New Website for Artwork
Current mood: artistic
Category: Art and Photography

Currently listening : Britten: Cello Suites Nos. 1 & 2 Release date: 1989-05-03

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Link to Eric's Obit, Guest book, and Moving Tribute
Category: Life

Here is the place to find links if you want to see more about Eric, or sign the guest book, or watch something about his life.

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Eulogy for Eric-Michael
Current mood: sad
Category: Life

When I first met Eric, he was already a teenager. When his mom and I got married, he was already 18 and spending most of his time pursuing the things he was interested in. Nevertheless, we developed a good relationship - him as the young adult, me as the older and perhaps wiser one, and we were friends as well. I watched him mature as an adult, becoming more responsible and more settled as the years went on. It was with great pride that his mom and I realized that her son was on course to be become a happy and well adjusted man, and of course, we were always waiting for the day he would tell us of an upcoming wedding day or even an upcoming child.

Then Eric's life was cut tragically short. This event was so devastating to us that know and love him. Even though his life covered a brief span, Eric had accomplished much, and there was promise of so much more.

Always physically active, Eric loved team sports as a youth and excelled at playing football, which he did up until an injury took him off the field. His interests also included Aikido and other martial art forms, something he inherited from his father, and which later led him to becoming an excellent mixed martial arts fighter.

In his teenage years, he combined his love for physical action with his love for music into a talent for dancing. He was a great performer in hip hop and break dancing styles, often attracting a crowd when he was dancing. In turn, he loved being the center of attention, which he often was. Actually he was often in the center of attention without even trying, as his very nature attracted others to him. His dance crew named him "Luckie" for his dancing talent.

Later on, the name stuck, perhaps because of all the beautiful girls that were on his arm. The girls, (and then women) that were attracted to Eric were many. But for himself, Eric was content with having a few long-term relationships with the ones he felt a more than physical attraction. There was so much growth in his relationships over the years, as he learned from past mistakes, and forging ever stronger and more complete relationships as he went along.

Eric was very loving, not only for the girls and women in his life, but of animals and children too. He brought home dogs and cats, insisting that we take them in, as he had rescued them from certain harm or even death. I think he loved the innocence of these creatures, and wanted to preserve them as best he could. Even in elementary school, he was often scolded for making animal noises and disturbing the class! He loved his dog Trinity, and could often be seen taking her for a ride in his jeep, or snuggling up to her on the couch.

But as he recognized the innocence of animals, Eric knew the complexities of love and avarice with humans. For him this led to a threefold path of developing the mind, body, and soul in defense of a world which seemed everywhere to be in opposition to innocence.

Eric took his talent for playing video games a step further than most. If you were playing against him, he would soon recognize your weaknesses. Depending how he felt, he could use this knowledge to be either an excellent coach or a deadly opponent. When he began to play chess, he read extensively on the subject, and learned different strategies and playing styles, and played many games to develop them. He was often aggressive at play, and this garnered him much success, often bewildering his opponents.

In the same way he put his aggressive nature into his physical pursuits. He was an excellent body builder, and would often push himself into exhausting workouts in order to build his strength. He was a great work out partner, knowing how to keep others pushing themselves, and at the same time making sure they didn't get injured.

The combination of his physical charm and his handsomeness led him even into modeling. For a time, he was a photographic model in NYC. However, the superficiality of the work did not keep him attracted to it for long.

Eric has that spiritual connection to God and to all living creatures that helped define him as a human. He would not be his mother's child for that not to be so. As he saw the connection to all living things, he recognized in that the reflection of God's love. He stated his love for Jesus Christ on more than one occasion, and I am sure he held that in his heart to the end.

All those that loved Eric, his mum and pop, his girlfriends, even his fighting partners, recognized in him his central depth and character of being. He was a fountain of energy, of creativity, of friendship and warmth. His death astounded us all that this fountain could be turned off. We already miss the blessing of his energy raining down on us.

Currently listening : Best: 1991-2004 By Seal Release date: 09 November, 2004

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blue summer
Current mood: blue
Category: blue Life

Janis

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Eric My Son & My Hero
Current mood: melancholy
Category: Life

It has been a long time since I wrote in this blog.  I have thought about writing once again, but perhaps not so strongly political.  In any case, things have changed suddenly and dramatically.

My stepson Eric died last week from a car accident.  We just got back home after journeying to Connecticut to bury him.  It was and is the most tragic thing that has ever happened to me, and even more so for my wife, who loved him with all her heart and soul. For Eric, I know that he has found eternal rest from the Purgatory that was his time on Earth.

