will be name of my new club. Techno in this corner, dance in that corner, trance over here, and of course, a mosh pit in the center!!!
The Grindhouse is the pavilion out behind the Conservation Dept. Office. While half of those on Work Crews left to go complete a campsite and build a trail to it, the rest of us sorry souls gathered to sharpen tools. And what tools they were! Picks! Maddox! Hazel Hoes! Log Tongs! Rock Bars! And they were all dull! So dull in fact that the Cons department broke out their finest grinders and said, "Have at 'em!"
So I became a Grinder. A metal working machine. I twisted my hat backwards, slipped on a pair of blades, pulled on my three finger gloves (don't judge, I find that it helps), grabbed the grinder and set to work. Water hissed as it met hot metal. Sparks flew as human grit and grinding gears tore into bent and jagged metal. Battle cries were released as men savagely prayed to their totems. And then the screams of metal on metal ended, and grimy fingers reached up to remove safety glasses. Sharp rays of sunlight were reflected off the gleaming metal. It was finished, it was perfect. And then we pulled it out of the vice, handed it to the next man, and put a new one in. And another. And another. The number of tools is both staggering and yet, almost but not quite overwhelming. Impossible to finish, and yet, almost within grasp. So we worked and sweated and glugged down great quantities of soda. We grew bored, frustrated, apathetic.
That is the Grindhouse. Work 7 and a half hours a day cleaning and sharpening. Come back as black and grimy as a coal worker. Find chunks of metal in your clothes. Note the countless, small pits in your blades formed by mini chunks of fire. Eat with both gusto and disgust as hunger overwhelms common sense (like all dining hall food, the food here is fried, full of carbs, and generally gross). Wake up in the morning and find new ways to put a bevel on a bitch hoe (an actual tool invented by one Richard Smith, combining the Pick and Hazel Hoe into one hell of a unit). Its not too exciting, its not enthralling, but damn! if it doesn't sound cool!
Friday, August 20, 2010
Boy Scouts
sometimes pretend to be men.
I was never a Boy Scout. I think my parents took me to one meeting when I was 10, and then promptly told me that I was not going to like it (It was also a long drive). Sure, my friends were in it. They talked about their retreats, the things they did. Oh, the fun they must have had. But, looking back, I'm kinda glad I didn't do it. Its just not my style. Too organized, too tradition bound, and just a little too silly.
So, why then did I sign up for a job where I was going to not only be surrounded by Boy Scouts 24/7, but also be expected to act like one too? I have no idea, it must have seemed like a good thing when I was planning my summer. Make money, see exotic places, meet exotic people, that kinda thing. Whatever, its over.
Anyways, I came to the conclusion just a while ago that Boy Scouts are not always the saints that they are made out to be. Most of them are riotous pranksters, almost all of them are pyros. Some enjoy helping others, but some take joy in denying participants even the slightest of pleasantries. Some are douches. Some are assholes. Some are "Boy Scouts". Some are girls. Its a damn mixed bag.
Take for instance, Jeffery, an Order of the Arrow Trail Crew leader. His job is to lead kids on a 14 day trek, where they build trails and go on hikes and stuff. He's the All-American type, never has a harsh word to say to anyone, always smiling, humble, and yet has done a great deal for his community. Oh, and he's both an Eagle Scout and a member of the Order of the Arrow. So, lets just say he is what people imagine when they think "Boy Scout".
Then take a man nicknamed, Kentucky. The man does not think before he speaks, curses as much as he breathes, and is generally a braggart and fool. He is a sexist and hates anyone who is not white, Protestant, or from America. He is a man who eats like a horse and looks like a pig. He will in one breath proclaim the glory of working in the outdoors, and in the next sigh as he decides that he just wants to sit and watch the rest toil. When I think Boy Scout, I do not think of him. And yet, he is one.
There are those who are gun rights advocates, those who carry ACLU memberships in their back pockets, those who love to cook and clean, those who love the roar of a chainsaw as they disappear in a cloud of wood chips, those who are fat, and those who are so skinny you wonder if they have done nothing but sit in front of a screen for hours on end each and ever day, those who are rebels, those who are model citizens, those who are fools, and those who are geniuses. When I look at the Boy Scouts, I realize, I am looking at what is American humanity. A cross section of the populace.
However, I always assumed that a Boy Scout was at least a little more honest than the rest of us. This of course, turns out to not be the case. At the end of every season at Philmont, the number of thefts sky rockets. Tents can not be locked, lockers can be easily broken into, and people leave their belongings in the open. And, of course, there are opportunists in the midst. In one way, I always thought my stuff was safer, because no Boy Scout would steal my shit. What a concept. Hell, I thought, if I was to lose my wallet, it would turn up right? Some good "Boy Scout" would find it and return it to the proper authorities. Well, today, I realized that this ideal and the reality were two very separate concepts. During a nice poo, I believe my wallet fell out of my pants. It is, unfortunately, one of those things that happen. When I realized that it was gone, I immediately ran about trying to retrace my steps. By the time I had gotten back to the restrooms, the wallet had disappeared from the stall and was now sitting on top of a trash can. Empty. 240 dollars in cash gone. I was, of course devastated. So much money... So, some bastard stole it. Some opportunist decided he would rather pocket someone else's hard earned cash than find the proper owner. It happens. At least I got my ID back. And, my credit cards. But, I tell ya, I am disappointed in the institution. Its slipping.
In fact, I will conclude with a statement that the Boy Scouts are dying. They are dying for a variety of reasons. The first of course, is that anyone can be a Boy Scout now. Anyone, and if you try to prevent a fucked up kid from becoming one you have the parents to deal with. Scouting has become a quest to acquire a badge. You can work hard, as some do, or just go to special summer camps and earn a dozen in a week. The hardest trek here at Philmont is 104 miles in 10 days. Thats 10 miles a day, which is next to nothing as far as serious backpacking is concerned. The fathers of these campers are fat, unaccustomed to cardio workouts, and the worst whiners I have ever encountered. And yet, they are the role models. To make things worse, the Boy Scouts has become so lost in its traditions that it can not recreate itself so as to heal its old wounds and rebuild its strength.
Ya disappointed me, Scouts.
I was never a Boy Scout. I think my parents took me to one meeting when I was 10, and then promptly told me that I was not going to like it (It was also a long drive). Sure, my friends were in it. They talked about their retreats, the things they did. Oh, the fun they must have had. But, looking back, I'm kinda glad I didn't do it. Its just not my style. Too organized, too tradition bound, and just a little too silly.
So, why then did I sign up for a job where I was going to not only be surrounded by Boy Scouts 24/7, but also be expected to act like one too? I have no idea, it must have seemed like a good thing when I was planning my summer. Make money, see exotic places, meet exotic people, that kinda thing. Whatever, its over.
Anyways, I came to the conclusion just a while ago that Boy Scouts are not always the saints that they are made out to be. Most of them are riotous pranksters, almost all of them are pyros. Some enjoy helping others, but some take joy in denying participants even the slightest of pleasantries. Some are douches. Some are assholes. Some are "Boy Scouts". Some are girls. Its a damn mixed bag.
Take for instance, Jeffery, an Order of the Arrow Trail Crew leader. His job is to lead kids on a 14 day trek, where they build trails and go on hikes and stuff. He's the All-American type, never has a harsh word to say to anyone, always smiling, humble, and yet has done a great deal for his community. Oh, and he's both an Eagle Scout and a member of the Order of the Arrow. So, lets just say he is what people imagine when they think "Boy Scout".
Then take a man nicknamed, Kentucky. The man does not think before he speaks, curses as much as he breathes, and is generally a braggart and fool. He is a sexist and hates anyone who is not white, Protestant, or from America. He is a man who eats like a horse and looks like a pig. He will in one breath proclaim the glory of working in the outdoors, and in the next sigh as he decides that he just wants to sit and watch the rest toil. When I think Boy Scout, I do not think of him. And yet, he is one.
