***
The following events occured in Feb. 2009, and served as the genesis of my multi-month exile in Georgia.
Currently, I am traveling about in a different vehicle, a relatively modern Honda Civic.
The bad news: It's no Porsche
The good news: It's no Porsche
***
I hadn’t expected to write about this. I bought the wrong car. It broke. I became marooned in the Deep South. Unfortunate, but uneventful.
I was quite proud of my purchase, a 1979 Porsche 924. Although I could barely get it out of the dealership parking lot, it was a rush of excitement. The test drive was my first true experience with a manual transmission, other than some rough attempts with my uncle’s motorcycle. I took it the car to a mechanic for a pre-purchase inspection, and though it needed some attention, things seemed to be in serviceable condition. And then came the negotiation, the first time I had bargained for such a large purchase. I bought it for less than half of the sticker price. In fact, I had lowered my original offer after the first mechanical inspection. This was just after New Years, and I couldn’t have imagined many others interested in such a vehicle fishtailing over the snow.
I even found a mechanic in Janesville who’s worked with many old Porsches and had reasonable rates. The day I dropped my car off for repairs, in fact, there was a 60’s Porsche 911 being restored form a rusty demise.
The day I left town, the car recently fixed, I could not get it to start. It was 5 degrees F, cold even by Wisconsin averages. A jump start from a friend and a bit of idling got me rolling.
Along for the ride was a guy headed to Little Rock to visit family. He was a smoker, so I had him roll down the window on his side. And then one time, it became stuck. It was unusually cold that day, and it did not take long for the chill to creep in. And we subsequently discovered that my heater no longer worked. After a few hours of frozen travel, we stopped at an auto parts store to search for plastic, or at the very least cardboard, something to cover the window to provide a bit of relief.
On a whim, I smacked the driver’s side door. This must have pushed the electrical window contacts close enough, as the window rolled up with ease.
Curiously, the window did not malfunction at all for the next week around Memphis. In fact, I drove around town with no problem, and even had the occasion to take the removable top off, and cruise about. The streets of downtown Memphis are moderately hilly, and it seemed nearly each intersection sat on an incline. With other cars consistently tailing my ass, I quickly developed a finesse of clutch control.
The drive from Memphis to Georgia was quite smooth, and significantly more pleasant that the below freezing jaunt the week before. Since I left Memphis in the early evening, my planned day trip turned into an overnighter.
I was headed to Athens, GA for a few weeks to visit Justin, a friend from Madison who recently moved away. Since my goal was Florida, this was more or less along the way.
Somewhere in Alabama, the highway abruptly ends, and one is left with little indication on how to resume east. After re-treading the same few miles for twenty minutes, I leapt out of the car to relieve myself. The midnight air was a bit cool, but the joy of urination negated it.
With the sole shop in this random town closed, I had little sense of where to head, and drove straight onto a rural road, in the thick darkness. My headlights were of little use, beyond faintly hinting at the yellow dividing line of the road. Fortunately, I came across some highway signs and I found myself back on the path to Georgia
I pulled off to a few inconspicuous parking lots through the night, netting a cumulative four hours of sleep.
At sunrise, I rejoined the highway, groggy though I reasoned I'd be alert enough to drive. About forty miles outside of Atlanta, the car began to vibrate heavily. At first I attributed this to the quirks of a thirty-year old vehicle, but the noise intensified. The shifter was oscillating wildly in my hand, and I finally recognized the need to pull over.
As I straddled the shoulder of the road, the suspension amplifying each ridge of the shoulder, I heard a loud metallic clang and immediately lost all power from the engine. It was as if it disengaged from the rest of the vehicle.
It turns out that I threw a rod, which I learned is one of the worst things to happen to an engine. I had the car towed to a shop in Atlanta, and then needed to find a way to Athens, seventy miles away.
Not to mention finding some way of moving the contents of the car, which included a 100 watt Sunn guitar amp.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Monday, July 2, 2012
The impromptu mountain climb
The first full day at Big Bend National Park, we embarked on the Window Trail, named for a view of a distant landscape nestled in between two mountain ranges, resulting in an inverted triangle 'window'.