It was amazing to meet the many many people whose lives he touched during his short time on this planet.  Hundreds came to his wake, many telling us of the positive change he made in their lives. Eric has always inspired me to try new things, and to give voice to my feelings and opinions.  He was an endless fountain of energy.  He loved people and animals.  He was always the biggest presence in any room.

Eric fought many demons, but was entering the happiest period of his adult life when he suddenly died.  He was in love, happy at his work, and enjoying a day at the beach.  We shared in his hopes and dreams, and we also dreamed of him raising a family and looked so forward to seeing him cradle his own child in his arms.

We still haven't absorbed all this tragedy means, somehow still it doesn't seem quite real, even though I carried his coffin in my own hands.  Like a treasured vase shattered on the floor, nothing in life will ever be the same again.  Not every shard of glass will be discovered immediately, but will lie in wait to inflict pain later on, so life will be from now on.

Eric was a poet, a fighter, and a saint.  He was 28.

Currently listening : Mozart: Requiem / McNair, Watkinson, Araiza, Lloyd; Marriner By Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart Release date: 05 April, 1991

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Fun on the Rocks
Current mood: calm
Category: Travel and Places

Not all mountain climbs are misadventures, but it seems the worst experiences become memorable.  Or perhaps the sheer terror of the experience is what freezes the moment in my brain.

For instance the first 14,000 foot mountain I climbed was Mt. Shasta.  It was altogether a grand and glorious experience.  Yet, not one I reflect on too often.

I first saw Shasta on a hitchhiking journey from the north.  Although many times I had very little money or food with me, in this case I was pretty lucky.  I had gotten a few meals and a nice bed to sleep in the night before in Yreka, from someone who gave me a ride earlier.  I even had a stash of more food in my pack.  It was a cloudy day and rain threatened, but I got a ride from a couple driving a pickup.  They let me sit in the front, while they proceeded to stop for every hitchhiker they saw, who jumped in the back.

Then it started to rain.  The people in the back were getting wet, but no one wanted to get out and wait in the dry spot, so on we went.  The rain ended just as we entered a broad valley, and there before me was this beautiful snow capped mountain.  Rising from its flanks and arcing across the sky was a perfect rainbow.  I asked the driver what was this mountain, and he told me Mt. Shasta.  I knew I had to climb it, so I asked him to let me off in the little town at the base of the mountain.

There was a convenience store in town, and they told me there that the best approach was to climb from the north entrance.  I started walking down the road with my thumb out and almost immediately was picked up by two guys that were heading up to the same place for the same reason.  I was able to share their camping spot, located right close to the mountain itself. 

The next day, I took a relatively simple hike up to a high on the mountain, but then I had to descend because I was not used to the altitude yet and found myself seriously out of breath.  My camp mates suggested staying high on the mountain, but I wasn't too keen on doing that since I only had a nylon tarp for cover.  Still, the weather was great the next day, so I decided to chance it.  I found a nice spot at the treeline.  It was mid summer and the weather was awesome.  Never got cold at night.

The next day, I went to the top, it was a long climb, I had never been that long above treeline, and I found the lack of reference points disorienting.  But still, it was great weather, and glissading down the snow fields was a very quick way down.  There were other people on the climb, and they were surprised at my lack of crampons, which forced me to constantly kick steps.  They told me there was an easier route to go up, less technical, but it was too late, I had already done the hardest part by then.  I resolved to get crampons for my next mountain climb.  I also had to get my boots resoled, since they started to come apart from the climb.

I left the next day, having eaten about all the food I had, although it seemed a shame to leave when I had gotten used to the altitude.

Many people try to climb Shasta and never make it.  I did with no problems, hardly planning it at all.  I was lucky, and mountain and weather were kind to me.

By contrast, even a simple jaunt can end up being terrifying.

I was roaming around the Green Mountains in Vermont, bushwhacking my way along a ridge near Cavendish.  I see a nice ledge outcropping that looks like it would afford a great view of the valley below.  So I make my way over to the cliff, pushing my way through dense mountain laurel.  The view is nice, but looks to be better out on the rocks.  So I climb the ledge and traverse over to a little ledge that affords a great view of the valley.  After admiring the view for a while, I decided to leave by continuing my traverse and getting back into the woods.  I stood up, and the ledge I was standing on starts to slide down the cliff.  The cliff face is at about 70 degrees, so no panic, I just climb up to a firmer crack in the face.  But the cliff is covered in lichens, making for slippery climbing.  It is also very smooth, likely having been polished smooth by the glacier that formed the valley 10,000 years ago.  The place I found to stop was steeper, nearly vertical, and without handholds.  But it gave me a chance to get my bearings.