There are those who are gun rights advocates, those who carry ACLU memberships in their back pockets, those who love to cook and clean, those who love the roar of a chainsaw as they disappear in a cloud of wood chips, those who are fat, and those who are so skinny you wonder if they have done nothing but sit in front of a screen for hours on end each and ever day, those who are rebels, those who are model citizens, those who are fools, and those who are geniuses. When I look at the Boy Scouts, I realize, I am looking at what is American humanity. A cross section of the populace.
However, I always assumed that a Boy Scout was at least a little more honest than the rest of us. This of course, turns out to not be the case. At the end of every season at Philmont, the number of thefts sky rockets. Tents can not be locked, lockers can be easily broken into, and people leave their belongings in the open. And, of course, there are opportunists in the midst. In one way, I always thought my stuff was safer, because no Boy Scout would steal my shit. What a concept. Hell, I thought, if I was to lose my wallet, it would turn up right? Some good "Boy Scout" would find it and return it to the proper authorities. Well, today, I realized that this ideal and the reality were two very separate concepts. During a nice poo, I believe my wallet fell out of my pants. It is, unfortunately, one of those things that happen. When I realized that it was gone, I immediately ran about trying to retrace my steps. By the time I had gotten back to the restrooms, the wallet had disappeared from the stall and was now sitting on top of a trash can. Empty. 240 dollars in cash gone. I was, of course devastated. So much money... So, some bastard stole it. Some opportunist decided he would rather pocket someone else's hard earned cash than find the proper owner. It happens. At least I got my ID back. And, my credit cards. But, I tell ya, I am disappointed in the institution. Its slipping.
In fact, I will conclude with a statement that the Boy Scouts are dying. They are dying for a variety of reasons. The first of course, is that anyone can be a Boy Scout now. Anyone, and if you try to prevent a fucked up kid from becoming one you have the parents to deal with. Scouting has become a quest to acquire a badge. You can work hard, as some do, or just go to special summer camps and earn a dozen in a week. The hardest trek here at Philmont is 104 miles in 10 days. Thats 10 miles a day, which is next to nothing as far as serious backpacking is concerned. The fathers of these campers are fat, unaccustomed to cardio workouts, and the worst whiners I have ever encountered. And yet, they are the role models. To make things worse, the Boy Scouts has become so lost in its traditions that it can not recreate itself so as to heal its old wounds and rebuild its strength.
Ya disappointed me, Scouts.
Sunday, August 1, 2010
Boredom
Such a foolish word.
After the end of every run, we get three days of relaxation and chillaxation. While this may sound like a fun and rewarding end to 10 days of hard labor and long hours, it is actually a bland, painless, and wretched beginning to three days of uh, just plain old longness. I wake up, I eat, kill time till the next time I can eat, eat, kill time till the next time I can eat, eat, and go to sleep. I mean, like, I am bored shitless! Like literally, I just go shit just for the opportunity for something to do!
Well, thats a bit gross.
Boredom in and of itself is fine in small doses. It is just forces me to look for things to entertain myself with. Unfortunately, those options are few and far between here at good ol' Philmont. The entertainment is provided either on a computer screen or on a TV. And boy oh boy! They have cable! All kinds of shit is on the TV! Unfortunately, who the hell wants to watch it?! Nevermind, they have a lot of movies too! But, they are all on VHS (meaning circa 80's to 90's) and they are either about rebellious cops on the hunt for the killer of their family, and to also rescue their semi-retarded nephew who has been kidnapped for ransom, while simultaneously blowing up half of the city they are currently in. Needless to say, I think we made great social progress when we threw the writers of Escape from LA off of a cliff. While the handful of good DVD's provided entertainment early on, Lord of the Rings unfortunately gets old after the 16th viewing.
But wait! you say, surely there must be more to choose from! Well, I cry, there certainly is! I can easily go watch Avatar, the Last Airbender! For whatever reason, the nerds decide to take over a room each day, and watch Nickelodeon cartoons. There are just too many to push out, and besides, what else would I watch, Predator 2?
Well, I honestly don't watch much TV anyway, and the computer is restricted to, like, a few things... like email and facebook. So, early on, I figured I would just read. And read I did! I think I punched out 10 books this summer, going from classics like Catch-22 to slick and dark vampire books like Guillermo del Toro's The Strain. And, now, I feel burnt out. Just finished Stones into Schools, a must read by the way, if you enjoyed Three Cups of Tea, and tried to pick up Walden Pond. And couldn't. Just couldn't make myself read it.
Card games! Board games! Surely there must be something! But only dorks and socially awkward know it alls and religious nut jobs seem to play them. All they want is strict adherence to the rules and a poor soul to listen to them blabber about the age of the earth, how god does not love gays, and why Legolas is the most effective warrior ever, in the history of the fucking world! God damn them! All of 'em! Or just, uh, break their knees, so they will limp, and I can at least get away from them easily.
Sorry, too much hate? Whatever.
So, these past few days, I was bored. Like, super bored. So I watched Predator 2 and Avatar. So I sat down at the xbox and played a game of halo. Only one other controller, but, uh, whatever. So, I picked up Thoreau half a dozen times, read a page and said fuck it. So, I ate a hell of a lot of bad snack food, just cause I was so bored I just ate. Boredom sucks! I just sit there and force myself to do things I wouldn't normally do, just so my brain is in motion. I can't just watch clouds.
After the end of every run, we get three days of relaxation and chillaxation. While this may sound like a fun and rewarding end to 10 days of hard labor and long hours, it is actually a bland, painless, and wretched beginning to three days of uh, just plain old longness. I wake up, I eat, kill time till the next time I can eat, eat, kill time till the next time I can eat, eat, and go to sleep. I mean, like, I am bored shitless! Like literally, I just go shit just for the opportunity for something to do!
Well, thats a bit gross.
Boredom in and of itself is fine in small doses. It is just forces me to look for things to entertain myself with. Unfortunately, those options are few and far between here at good ol' Philmont. The entertainment is provided either on a computer screen or on a TV. And boy oh boy! They have cable! All kinds of shit is on the TV! Unfortunately, who the hell wants to watch it?! Nevermind, they have a lot of movies too! But, they are all on VHS (meaning circa 80's to 90's) and they are either about rebellious cops on the hunt for the killer of their family, and to also rescue their semi-retarded nephew who has been kidnapped for ransom, while simultaneously blowing up half of the city they are currently in. Needless to say, I think we made great social progress when we threw the writers of Escape from LA off of a cliff. While the handful of good DVD's provided entertainment early on, Lord of the Rings unfortunately gets old after the 16th viewing.
But wait! you say, surely there must be more to choose from! Well, I cry, there certainly is! I can easily go watch Avatar, the Last Airbender! For whatever reason, the nerds decide to take over a room each day, and watch Nickelodeon cartoons. There are just too many to push out, and besides, what else would I watch, Predator 2?
Well, I honestly don't watch much TV anyway, and the computer is restricted to, like, a few things... like email and facebook. So, early on, I figured I would just read. And read I did! I think I punched out 10 books this summer, going from classics like Catch-22 to slick and dark vampire books like Guillermo del Toro's The Strain. And, now, I feel burnt out. Just finished Stones into Schools, a must read by the way, if you enjoyed Three Cups of Tea, and tried to pick up Walden Pond. And couldn't. Just couldn't make myself read it.
Card games! Board games! Surely there must be something! But only dorks and socially awkward know it alls and religious nut jobs seem to play them. All they want is strict adherence to the rules and a poor soul to listen to them blabber about the age of the earth, how god does not love gays, and why Legolas is the most effective warrior ever, in the history of the fucking world! God damn them! All of 'em! Or just, uh, break their knees, so they will limp, and I can at least get away from them easily.
