crossword puzzle with Mom. We would take walks up and down the plaza, staring at the wonderful buildings lit up on a cold December night. I would get a Mushroom and Swiss burger at the Gran Falloon, typically after a day of college football airing through the speakers of shops we would go in and out of.

I remember staying in a hotel near the airport, and a severe storm hit while I was swimming in the pool. I was floating on the water, looking up at the (window) ceiling -- seeing lightning streak across the sky. I remember seeing the model trains go in circles near the Halls, and the pedestrian bridge linking us from Crown Center to the Hilton.

As you can imagine, with so many fond memories of the place, visiting here is always a highlight for me. Nearly always, we go to the same places. The Westin. Union Station. The Country Club Plaza. The WWI Memorial. A Royals baseball game.

My favorite place in KC is Union Station. Recently, a pedestrian bridge was built between the Westin and the spectacular train station. The building is, essentially, one very large room -- I can imagine any famous movie scene filmed here, with people standing small in a grand hall. You can hear your shoes echo on the walls.

I can see the clock silently tick-tocking away above the hall. I wonder if it silently judges as Mom gets her new pennies. It seems to stare back indifferently when ever I look back up at it. I must look like an ant from up there.

The reason I like Union Station is that it is one of the few places I appreciate purely for the architecture. The ceiling is extravagant, the floors perfectly waxed, and the building itself big and bold. You know immediately what the building is and what purpose it serves.

The walk from the Westin to Union Station is called "The Link" and is an extension of the connection from the Westin to the Hilton. At night, the street is aglow from the lights, with the lanes moving unnervingly as the cars drive by silently underneath. White noise from the vents dominates the ears, making you imagine the sounds associated with the moving lights. Absolutely surreal.

Equally mesmerizing is the walk to the World War I Memorial, which sits on a hill and allows for long, unabridged views of the city. Kansas City is an ugly downtown, run-down, unoriginal, purely mechanical. In many ways, very Midwestern. Sort of the "Rust Belt of the West". I like it that way -- no glamor, no frills.

I remember a summer long ago when I was scorched with three of my friends at Oceans of Fun. Four teenagers, feeling invincible, burned by the invisible rays. We never thought about it, and we paid the price. And yet, it is a fond memory. Kansas City is like this. You think you should hate it -- but once you dig in, it's a place that fills your head with wonderful memories instead.

A Streetcar Named Desire -- fun little diner in the Crown Center

The Westin Crown Center lobby

Union Station -- from The Link

Inside Union Station

Union Station and KC fountains

View from the WWI Memorial

WWI Memorial

A trolley!

The Country Club Plaza

Pictures from the Road -- Flag Day

2010-06-13T14:55:00.000-05:00

Mount Rushmore, SD

Monterey, CA

Tybee Island, GA

Savannah, GA

Memphis, TN

Smyrna, TN

Royal Gorge, CO

Winthrop, WA

Winthrop, WA

New Orleans, LA

North Cascades National Park, WA

Table Rock Lake, MO

Branson, MO

Stories from the Road -- Kings Canyon National Park

2010-06-13T14:51:00.000-05:00

My most pleasant surprise of the trip to California last year was the relatively unknown Kings Canyon National Park. Somewhat overshadowed by Sequoia National Park to its south and Yosemite National Park to its north, Kings Canyon is a joy just waiting to be discovered.

Most national parks require a particular type of exploring. For example, Hot Springs National Park requires a stroll down a street in town. Rocky Mountain National Park requires hiking. Yosemite National Park is enhanced by a picnic-like activity. Everglades National Park promotes recreation.

Kings Canyon is no different. Kings Canyon requires driving. Essentially, a trip to Kings Canyon involves going in and going out via a winding, gorgeously scenic drive into a deep canyon with raging water. My kind of place.