Dropping several thousand feet in elevation, down into an ancient magma chamber of a former volcano.
The hike started out as refreshing, partly since we were descending. A few miles in, we decide to take a snack break and climb onto a large boulder. It was about 12 feet high, and though hesitant at first, I eventually found my footing, along a diagonal path.
As we were sitting atop the boulder, Ryan stared at some scenery we'd just passed and said, he wanted to climb this mountain. He had previously scaled indoor walls at a climbing club, so I took this thought with a little trepidation. That he thought climbing would be fun, not that we were actually going to attempt it.
But no, actually, he was serious. Ryan felt a strong urge, felt compelled to do this. I had my doubts, since I'd never climbed anything before. Except for a 15-ft wall once, with fingerholds and a harness.
It was a long way to the top. A ~3,000 ft peak. Perhaps it was the rush of finally being out West, or a pulse of adrenaline from the hike thus far, but I became increasingly open to Ryan's idea.
In fact, it seemed like a wonderful idea. Aaron was similarly persuaded, and so we walked back towards the mountain.
The first few steps were easy, deceptively so. The mountain was situated at a 40-degree angle, though we had started out with large flat surfaces with decent grip.
A thousand or so feet up, we run into an unclimbable sheer drop above us, and have to climb up leftward to a more hospitable area.
The rocks got increasingly smaller the higher we climbed. What started out as steady 2-foot chunks progressed to 5-inch pieces and even pebbles.
With some frequency, the rocks underneath me would give way, sliding me down a foot or two and sending a fine cascade of pebbles in my wake. The three of us would stagger our positions, so as not to be along the trajectory of the inevitable debris.
Occasionally a strong jolt would free one of my limbs, leaving it dangling where rocks once were. Although I would keep a solid footing with my other arms and legs, it was still a bit jarring.
Every now and then, I would look behind to see the view below us and the increasingly shrinking trail. I wondered, just exactly how we might get down, but the general consensus was to figure that one out later.
I felt an intense euphoria, focusing only on the next rock and where to plant my feet. Any realistic concerns or fear of heights were strongly overpowered by the thrill of climbing a damn mountain.
I was immensely focused, and climbing felt like the right thing to do, the only thing to do in this moment.
The view was extraordinary, almost eclipsed by the thought of 'how the hell did I do this?'
One rock at a time.
Find one rock. Then another and another until the next one. Just one rock at a time.
Along the way, I had found a tree branch about shoulder-height and co-opted it as a walking stick. It gave me a bit more confidence and stability, and allowed me to probe in the vicinity for stable ground.
The stick would give way in measured chunks, finally ending its life as a foot-long twig, but it got me through some steep passes before we parted ways.
Finally reaching the summit invoked a sense of calm and serenity, despite my racing heart and aching knees.
This was not on the agenda at the start of the morning, but now this outcome felt entirely appropriate.
All I could do was stare. Stare at the mountain ranges that were now not so distant. Stare at the peaks of lesser mountains we passed on the way up. Stare at the tiny moving dots along the trail where we once were.
We had taken a detour, and were most decidedly off-trail.
So we climbed a mountain. Climbed a fucking mountain with just our hands and feet. Now the challenge was finding the way down, especially before sunset, or else this would become a chilly impromptu camp.
We took a different path down, through a partially wooded area.
I found a large circular rock, which I sat upon, using it like a skateboard. I surfed along a bed of small rocks for a good chunk of the descent, dodging prickly pears whenever possible. The cactus relative thrived in big bend, and there were just enough to prevent a straight path downslope.
I employed another walking stick to propel me and my rock, though it had an understandably brief lifespan.
Next was a wooded area, where the best discourse was to run briskly, avoiding an awkward and slow descent. In the worst case, a tree could break my fall.
I paused here and there amongst the trees, trying to regain my breath and formulate some sort of path through the dense growth.
I took into another heavily wooded downslope, and after a few minutes of running, found myself back on the trail. The transition was unexpected, but I was grateful to have finally found the end of the mountain.
I was covered in a multitude of small cuts, ones I hadn't noticed until after our little endeavor. Mostly my arms and lower legs, with a few ones precisely placed in the folds of my hands.
