Of magesty and mucus
Howdy y'all. I am home from vacation early. Despite the brevity of the trip, I feel I would be remiss in not sharing some of the joy of Bryce Canyon with you, as I suspect that many have a colored vision of anything residing in the state of Utah. I feel it is important that I show you how, for me, the country out there can be. Much of this is transcribed from a spiral notebook I bought at a shop upon arrival. I've fleshed it out a little bit since.
Arriving in the general region in which we will be doing our camping is not unlike driving into a dream. The land changes, gradually at first. Sedimentary ridges beginning to shove their way out of the ground, small at first, until markers of perspective begin to hint at their true scale. One sees the vehicle in the distance, color barely identifiable at such range, and there is the sudden realization that the cliffs and crags of stone it is but a spec against are in fact a great distance beyond it. A while passes and almost surprisingly I am among them, weaving along a road become a canyon. I begin understanding why the Mormons of old could consider this God's country.
We stop at the local town, a tiny place whose economy is clearly based on tourism. I have seen many of these places. This one has not transformed into a sad, tired theme park parody in the way that many do, which I respect. One should not have to compromise one's dignity to make a living. Some of the youth there clearly have animosity for the stereotype that many tourists have doubtless labeled them with. Two young men hop in a truck and shout a question at me regarding whether or not I have ever been bear hunting. Bewildered, I simply reply no. One of them shouts, in a single continuous ab-sentence, "It's fuuun c'mon brother lets hunt us some bear woooooo!" before skidding out onto the road off the gravel. They had no guns, and there isn't a substantial bear population in the area anyway. I feel neither guilt nor annoyance, as I am not the person that they should resent, but understand there are doubtless those they have a right to.
Our camp site is glorious. Not even the Canadian shrew up the hill squawking emasculating orders at all hours at her subordinate cohabitants can sully it. Between the shrill yelling, even between the words, the serenity of the place floods back and swallows her.
Surprisingly, the vast majority of campers and hikers in the area are German. I have recollections of this from previous trips, but this time it seems more pronounced. I would go as far as to say that about 85% of the non-locals in the area spoke German. It causes me to wonder how the local signage remains steadfastly English only. You would think they would acknowledge where their bread and butter (and strudel?) comes from.
This place holds a personal sort of magic for me. Perhaps it is the half memories of childhood coloring it, youthful enthusiasm transforming alien landscapes into the stuff of books, cartoons, and the imagination. I must admit that, in visiting some of the places I had been decades earlier, I would find myself momentarily seeing through that younger self's eyes.
There is an inexpressible beauty to the landscape here for me. The massive spires of stone and mud, stained the red and orange of iron oxide, some balanced upright by layers of harder rock no thicker then a human torso, have an improbable combination of fragility and timelessness to them. They rise stories high, gardens and beds of nigh eternal stone in the colors of autumn, clustered in hills streaked orange and white. The rugged beauty of this landscape sculpted only by rain, wind, and time, is staggering.
I learned a little about Ebenezer (YES) Bryce, the discoverer of Bryce Canyon this trip. The one photograph I have seen depicts a dour, sullen man of hearty American Grizzle and joyless work ethic. He is quoted as describing the canyon paradise that gained his namesake as, "a hell of a place to lose a cow."
On to Red Canyon, a place of similarities to Bryce, but with hues even deeper. The softer earth gives rise to shorter hoodoos and cliffs of softer curves, giving it an organic appearance. The explorers and later proprietors of Red Canyon and Bryce enjoy giving representative names to the distinct structures. Here one sees the great wall, a massive flat topped sheet of rock rising from the hills, riven with windows and holes. There one spies Queen Victoria, a rocky cap in which one can see a woman in a flared, flowing dress, if one is inclined to do so. Mostly I did not give these names any mind. A rose by any other name and all that. There was one tower who's name interested me greatly, but was not labeled on any sign or map. It occurs to me that those who had such options might simply be too embarrassed to name it. A cock, standing six stories high or more, an uncanny phallic monolith, complete with tightened titanic testicles in stone, standing unabashed, unwavering, uncircumcised. It stands tucked away so that one might see it's full shape only from certain angles in the canyon, as though nature itself were self conscious of its proudly raging boner. If there is a god, I submit this as proof undeniable that he laughs at dirty jokes, at least the funny ones. I couldn't actually bring myself to point it out to my folks, because I knew they would see in it the same thing and be made uncomfortable. They would have to.