The ledge I was on had bounced its way down into the valley, leavinga cloud of pulverized rock.  The former location of the ledge was now a smear of mud and lichens.  There was no way I could use that route for my retreat.

So now, I have gone from a simple exploratory bushwhack in the hills to being trapped on a steep cliff with no rope and no help, and no one even having the slightest clue where I was.

Looking around, I see a small ledge with a few twigs of mountain laurel clinging to the side of the cliff.  The ledge is beyond my reach, but it looked like I could reach it by springing up from my perch and grabbing hold of the mountain laurel.  There was a small nub on the rock for my feet halfway to the twigs.  I planned my move carefully.  Failure meant I would end up sliding and falling down the cliff face onto the rocks at the bottom.  Maybe someone would find my bones someday.  Summoning all my strength, I jumped up from my perch and reached for the ledge.

Needless to say, I made it.  But the adrenaline rush was not to be forgotten!

Currently listening : Slip Sliding Away By Elmore James Release date: 16 May, 2000

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No frozen pizza please!
Current mood: nostalgic
Category: Travel and Places

Please, No Frozen Pizza

The day broke with a typical Sierra Nevada sparkling clear winter sky.  It was still early winter, but the snowline had already descended to about 7000 feet.  Kevin and I had decided the night before that we would climb Mt. Tallac today, and we were up as early as we could stand.

The way we figured it, we would drive to a trail head north of Cascade Creek, and climb up from there.  A few hours climbing to get to the top, about 2800 vertical feet up, the peak being at a little under 9800 feet.  The usual summer approach is actually from the south side of the mountain, but road that way already closed for the winter.

At this point, I had lived in Tahoe for a couple years after arriving in 1980, and climbed about every peak in the area, and done a bit of rock climbing on Lover's Leap and Chimney Rock.  Hiking and climbing were ingrained in me, I did my first 50 mile hike with the Boy Scouts when I was 12 years old.  The Camp Trails pack on my back was nearly as tall as I was back then.

I had met Kevin there in Tahoe, we worked together swing shifts at Harrah's.  He was one of my quieter friends, but he did have a great sense of adventure.  Everyone I knew in Tahoe had that spirit to some degree.  Kevin did not have a lot of experience in the mountains, being from the flat lands.  He made up for experience with his enthusiasm.  In fact no one I knew in Tahoe grew up there, they all moved there to ski or to just enjoy one the most beautiful places on earth.

Neither one of us had climbed Tallac yet, as it sat looming over the lake and always seemed like the place to climb someday when we were to lazy or bored to do anything else.  The mountain is famous for the cross shape that is made on its eastern face when the snows fall.  The cross is actually two intersecting couloirs which hold the snow rather well, into the summer some years.  My idea was to check out the approach from the top while we were climbing, and see if they could be skied.  It looked like it would be an awesome exposed run with nothing but the lake at your feet.

Kevin was all for that, even if he had no intention of skiing it, as he liked the idea of exploring this mountain.  Particularly since no one we talked to had even been to the top of it, and it wasn't even very tall.

Our hike started easily up a shallow slope, the trail would take us up then down between two hills then head south and up the northwest flank of the mountain.  The snow quickly became deep but still firm, so walking was no problem.  The trail was obscured, and we weren't familiar with it, but by using a map and compass we were able to generally climb the proper route.  At one point, the alder thickets along a stream were so dense we had to climb up and traverse along the north face of the mountain.  Going here was difficult, with just enough snow to cover the many boulders and scree that had fallen from the cliffs above.

Soon we broke through to the snow field below the summit cone of the mountain.  Typical for the mountains in the this area, small pockets of snow persist throughout the year.  I have skied these snow fields in June, and glissaded down them wearing a huge smile on a hot day in July.

The snow field started out gently but got steeper as we went.  It also got difficult, as new snow on top of the old made climbing more laborious.  The footing was secure, a good thing since we had no climbing gear for this adventure.  Where it got hairy, we had to kick toe holds in the snow and just rely on our sense of balance.  Progress became very slow, and we were pushing it to get to the top and back down before dark.

The views got more spectacular as we climbed, with Lake Tahoe visible to the east around the shoulder of the mountain, and the sun setting over Desolation Wilderness to the west.

We could see what looked like the top of the mountain ahead of us.  Still, there was no time to scramble over to the east side and check out the entrance to the couloirs.  Instead we decided to push for the top and get down as fast as we could.

The snow was now wind crusted on top.  When we broke through, which happened about every third step, we sank one leg up to the top of the thigh.  So now progress was very slow.  We could see that even if we got to the top, it would be too dark to see anything.  While we were going up, we thought it would be awesome to see the sun set from the top, but that had already happened, because the next ridge of mountains to the west were even taller.

