Gafferbear's Travels to Strangye Landes
Got up at four in the morning on Saturday to do my devotionals and constitutionals before heading off to the B Bus. My neighbor Peter had offered to drive me down to the Boulder bus station. The station is only 8 blocks away, but with harp on my back, and backpack and wheely-handled rollygon duffel (cane strapped to the duffel, I can use the duffle should I need the sudden support) in either hand, it's a heavier trek than I needed to take on foot, if the ride was available. I am finding ways to make the journey lighter, but, oh, too slowly, and most of them not in time for this particular sojourn. Added to this was what has turned out to be wayyyyy too much food; my body hasn't been accepting much, at any given time, and has been particularly speaking to me of individual ingredients and pieces of nutrition. This has been quite vivid, in fact, and has led me to find particular bits that have solved the cravings I have had, and as a consequence, there's a whole mess of chocolate that has gone uneaten, and is going in my *packed* luggage for the next leg.
I woke Peter at five thirty, by phone, as he had suggested. He had just gotten to sleep. The third floor of the building is sensitive to sound from then entire block, it seems, whereas the garden level, while dangerous in case of flood, is well insulated from most such disturbances. Or I've less sensitive hearing (which is quite possible!) and quiet neighbors. Or both. He drove me down with great grace (having found a nonjudgemental friend, he's been eager to find opportunities to talk), and headed back before adrenaline began driving any possibility of further rest from his morning. Ten thousand blessings.
Caught the 6:01 B to Denver, witnessing only a few instances of idiotic, suidical behaviour (they believe they can play chicken with a bus?). *sigh* I later complimented my driver on his aplomb and careful attention to his surroundings, whilst (gently) careening my harp onto my back, as he pulled the rollygon from belowdecks (harp sits with me, always, and ever, on buses).
The Denver Amtrak Temporary Depot (temporary means only for the next 4 or 5 years) was fairly full; there was a tour group from England, (a delight to travel with), and a cartload of "us needing help to the train". I pulled out Leannan, and played, as the train was going to be over two hours late. The staff were delit. (sic - I use the word consistently, though) The delay was due to foul weather out East, and all there have my sympathies.
This is the farthest west I've been since I was 5 - we went, as a family, West to San Francisco for a Corning and Glassblower's Convention, and ended up staying several extra weeks when Dad became a Prime Witness against a "caught red-handed" murderer. When I was 8, I accompanied my Mother and two other Hand-Weavers to a Colorado Springs, myself supposedly for a visit with my Aunt and a Convention for the Weavers. I had rather gone with my Brother and Father to the Unitarian Youth Conference in Boston, and participated more in the People Soup Movement, than stay in my Aunt's prim (and grossly palatial) estate for a coupla weeks.
I have lived briefly in Chapel Hill, NC, in my late teens, existed in the DC area (I still won't call it "life", nor say I "lived" there, although it the high point of it was that my Harp found me there) through most of my Twenties, was back in Cleveland through my early thirties, lived in Kent, Ohio, for few delightful years (my few non-harping golden memories are mostly of this time), was once as far into Canada as Sarnia (which might as well be another Suburb of Detroit, although the money is prettier, and at the time, I seem to recall, came in differing sizes as a VERY practical accommodation for the blind, but which I also recall hearing has been dispensed with as being impractical for robotic technologies of the 90's (which means I must have visted there in the 80's). I have once been in a packed van to an event outside Hamilton, Ontario, and slept, wrapped in a cloak, on a picnic table in the Very Cold. If it could be called sleeping.
This is the extent of my travels until I left Kent, in 2000. Since the whirlwind which brought me West, East, and West again in that year to land me in Boulder, I've mostly been back to places I'd already gone, up until being dragged by grynner to Memphis, and since then, I've been back to Memphis twice. Albany and NJ were added last year, and will hopefully happen again this year. Whilst on New Jersey, however, let me state that I'd really hope more than one of my Horde Brothers will return contact this time, and that I shall get to see mor of them than I did last time through.
The train from Denver to Sacramento is a beautiful, and stark, ride.
It rained South of Denver on our way up into the Mountains, and the view was spectacular in the late, intermittent sunrise. The climb from Denver to the Divide was lovely, in a cold, fog-ceilinged nestle of cloud, but with piercing glances of sun, in shafts, over the mountains.