Sorry, too much hate? Whatever.
So, these past few days, I was bored. Like, super bored. So I watched Predator 2 and Avatar. So I sat down at the xbox and played a game of halo. Only one other controller, but, uh, whatever. So, I picked up Thoreau half a dozen times, read a page and said fuck it. So, I ate a hell of a lot of bad snack food, just cause I was so bored I just ate. Boredom sucks! I just sit there and force myself to do things I wouldn't normally do, just so my brain is in motion. I can't just watch clouds.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
I Dig, You Spoon?!
Well, in essence, this is a simple concept.
Run 3 was a bit of a mismatched but not misguided event. The concept was simple, make a new campsite. The work was simple, in fact, so simple, that it will no doubt rub off on this entry, resulting in brutal simplicity the likes of which only Ren and Stimpy have seen!!
Too dramatic?
Whatever. Look, there are no great stories here, so I'll just ramble.
The primary objective this time around was dig. Dig new fire rings, new sumps, new P2B's (yea, you know, those super elegant outdoor shitaroos). And, look, I ain't going to blow my own horn here too much, but the rest of the squad might as well be wielding DQ plastic spoons compared to my relative dozer of digging power! Its not totally fair, I suppose, I do have a hell of a lot more experience, but the others either lack the stamina to keep digging deeper or the know how to punch 3 foot deep holes into the earth (really, its not a hard concept).
We spent our first few days doing simple work, digging a few P2B's, digging a few things here and there, climbing a few trees, eating a few tortillas. Ahh, tortillas! The staple of work crew! What do ya put your peanut butter and jelly on? Tortillas! Your mildly warm, unrefrigerated lunch meat? Tortillas! Your cheese and over ripe avocados? Tortillas! Your taco meat? Tortillas! Your Tortillas?!! MORE TORTILLAS!!!!
When we grew tired of digging, we smashed rocks. All kinds of rocks! Slipped on a pair of safety glasses (the cool kids call 'em blades) and took our large 12 pound sledges and went to work! BAM! and a wave of little rock fragments would wash over our faces! BAM! and the nearby campers would ooh and aah over our indomitable strength! BAM! and we watched as rocks that had sat perfectly content for millennium were submitted to an early dismemberment.
Labor is all that it really is. Simple, mindless labor. All you have to do is tuck it in, grab your tool of choice and wail away for hours on end. No thought, no talent. No need for anything more than strength and stamina. BAM, BAM, BAM. And when the foreman calls out that its time to go home, there is a pit, or little bitty rocks, or a small patch of destruction or creation that you can call your own. Its not poetic. Its rhythmic. And a trained monkey could do it!
And because we are out of trained monkeys, plenty of young college students looking for a summer job will do. Because they are used to living in a zoo, don't mind being fed peanuts, and don't know any better. They think jobs like this are a god send! Holy Shit! Why not go get a good job or internship, or volunteer in Africa?! Why slave away doing mindless tasks with no career skills? I'll tell you why, its cause, perhaps, we have to learn what we don't want to spend our lives doing.
And we dug some more. We dug till our arms refused to be lifted upwards anymore, till they hung at our sides, like ugly, pale dead eels. We dug till our backs refused to remain upright, till they begged to be horizontal. And we ate (tortillas). And we slept. And we awoke to the first rays of the sun and began again. We dug until our gloves fell apart, till we struggled to scrap loose dirt from the bottom of our pits with our hands. And when the digging was done, we strapped on our packs and headed out again, till we found new places to dig.
We dug while the rain pelted our backs, while it washed the grime and filth from our faces and arms. We knelt in the mud, letting our pants turn the color of the earth we were struggling to remove. We dug in rich forest soil, alive and gentle, full of organic life. We dug in clay, each inch a struggle of pain and anguish, frustration and curses. We struggled against rocks and roots and all manner of things. And what did we dig for, you ask? We dug for the opportunity to dig more.
Run 3 was a bit of a mismatched but not misguided event. The concept was simple, make a new campsite. The work was simple, in fact, so simple, that it will no doubt rub off on this entry, resulting in brutal simplicity the likes of which only Ren and Stimpy have seen!!
Too dramatic?
Whatever. Look, there are no great stories here, so I'll just ramble.
The primary objective this time around was dig. Dig new fire rings, new sumps, new P2B's (yea, you know, those super elegant outdoor shitaroos). And, look, I ain't going to blow my own horn here too much, but the rest of the squad might as well be wielding DQ plastic spoons compared to my relative dozer of digging power! Its not totally fair, I suppose, I do have a hell of a lot more experience, but the others either lack the stamina to keep digging deeper or the know how to punch 3 foot deep holes into the earth (really, its not a hard concept).
We spent our first few days doing simple work, digging a few P2B's, digging a few things here and there, climbing a few trees, eating a few tortillas. Ahh, tortillas! The staple of work crew! What do ya put your peanut butter and jelly on? Tortillas! Your mildly warm, unrefrigerated lunch meat? Tortillas! Your cheese and over ripe avocados? Tortillas! Your taco meat? Tortillas! Your Tortillas?!! MORE TORTILLAS!!!!
When we grew tired of digging, we smashed rocks. All kinds of rocks! Slipped on a pair of safety glasses (the cool kids call 'em blades) and took our large 12 pound sledges and went to work! BAM! and a wave of little rock fragments would wash over our faces! BAM! and the nearby campers would ooh and aah over our indomitable strength! BAM! and we watched as rocks that had sat perfectly content for millennium were submitted to an early dismemberment.
Labor is all that it really is. Simple, mindless labor. All you have to do is tuck it in, grab your tool of choice and wail away for hours on end. No thought, no talent. No need for anything more than strength and stamina. BAM, BAM, BAM. And when the foreman calls out that its time to go home, there is a pit, or little bitty rocks, or a small patch of destruction or creation that you can call your own. Its not poetic. Its rhythmic. And a trained monkey could do it!
And because we are out of trained monkeys, plenty of young college students looking for a summer job will do. Because they are used to living in a zoo, don't mind being fed peanuts, and don't know any better. They think jobs like this are a god send! Holy Shit! Why not go get a good job or internship, or volunteer in Africa?! Why slave away doing mindless tasks with no career skills? I'll tell you why, its cause, perhaps, we have to learn what we don't want to spend our lives doing.
And we dug some more. We dug till our arms refused to be lifted upwards anymore, till they hung at our sides, like ugly, pale dead eels. We dug till our backs refused to remain upright, till they begged to be horizontal. And we ate (tortillas). And we slept. And we awoke to the first rays of the sun and began again. We dug until our gloves fell apart, till we struggled to scrap loose dirt from the bottom of our pits with our hands. And when the digging was done, we strapped on our packs and headed out again, till we found new places to dig.
We dug while the rain pelted our backs, while it washed the grime and filth from our faces and arms. We knelt in the mud, letting our pants turn the color of the earth we were struggling to remove. We dug in rich forest soil, alive and gentle, full of organic life. We dug in clay, each inch a struggle of pain and anguish, frustration and curses. We struggled against rocks and roots and all manner of things. And what did we dig for, you ask? We dug for the opportunity to dig more.
Monday, July 5, 2010
4th of July
Was uneventful.
For the fourth, I decided not to engage in debauchery, but rather to head up to a staff camp called Crater Lake, where a buddy of mine was working.
So, for those looking for stories involving raging blackouts and guaranteed good times, I recommend here.
Anyway, I hiked up, I stuck around and talked and watched a great campfire song and story telling extravaganza, and then hiked back the next day.
The End.
For the fourth, I decided not to engage in debauchery, but rather to head up to a staff camp called Crater Lake, where a buddy of mine was working.