I visited Kings Canyon in 2009 with my mother, and this was after a long two days at Yosemite. Our first day at Yosemite was glorious, with a beautiful mountain drive through the Sierras and Tioga Pass. Our second day was a stunning but extremely stressful day in Yosemite Valley -- on its busiest day of the year (the Sunday of Memorial Day weekend). Both days required driving after dark out of the park, which is thoroughly exhausting work. Needless to say, our emotions were "on edge". Unfortunately, Ma and I had two major blowouts during the day. Our first was near Grizzly Falls, after Mom complained one too many times about the speed of my driving. Not sure why a couple (literally, 2) miles per hour above the speed limit was so problematic for her, except that both of us were slightly edgy from the exhausting "Chad-cation" of the previous two days.

Nevertheless, nothing cures a fight like nature. And Grizzly Falls was masterful at mending fences. Waterfalls are of various types: the horsetail, the cascade, the stair-step, the trickle, etc. Grizzly could be described as the "falling film" type, with a thin layer of water seeping down the slope in a hypnotically continuous motion. Mom would finally allow me to take pictures near her, and soon we were sighing in agreement.

If Grizzly is the falling film, Roaring River Falls is the gusher. The water furiously boils at the base of this instant classic, and the color of the water only magnifies the experience. The setting of the waterfall could not be more perfect. Well within the canyon, the mountains soar above with water seeping down the gorges in furious splendor. All that can be heard is the roar of colliding water. All that can be smelled is the stubborn plant life surviving in this harsh climate. Only the bravest of life live in this place, and nature tends to provide the best gifts at these places.

Kings River and Roaring River are living postcards. Trees tower at their sides, and sliding rocks peer over the snakelike streams in morbid fascination. The plants are brown, and the rivers are green. Nature's Bizarro World, I guess. Whatever the case, it works.

There are hiking trails here. Many of them -- and they go farther than Road's End. Sadly, I had no time to partake in these adventures on this trip. And yet my curiosity had no problem imagining what I would find. Stubborn nature, surviving and somehow thriving in such a harshly beautiful place. The sound of water soon segueing into the whir of the Bernoulli'd wind. The cumulus clouds puffing up above the mountains, devilishly watching the plants and animals opening their mouths in dire desire. And the emptiness -- the void of people. The canyon walls metaphorically portraying a walk into a mysterious and unwelcoming place.

On the way in, I noticed a long dead tree sitting alone atop a lookout into the canyon. It foretold of this harshly beautiful place. We stopped here again on the way out. Check-out time. One last glimpse of a place that time and people forgot. Nature works best this way.

Stories from the Road -- Golden, CO

2010-06-13T14:50:00.002-05:00

After a week visiting Glenwood Springs, Aspen, Great Sand Dunes National Park, and Rocky Mountain National Park, three friends and I ended a trip in Colorado on a more restful note. There is an "old mountain town" just outside of Denver that's home to more than a Coors factory. It has a beautiful river, a mountain with an 'M', and a downtown that screams "Get outside!" Golden. The town name speaks for itself.

Actually, it's even descriptive of the landscape. The foothills gleam the color. Pretty dry here, and the plants show it. I suppose it would be called brown...maybe khaki...but the scenery gives the color a shine. Indeed, the hills seem to sparkled underneath the mountain blue sky.

Golden is a town where getting out of the car is required. Eating inside is the option of last resort. Walking on the bridge, you look one way and see the Coors building utilizing the water. You look the other, and you see canoes motionless in the raging stream. In Golden, it's all about the water.

It's funny how the people who respect water the most have the least of it. Sure, it makes sense, but there's a celebratory nature to it that instantly makes me jealous. As I walked along the stream, I was mesmerized by paddlers fighting against the raging water. Such smiles on their faces, in spite of or more likely because of their futile attempts to make progress against the yielding rush.

Along the canal, there are several indications that the townsfolk want to have a little fun. I was amused by a really small, really twisty slide. Perhaps fun for a four-year-old. Or my friend Bryan. Either way, an amusing image that, I think, says a lot about the town.

Or the town welcome sign, hovering above a quickly modernizing business district. Golden seems a bit tongue-in-cheek. People here know not to take themselves too seriously. It's contagious. Sure, there's the obligatory long stare above the creek on the bridge. But then you read the sign, indicating the weight capacity the bridge can take -- based on "animal cargo". Those long stares turn into chuckles. Time for a sandwich on the sidewalk and a free beer at a factory. After all, it's Golden.