So we decided, about 200 vertical feet from the top, to turn around.

It was a good decision because realistically, we had to find our way down.  There was no moon, so we would have to rely on starlight to get back down.  I had a flashlight in my pack, but it was too feeble to light up a path for both of us too walk in. 

Going downhill through the windpack was every bit as irritating as going up, only breaking through now meant you were probably going to do a face plant and perhaps tumble down the slope.  This forced us to basically retrace our steps kicking in our heels and hope for the best.  Soon the worst was over, and we were back on the snow pack. 

I was ahead of Kevin, picking my way back down following our tracks, kicking my heels in, when suddenly the ground gave way beneath my feet.  Before I even had a chance to react, I was falling into a crevasse, and everything became pitch black.

Fortunately the hole I fell in was not very deep, and had a very firm bottom about 10 or 12 feet down.  Feeling all my limbs, I found I wasn't hurt at all really, just a few scrapes, so I felt damn lucky.  Although it was very dark in my little hole, I could look up and see Kevin's face looking down at me.

"You all right?"

"Yea, the ground gave way, but I didn't fall far."

"Can you climb out?"

"Yea no problem."

He started laughing as I was shimmying my way up the hole.

"It was pretty weird to see you drop out of sight like that!"

"Yea, it was a wild ride for me too!"

Although I was a little bruised, no bad injuries, so after pausing for a half a minute, we took off for down the mountain.  Now it was really getting dark.  Before, we could see the bottom of the snowfield, and the sag between the mountains where we were headed.  Now the whiteness of the snow had become gray, and the sag was blended into the background.  The treeline below us was a black smudge.

The rest of the trip down the snowfield was uneventful.  For me though, every punch through of the snow and I half expected the ground to give way again.  At the sag, we had a decision to make.  Shall we go back the way we came, or take a short cut down the mountain by following the stream back to the road?

We decided to follow the stream, partly because it was shorter, but also because it was dark and we didn't want to get crossed up in the back country.  Following the stream, we would come upon the road we drove in on, and then be able to easily get back to the car.

The downside of following the stream was that the valley was very narrow, and covered with alder thickets around the stream.  The stream itself was half frozen, with some of the ice safe to walk on, but other parts very thin with rushing water underneath.

The stream flowed due east, and we started out on the south bank, moving downhill over the snow and scree we climbed up on.  At a certain point, below where we came on the stream coming up, the valley wall on the south side becomes very steep and rocky, making for unsafe walking in the dark  When we got to this part of our descent, we decided to find a place to cross and descend on the north side.

Of course, now it is totally dark, as we are in a steep valley on a moonless night facing east.  The ice was a shade of gray darker than the snow. The alder branches blended into the night sky and occasionally whacked us in the face as we passed through them.  The running water in the stream was pitch black, with tiny silver reflections betraying its presence.

The upper part of the stream winds through the sag, and it was difficult to pick a way along the edge and not end up being trapped on three sides by water.

Still we are making good time under the conditions.  We finally found a place to cross the stream.  There is a small dam of sorts (beavers?) and Kevin, who was in the lead, starts across.

Suddenly, the branch he was stepping on, which is embedded in the ice except for its center, gives way.  He loses his balance, vainly to trying to find something to hold onto, and falls into the stream.  At pretty much the deepest point.  Although he stays upright, his lower half is soaked through, so he simply wades across to the bank of the stream.

I am able to cross without falling, and I made my way up to where he was standing, trying to wring the water from his pants.

Although he says he is fine, I start to get a little worried here.  It was in the low 20's and getting colder.  We were still several miles of bushwhacking from the car.  I have seen people start to get hypothermic pretty quickly under similar situations.

Well, in any case, we had to keep moving, at least that will help to keep Kevin warm.  So off again we went, trying to be even more vigilant about the ice conditions.

Lower down, it became obvious we would have to cross the stream again because of a cliff on the north side.  I was in the lead at this point, and this time it was my turn to get a dunking.  The ice I was standing was simply too thin, and I went in up to my waist.  That water was fucking cold.  Kevin managed to find a better place to cross and joined me on the south bank.  We look at each other and we both know this isn't good.  I had a Snickers in my pack, and we split it.  Then we resolved to move on again.

My boots were squishing with every step.  I didn't bother to take them off, just let the water eventually squish out of them.  My gaiters were frozen to them anyways.  Both Kevin and my pants were now frozen solid, which interestingly gave a sort of armoring against the alder branches.

Soon after that, the stream bed became rather steeper, as the bottom portion of the mountain really falls away into the valley.  Far below, there was a single building with a light on in its back yard.  It looked like the light was right on the bank of our stream.  So with this beacon to guide us, we continued down.