Back again to Bryce. The day brought us to the infamous Fairyland trail, a crucible one has a hard time taking as seriously as one should when taken by the name alone. It is a scratch in the canyon running unobtrusively through the most beautiful and spectacular parts of the canyon; an 8.3 mile trek from top to bottom and back again. It was here that I experienced some of the best of an already beautiful place. The following pictures aren't mine. In my lack of wisdom, I forgot to bring a camera. I have, however, enjoyed all these views and more. The pictures really don't do the place any kind of justice, but it's what I got.
Sorta, yes, and yes.
(Notes for scale)
(Dude may vary)
It is on this trail that things start to go bad for me. This is, hands down, the most beautiful hike I've ever been on, but problems begin to arise in me. What first began as a shortness of breath becomes something much worse. During the last mile of the trail, I am fighting for oxygen. My lungs feel as though they have shrunk. I have over-exerted myself before, and this is different. Even after long breaks, I can not stop my hard breathing, and still don't feel like I am getting enough air. Everything begins to burn. Dad has begun walking strangely, having aggrivated his knee and back during the hike, and while I attempt to express my concern, I am trying very hard just to fill my lungs sufficiently. I wonder whether some previously unknown allergy has kicked in, or whether some wicked, venomous thing has bitten or stung me without my noticing.
Eventually we hobble back to camp. I stumble into the tent and pass out for a while, sleeping like the dead. Allergy meds don't seem to change my situation. The night is hard. I begin coughing uncontrollably until I begin gagging from the force of it, curled in my sleeping bag like a wounded caterpillar. I wheeze when I breathe. I feel like if I am not actively thinking about breathing harder then normal, I will suffocate.
The next day my folks say we're going home. I feel guilty, but there is definitely something wrong with me. A long, hazy drive later and we're home. I begin coughing up brown junk seemingly by the quart, fill myself with pills, and gradually I begin breathing a little easier. Today finds me sequestered in my room with my air purifier, the junk coming out of me having gone from brown to yellow, still coughing but no longer afraid, which ultimately is enough for me.
I want to emphasize my misery mostly because despite it, I don't regret the trip from a personal standpoint, though I feel terrible about having cut short my parent's vacation. The place is just that beautiful. I feel a strange kind of peace there that I can't find at home. Were I to figure out what it was that ravaged my respiratory system, I might consider settling in the area one day if I could con one or two of you people into joining me.
Anyway, for better or worse I'm home. I'm still going to say game off for tomorrow, as I don't know how I'm going to be doing at that point. Report over.
[Eternal God-Emperor of hyperbole, forever]
{[Fun with tense!]}
Arriving in the general region in which we will be doing our camping is not unlike driving into a dream. The land changes, gradually at first. Sedimentary ridges beginning to shove their way out of the ground, small at first, until markers of perspective begin to hint at their true scale. One sees the vehicle in the distance, color barely identifiable at such range, and there is the sudden realization that the cliffs and crags of stone it is but a spec against are in fact a great distance beyond it. A while passes and almost surprisingly I am among them, weaving along a road become a canyon. I begin understanding why the Mormons of old could consider this God's country.
We stop at the local town, a tiny place whose economy is clearly based on tourism. I have seen many of these places. This one has not transformed into a sad, tired theme park parody in the way that many do, which I respect. One should not have to compromise one's dignity to make a living. Some of the youth there clearly have animosity for the stereotype that many tourists have doubtless labeled them with. Two young men hop in a truck and shout a question at me regarding whether or not I have ever been bear hunting. Bewildered, I simply reply no. One of them shouts, in a single continuous ab-sentence, "It's fuuun c'mon brother lets hunt us some bear woooooo!" before skidding out onto the road off the gravel. They had no guns, and there isn't a substantial bear population in the area anyway. I feel neither guilt nor annoyance, as I am not the person that they should resent, but understand there are doubtless those they have a right to.
Our camp site is glorious. Not even the Canadian shrew up the hill squawking emasculating orders at all hours at her subordinate cohabitants can sully it. Between the shrill yelling, even between the words, the serenity of the place floods back and swallows her.
Surprisingly, the vast majority of campers and hikers in the area are German. I have recollections of this from previous trips, but this time it seems more pronounced. I would go as far as to say that about 85% of the non-locals in the area spoke German. It causes me to wonder how the local signage remains steadfastly English only. You would think they would acknowledge where their bread and butter (and strudel?) comes from.
This place holds a personal sort of magic for me. Perhaps it is the half memories of childhood coloring it, youthful enthusiasm transforming alien landscapes into the stuff of books, cartoons, and the imagination. I must admit that, in visiting some of the places I had been decades earlier, I would find myself momentarily seeing through that younger self's eyes.