Pictures from the Road -- The Shape of Things to Come

2010-06-13T14:50:00.001-05:00

Several places I've seen, and lots to talk about. Here are photographic previews...

Evergreen, CO

Georgia Aquarium

Lincoln, NE (Christmas Eve Blizzard)

White Sands National Monument

The Sacramento Range, NM

Three Rivers Petroglyph Site

Land of Fires National Recreation Area

Queen Draperies, Carlsbad Caverns National Park

West of Kingfisher, OK -- 19 May 2010

Stories from the Road -- Savannah, GA

2010-06-13T14:49:00.000-05:00

Strolling in Savannah is taking a walk back in time. The trees are alien, and the sidewalks worn with years of experience. The statues are frozen snapshots of a time much bigger than now.

Everything is still in Savannah. I don't remember the wind blowing here (except near the water). Walking downtown, it was amazing to me how much atmosphere was created by this stillness. Even the air was watching. People would find their destinations, oblivious to the stillness. Their voices were like scratches of the chalkboard, piercing the dead air. The cars would pass by, and it took second glimpses to realize they weren't model T's.

Standing by the river, I was persistently reminded of a world outside of Savannah. Big ships would pass by, cars hurriedly crossing the bridge. But the gulls would just sit there, occasionally voice their opinion, and sit there some more. The gulls seemed just like the statues. Earnest, seeming to stare at something more important than what meets the eye today.

I love Savannah. The cobblestone near the river, the holes in the wall hiding the locals, the seafood that makes food lovers sing. Savannah has character and an attitude to match. I always feel like I'm being watched in this town, but not in a bad way. I imagined the locals staring at me walking by, amused at my confused daze. Silently saying, "He's not from around here". And those trees. They've seen so much, yet they sit there perfectly still, engaged in the goings-on transpiring underneath.

Savannah is alive at night. The din of the bars finds its way outside. The streets have cars parked, not going anywhere. Maybe it's because no one sees the trees at night.

And the ships pass on by. The city lights glimmer on the river; otherwise, there's no way to know for sure it is there.

Savannah is a town to walk in. Take in the sights, and experience the mood. Hear the scrapes of cobblestone beneath your feet. Small talk underneath the filtered light. Follow the river to destinations unknown. Experience the life amidst the motionless air. If you listen, you will find the lifebeat of this city underneath the armor of attitude.

Stories from the Road -- Hot Springs, AR

2010-06-13T14:48:00.000-05:00

Most people love the fall for the colors. It's hard to blame them. Many times, I wish I could see what everyone else can this time of year. Sadly, red leaves and green leaves look much the same to me. Fortunately, autumn brings a few miracles for the less visually inclined anyway. Sometimes, when leaves rage against the dying of the light, portions of the leaf change color at different rates. One portion of the leaf is purple, another is red, and the remaining parts are orange and yellow. Autumn provides a change of color but also the disappearance of monochromatic decoration.

I have heard many times that before death, some people have an increase in energy. They feel relatively good, speak to their loved ones after days or weeks of silence. Leaves of trees do the very same thing.

Death is ugly, but it is also strangely beautiful. People tend to remember the beauty and neglect the reality. The colors signify death. The leaves will turn brown and fall. Their death is signified by gravity and wind. The leaves even wave as they gently descend to their deathbeds. Soon, they will disappear into the wind.

For travelers like me, visual splendor is to be celebrated but also respected. The glorious snow-capped mountains of the Rockies have recently been enhanced by the dying evergreens, as a result of an invasive species of insect from Asia. Beauty in spite of natural carnage.

Typically, when a site is beautiful, it also comes at great cost. With fall colors, the cost is death -- temporary, anyway. Nature falling asleep, foretelling of the harsh winter to come.