Most of this territory was ancient ocean bed, and it amazes me that anyone riding through could dispute the tremendous age of the erosive forces in evidence all over, in so many different phases of texture - for there are flats and ridges and rillies and gullies and gulches and pinnacles and towers and teetering formations all along the ride. The train goes through mesas, and tunnels right through several. And then there's the Moffat Tunnel. The experience of wakefulness in a train of humans during the ten-minute traverse should not be attempted by the claustrophobic. If this is you, try to arrange to sleep through it, and you'll be the better. I was not concerned. I was amused. Five minutes before they enter the tunnel, they stress via the overhead that passage between cars is restricted to dire emergencies during the tunnel passage (which is exteriorly unlit), due to the fact that fumes from the exhaust fill the tunnel, and would (quickly, too, and with great detrimental effect!) fill the cars with a most noxious smell (as I should IMAGINE!). Everyone on this train seemed perfectly happy to get where they wanted to be prior to our entry, and (so far as I was aware) everyone who should have *absolutely* been asleep for the experience apparently was, as no-one came shrieking through the cars.
The tunnel goes directly under the divide, and when you come out, the rivers that have been flowing against your travel are suddenly going your way. It's an odd internal sensation, if you're geomagnetically aware of it - which mountains, and these in particular, seem to do to me. Phrasing it differently, you get used to the way the water spirits are traveling when you stay East of the Divide - they run to the sunrise, revelling in the drying forces of the sun and plains. West of the Divide, the water spirits are heading out to drown the Sun, and have already devastated the land on their way, inundating in places, corroding, dissolving, and eroding.
I have been through Glenwood Springs for a Birthday Party, and went with Stoiph once to his Father's place in Rifle, as Stoiph began his wasting. The land is beetle-affected but beautiful, and the green is a vibrant contrast to the dustier green of the Eastern Slopes up North through Berthoud into Wyoming, or further West, once into the flats of decayed soil between the ridges of Utah and Nevada.
Most of the time, I had close geological views of hacked mountain directly out the left window, while across the way was the Vista (for which, at times through the later Long Climb through Donner Pass, I was glad to have a left-side window seat, both from the deliciously LOW angle of view (pine and valley under hard, wind-driven snow) and lack of vertigo (The fellow with the Lookitthatdrop view was a delightful chap in his late seventies, with the tour group).
I've played both mornings on the train; the Sunrise seems to call me, although I never really sleep on the train - I doze, at best. Tonight I intend to do some catching up, which means I shall have to end this update shortly. In contact with my friend Rhett, I offered a photo of Snow in Donner Pass. He commented, "I'm.... Hungry." Know you My friend Rhett, the Humanitarian?
The trip through Donner Pass was astoundingly beautiful, and tremendously impactual. It's MidMay, and there's three feet of snow on the ground below the trees. The thought of trying to cross this place in anything other than a train boggles my thought - it's steep, and rugged, and danger appears to lurk everywhere, in perfectly natural form and shape of landslide and falling limb. A treacherous and lovely place. Dangerous as only a planet can be, and worth falling in love with.
From the Pass downward into California, the scene gets a lighter shade of green, more deciduous trees appear, and the snow transforms into a multitude of little rivulets and lakes. Tiny reedy swamps dot the fields, forests separate the valleys, and eventually, Harp and I reach Sacramento, are deposited Safely off the Train. Toiled down and up the long ramp (suppose I should have waited for the cart, but I'm sometimes Determined To Do For Myself), and found Opi there, awaiting my appearance, with Morgan inside the Station. They had, bless, them, checked the train arrival on their own, and thus my belated messages to them were unneccessary.
We went to their home in Davis, California, at least the lower half of which belongs nominally to several cats (well, indeed, they own the whole place and tolerate, taunt, and play with their human servants), and which (as any place containing an Opi would be) is referred to respectfully and reverentially as the House for the Incurably Sane. Refreshed from excellent hospitality and the opportunity to do a tiny bit of catch-up and have tea, we proceeded on a short tour of Downtown Davis. I like it. Grid planning DOES make for ease, and although letters and numbers get dull, they're easier on the mass of humanity than abstracts like Presidents. Unfortunately, Tree-Names, or Botanical Usage Names also end up losing themselves for the untrained memory, and makes such places perhaps difficult on small children learning their orientation, but I do enjoy Tree Lists better than Presidents, or Politicians, or Great Movers of Monetary Estate. [/rant]
The area is a lot like Boulder in its "people-oriented", rather than "automobile-driven" way. Dinner for me was Saag (Finally! O delightful nutrient!) with Goat Cheese at a lovely local Tibetan place (the remaining bit I couldn't finish was devoured outside the Eugene Station this morning, for an excellent breakfast). The Rum-De-Dum-Dums, and the False Oranges, and the Azaleas, and the Pine Spirits are all doing their lovely dance, orgasming all over the place (although the rains blunt the edge of Pine pollen, unlike Boulder, where the yellow sweep of it across the road can be detected, driven by the arid wind, and it becomes very conspicuous that the trees are having an orgy). All of a sudden, it seems, when you get a certain distance from the mountains, the flora becomes semi-tropical, and the aire is balmy.
