(no subject)
Note, this was written on the 31st and not transcribed until today. Why I point this out, I know not.
3.31.04
Backcountry- in the bowels of the Wh!te T@nk mountains with the crew that we have working back there right now. It's my favorite part of the evening, watching the sun go down, the hills becoming a gray pink. Cricket song has started, a few hoots from lone owls but haven't heard brother coyote yet.
I put in a 12 hour day today - breaking, moving, and smashing rock. Digging, cutting, advising. Towards the end the day I felt certain that the 20 lb. sledgehammer weighed 40 lbs. I feel this hammer even now, deep in my lats (Latissimus Dorsi for you caring type) near where they attach to the bone, in my forearms and in my shoulders. The deep weariness of 12 hours labor in the desert sun. I'm nothing but grateful for the dark brown rock I'm leaning against as I write. Thank you grandfather for the heat you give me now.
I won't pretend this is the most beautiful thing I've ever written. It's hard to write under the influence of the full body weary contentment of a long day laboring under the sun.
The crew isn't in camp right now. Except for the occasional jarring sound of "freedom", I'm alone to listen to the night music. Light is fading quickly now and I'm struggling to get it all down. Of course, I know I won't.
I miss my wife and kids but I'm glad I'm here. It has been awhile since I have slept in the backcountry. Didn't even hassle with a sleeping bag this time. Just ancient Navy surplus wool blanket. Though I must admit that I chose to bring the Therm-a-rest®. Otherwise I have hardly anything. Maybe I'll get cold tonight, I don't care though, I won't die and I won't suffer.
I won't even begin to try and describe the beauty that I am witnessing- not only is it impossible but I'd probably somehow degrade the entire thing. Nightbirds singing, warm soothing rock, the heady intoxication of the mellow evening air. It's beyond comprhension, really. It's something to be felt, witnessed, but not described.
I think now I will take a walk under the waxing moon. I will walk towards the glowing menace to the east. I'll curse the malignant sprawlplex, that dirty city I call home. It's not all bad though. So many of you live down there and I will begin look to where you are and I'll think about you. You'll know it, too.
3.31.04
Backcountry- in the bowels of the Wh!te T@nk mountains with the crew that we have working back there right now. It's my favorite part of the evening, watching the sun go down, the hills becoming a gray pink. Cricket song has started, a few hoots from lone owls but haven't heard brother coyote yet.
I put in a 12 hour day today - breaking, moving, and smashing rock. Digging, cutting, advising. Towards the end the day I felt certain that the 20 lb. sledgehammer weighed 40 lbs. I feel this hammer even now, deep in my lats (Latissimus Dorsi for you caring type) near where they attach to the bone, in my forearms and in my shoulders. The deep weariness of 12 hours labor in the desert sun. I'm nothing but grateful for the dark brown rock I'm leaning against as I write. Thank you grandfather for the heat you give me now.
I won't pretend this is the most beautiful thing I've ever written. It's hard to write under the influence of the full body weary contentment of a long day laboring under the sun.
The crew isn't in camp right now. Except for the occasional jarring sound of "freedom", I'm alone to listen to the night music. Light is fading quickly now and I'm struggling to get it all down. Of course, I know I won't.
I miss my wife and kids but I'm glad I'm here. It has been awhile since I have slept in the backcountry. Didn't even hassle with a sleeping bag this time. Just ancient Navy surplus wool blanket. Though I must admit that I chose to bring the Therm-a-rest®. Otherwise I have hardly anything. Maybe I'll get cold tonight, I don't care though, I won't die and I won't suffer.
I won't even begin to try and describe the beauty that I am witnessing- not only is it impossible but I'd probably somehow degrade the entire thing. Nightbirds singing, warm soothing rock, the heady intoxication of the mellow evening air. It's beyond comprhension, really. It's something to be felt, witnessed, but not described.
I think now I will take a walk under the waxing moon. I will walk towards the glowing menace to the east. I'll curse the malignant sprawlplex, that dirty city I call home. It's not all bad though. So many of you live down there and I will begin look to where you are and I'll think about you. You'll know it, too.