On a particularly stressful fall day, I decided to drive out of town on a whim. I had no idea where I was going, but I soon ended up in the Ouachitas. The trees were ablaze with color, and the sunshine gave the leaves a gleam that makes the knees weak. I stopped frequently on Talimena Scenic Byway, well into Arkansas. Soon, I decided to stop in Hot Springs for the night. I hadn't been to the national park there yet, and it seemed relatively obvious as a stay-over. I ate at the Perkins in town after a long walk through the downtown area. The bath houses that are the main attraction of the park were beautiful but not really my thing. I wanted a hike.

The next morning, I made my wish come true. A short hike in the woods north of town. And the sunlight danced on the dying leaves in a natural joy hard to capture in a few snapshots. Nature's last stance on a warm October day. The leaves rustled victoriously in the wind. A beautiful, refreshing walk that was the perfect sedative for the stressful weeks preceding it. Nature's death is, in many ways, a source of inspiration. Its last burst of energy is a reliable source of mine.

Stories from the Road -- Mammoth Hot Springs

2010-06-13T14:47:00.000-05:00

People have a morbid curiosity. As I said in my Hot Springs post, death fascinates us. A corollary of death is a hostile place. We are fascinated by land completely unsupportive of life -- well, most life. Land that quite possibly could kill us if we are unprepared. People find harshness beautiful.

We are full of contradictions. We are arrogant in our species superiority, and love reigning supreme in our natural world. And yet we have an obsession with things we cannot control, cannot dominate.

Yellowstone National Park is a hostile place. An alien world. It is a gorgeous world completely foreign to our livable habitat. A land of geysers, hostile weather/climate, and an overwhelming sense of enormity. Humans do not control this place.

I missed Mammoth Hot Springs on my first trip to Yellowstone, but it was my first stop on my second trip. In many ways, this place is my symbol of Yellowstone. A land of unearthly colors, steam, long-dead plants, and a broad horizon.

During my tour of the area, I saw an elk sitting at the edge of the scarred land. It was not very interested in trekking across the hot earth, but I wondered if experience was the reason. The elk stared in the same way as the people standing near it. "If only I could walk out there..."

When you are at Yellowstone, you wonder if such places really exist. Is this a dream? Can our planet really be this hostile, this extraterrestrial? The vast landscape gives the surreal illusion that you are completely alone, completely lost, on a foreign planet. It is an astounding experience.

Yellowstone opens the imagination in these ways. I kept thinking about interplanetary travel, in the (distant) future. I wonder if my thoughts when seeing Yellowstone would be similar, yet magnified, when the first explorers set foot on Mars or whatever planet/moon we land on. Sure, there remain earthly characteristics about Yellowstone -- oxygen (atmosphere), water (bacteria-ridden), life (the elk). Yet, the otherworldly experience I had here had to mirror past explorers and past/current astronauts. Surely...?

The magic of Mammoth Hot Springs is in the colors. Stark whites, browns, and oranges. Underneath a blood blue sky. Scorched trees, steam gently rising, and a darkened ridge to the east. Vibrant contrasts, and monotone horizons. It's a weird, scary, beautiful place. Simple, good things. All hinting of something far greater than ourselves. We want what we cannot control.

Stories from the Road -- Snoqualmie, WA

2010-06-13T14:46:00.000-05:00

On vacations with me, you need to take the term down day with a grain of salt. Previous to the Snoqualmie Day on my Northwest US vacation in 2008, Mom and I visited Yellowstone National Park, Twin Falls and Boise, ID, Columbia River Gorge and The Dalles, OR, the Oregon Coast, and Seattle, WA. Mind you, all of this in about six days.

Snoqualmie was just a little drive from Seattle, as a way to rest our weary bodies from the pain and suffering of riding in a Honda Civic for hours each of the past six days. Of course, we ended up doing two things that day, the other being a much longer drive to Puget Sound and Deception Pass. Nonetheless, I have a very fond place in my traveling heart for Snoqualmie, a down-to-earth town in a thoroughly beautiful setting.