That is until we came to the waterfall.  Not just any waterfall, but a half-frozen nearly vertical waterfall with crumbly Sierra granite sides.  We couldn't see the bottom right away, just silver spray descending into blackness, and a shiny veneer of ice coating beautifully rounded rocks, which fell away into thin air.

"What do you want to do now?"

"Well, do you think there is a way around it?"

"No, its all cliff, either up or down, and its pitch black dark."

"I guess we will have to go down it."

"Fuck. At least we are already wet."

I don't remember a lot about how we got down, only that it took supreme concentration.  We basically kept off the ice by descending where the water was flowing .  The descent was a long downclimb, facing the rock, clinging on with our hands, and searching for a foot hold.  All the while, the water coming off the rocks is splashing in our face and running down our arms.  A few places it opened up and we were able to get our bearings on drier ground.  The beacon below us kept getting brighter, and was actually starting to get annoying to look at.

My hands were like lumps of frozen clay, my feet were now numb.  No part of me was dry.  Kevin was about the same.

At the bottom, we crossed the stream a final time on the boulders thrown down the chasm by the running water.  From there, we were able to traverse along the banks of a lake, and cut up through the woods and came out on the road.  Our road! Sweet, sweet pavement! Firm ground!

I was exhausted.  I was frozen.  I was sitting on the side of the road with my knees pulled up to my chest, shivering in the darkness.  I was thinking that if I rested long enough I would eventually get warmer.  That, really, is a fatal thought to someone in my position.

Kevin, although he was also in bad shape, was still on his feet.  He was telling me we have to get to the car.  I am thinking car, car, car what the fuck do we need a car for?  If I wait here, someone will come and pick me up.

Kevin insists on going, so I get up and stumble down the road after him.  I can feel the blood returning to my legs as I do so.  The car is about a mile away uphill, and although I feel like I am in a fog, we make it back.  Soon the car is running and the heater is turned on.

My body explodes with prickly heat as it warms up.  My feet start to feel like they are burning off.  Kevin says the same thing.  Fortunately the drive to Kevin's house is very short.

As soon as we get in the door, we get the wet and frozen gear off.  My hands and feet will not stop burning!  As I am dancing around the room, we order pizza and crack open some beers.  In a half hour,  the pizza comes, and we pay with soggy dollar bills.  We practically inhale one of the best pizzas of my life.

Even now, I am a strong believer in the healing power of fresh pizza.

Kevin's house mates came home and found us draining the last of the beers, zoning out to MTV.

"Did you guys climb Tallac?"

"Yea, but we never got to the top, it got too dark."

"Bummer, well here have an Oly."

"Thanks.  Yea, we'll try again another time."

Actually, I never did try Tallac again.  I only lived in Tahoe for another year and a half, and I had seen too much of that mountain already.

Currently listening : A Valid Path By Alan Parsons Release date: 24 August, 2004

5:16 PM - 8 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Hitching the Moon to the Sun
Current mood: atomic
Category: atomic Life

Hitching the Moon to the Sun

I left Denver with great anticipation.  This was in 1980.  While I had done a good bit of hitchhiking in the Northeast, here was an opportunity to see the West from ground level.  My friend had given me a ride as far as Denver, after we first toured through the deserts and mountains of Arizona.  I even was able to take a hiking trip through the Grand Canyon.

I always have been a road junkie.  Or for that matter a trail junkie.  There is no thrill better than discovering what is beyond the next bend, or over the next hill.

Hitchhiking combines the sense of discovery with a keen appreciation of being a rider on the planet.  There is no real schedule for hitching rides, you don't know who what or when you will get your ride.  Of course, people have philosophies about it.

Do you pay for the gas when you get a ride?, I say no if they were going there anyways, yes if they are going out of their way for you.  Do you talk a lot, or keep quiet? I go along with whatever the driver wants, some want to talk a lot, some just want another human along for the ride.

It is hard for me to get angry when you don't get a ride, but some people do.  I am very patient, and it usually works out better that way.  No sense in having any negative energy when someone finally picks you up.  It is far better to be grateful. Of course, people stop and take you on for their own reasons, more than just giving you a ride.  Having picked up people myself, and driven by people at other times, I can understand this.

This trip was going to take me from Denver to the Olympic Peninsula in Washington.  There wasn't any easy direct route, since the best routes had been taken up by interstate highways that don't permit hitching.  So really I would be seeing the back roads.