We still had another mile or two left on the trail, so we took off for the 'window'. As we approached the trail's end, it began to rain. It was raining in the desert, and in a place with barely any annual precipitation. First there was the unusually chilly winter in the South; now the weird climate had shifted west. Chills in Florida. Rain in the desert.
The rain started out light but consistent.
We reached the 'window', after hiking through a shallow stream. The rocks were quite slick, further enhanced by the rainfall, but we were hardly deterred. Especially not after that mountain.
The stream and surrounding rocks got narrower, and water poured over a sheer drop. We got within a few paces of this end, at which point the rocks got a bit too slippery. We decided not to further tempt fate after surviving the mountain.
We now had to retrace our steps all the way back on the trail. On the walk back, the rain intensified to a downpour and the temperature quickly dropped. Our discomfort was dampened by the residual rush of that mountain and the unplanned workout.
As we passed the mountain we'd just scaled, I took another look up. 'That looks kind of dangerous', one of us quipped. Indeed.
I was soaked and shaking by the time we returned to the trailhead, but still in good spirits. We capped our day with a feast at the lodge diner. I had a chicken fried steak, and the suppressed hunger bounced out in a gluttonous burst.
We had arrived just before sunset, and watched the dimming sky from the warm confines of the diner.
At the lodge, a lady approached us and said she'd seen us climbing the mountain. She called us crazy, but admitted to some risky water rafting on her part.
More incredible than bumping into each other at the same time in the same place in a barren expanse, was that she actually recognized us at such a distance.
After staying in Terlingua for a few days, we spent a few more camping in Big Bend. We kept a good pace of hiking, though we didn't attempt the rigors of that first day.
We would become at a loss for things to do after sundown, since light was limited, and starting a campfire wasn't the most sensible thing in a brush landscape, so this lead to any early bedtime with the occasional interruption of slumber to view the stars.
We were in a region of the U.S. featuring the lowest amounts of light pollution, but due to a waxing crescent moon, needed to wait until the middle of the night for moonset. Still, the view was akin to the star theatre at a planetarium, and nothing short of beautiful.
Dropping several thousand feet in elevation, down into an ancient magma chamber of a former volcano.
The hike started out as refreshing, partly since we were descending. A few miles in, we decide to take a snack break and climb onto a large boulder. It was about 12 feet high, and though hesitant at first, I eventually found my footing, along a diagonal path.
As we were sitting atop the boulder, Ryan stared at some scenery we'd just passed and said, he wanted to climb this mountain. He had previously scaled indoor walls at a climbing club, so I took this thought with a little trepidation. That he thought climbing would be fun, not that we were actually going to attempt it.
But no, actually, he was serious. Ryan felt a strong urge, felt compelled to do this. I had my doubts, since I'd never climbed anything before. Except for a 15-ft wall once, with fingerholds and a harness.
It was a long way to the top. A ~3,000 ft peak. Perhaps it was the rush of finally being out West, or a pulse of adrenaline from the hike thus far, but I became increasingly open to Ryan's idea.
In fact, it seemed like a wonderful idea. Aaron was similarly persuaded, and so we walked back towards the mountain.
The first few steps were easy, deceptively so. The mountain was situated at a 40-degree angle, though we had started out with large flat surfaces with decent grip.
A thousand or so feet up, we run into an unclimbable sheer drop above us, and have to climb up leftward to a more hospitable area.
The rocks got increasingly smaller the higher we climbed. What started out as steady 2-foot chunks progressed to 5-inch pieces and even pebbles.
With some frequency, the rocks underneath me would give way, sliding me down a foot or two and sending a fine cascade of pebbles in my wake. The three of us would stagger our positions, so as not to be along the trajectory of the inevitable debris.
Occasionally a strong jolt would free one of my limbs, leaving it dangling where rocks once were. Although I would keep a solid footing with my other arms and legs, it was still a bit jarring.
Every now and then, I would look behind to see the view below us and the increasingly shrinking trail. I wondered, just exactly how we might get down, but the general consensus was to figure that one out later.
I felt an intense euphoria, focusing only on the next rock and where to plant my feet. Any realistic concerns or fear of heights were strongly overpowered by the thrill of climbing a damn mountain.