So, for those looking for stories involving raging blackouts and guaranteed good times, I recommend here.
Anyway, I hiked up, I stuck around and talked and watched a great campfire song and story telling extravaganza, and then hiked back the next day.
The End.
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Run 2
Cause Run 1 was a bit of a disaster.
The second run is supposed to be a fairly good one. You haven't grown bored with the routine yet, are not to badly beat up from the work, and yet, you know what the routine is and and what kind of work you are getting yourself into.
Because I have not explained these "Run" concepts to you, please sit down, raise your cup of caffeinated beverage, and relax as the information flows over you. A Run is the designated work time of a Work Crew (of which I am a member), and lasts for about 9 days. During this time, a work crew moves from campsite to campsite, repairing things that need repairing. We clear the corridors of trails so as to facilitate passage. And, we also find a place to crash for the evening, cook dinner, and usually fall asleep on top of a tarp, looking out onto the bright starry sky.
Anyway, Day 1!!
Consisted of sitting around waiting for management to decide what to do. Technically, our crew was heading out a day early, so as to get in a day early. A fair deal in most circumstances. However, due to various internal ineptitudes, we were unable to leave. So, we sat around until dinner time at Base, where upon we ate a hearty meal of prefabricated starch and returned to our pile of mattocks, saws, and loppers, with a crosscut and gaffing material sitting on top. Finally, our foreman gave the all clear and we packed it and ourselves into a truck and headed out for the North Country. While the rest of the evening was rather bland and uninteresting, I would like to point something out. That night, with 5 days worth of food for 5 pepole in our packs, we were unable to hoist the bear bags up a tree. Thats right, 5 fully grown adults were unable to pull up the food we were carrying. Math time: 5 food bags weighing between 35 and 50 pounds each comes to a round average of more than 200 pounds of food.
....
Just saying...
The second day was a routine maintanence day, moving from Miranda, a camp that demonstrates the use of black powder guns, to Head of Dean. We lopped the trail, grunted under the weight of our packs, and sweated. Yea, Men! By midafternoon we arrived in Head of Dean, where we dropped our packs, grabbed mattocks and shovels and headed out to dig holes for the glorious Pilot-to-Bomber. Called such because the pilot (on one side) will call out to the bomber when he is dropping bombs... Or some such bull shit (clever pun). Anyway, they occasionally fill up, and we are sent out to dig new pits, about 3 feet deep. Glorious job? Well... Its got to be done I suppose. The alternative is, of course, a large and vast quantity of poop rocks littering the landscape...
After a dinner provided by the kind staff of Head o' Dean, we were invited to spectate the evenings games. See, the HoD has a ropes course (Perhaps I should explain that all staff operated camps at Philmont have some sort of program to educate the incoming campers with) and so their games consisted of balance and teamwork. In this case, it meant spinning around ten times fast and then whacking each other with plastic noodles. Excellent entertainment, and supremely satisfying to watch. Maybe not so to participate... I dunno. Anyway, while that would have satiated the most bored, we were in for another treat. After bashing each other with plastic noodles, the campers headed over to climb a wall. Well, this was more of a challenge than usual. The wall was over 10 feet, and the whole crew had to climb over it. There could be only two people on top of it too. So, the 25 or so kids sat for a minute and then came up with a fairly simple plan; two people on the bottom lifting, a couple strong armed kids to lift themselves over initally, and then some jumping kids for the finale. While fairly simple, the plan was initially poorly executed, as the majority of the stronger kids got up and over and the remnant left were smaller, younger kids with almost no physical strength. The highlight of the evening occured when one rather skinny dorky kid made his attempt. Wearing a bright yellow 'Life for Jesus' shirt, he possessed neither the arm strength to pull himself up with the help of his peers, nor the core strength to swing his legs up and over the wall. He dangled there while those above could not lift him and those below could not push him up any farther.
PFFFFTTTTT!!!!!
And a cloud of stink settled on the mob still below him! The five of us on Work Crew fell in a heap, laughing until tears came to our eyes. While the kid did eventually make it up, followed in short order by the rest of his crew, the evening was declared an absolute success.
The third day was possibly one of the longest days I will ever work here at Philmont. We awoke at 530 and walked down Dean Canyon to place some signage and then returned to Head of Dean by 10, having already done over 6 miles. A brief repast, and then we saddled up again and headed for distant Baldy town, another 5 miles down the trail. The trail, as it turned out, turned out to be a furnace, sitting on top of a ridge with little shade. We dug out and repacked a sign post and dug two more P2Bs (affectionately called Shitters by the Conservation Dept.) before finally reaching our destination around 8. Needless to say, I slept the entire night thru.
The fourth day was a sort of recovery day. We dug two more Shitters rearranged some signs for better usage! and read. It was an altogether easy and boring day, and nobody was complaining.
The fifth day was another regular day, ya know, with the exception of a hike to the top of the 12400 foot high Baldy Mountain. We woke early and headed up. The only difference between this 12er and a 14er was that the grassland was nonexistant. However, from the top, the wind was incredible. Easily 50-plus miles an hour and my wind jacket flapped like the wings of some great black hummingbird. We huddled behind a rock outcropping and watched as nearby participants were blown about, some nearly reaching the edge before regaining control. After everyone felt that they had had their fill, we headed back down and headed out to the mock-logging camp of Pueblano.
The sixth day was a hiking day, traveling from Pueblano, up to Wilson's Mesa and traveling through the national forest, and down into a Philmont owned canyon. While the corridor was not in such bad shape, several burnt and dead trees littered the path and had to be delimbed and pushed off to the side. We ended our day at Dan Beard, where we ate steak.
The seventh, eighth, and ninth days were spent clearing a fence line. As part of some contract with the National Forest, Philmont gets to use some of their land for their camps. One of the stipulations though, is that Philmont maintains a fence line running through the National Forest. So, it was our job to make sure it was made pretty again. We spent the day hacking apart (mostly) burnt trees leaning on the fence or that were too close for comfort. And returned to Dan Beard at night to feast upon the food that the staff had graciously cooked for us. I can only imagine what it must have felt to eat across from 5 big, smelly (remember we had been working for over a week by this point, no showers), and dirty guys who practically inhaled the presented offerings. On the last day, we worked to a road, where we were picked up and whisked back to camp.
Ahh, that shower felt magnificent.
The second run is supposed to be a fairly good one. You haven't grown bored with the routine yet, are not to badly beat up from the work, and yet, you know what the routine is and and what kind of work you are getting yourself into.
Because I have not explained these "Run" concepts to you, please sit down, raise your cup of caffeinated beverage, and relax as the information flows over you. A Run is the designated work time of a Work Crew (of which I am a member), and lasts for about 9 days. During this time, a work crew moves from campsite to campsite, repairing things that need repairing. We clear the corridors of trails so as to facilitate passage. And, we also find a place to crash for the evening, cook dinner, and usually fall asleep on top of a tarp, looking out onto the bright starry sky.
Anyway, Day 1!!
Consisted of sitting around waiting for management to decide what to do. Technically, our crew was heading out a day early, so as to get in a day early. A fair deal in most circumstances. However, due to various internal ineptitudes, we were unable to leave. So, we sat around until dinner time at Base, where upon we ate a hearty meal of prefabricated starch and returned to our pile of mattocks, saws, and loppers, with a crosscut and gaffing material sitting on top. Finally, our foreman gave the all clear and we packed it and ourselves into a truck and headed out for the North Country. While the rest of the evening was rather bland and uninteresting, I would like to point something out. That night, with 5 days worth of food for 5 pepole in our packs, we were unable to hoist the bear bags up a tree. Thats right, 5 fully grown adults were unable to pull up the food we were carrying. Math time: 5 food bags weighing between 35 and 50 pounds each comes to a round average of more than 200 pounds of food.
....
Just saying...