We returned to the HFTIS, conversed in greater length, I wrestled Tetris again with my luggage and the items needing to fit within, loaded the car again, and Our Friendly Opi and the Unpredictable Nomad took me back to the Station. Ten thousand blessings. Again.
The trip to Eugene was another delight - I might have actually slept, I believe, for a full four hours. I then awoke at 6, prompt, abluted briefly, and played the morning for quite some time, through delicious forest and woodland, with creeks and runners going through, and made several folks' mornings (including my own), and packed away for a very agreeable conversation about Angry Books and the delightful and lamented Howard Zinn (Harp was disinterested, and wanted to go back to sleep, by then, anyways), Havamal, the nature of Kayak paddles, the problems and solutions of society, and HAD to LEAVE the conversation as we approached Eugene to get back to my seat and prepare for detraining.
My friend Beth. I haven't seen her since the days in DC. She's less the shy elf than she was, and has obviously come through some of life's trials, but with flying colors. She's confident, and happy, and it's a delight to see her so. She met me at the train station, we coffeed several blocks away at the 5th street Mezzanine, and then proceeded to find me accomodations (the three hostels I had tried to locate were all available for future dates, but not tonight, and I'd been trying to reach them for days, but I WILL WARN that signal on the train, for cellphones, is patchy, and connections pick up and drop at various turnings. The land IS filled with metal, after all, and a fair portion of the West will tick your geiger counter, for this and more recent (geologic time, stupid human atomic tricks) causes.
Found a decent room at a decent price in a decent area, at a much farther walk than I thought myself capable of. We strapped the backpack to Beth's bike, and walked down, and I have safely ensconced myself and written you this missive, hoping that the day's end finds you in as much peace, and with as much joy, as I have encompassed in these few days of my sojourn. I leave you, reader, with the Words of the High One (Havamal), which have helped me, since I heeded them. They begin:
Young and alone on a long road,
Once I lost my Way.
Rich I felt when I found another;
Man rejoices in Man.
A kind word need not cost much,
The price of praise can be cheap:
With half a loaf, and an empty cup,
I found myself a friend.
and end with:
Now has the High One spoken in the Hall,
Blessed words for the Sons of Men,
Accursed words for the sons of Giants.
Hail to the Speaker, and those who listen.
May all who hear these words
Prosper because of them.
Hail to those who Listen!
Tomorrow Later this morning (in about ten hours), I busk at the Park Blocks and the Lane County Farmer's Market, at 8th and Oak, in Eugene, Oregon. Sometimes I wonder at it all. Good morning night, and thank you.
I woke Peter at five thirty, by phone, as he had suggested. He had just gotten to sleep. The third floor of the building is sensitive to sound from then entire block, it seems, whereas the garden level, while dangerous in case of flood, is well insulated from most such disturbances. Or I've less sensitive hearing (which is quite possible!) and quiet neighbors. Or both. He drove me down with great grace (having found a nonjudgemental friend, he's been eager to find opportunities to talk), and headed back before adrenaline began driving any possibility of further rest from his morning. Ten thousand blessings.
Caught the 6:01 B to Denver, witnessing only a few instances of idiotic, suidical behaviour (they believe they can play chicken with a bus?). *sigh* I later complimented my driver on his aplomb and careful attention to his surroundings, whilst (gently) careening my harp onto my back, as he pulled the rollygon from belowdecks (harp sits with me, always, and ever, on buses).
The Denver Amtrak Temporary Depot (temporary means only for the next 4 or 5 years) was fairly full; there was a tour group from England, (a delight to travel with), and a cartload of "us needing help to the train". I pulled out Leannan, and played, as the train was going to be over two hours late. The staff were delit. (sic - I use the word consistently, though) The delay was due to foul weather out East, and all there have my sympathies.
This is the farthest west I've been since I was 5 - we went, as a family, West to San Francisco for a Corning and Glassblower's Convention, and ended up staying several extra weeks when Dad became a Prime Witness against a "caught red-handed" murderer. When I was 8, I accompanied my Mother and two other Hand-Weavers to a Colorado Springs, myself supposedly for a visit with my Aunt and a Convention for the Weavers. I had rather gone with my Brother and Father to the Unitarian Youth Conference in Boston, and participated more in the People Soup Movement, than stay in my Aunt's prim (and grossly palatial) estate for a coupla weeks.