I ended up on route northbound on the western slope of the Rockies, having secured a ride over the mountains from a single driver.  Already, I had an interesting ride from a guy and his wife that were feverishly religious.  Beyond the fish on the car.  They didn't try to convert me or anything, but everything they thought, saw and said was through the power of the Lord.   It wasn't a long ride, and halfway through it I noticed the blanket I was sitting on was covering a rifle.  I didn't say much or even mention the gun.

The road I was on did not have a lot of traffic, and most of the traffic was local, farmers, ranchers, housewives.  So to pass the time I was walking down the two lane blacktop, sticking my thumb out when it looked promising.  I had a full pack, with a frame, frameless packs having not yet been invented.  Everything I needed for living was in my pack or my pockets.  Because of this, most people that gave me a ride had pickups.

In my experience with hitching, I haven't found it better to be totally unencumbered.  People will give you a ride even if you barely fit in their car even without your pack.  I have had people pick me up where there is drifts of coffee cups and fast food bags and God knows what else in the back seat, and they are busy shoveling the debris off the passenger seat into the back in order to get room for me to sit.

One Sunday, I got a single ride from Mad River Glen, up in the northern reaches of Vermont, practically down to my front door in Connecticut.  The woman who picked me up didn't care that I had a set of 205 Blizzards, they went in her station wagon nicely, threaded through the seats with the ends of the skis next to the shifter.  The guy who picked me up next, in the dark, with skis towering beside me, was a night janitor driving a step van.  The skis rested on his cleaning equipment as he drove me the last few miles to my door.  The only unnerving thing about that trip was the guy looked exactly like Lurch from "The Addam's Family".  I didn't ask him though.

Out on the Western Slope, it soon got dark, and still no luck getting rides except from one lady running to the local store.  I was beginning to think my ponytail wasn't helping in the hinterlands, so I had tucked it into the back of my shirt.  Still, no luck.

I was on a limited budget, being an unemployed hitchhiker, but I picked up some food at the local store where the woman dropped me off.  Actually, one of my favorite things was a Hostess apple pie.  You can find them everywhere, and they are usually safe, and fresh, having plenty of industrial goodness baked right in.  In those days, bottled water was a rarity, usually I got by with Gatorade or I found a spring where I could fill my canteen.  I never drank Coke since I found it only made me thirstier.  In my mind, it was truly one of the biggest rip offs on the planet.  I got a ride once from a guy that bought me a Coke at the gas station at the end of the trip.  It was a hot day, and he wanted to take me home with him.  But ha! - the Coke ruined it for me.  That beautiful green and curvy glass bottle, filled with noxious goo.

The road got dark and led further into darkness.  The green of the rangelands were fading to black.  As I walked on, I debated changing from flip flops to my hiking boots in case I stepped on something I couldn't see.  But I didn't feel like stopping and going through the effort, as I was going on momentum.  There weren't any large hills to go up or down, the road meandered down a long valley, so the walking was easy.

There also was absolutely no artificial lights.  Except for the road and occasional barbwire fence, nothing manmade was in sight.  The stars were coming out, first Venus through the last purple smudge of the evening.

No cars came past.  At this point, I was walking on the left side of the road anyways so I could avoid cars, because they certainly wouldn't see me.  The countryside was silent except occasionally there would be the howl of a coyote.  In the brush, unseen animals rattled branches and leaves.  It was really the essence of the western frontier to me, and I was loving it.

As the moon started to rise, I could see the whole valley laid out before me, in shades of indigo and gray.  The ranches were divided by trees on the fence lines, and way in the distance a single house just turned off the last light as the owners went to bed.  This is the headwaters of the Colorado River, which wound its way like a silver thread down the valley floor.

But incongruously, there was a light forming ahead to the north, getting brighter on the horizon.  At first, I was thinking that there was a town ahead, but then the town was either turning on all its lights, or it was moving closer.  Then over the crest of a hill, there came a huge spotlight, as bright as any I had ever seen, and it was actually on the road!

Then came the sound, carrying through the breeze.  It was a low humming, then a grinding noise, then the sound like a T&A truck stop would make if all the rigs started up at once.

The light was a headlight, one giant Cyclops of a headlight, which seemed like it was moving back in forth, sweeping across the road.  Cyclops, although he was huge, was not fast, and slowly he was coming my way.  When the searchlight was not pointed toward me, I could make out that this was no ordinary midnight beer run.  The vehicle with the big light was equally as huge.  It was very long, as tall as a house, and looked like it took up the entire roadway.  I started to look for other places to go off the road that wasn't a ditch or barbed wire.  Of course, I still had on my flip flops.  Actually, I noticed that the thongs were making my toes bleed, damn I should have changed out of them.