The second day was a routine maintanence day, moving from Miranda, a camp that demonstrates the use of black powder guns, to Head of Dean. We lopped the trail, grunted under the weight of our packs, and sweated. Yea, Men! By midafternoon we arrived in Head of Dean, where we dropped our packs, grabbed mattocks and shovels and headed out to dig holes for the glorious Pilot-to-Bomber. Called such because the pilot (on one side) will call out to the bomber when he is dropping bombs... Or some such bull shit (clever pun). Anyway, they occasionally fill up, and we are sent out to dig new pits, about 3 feet deep. Glorious job? Well... Its got to be done I suppose. The alternative is, of course, a large and vast quantity of poop rocks littering the landscape...
After a dinner provided by the kind staff of Head o' Dean, we were invited to spectate the evenings games. See, the HoD has a ropes course (Perhaps I should explain that all staff operated camps at Philmont have some sort of program to educate the incoming campers with) and so their games consisted of balance and teamwork. In this case, it meant spinning around ten times fast and then whacking each other with plastic noodles. Excellent entertainment, and supremely satisfying to watch. Maybe not so to participate... I dunno. Anyway, while that would have satiated the most bored, we were in for another treat. After bashing each other with plastic noodles, the campers headed over to climb a wall. Well, this was more of a challenge than usual. The wall was over 10 feet, and the whole crew had to climb over it. There could be only two people on top of it too. So, the 25 or so kids sat for a minute and then came up with a fairly simple plan; two people on the bottom lifting, a couple strong armed kids to lift themselves over initally, and then some jumping kids for the finale. While fairly simple, the plan was initially poorly executed, as the majority of the stronger kids got up and over and the remnant left were smaller, younger kids with almost no physical strength. The highlight of the evening occured when one rather skinny dorky kid made his attempt. Wearing a bright yellow 'Life for Jesus' shirt, he possessed neither the arm strength to pull himself up with the help of his peers, nor the core strength to swing his legs up and over the wall. He dangled there while those above could not lift him and those below could not push him up any farther.
PFFFFTTTTT!!!!!
And a cloud of stink settled on the mob still below him! The five of us on Work Crew fell in a heap, laughing until tears came to our eyes. While the kid did eventually make it up, followed in short order by the rest of his crew, the evening was declared an absolute success.
The third day was possibly one of the longest days I will ever work here at Philmont. We awoke at 530 and walked down Dean Canyon to place some signage and then returned to Head of Dean by 10, having already done over 6 miles. A brief repast, and then we saddled up again and headed for distant Baldy town, another 5 miles down the trail. The trail, as it turned out, turned out to be a furnace, sitting on top of a ridge with little shade. We dug out and repacked a sign post and dug two more P2Bs (affectionately called Shitters by the Conservation Dept.) before finally reaching our destination around 8. Needless to say, I slept the entire night thru.
The fourth day was a sort of recovery day. We dug two more Shitters rearranged some signs for better usage! and read. It was an altogether easy and boring day, and nobody was complaining.
The fifth day was another regular day, ya know, with the exception of a hike to the top of the 12400 foot high Baldy Mountain. We woke early and headed up. The only difference between this 12er and a 14er was that the grassland was nonexistant. However, from the top, the wind was incredible. Easily 50-plus miles an hour and my wind jacket flapped like the wings of some great black hummingbird. We huddled behind a rock outcropping and watched as nearby participants were blown about, some nearly reaching the edge before regaining control. After everyone felt that they had had their fill, we headed back down and headed out to the mock-logging camp of Pueblano.
The sixth day was a hiking day, traveling from Pueblano, up to Wilson's Mesa and traveling through the national forest, and down into a Philmont owned canyon. While the corridor was not in such bad shape, several burnt and dead trees littered the path and had to be delimbed and pushed off to the side. We ended our day at Dan Beard, where we ate steak.
The seventh, eighth, and ninth days were spent clearing a fence line. As part of some contract with the National Forest, Philmont gets to use some of their land for their camps. One of the stipulations though, is that Philmont maintains a fence line running through the National Forest. So, it was our job to make sure it was made pretty again. We spent the day hacking apart (mostly) burnt trees leaning on the fence or that were too close for comfort. And returned to Dan Beard at night to feast upon the food that the staff had graciously cooked for us. I can only imagine what it must have felt to eat across from 5 big, smelly (remember we had been working for over a week by this point, no showers), and dirty guys who practically inhaled the presented offerings. On the last day, we worked to a road, where we were picked up and whisked back to camp.
Ahh, that shower felt magnificent.
Saturday, July 3, 2010
Colorado
Has a lot of mountains!
Money was (still is) tight. There can be no question of that. The actual cost of things here is still relatively high and the budget (like always) is severely limited. With these thoughts in mind, I decided that after my first run, it was time to cut back and just chill out on the steps of the SSSAC (Silver Sage Staff Activities Center). It was with this purpose in mind that I grabbed a book and sat down, preparing for the mental siege against the forces of boredom. And, almost as soon as I had finished the first page, a couple of the Work Crew guys gathered around me and asked the rather innocent question, "Got any plans for the days off?"
To which I of course answered, "No."
And, within minutes, I was sold on the concept of heading to Colorado to hike some 14ers. Now, keeping the last paragraph in mind, I had come to a new conclusion. I was not often in the Southwest, and thus, did not have many opportunities to do Southwest things. So, budget be damned! I was gonna go out and have a good time!
Together, the five of us piled into the car and drove North. While an altogether uneventful trip, we were greeted halfway by dark, ominous clouds almost red in hue. The spread across the entire Northern horizon, obscuring the sight and even making a perhaps innocent mountain appear to be the gateway to Mordor. A local gas station attendant informed us that the cloud was simply a local wildfire (local?!) and that it was well in hand. Shrugging (what else were we gonna do?), we left and headed up to Denver to drop off one of our number who had been lucky enough to score a plane ticket to go see his girlfriend up in Seattle.
Leaving Denver, we headed back to Boulder, Colorado, where the catalyst for the travel, Patrick Megee lived and went to school. As soon as we entered the city confines, I was sold on the place. The people were healthy and happy at a little over 5000 feet above sea level. Almost everyone exhibited the aura of those who spend their lives seeking thrills skiing, rock climbing, and rafting. I was not met with a closed face nor with an overwhelmingly pudgy one either. As we arrived around dusk, the nightly assembly of stoned and drunk bikers began to claim the streets. As Megee explained, it was a common appearance and the locals just considered it a part of daily life. My soul soared! A culture that respected and used bikes! After spending two years dodging cars in the rather anti-bike friendly zone of NoVA, this came not only as a shock but a moment of personal pleasure.
After picking up one of Megee's college buddies (cool enough, the guy flew satellites), I found another thing that absolutely captured my fascination. Called LiquorMart, it was a store roughly the size of a standard grocery store specializing in the sale of, you guessed it, booze!! While I was not able to walk in, I still marveled from the outside at the possibilities. We carried the liquid party back to the residence of the satellite pilot and engaged in rowdy merry making. At rougly 2 in the morning, we struck out for the nearest food. As we ambled/skipped/ran/jumped down the street, people from nearby house parties came out to join us in our adventure! For the record, this just doesn't happen back at GMU. After arriving at Cosmo's Pizza, those with wallets and ample cash purchased sustinence. The others marveled at the rather funky and creative table tops. Yea, well, perhaps you understand. At 230, we got kicked out, and the remaining pizza was handed out to the hungry! I know, I know, awesome town.
After sleeping it off in Lazy Boys, we assembled once more to go watch the Matinee! A-Team was first on the list, and it was alright. Just what you/I expect, corny, good laughs, bad laughs, action comedy, and one or two good lines. Satisfied, but feeling just a little rebellious, we then snuck into the nearest next theater for the showing of Get Him to the Greek. This was an unexpectedly great movie. I mean, like, I had not laughed so hard since the Hangover. In other words, go out and see it!! Well worth the price of the first movie.