There is an inexpressible beauty to the landscape here for me. The massive spires of stone and mud, stained the red and orange of iron oxide, some balanced upright by layers of harder rock no thicker then a human torso, have an improbable combination of fragility and timelessness to them. They rise stories high, gardens and beds of nigh eternal stone in the colors of autumn, clustered in hills streaked orange and white. The rugged beauty of this landscape sculpted only by rain, wind, and time, is staggering.
I learned a little about Ebenezer (YES) Bryce, the discoverer of Bryce Canyon this trip. The one photograph I have seen depicts a dour, sullen man of hearty American Grizzle and joyless work ethic. He is quoted as describing the canyon paradise that gained his namesake as, "a hell of a place to lose a cow."
On to Red Canyon, a place of similarities to Bryce, but with hues even deeper. The softer earth gives rise to shorter hoodoos and cliffs of softer curves, giving it an organic appearance. The explorers and later proprietors of Red Canyon and Bryce enjoy giving representative names to the distinct structures. Here one sees the great wall, a massive flat topped sheet of rock rising from the hills, riven with windows and holes. There one spies Queen Victoria, a rocky cap in which one can see a woman in a flared, flowing dress, if one is inclined to do so. Mostly I did not give these names any mind. A rose by any other name and all that. There was one tower who's name interested me greatly, but was not labeled on any sign or map. It occurs to me that those who had such options might simply be too embarrassed to name it. A cock, standing six stories high or more, an uncanny phallic monolith, complete with tightened titanic testicles in stone, standing unabashed, unwavering, uncircumcised. It stands tucked away so that one might see it's full shape only from certain angles in the canyon, as though nature itself were self conscious of its proudly raging boner. If there is a god, I submit this as proof undeniable that he laughs at dirty jokes, at least the funny ones. I couldn't actually bring myself to point it out to my folks, because I knew they would see in it the same thing and be made uncomfortable. They would have to.
Back again to Bryce. The day brought us to the infamous Fairyland trail, a crucible one has a hard time taking as seriously as one should when taken by the name alone. It is a scratch in the canyon running unobtrusively through the most beautiful and spectacular parts of the canyon; an 8.3 mile trek from top to bottom and back again. It was here that I experienced some of the best of an already beautiful place. The following pictures aren't mine. In my lack of wisdom, I forgot to bring a camera. I have, however, enjoyed all these views and more. The pictures really don't do the place any kind of justice, but it's what I got.
Sorta, yes, and yes.
(Notes for scale)
(Dude may vary)
It is on this trail that things start to go bad for me. This is, hands down, the most beautiful hike I've ever been on, but problems begin to arise in me. What first began as a shortness of breath becomes something much worse. During the last mile of the trail, I am fighting for oxygen. My lungs feel as though they have shrunk. I have over-exerted myself before, and this is different. Even after long breaks, I can not stop my hard breathing, and still don't feel like I am getting enough air. Everything begins to burn. Dad has begun walking strangely, having aggrivated his knee and back during the hike, and while I attempt to express my concern, I am trying very hard just to fill my lungs sufficiently. I wonder whether some previously unknown allergy has kicked in, or whether some wicked, venomous thing has bitten or stung me without my noticing.
Eventually we hobble back to camp. I stumble into the tent and pass out for a while, sleeping like the dead. Allergy meds don't seem to change my situation. The night is hard. I begin coughing uncontrollably until I begin gagging from the force of it, curled in my sleeping bag like a wounded caterpillar. I wheeze when I breathe. I feel like if I am not actively thinking about breathing harder then normal, I will suffocate.
The next day my folks say we're going home. I feel guilty, but there is definitely something wrong with me. A long, hazy drive later and we're home. I begin coughing up brown junk seemingly by the quart, fill myself with pills, and gradually I begin breathing a little easier. Today finds me sequestered in my room with my air purifier, the junk coming out of me having gone from brown to yellow, still coughing but no longer afraid, which ultimately is enough for me.
I want to emphasize my misery mostly because despite it, I don't regret the trip from a personal standpoint, though I feel terrible about having cut short my parent's vacation. The place is just that beautiful. I feel a strange kind of peace there that I can't find at home. Were I to figure out what it was that ravaged my respiratory system, I might consider settling in the area one day if I could con one or two of you people into joining me.
Anyway, for better or worse I'm home. I'm still going to say game off for tomorrow, as I don't know how I'm going to be doing at that point. Report over.
[Eternal God-Emperor of hyperbole, forever]
{[Fun with tense!]}