I have lived briefly in Chapel Hill, NC, in my late teens, existed in the DC area (I still won't call it "life", nor say I "lived" there, although it the high point of it was that my Harp found me there) through most of my Twenties, was back in Cleveland through my early thirties, lived in Kent, Ohio, for few delightful years (my few non-harping golden memories are mostly of this time), was once as far into Canada as Sarnia (which might as well be another Suburb of Detroit, although the money is prettier, and at the time, I seem to recall, came in differing sizes as a VERY practical accommodation for the blind, but which I also recall hearing has been dispensed with as being impractical for robotic technologies of the 90's (which means I must have visted there in the 80's). I have once been in a packed van to an event outside Hamilton, Ontario, and slept, wrapped in a cloak, on a picnic table in the Very Cold. If it could be called sleeping.
This is the extent of my travels until I left Kent, in 2000. Since the whirlwind which brought me West, East, and West again in that year to land me in Boulder, I've mostly been back to places I'd already gone, up until being dragged by grynner to Memphis, and since then, I've been back to Memphis twice. Albany and NJ were added last year, and will hopefully happen again this year. Whilst on New Jersey, however, let me state that I'd really hope more than one of my Horde Brothers will return contact this time, and that I shall get to see mor of them than I did last time through.
The train from Denver to Sacramento is a beautiful, and stark, ride.
It rained South of Denver on our way up into the Mountains, and the view was spectacular in the late, intermittent sunrise. The climb from Denver to the Divide was lovely, in a cold, fog-ceilinged nestle of cloud, but with piercing glances of sun, in shafts, over the mountains.
Most of this territory was ancient ocean bed, and it amazes me that anyone riding through could dispute the tremendous age of the erosive forces in evidence all over, in so many different phases of texture - for there are flats and ridges and rillies and gullies and gulches and pinnacles and towers and teetering formations all along the ride. The train goes through mesas, and tunnels right through several. And then there's the Moffat Tunnel. The experience of wakefulness in a train of humans during the ten-minute traverse should not be attempted by the claustrophobic. If this is you, try to arrange to sleep through it, and you'll be the better. I was not concerned. I was amused. Five minutes before they enter the tunnel, they stress via the overhead that passage between cars is restricted to dire emergencies during the tunnel passage (which is exteriorly unlit), due to the fact that fumes from the exhaust fill the tunnel, and would (quickly, too, and with great detrimental effect!) fill the cars with a most noxious smell (as I should IMAGINE!). Everyone on this train seemed perfectly happy to get where they wanted to be prior to our entry, and (so far as I was aware) everyone who should have *absolutely* been asleep for the experience apparently was, as no-one came shrieking through the cars.
The tunnel goes directly under the divide, and when you come out, the rivers that have been flowing against your travel are suddenly going your way. It's an odd internal sensation, if you're geomagnetically aware of it - which mountains, and these in particular, seem to do to me. Phrasing it differently, you get used to the way the water spirits are traveling when you stay East of the Divide - they run to the sunrise, revelling in the drying forces of the sun and plains. West of the Divide, the water spirits are heading out to drown the Sun, and have already devastated the land on their way, inundating in places, corroding, dissolving, and eroding.
I have been through Glenwood Springs for a Birthday Party, and went with Stoiph once to his Father's place in Rifle, as Stoiph began his wasting. The land is beetle-affected but beautiful, and the green is a vibrant contrast to the dustier green of the Eastern Slopes up North through Berthoud into Wyoming, or further West, once into the flats of decayed soil between the ridges of Utah and Nevada.
Most of the time, I had close geological views of hacked mountain directly out the left window, while across the way was the Vista (for which, at times through the later Long Climb through Donner Pass, I was glad to have a left-side window seat, both from the deliciously LOW angle of view (pine and valley under hard, wind-driven snow) and lack of vertigo (The fellow with the Lookitthatdrop view was a delightful chap in his late seventies, with the tour group).
I've played both mornings on the train; the Sunrise seems to call me, although I never really sleep on the train - I doze, at best. Tonight I intend to do some catching up, which means I shall have to end this update shortly. In contact with my friend Rhett, I offered a photo of Snow in Donner Pass. He commented, "I'm.... Hungry." Know you My friend Rhett, the Humanitarian?
The trip through Donner Pass was astoundingly beautiful, and tremendously impactual. It's MidMay, and there's three feet of snow on the ground below the trees. The thought of trying to cross this place in anything other than a train boggles my thought - it's steep, and rugged, and danger appears to lurk everywhere, in perfectly natural form and shape of landslide and falling limb. A treacherous and lovely place. Dangerous as only a planet can be, and worth falling in love with.