I was immensely focused, and climbing felt like the right thing to do, the only thing to do in this moment.
The view was extraordinary, almost eclipsed by the thought of 'how the hell did I do this?'
One rock at a time.
Find one rock. Then another and another until the next one. Just one rock at a time.
Along the way, I had found a tree branch about shoulder-height and co-opted it as a walking stick. It gave me a bit more confidence and stability, and allowed me to probe in the vicinity for stable ground.
The stick would give way in measured chunks, finally ending its life as a foot-long twig, but it got me through some steep passes before we parted ways.
Finally reaching the summit invoked a sense of calm and serenity, despite my racing heart and aching knees.
This was not on the agenda at the start of the morning, but now this outcome felt entirely appropriate.
All I could do was stare. Stare at the mountain ranges that were now not so distant. Stare at the peaks of lesser mountains we passed on the way up. Stare at the tiny moving dots along the trail where we once were.
We had taken a detour, and were most decidedly off-trail.
So we climbed a mountain. Climbed a fucking mountain with just our hands and feet. Now the challenge was finding the way down, especially before sunset, or else this would become a chilly impromptu camp.
We took a different path down, through a partially wooded area.
I found a large circular rock, which I sat upon, using it like a skateboard. I surfed along a bed of small rocks for a good chunk of the descent, dodging prickly pears whenever possible. The cactus relative thrived in big bend, and there were just enough to prevent a straight path downslope.
I employed another walking stick to propel me and my rock, though it had an understandably brief lifespan.
Next was a wooded area, where the best discourse was to run briskly, avoiding an awkward and slow descent. In the worst case, a tree could break my fall.
I paused here and there amongst the trees, trying to regain my breath and formulate some sort of path through the dense growth.
I took into another heavily wooded downslope, and after a few minutes of running, found myself back on the trail. The transition was unexpected, but I was grateful to have finally found the end of the mountain.
I was covered in a multitude of small cuts, ones I hadn't noticed until after our little endeavor. Mostly my arms and lower legs, with a few ones precisely placed in the folds of my hands.
We still had another mile or two left on the trail, so we took off for the 'window'. As we approached the trail's end, it began to rain. It was raining in the desert, and in a place with barely any annual precipitation. First there was the unusually chilly winter in the South; now the weird climate had shifted west. Chills in Florida. Rain in the desert.
The rain started out light but consistent.
We reached the 'window', after hiking through a shallow stream. The rocks were quite slick, further enhanced by the rainfall, but we were hardly deterred. Especially not after that mountain.
The stream and surrounding rocks got narrower, and water poured over a sheer drop. We got within a few paces of this end, at which point the rocks got a bit too slippery. We decided not to further tempt fate after surviving the mountain.
We now had to retrace our steps all the way back on the trail. On the walk back, the rain intensified to a downpour and the temperature quickly dropped. Our discomfort was dampened by the residual rush of that mountain and the unplanned workout.
As we passed the mountain we'd just scaled, I took another look up. 'That looks kind of dangerous', one of us quipped. Indeed.
I was soaked and shaking by the time we returned to the trailhead, but still in good spirits. We capped our day with a feast at the lodge diner. I had a chicken fried steak, and the suppressed hunger bounced out in a gluttonous burst.
We had arrived just before sunset, and watched the dimming sky from the warm confines of the diner.
At the lodge, a lady approached us and said she'd seen us climbing the mountain. She called us crazy, but admitted to some risky water rafting on her part.
More incredible than bumping into each other at the same time in the same place in a barren expanse, was that she actually recognized us at such a distance.
After staying in Terlingua for a few days, we spent a few more camping in Big Bend. We kept a good pace of hiking, though we didn't attempt the rigors of that first day.
We would become at a loss for things to do after sundown, since light was limited, and starting a campfire wasn't the most sensible thing in a brush landscape, so this lead to any early bedtime with the occasional interruption of slumber to view the stars.
We were in a region of the U.S. featuring the lowest amounts of light pollution, but due to a waxing crescent moon, needed to wait until the middle of the night for moonset. Still, the view was akin to the star theatre at a planetarium, and nothing short of beautiful.
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