Snoqualmie is home to an absolutely stunning waterfall. In fact, if you search for waterfalls and the state of Washington, Snoqualmie is likely to be your top hit. And for good reason -- the waterfall is gorgeous.

There is more to Snoqualmie than the waterfall, however. It has a beautiful downtown, too, and is home to a train museum. This turned out to be a popular spot for Mom, as the pictures below may indicate.

The museum features the obligatory train tracks, with the "show cars". A walk up and down the tracks is unforgettable, with the thick forests and rolling hills looking down on the innocent town. Why can't I live in a place like this?

The townsfolk had decorated the sidewalks and outdoor parks with flowers. Lots of them, colorful as can be. Mom had grown fond of the flowers in Washington. She took many pictures of them on the sides of roads and the intersections of various towns. One of her friends told her to look for them here. She was right -- the flowers were a highlight of this state. Flower shops and garden stores dotted the landscape, and Mom automatically veered her car toward these -- instinct.

I like Snoqualmie for its "small town" qualities. No rushing cars, no honking horns. The homes look innocent and well-constructed. The businesses were family shops. The train museum was full of history, with brown-stained newspapers and rust-laden tools. Everything had a distinct characteristic of genuineness.

Also in the middle of town was a huge "statue" of a log. A reminder of why this town exists. This is a town that lives off the forest. It is a town that respects the forest.

Snoqualmie was a much needed reality check on my Northwest US trip. It reminded me that people actually live here and get to cherish this beautiful place on a daily basis.

Welcome to Snoqualmie, WA, and the Northwest Railway Museum.

Stories from the Road -- Highline in Glacier

2010-06-13T14:45:00.000-05:00

I had no idea what I was getting into on my daylong hike in Glacier National Park. I only had two days here, and I wanted to spend at least one of them just walking through it. I spent many hours determining which hike I should do. I read dozens of websites, recommending Avalanche Lake, Hidden Lake, Grinnell Glacier, Iceberg Lake, etc. I read a few about the Highline Trail. At first, I was skeptical. Relatively flat, long, with a "boring" descent (according to one website). Though the last four miles are not especially noteworthy to be sure, the first seven included some of the best scenery I have ever seen.

A flat hike -- in the mountains. How in the world could it be so glorious? The key is that the trail is etched right into the mountainside. For the first quarter of the hike, stepping off the trail means jumping down the mountainside. The scene is absolutely unreal, with stunning Mount Oberlin and a deep hanging valley the entire horizon. You can see a waterfall turn into a rapidly descending river. Looking down can be an unnerving experience. For me, it was magical.

Highline Trail is one of the best hikes in the country, and the wonderful thing is that it's also one of the easiest. The only difficulty with this trail is the length and the occasional run-in with a grizzly bear. Oh, I didn't mention that? My first run-in with a grizzly. A mama bear and two cubs -- far enough away to be unconcerned about an "actual" run-in and close enough to stare in complete fascination at nature doing its thing.

Essentially, the mother was watching the two cubs learning how to stroll, eat, and roll in the grass. Simple, good things. I never quite understood the fascination with bears until this trip. After you see a mother take care of her offspring -- let's just say it was a transcendental experience for me. I stood there for at least half an hour, watching with several other hikers, the three of them walking around. And nature was watching too. Clouds were hanging on the mountaintops in indescribable beauty. Really, the perfect description of the scene was heavenly. The way the clouds were hovering on the peaks, the cubs were staying in their mother's sight, and all of us watching in voyeuristic nirvana.

Highline Trail does not fool around. This place goes all out, in every way. The scenery is an eternal postcard, the wildlife fantastically wild, and the memories smashing. Glacier is the closest thing to heaven the earth will know.

Pictures from the Road -- Get Outdoors Day

2010-06-13T00:22:00.001-05:00

The best views are outdoors...