From the Pass downward into California, the scene gets a lighter shade of green, more deciduous trees appear, and the snow transforms into a multitude of little rivulets and lakes. Tiny reedy swamps dot the fields, forests separate the valleys, and eventually, Harp and I reach Sacramento, are deposited Safely off the Train. Toiled down and up the long ramp (suppose I should have waited for the cart, but I'm sometimes Determined To Do For Myself), and found Opi there, awaiting my appearance, with Morgan inside the Station. They had, bless, them, checked the train arrival on their own, and thus my belated messages to them were unneccessary.
We went to their home in Davis, California, at least the lower half of which belongs nominally to several cats (well, indeed, they own the whole place and tolerate, taunt, and play with their human servants), and which (as any place containing an Opi would be) is referred to respectfully and reverentially as the House for the Incurably Sane. Refreshed from excellent hospitality and the opportunity to do a tiny bit of catch-up and have tea, we proceeded on a short tour of Downtown Davis. I like it. Grid planning DOES make for ease, and although letters and numbers get dull, they're easier on the mass of humanity than abstracts like Presidents. Unfortunately, Tree-Names, or Botanical Usage Names also end up losing themselves for the untrained memory, and makes such places perhaps difficult on small children learning their orientation, but I do enjoy Tree Lists better than Presidents, or Politicians, or Great Movers of Monetary Estate. [/rant]
The area is a lot like Boulder in its "people-oriented", rather than "automobile-driven" way. Dinner for me was Saag (Finally! O delightful nutrient!) with Goat Cheese at a lovely local Tibetan place (the remaining bit I couldn't finish was devoured outside the Eugene Station this morning, for an excellent breakfast). The Rum-De-Dum-Dums, and the False Oranges, and the Azaleas, and the Pine Spirits are all doing their lovely dance, orgasming all over the place (although the rains blunt the edge of Pine pollen, unlike Boulder, where the yellow sweep of it across the road can be detected, driven by the arid wind, and it becomes very conspicuous that the trees are having an orgy). All of a sudden, it seems, when you get a certain distance from the mountains, the flora becomes semi-tropical, and the aire is balmy.
We returned to the HFTIS, conversed in greater length, I wrestled Tetris again with my luggage and the items needing to fit within, loaded the car again, and Our Friendly Opi and the Unpredictable Nomad took me back to the Station. Ten thousand blessings. Again.
The trip to Eugene was another delight - I might have actually slept, I believe, for a full four hours. I then awoke at 6, prompt, abluted briefly, and played the morning for quite some time, through delicious forest and woodland, with creeks and runners going through, and made several folks' mornings (including my own), and packed away for a very agreeable conversation about Angry Books and the delightful and lamented Howard Zinn (Harp was disinterested, and wanted to go back to sleep, by then, anyways), Havamal, the nature of Kayak paddles, the problems and solutions of society, and HAD to LEAVE the conversation as we approached Eugene to get back to my seat and prepare for detraining.
My friend Beth. I haven't seen her since the days in DC. She's less the shy elf than she was, and has obviously come through some of life's trials, but with flying colors. She's confident, and happy, and it's a delight to see her so. She met me at the train station, we coffeed several blocks away at the 5th street Mezzanine, and then proceeded to find me accomodations (the three hostels I had tried to locate were all available for future dates, but not tonight, and I'd been trying to reach them for days, but I WILL WARN that signal on the train, for cellphones, is patchy, and connections pick up and drop at various turnings. The land IS filled with metal, after all, and a fair portion of the West will tick your geiger counter, for this and more recent (geologic time, stupid human atomic tricks) causes.
Found a decent room at a decent price in a decent area, at a much farther walk than I thought myself capable of. We strapped the backpack to Beth's bike, and walked down, and I have safely ensconced myself and written you this missive, hoping that the day's end finds you in as much peace, and with as much joy, as I have encompassed in these few days of my sojourn. I leave you, reader, with the Words of the High One (Havamal), which have helped me, since I heeded them. They begin:
Young and alone on a long road,
Once I lost my Way.
Rich I felt when I found another;
Man rejoices in Man.
A kind word need not cost much,
The price of praise can be cheap:
With half a loaf, and an empty cup,
I found myself a friend.
and end with:
Now has the High One spoken in the Hall,
Blessed words for the Sons of Men,
Accursed words for the sons of Giants.
Hail to the Speaker, and those who listen.
May all who hear these words
Prosper because of them.
Hail to those who Listen!
Tomorrow Later this morning (in about ten hours), I busk at the Park Blocks and the Lane County Farmer's Market, at 8th and Oak, in Eugene, Oregon. Sometimes I wonder at it all. Good morning night, and thank you.