The day ended with a quick dip in the nearby apartment pool (which was not exactly open to us non-rent paying persons), and then we prepared for the ascent. On a last note, did I also mention that Boulder rests in the shadow of a couple massive mountains and has easy access to Snowboarding/mountain biking/white water rafting/rock climbing/mountain ascents/general awesomeness. I mean, its all within less than an hour of Boulder! Seriously (but not too seriously) contemplating moving out there.
In the wee morning hours (also called 9) we awoke and prepared to ascend giants. Unfortunately, half of the party was not feeling very good. One was a little sick and the other, well, his heart just wasn't in it I'm afraid (BS alert). In any case, Megee and I hopped into his Suburban and headed two hours west to the glorious peak known as Mount Elbert. While it sits right next to Mount Massive ( a much more glorious name), it is the highest point in Colorado at 14433 feet, and the second highest point in the continental US, behind that of Whitney. In any case, beginning shortly after noon, we began our climb.
When climbing 14ers the important thing to realize is that 14000 feet is a fuck ton! I mean, ahem, gosh! Thats really high! There are three distinct levels, the first being foothills occupied by forests and shrubs. This portion is really no different from much of the rest of Colorado. Pretty, serene, and generally still fairly warm. Most of its pine or fir and the birds and chipmunks frolic and play. Then you hit the tree line and bam, no more trees, just a lot of rock and grass. This is the second level, and I like to refer to it as the pseudo green/more brown and yellow grassland! I feel that some of the most picturesque views are obtained at this level, because you can still see the valleys, the foothills, the clouds, other mountains, and all sorts of things that make for nice pictures. At this level, its kinda cold. Not too bad, just chilly and windy. After a couple thousand feet, one arrives on the scree slope. This is the third level. Going up is hell, going down is hell. The slopes are full of rocks of all kind, shattered by the elements and left to impair the movement of the adventerous. The wind really starts up here, Big gusts and the temperatures steadily drops. Finally, after this rather rough last level, we gained the top.
And, looked onto one of the most beautiful landscapes I had ever seen. On one side, a gorgeous valley lay, small, stocky houses and ponds nestled in its green arms. The sunlight was only interrupted by clouds as the traced intricate shapes upon the valley floor. On the other side, jagged peaks stood guard between us and the rest of the West. I was reminded of broken windows and shattered stone. The wind screamed past us as we gazed upon these eternal monoliths. Only one thought permeated my mind, I AM SO VERY MORTAL.
The entire trip took us 6 hours, 3 hours up, one hour to take it all in, and another two hours to get back to the SUV. We made a brief pit stop in the town of Leadville and had dinner at Quincy's (located to the humorously named head shop, Headville). Then we drove on another half hour and found a campsite at the foot of Huron Peak. Unwisely, I decided to sleep outside, under the stars, encased on all sides by the immortal mountains. The temperature dropped below freezing and I was constantly waking up feeling both frozen and brutally uncomfortable. Mercifully, the sun rose, I shook myself out, had a brief breakfast and Me and Megee began our ascent. This 14er was much the same, but only reached to 14003 feet in height. And, of course it being Father's Day,I gave my old man a call saying thanks for doing such a monumental job. Huron Peak is another gorgeous mountain and looks out onto several small ponds (I'm sure they regularly freeze at that height) and a chain of mountains called the Apostles.
We then attempted to try a third peak, Mount Sherman, but called it off 1/4 of the way through due to the lack of light and found a calm campground surrounded on four sides by water. We picked everyone up the next morning and headed back to Philmont. By most accounts, it was a rather marvelous adventure. I had experienced something that not many can claim, and certainly was only possible in the Southwest. Money well spent? Why, yes, I do believe so.
Money was (still is) tight. There can be no question of that. The actual cost of things here is still relatively high and the budget (like always) is severely limited. With these thoughts in mind, I decided that after my first run, it was time to cut back and just chill out on the steps of the SSSAC (Silver Sage Staff Activities Center). It was with this purpose in mind that I grabbed a book and sat down, preparing for the mental siege against the forces of boredom. And, almost as soon as I had finished the first page, a couple of the Work Crew guys gathered around me and asked the rather innocent question, "Got any plans for the days off?"
To which I of course answered, "No."
And, within minutes, I was sold on the concept of heading to Colorado to hike some 14ers. Now, keeping the last paragraph in mind, I had come to a new conclusion. I was not often in the Southwest, and thus, did not have many opportunities to do Southwest things. So, budget be damned! I was gonna go out and have a good time!
Together, the five of us piled into the car and drove North. While an altogether uneventful trip, we were greeted halfway by dark, ominous clouds almost red in hue. The spread across the entire Northern horizon, obscuring the sight and even making a perhaps innocent mountain appear to be the gateway to Mordor. A local gas station attendant informed us that the cloud was simply a local wildfire (local?!) and that it was well in hand. Shrugging (what else were we gonna do?), we left and headed up to Denver to drop off one of our number who had been lucky enough to score a plane ticket to go see his girlfriend up in Seattle.
Leaving Denver, we headed back to Boulder, Colorado, where the catalyst for the travel, Patrick Megee lived and went to school. As soon as we entered the city confines, I was sold on the place. The people were healthy and happy at a little over 5000 feet above sea level. Almost everyone exhibited the aura of those who spend their lives seeking thrills skiing, rock climbing, and rafting. I was not met with a closed face nor with an overwhelmingly pudgy one either. As we arrived around dusk, the nightly assembly of stoned and drunk bikers began to claim the streets. As Megee explained, it was a common appearance and the locals just considered it a part of daily life. My soul soared! A culture that respected and used bikes! After spending two years dodging cars in the rather anti-bike friendly zone of NoVA, this came not only as a shock but a moment of personal pleasure.
After picking up one of Megee's college buddies (cool enough, the guy flew satellites), I found another thing that absolutely captured my fascination. Called LiquorMart, it was a store roughly the size of a standard grocery store specializing in the sale of, you guessed it, booze!! While I was not able to walk in, I still marveled from the outside at the possibilities. We carried the liquid party back to the residence of the satellite pilot and engaged in rowdy merry making. At rougly 2 in the morning, we struck out for the nearest food. As we ambled/skipped/ran/jumped down the street, people from nearby house parties came out to join us in our adventure! For the record, this just doesn't happen back at GMU. After arriving at Cosmo's Pizza, those with wallets and ample cash purchased sustinence. The others marveled at the rather funky and creative table tops. Yea, well, perhaps you understand. At 230, we got kicked out, and the remaining pizza was handed out to the hungry! I know, I know, awesome town.
After sleeping it off in Lazy Boys, we assembled once more to go watch the Matinee! A-Team was first on the list, and it was alright. Just what you/I expect, corny, good laughs, bad laughs, action comedy, and one or two good lines. Satisfied, but feeling just a little rebellious, we then snuck into the nearest next theater for the showing of Get Him to the Greek. This was an unexpectedly great movie. I mean, like, I had not laughed so hard since the Hangover. In other words, go out and see it!! Well worth the price of the first movie.
The day ended with a quick dip in the nearby apartment pool (which was not exactly open to us non-rent paying persons), and then we prepared for the ascent. On a last note, did I also mention that Boulder rests in the shadow of a couple massive mountains and has easy access to Snowboarding/mountain biking/white water rafting/rock climbing/mountain ascents/general awesomeness. I mean, its all within less than an hour of Boulder! Seriously (but not too seriously) contemplating moving out there.