The Maroon Bells

The Gore Range -- Rocky Mountain National Park

Royal Gorge, CO

A supercell west of Grand Island, NE

Washington Pass -- North Cascades National Park

Cape Meares, OR

Deception Pass, WA

Horsetail Falls -- Columbia River Gorge

The Snake River near Twin Falls, ID

Hayden Valley -- Yellowstone National Park

A winter sky in Norman, OK

Grand Teton National Park

Lake Taneycomo, MO

Cascade Falls -- Rocky Mountain National Park

Black Mesa, OK

Stories from the Road -- Latourell Falls, OR

2010-06-12T17:22:00.000-05:00

If you haven't figured it out by now, I'm a fan of waterfalls. Mom was beginning to figure it out on our Pacific Northwest trip in 2008. After all, we spent the previous days visiting Upper and Lower Falls in Yellowstone and Shoshone Falls in Idaho. Little did she know I had an entire day of waterfalls planned in Oregon.

Columbia River Gorge is a beautiful section of northwest Oregon, near and east of Portland along I-84. The drive from Boise to The Dalles is one of my favorites in the country, and it preceded the day of falling water. I'll have separate entries on the other waterfalls in future posts, including the absolutely astonishing Multnomah Falls -- one of the best waterfalls in the world. We actually ended the day with Latourell Falls, after seeing five spectacular ones in the previous hours.

Latourell Falls was the perfect cap to the day, in part because you could walk right up to the waterfall -- which was generally impossible with the others. The waterfall is simple enough: a straight-down plunge that looks far less imposing than it actually is. The waterfall is very tall (>100 ft) and is extremely loud. Mom and I had to shout to communicate, but our visit was generally silent. When you see something so naturally imposing, you tend to just stare and admire.

Unfortunately, photographing the waterfall is difficult. It is extremely challenging to capture the entire waterfall in one photo, even from far away. This is because the vegetation does not provide many clear shots of the entire waterfall. Thus, I tried something else, which clearly failed in hindsight. I used the hand-held "profile" snapshot. I guess the sound of water was dizzying my brain by this point. Whatever the reason, you only get a sense of the height of the waterfall when seeing my weird faces blocking the more appealing site.

One thing about the Latourell Falls area -- it is very thick with vegetation. Columbia River Gorge is in a rain forest. In some ways, this was my first genuine rain forest experience, and it is something to behold. Plants are everywhere, and it is easy to understand the phrase "air you can wear" after walking from the base of Multnomah Falls to the top. By the time Mom and I reached Latourell Falls, we were exhausted. A day of frequent stops and lengthy hikes led to a gentle hike downward to the base of Latourell Falls. Actually, the trek to the base was a perfect closer for the day -- the waterfall was basically always in sight, or at least audible. The hike was generally flat -- and short (which was key).

And then the view opens up, right near the base, and the fortissimo crash of the water -- ahhhh.

Waterfalls are nature's version of violent change. The rocks the water batters endlessly erode at a geologically rapid pace. Harsh, beautiful, soothing. Three words rarely used in the same description -- perfectly comfortable with each other here.

Columbia River Gorge is a fantastic outdoor destination. Make it a top choice for your next vacation in America.

Nice.

Stories from the Road -- Mills Lake, CO

2010-06-12T17:20:00.001-05:00

Rocky Mountain National Park is my favorite place in America. That may change as I explore new corners of the country (Alaska, Hawaii, Mount Rainier, Death Valley, Joshua Tree, Zion, Bryce), and retread some ground that at least competes with it (Glacier, North Cascades, Yellowstone, Grand Teton, Yosemite, Kings Canyon) -- but right now, this place is my Fortress of Solitude. I have a permanent smile on my face when I go here, and the closest thing to true happiness for me has been visiting this place.

The reason RMNP does it for me is that it forces me to be outdoors. Sure, the drive on Trail Ridge Road is superb, and the views are thoroughly outstanding -- but the best views require hiking. This is a hiking park, and if you don't hike here, you don't get the true story behind the magic of this place.

When I was hiking here in June 2009, I ran across a woman who had literally hiked her shoes off. Her shoes had become so worn by walking through the forests and mountains that one of her shoes basically fell apart. The sole had disconnected from the rest of the shoe, rendering her barefoot. Given the rocky terrain and endless ground obstacles, this would seem to be an enormous inconvenience. As I walked up to her, quickly noticing her predicament, she looked up and smiled: "Can you spare a shoe?"