There is a certain animal instinct one has to depend on when you are hitching.  As the Clash would musically ask, Should I stay or should I go now?  Survival instincts say, if you have to ask the question, leaving is probably the better course.  Of course, you can't let fear govern your every move.  If there is the ability to reason, then you still might want to stay.  But the gut feeling, that inner guiding voice that says, damn this is not good! - that is one voice you have to be tuned into.  I can remember not listening to that voice, and having bad shit happen.  Or worse, having silenced the voice by drinking and having bad shit happen.  Fortunately for me, the really bad shit, things like being shot in the face, didn't happen to me, but to someone else.

So now, all alone on the range, confronted by this huge machine with who knows driving, I am thinking that maybe it would have been better not to be there.  No one in the world knew where I was.  Except, of course for Cyclops with his big piercing eye.  Whenever he looked directly at me, I froze, because all I could see was this searing white light.  I decided to cross the road and stand on the other side and let the big guy squeeze by me.  If I had too, I could jump into the ditch and get out of the way.

I could see that the rig was carrying something, like a large rocket, and I knew I was witnessing a sight very few have seen.  It was the movement of a ICBM across the American landscape.  Here before me was a missile capable of melting a hundred Hiroshimas to a puddle, from half way around the earth.  Well, it probably didn't have a war head in it, but maybe it did.  And it probably didn't have any fuel in it either, so no danger of them randomly lighting the candle so to speak.  Why was it out in the middle of nowhere in the middle of the night was a mystery.  Except that generally, we do try and sweep our nuclear dirt under the carpet.  We aren't like the Soviets were back then, proudly displaying our missiles in military parades on Memorial Day.  We still would rather not see or know about these instruments of human destruction.

Our nuclear missiles are kept hidden underground, away from nuclear blasts and prying eyes.  They scurry about at night, away from view of enemy satellites, but also citizen review.  Out of sight, out of mind.

Since the cold war ended, one might think that the need for incredible numbers of these weapons would diminish.  But instead, the number and types of them keep expanding, like a nuclear Baskin Robbins.  I read that an ICBM costs $70 million to make.  I guess that includes the warhead.  The ironic part about them is they cost another $70 million to launch.  This is called "fly away" cost.  It is ironic, because what cold hearted accountant in a bomb shelter somewhere is going to be totaling all this money flying way?  Will some Senator from North Dakota be pushing for new appropriations to replace all those missiles we launched against the Reds?

The big rig rolled by me.  The driver and crew probably wondering what the hell I was doing there, but possibly not caring.  I was single insignificant human observing the movement of something that has more yang energy than a thousand rising suns. 

As they went by, I tried to fake a smile and waved.  But I felt saddened and sickened.  The coyotes agreed with me.

Currently listening : Highway 61 Revisited By Bob Dylan Release date: 01 June, 2004

6:33 AM - 5 Comments - 8 Kudos - Add Comment

The Staff of Life
Current mood: distressed
Category: News and Politics

The Staff of Life

The US has been known for a long time as an over-producer of wheat.  Even now, the Midwest is still the breadbasket of the country, and millions of bushels of wheat are exported to other nations every year.  There are 60 million acres of wheat under cultivation annually in the US.  The wheat growing areas extend from Montana and North Dakota down to Oklahoma and Texas.   Typically, wheat requires a temperate climate for growth.  Different varieties of wheat can be grown within the temperate zone, for instance hard white wheat can be grown in a drier area, and durum wheat can be grown in colder areas such as North Dakota.

Wheat in the US is rarely irrigated, only 5% of the total wheat crop is under irrigation.  Typically, wheat is planted in the fall (winter wheat), and sprouts before winter, when it is dormant.  The wheat begins to grow again in the spring, and is ready for harvest in June, the exact timing depends on location and the weather.  During the summer growing season, the crop is dependent on warm weather for growth, but temperatures that are too high stop growth.  Harvest time is delayed by rain, and rain or hail at harvest can destroy a years worth of effort.

Over the course of the growing season, the wheat crop is subject to the vagaries of weather and natural disaster.  Flooding destroyed many acres of wheat in 1999 in the US.  Last year, the hot summer decimated the wheat crop in Europe.

With the falling prices of wheat, and increased demand for corn, wheat crop areas are shrinking in the US, although supply has been holding steady or declining only slightly.

While the threat of global warming harming our agriculture may seem unlikely, or something that may happen in the distant future, new research shows the West is already feeling the effects of increased warmth. This is important, given the vulnerability of the U.S. wheat crop to a hotter climate and drier soils.

I have taken a map of the prominent wheat growing areas in the U.S. published by the Department of Agriculture.  On to that, I have overlayed the projected changes in soil moisture as a result of global warming in the next 50 years, published by the US EPA.  As can be seen by the resulting map, the wheat growing areas are strongly impacted by the changing climate.  In particular, the changes in the Great Plains climate are indicative of Dust Bowl conditions.