In the wee morning hours (also called 9) we awoke and prepared to ascend giants. Unfortunately, half of the party was not feeling very good. One was a little sick and the other, well, his heart just wasn't in it I'm afraid (BS alert). In any case, Megee and I hopped into his Suburban and headed two hours west to the glorious peak known as Mount Elbert. While it sits right next to Mount Massive ( a much more glorious name), it is the highest point in Colorado at 14433 feet, and the second highest point in the continental US, behind that of Whitney. In any case, beginning shortly after noon, we began our climb.
When climbing 14ers the important thing to realize is that 14000 feet is a fuck ton! I mean, ahem, gosh! Thats really high! There are three distinct levels, the first being foothills occupied by forests and shrubs. This portion is really no different from much of the rest of Colorado. Pretty, serene, and generally still fairly warm. Most of its pine or fir and the birds and chipmunks frolic and play. Then you hit the tree line and bam, no more trees, just a lot of rock and grass. This is the second level, and I like to refer to it as the pseudo green/more brown and yellow grassland! I feel that some of the most picturesque views are obtained at this level, because you can still see the valleys, the foothills, the clouds, other mountains, and all sorts of things that make for nice pictures. At this level, its kinda cold. Not too bad, just chilly and windy. After a couple thousand feet, one arrives on the scree slope. This is the third level. Going up is hell, going down is hell. The slopes are full of rocks of all kind, shattered by the elements and left to impair the movement of the adventerous. The wind really starts up here, Big gusts and the temperatures steadily drops. Finally, after this rather rough last level, we gained the top.
And, looked onto one of the most beautiful landscapes I had ever seen. On one side, a gorgeous valley lay, small, stocky houses and ponds nestled in its green arms. The sunlight was only interrupted by clouds as the traced intricate shapes upon the valley floor. On the other side, jagged peaks stood guard between us and the rest of the West. I was reminded of broken windows and shattered stone. The wind screamed past us as we gazed upon these eternal monoliths. Only one thought permeated my mind, I AM SO VERY MORTAL.
The entire trip took us 6 hours, 3 hours up, one hour to take it all in, and another two hours to get back to the SUV. We made a brief pit stop in the town of Leadville and had dinner at Quincy's (located to the humorously named head shop, Headville). Then we drove on another half hour and found a campsite at the foot of Huron Peak. Unwisely, I decided to sleep outside, under the stars, encased on all sides by the immortal mountains. The temperature dropped below freezing and I was constantly waking up feeling both frozen and brutally uncomfortable. Mercifully, the sun rose, I shook myself out, had a brief breakfast and Me and Megee began our ascent. This 14er was much the same, but only reached to 14003 feet in height. And, of course it being Father's Day,I gave my old man a call saying thanks for doing such a monumental job. Huron Peak is another gorgeous mountain and looks out onto several small ponds (I'm sure they regularly freeze at that height) and a chain of mountains called the Apostles.
We then attempted to try a third peak, Mount Sherman, but called it off 1/4 of the way through due to the lack of light and found a calm campground surrounded on four sides by water. We picked everyone up the next morning and headed back to Philmont. By most accounts, it was a rather marvelous adventure. I had experienced something that not many can claim, and certainly was only possible in the Southwest. Money well spent? Why, yes, I do believe so.
Wednesday, June 16, 2010
Skin
Last night, I was walking from my tent to the shower house, to get my daily clean on of course! I was almost at the well-lite oasis when a voice came out of the gloom. A bespectacled man in dark clothe pointed at me as if were a leper and cried, "Put a shirt on when going to the shower house, for God's sake!"
Stunned. Are they really that afraid of skin? I mean, it is just the upper torso of a reasonably fit male. Its not like I was running around in the buff, prancing like some Greek dryad. Hell, I mean, I only wear pants cause I figured it was the decent thing to do. As Nietzsche would comment, he called me out because he was scared of my nobility and is impotence.
That is all.
Stunned. Are they really that afraid of skin? I mean, it is just the upper torso of a reasonably fit male. Its not like I was running around in the buff, prancing like some Greek dryad. Hell, I mean, I only wear pants cause I figured it was the decent thing to do. As Nietzsche would comment, he called me out because he was scared of my nobility and is impotence.
That is all.
Tuesday, June 15, 2010
Boots
Also the nickname of one of the guys on work crew, who dresses the part of Walker Texas Ranger. His big black boots purportedly can be seen from miles away.
The story of my boots is one of anger, heartbreak, pain, and a little ridicule on the side (this added more for the atheistic value than for any real flavor). Since the story is long, none too interesting, and more of a gripe than anything, you are free to return to whatever social networking site you were previously at.
.....
I knew you would be back! Alright, from the top!
Around the beginning of April, I received an email from the Conservation department (the dept. I work for) that there was a Pro-Deal with Zamberlan for all Cons employees!! Yippee! Zamberlan is a smaller producer of boots, but they are renown for their superior construction, long lifetime, and all around snazzy design. The Pro-Deal cut the price of these boots by half, allowing me, the poor student/beggar/small time crook and street peddler, to afford them. The only catch (there is always a catch, right?) is that the boots had to be delivered to Philmont. And, I was like, whatever! I'll have plenty of time to break them in before I go out on a trek, or some nonsense like that!
Ahem, fast forward to Philmont. When I arrive, I of course check the mail room for any packages, and, seeing none, proceed to bide my time. I trust in the system. They surely must have gotten my faxed form and are just a little delayed in sending my boots. A week passes. At this point in the story, I am about to head out on a week long hands-on training session. In running shoes. 'Cause the boots have not arrived. El screwed? Yes, yes indeed. I frantically begin my calls. I call at least once a day. I send emails. I ask, plead, beg for help and am met with neutral voices and neutral words.
The customer service guy repeats to me that they do not have me in the system. The package, of course, has never been sent because it never needed to exist. He says that he can't help me with the Pro-Deal because that is the job of another office. He gives me a number, tells me to have a nice day, and I hang up, call the other office (this information, by the by, has taken over a week to wrest from them). There is only the calm, pleased voice of an answering machine. And, yet again I am stalemated. I have less than two days until I am strapping on an 80 pound pack and heading out into the wilderness to prepare camps for pukes and nature expressways.
At the random behest of a fellow Cons worker, we drive to Santa Fe. While feasting my eyes on the beauty and intricacy of this Southwestern city, I notice an REI, supplier of all things backpacking. Rows upon rows of boots sit on their walls, and I hear the singing of angels in the background. As it turns out, it was just music on the radio, but it definitely fit the mood. In a fit of madness, I give Zamberlan one for chance. After four or five times of calling the Pro-Deal office and receiving no answer, a friendly Italian accented voice finally responded to my pleas.
The boot I had previously ordered, the Steep, was not available for Pro-Deals due to its incredible popularity. He instead suggested the Zamberlan Civetta, worn by UN troops and Australian Special Forces. So, I left the heavenly walls of REI, and faxed in a new form. The boots, I was assured, would be there in three or so days. Problem. There was nowhere near enough time for them to be there before I headed out. Problem solved. A buddy was kind enough to let me borrow his boots for a few days. Problem. They were about a half size too small and kinda cheap.
The trek was scheduled to last 8.5 days, and I figured that we were doing low miles. My feet should be able to cope I foolishly told myself. Alas, after only three days of heavy hiking with a heavy pack my feet had dissolved into a mass of blisters, sores, and friction burns. I was unable to continue. Those borrowed boots had rubbed my skin raw and left my feet soaked. On the fourth day, my foreman decided to pull me off the run and send me back to base. So, I had been screwed.
While the doctor said my feet should recover quickly, I was still stuck on base, doing menial labor for the Cons department. Nothing too bad, just scrubbing dirty cable, rehandling shovels, and reorganizing signs. But, as I hobbled around, I cursed my predicament, and Zamberlan in particular for letting it happen. But then, as if by magic, the boots appeared. And all was forgiven.