"Uh..."

"Just kidding. Not the first time this has happened."

"How did it happen?"

"I've been out here for days. These shoes are five years old. Had to go sometime."

"Do you have a way to get back?"

"Yeah. I just follow this trail back to the trailhead."

"Uh, I mean, do you know somebody with an extra pair of shoes?"

"Nah. I don't think those are required to finish the trip, though."

"Oh. Okay..."

"Don't worry. I'm not new at this."

And she began to walk off. She turned around and said, "Have you ever seen a place like this?" She asked the question rhetorically, as she turned around and never looked back.

This is the story of RMNP. Substantial inconveniences are challenges, not obstacles. People smell the mountain air, squint when they see the snow-capped peaks, and bend their ear toward the rushing mountain stream. To experience RMNP means to surrender yourself to it -- become the park. Hiking here means briefly living here. The beauty of this place is in more than the visual -- it's becoming a part of the environment.

The day before, I hiked to Mills and Black Lakes. This day was a stormy one, with a strong thunderstorm drenching me between Mills and Black Lakes (a future entry will describe this adventure). The clouds were beginning to build by the time I reached beautiful Mills Lake. As far as alpine lakes are concerned, RMNP can do no wrong. My personal preference is for smaller lakes, typically in cirques. Mills Lake is relatively big and is not in a cirque. But this lake has a lot going for it, including a stupendous backdrop of Longs Peak and adjoining mountains. It also is relatively narrow, enabling views from multiple spots along the shore that are wildly different. Finally, it is within a gorge, making the area seem surrounded by natural giants. Mills Lake is an ideal setting -- typical for this park.

The magic of this place, for me, was the color contrast. The darkening clouds beginning to cover up a deep blue sky, blanketing a brown-to-metallic mountain ridge, atop a reflective lake, forest, and remnant snow from the previous winter. Every color is bold, clashing in spectacularly natural ways. And it is so silent here. The wind doesn't even make noise. The scene is a real-life painting.

In such a setting, the senses begin to overwhelm. The flap of a bird's wings can echo in your head for minutes. The small waves of the lake seem to crash into the shore. A contrail looks completely out of place. The smell of the trees is powerful. Dripping water from a snowmelt waterfall reflects loudly across the water. Everything is exaggerated here.

This is what I mean by experiencing RMNP. Staying in your car or walking to a lookout is not what this place is about. The sights are glorious everywhere. But the magic of RMNP is the environment. Walking in this place allows you to become primal, absurdly aware of your senses -- one with nature. It allows you to observe things you would otherwise skip over.

With traveling, the best times usually involve simple, good things. The rush of a stream, the trickle of water dropping off a cliff, the reflection of the sky in the water, the pattern of snow on a mountainside, the waves of wind in the grass, the leaves gleaming in the sun, the cheerful warble of a hidden bird. Simple, good things make up this place -- and there's no other place like it in America.

Pictures from the Road -- Happy Trails

2010-06-12T17:17:00.000-05:00

Enjoy National Trails Day. Take a hike!

Jenny Lake -- Grand Teton National Park

Just above Multnomah Falls -- Columbia River Gorge

Top of Multnomah Falls

Bridal Veil Falls -- Columbia River Gorge

Great Sand Dunes National Park

Downstream of Zapata Falls, CO

Crater Lake, CO

Dream Lake -- Rocky Mountain National Park

Emerald Lake -- Rocky Mountain National Park

View from atop Mount Bierstadt, CO

Lost Valley, AR

Whitaker Point, AR

Mills Lake -- Rocky Mountain National Park

Black Lake -- Rocky Mountain National Park

Hallett's Peak -- Rocky Mountain National Park

Lake Haiyaha -- Rocky Mountain National Park

Black Mesa, OK

Highline Trail -- Glacier National Park

Roaring River Falls -- Kings Canyon National Park

Moro Rock -- Sequoia National Park