Interestingly, although the EPA has studied this problem, they conclude that there will only be slightly negative or somewhat positive impacts to agriculture due to global warming.  This is due to the increase in growth rate with increased CO2, and "adaptation" by the farmers as a response to changing weather patterns.  Wheat, however, is not very responsive to increased CO2 levels.  Also, it is hard to see how farmer could respond to drought other than to stop growing wheat.  There is not enough water in the underground aquifers to support irrigation for the long term.

Soil Moisture Changes to Wheat Growing Areas.

The picture may actually be bleaker than this.  The current trends seem to suggest that the warmer air may not carry the increased moisture once thought.  This could mean that areas in the West may suffer more, as increases in moisture where calculated to make up for soil drying.

We need to find solutions to the coming crisis that expand our adaptability.  Current government policy is to ignore the potential impacts of climate change on agriculture, or minimize them.  Other parts of the world may in fact be more impacted than what we see in the U.S.

Currently reading : Outgrowing the Earth: The Food Security Challenge in an Age of Falling Water Tables and Rising Temperatures By Lester R. Brown Release date: January, 2005

2:23 PM - 6 Comments - 10 Kudos - Add Comment

Failure of the Doha Round of Trade Agreements?
Current mood: restless

Virtually all multilateral trade agreements have been successfully negotiated since the incorporation of the UN.  But the most recent round of talks are stalled, some think permanently, by the inability of the parties to be forthcoming on subsidies and tariffs.

The largest barriers are being set up by the developed countries, mostly the US and the EU, and they have to do with their subsidies of agricultural products.  Especially in the Us, years of subsidies for agricultural commodities has led to over-production.  The excess products have then been dumped on the world market to avoid depressing prices in the home land, while causing major world market disruption.

To make matters worse, as Oxfam has found, the US underreports its true subsidies to the WTO by a factor of 200 times.  It does this by shading the definition of subsidy according to the initial Geneva round of talks nearly 20 years ago.

The developing countries have asked for an even playing field, and so far this is not what is proposed by the US.  In fact the Us has unilaterally resisted every move at the UN to have a full accounting of agricultural subsidy.  The big winners so far have been the agri-business giants, while the sustenance farmers have been driven more into poverty.

But what is happening here necessarily a bad thing?  A free trade in agricultural products may never be attainable or desirable.  There are several problems with trade in farm items that are not reflected in the trade of finished goods that represent capital investment and added value.  For one thing, farm products obviously depend on limited land resources, and land used for growing an export crop, such as cotton, cannot be used for supplying food for the local market.  To fill that gap, the exporting nation must rely on imported food products often heavily subsidized, from wealthier countries.

There are surely instances where the import of basic food products are a necessity, but there is hardly a case where the local economy depends solely on the export of a food crop, at least not for very long.  In the locations where this does occur, you can see the results of the commodification of land results in the exploitation of soil and water for profit.  This exploitation is rarely sustainable.

Another difference with crop exports in developing countries is the local model for land ownership and crop growing decisions are not based on decisions made by the farmer per se.  In fact, the typical farmer does not own the land, it is owned and controlled by a landowner with little interest in farming other than production of a crop for sale.  So the types of crops grown are usually out of the hands of the farmer, and depend more on available profits for the landowner, who would rather grow bananas than yams, not the workers who could just live on yams.  Sustainability rarely enters the decision.

For instance, looser trade restrictions for soybeans has meant that large tracts of rainforest in Brazil are cleared to grow soybeans, which are then traded on the world market as cattle feed (typically to the EU at present).  When the Amazon soil is depleted, which happens quickly, it becomes grazing land for cattle at best, certainly never again rainforest.  The constant pressure to exploit this land is a result of viewing the land, the soybean (and the cattle), as commodities.  In the same way one might mine the countryside for gold, and strip it of vegetation, excavate huge pits, and poison the water.  Once the land is thus denuded, the people that were residing there have little to live on, but the multi-national corporations and countries that benefited from the rape of the land move on to greener pastures.

Unless strict protection is written in trade rules, this type of exploitation will only worsen.  The developing world has come to the understanding that the WTO model for regulating trade has failed to protect them from exploitation.  Trade rules that promote fair trade are required, and the rules cannot be written by the developed world as a kind of patrimonial gift to the poorer countries.  To the most basic farmer working the land to support his family and his community, international trade is not what he needs as much as support to increase productivity and implement sustainable practices.

7:58 PM - 5 Comments - 6 Kudos - Add Comment