The Zamberlan Civetta is an extremely comfortable boot that looks as if it may last me the majority of my twenties. Thats saying a lot, seeing as I plan to beat em up this summer, and then in all those future travels that one does while one is still comparatively young. Still got to break it in, but I have not had any problems yet. Fingers crossed it stays that way.
The story of my boots is one of anger, heartbreak, pain, and a little ridicule on the side (this added more for the atheistic value than for any real flavor). Since the story is long, none too interesting, and more of a gripe than anything, you are free to return to whatever social networking site you were previously at.
.....
I knew you would be back! Alright, from the top!
Around the beginning of April, I received an email from the Conservation department (the dept. I work for) that there was a Pro-Deal with Zamberlan for all Cons employees!! Yippee! Zamberlan is a smaller producer of boots, but they are renown for their superior construction, long lifetime, and all around snazzy design. The Pro-Deal cut the price of these boots by half, allowing me, the poor student/beggar/small time crook and street peddler, to afford them. The only catch (there is always a catch, right?) is that the boots had to be delivered to Philmont. And, I was like, whatever! I'll have plenty of time to break them in before I go out on a trek, or some nonsense like that!
Ahem, fast forward to Philmont. When I arrive, I of course check the mail room for any packages, and, seeing none, proceed to bide my time. I trust in the system. They surely must have gotten my faxed form and are just a little delayed in sending my boots. A week passes. At this point in the story, I am about to head out on a week long hands-on training session. In running shoes. 'Cause the boots have not arrived. El screwed? Yes, yes indeed. I frantically begin my calls. I call at least once a day. I send emails. I ask, plead, beg for help and am met with neutral voices and neutral words.
The customer service guy repeats to me that they do not have me in the system. The package, of course, has never been sent because it never needed to exist. He says that he can't help me with the Pro-Deal because that is the job of another office. He gives me a number, tells me to have a nice day, and I hang up, call the other office (this information, by the by, has taken over a week to wrest from them). There is only the calm, pleased voice of an answering machine. And, yet again I am stalemated. I have less than two days until I am strapping on an 80 pound pack and heading out into the wilderness to prepare camps for pukes and nature expressways.
At the random behest of a fellow Cons worker, we drive to Santa Fe. While feasting my eyes on the beauty and intricacy of this Southwestern city, I notice an REI, supplier of all things backpacking. Rows upon rows of boots sit on their walls, and I hear the singing of angels in the background. As it turns out, it was just music on the radio, but it definitely fit the mood. In a fit of madness, I give Zamberlan one for chance. After four or five times of calling the Pro-Deal office and receiving no answer, a friendly Italian accented voice finally responded to my pleas.
The boot I had previously ordered, the Steep, was not available for Pro-Deals due to its incredible popularity. He instead suggested the Zamberlan Civetta, worn by UN troops and Australian Special Forces. So, I left the heavenly walls of REI, and faxed in a new form. The boots, I was assured, would be there in three or so days. Problem. There was nowhere near enough time for them to be there before I headed out. Problem solved. A buddy was kind enough to let me borrow his boots for a few days. Problem. They were about a half size too small and kinda cheap.
The trek was scheduled to last 8.5 days, and I figured that we were doing low miles. My feet should be able to cope I foolishly told myself. Alas, after only three days of heavy hiking with a heavy pack my feet had dissolved into a mass of blisters, sores, and friction burns. I was unable to continue. Those borrowed boots had rubbed my skin raw and left my feet soaked. On the fourth day, my foreman decided to pull me off the run and send me back to base. So, I had been screwed.
While the doctor said my feet should recover quickly, I was still stuck on base, doing menial labor for the Cons department. Nothing too bad, just scrubbing dirty cable, rehandling shovels, and reorganizing signs. But, as I hobbled around, I cursed my predicament, and Zamberlan in particular for letting it happen. But then, as if by magic, the boots appeared. And all was forgiven.
The Zamberlan Civetta is an extremely comfortable boot that looks as if it may last me the majority of my twenties. Thats saying a lot, seeing as I plan to beat em up this summer, and then in all those future travels that one does while one is still comparatively young. Still got to break it in, but I have not had any problems yet. Fingers crossed it stays that way.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Weather
The weather here is a bit extreme. This of course comes from a guy who grew up in the relative calm of Southwestern Virginia. And even while in NoVa, close to D.C., shocking weather is a somewhat rare event. Gentle rain, sunny days, windy days, occasional snow storms. That is the extent of my meteorological insight.
The first thing that startled me is how dry the air is here. It literally sucks the moisture from your body, forcing me and the others here to consume mass quantities of water. On average, I am consuming a gallon of water a day, sometimes more depending on the work load. Dehydration also sets in rapidly, going as little as an hour and a half without water while working can result in exhaustion and delirium. So, yea, all I'm saying is that I seem to fill my gut with more water than food most days, which is a shocker to this former man-camel.
The second thing... Temperature fluctuates rapidly, relative to the level of sunlight. At this point, the reader is going, uh, no duh. However, let me explain. During the day, the temperature can reach as high as 90, and often sits around the low 80's. The body swelters during noon and early afternoon. However, during the evening and morning, the temperature can sit around a low 60, no complaint. But, that is not the end of the story. Even as I crawl into my sleeping bag for bed, I am often too hot to zip it all the way up. And, with regular clockwork, I wake up shortly before midnight, because the temperature has dipped to the low 40's and I must zip up the bag and curl up into a little ball for the night. The mornings are always cold, until about 15 minutes after the sun has risen, then the mercury instantly gains 15 points. Slowly, I am getting used to this rather riotous system.
The third thing is, at least to an Easterner, rather stupefying. Let us imagine a blue sky day. There are clouds on the horizon that one watches with anticipation, but aside from that, there is little menace in the heavens. An hour passes, and the only thing that has changed is the shape of the clouds over head. Another hour passes, the horizon is quite unexpectedly clear. Another hour passes, and the clouds overhead seem to seem to be smirking. Thirty seconds pass, hail and rain suddenly appear out of nowhere, drenching and battering you where you stand. Two minutes later, there is nothing but a few clouds and a blue sky. What the hell!?!!
Ok, so I know this was more stream of consciousness than planned out blog-stuff. Hope you get the point though....
The first thing that startled me is how dry the air is here. It literally sucks the moisture from your body, forcing me and the others here to consume mass quantities of water. On average, I am consuming a gallon of water a day, sometimes more depending on the work load. Dehydration also sets in rapidly, going as little as an hour and a half without water while working can result in exhaustion and delirium. So, yea, all I'm saying is that I seem to fill my gut with more water than food most days, which is a shocker to this former man-camel.
The second thing... Temperature fluctuates rapidly, relative to the level of sunlight. At this point, the reader is going, uh, no duh. However, let me explain. During the day, the temperature can reach as high as 90, and often sits around the low 80's. The body swelters during noon and early afternoon. However, during the evening and morning, the temperature can sit around a low 60, no complaint. But, that is not the end of the story. Even as I crawl into my sleeping bag for bed, I am often too hot to zip it all the way up. And, with regular clockwork, I wake up shortly before midnight, because the temperature has dipped to the low 40's and I must zip up the bag and curl up into a little ball for the night. The mornings are always cold, until about 15 minutes after the sun has risen, then the mercury instantly gains 15 points. Slowly, I am getting used to this rather riotous system.
The third thing is, at least to an Easterner, rather stupefying. Let us imagine a blue sky day. There are clouds on the horizon that one watches with anticipation, but aside from that, there is little menace in the heavens. An hour passes, and the only thing that has changed is the shape of the clouds over head. Another hour passes, the horizon is quite unexpectedly clear. Another hour passes, and the clouds overhead seem to seem to be smirking. Thirty seconds pass, hail and rain suddenly appear out of nowhere, drenching and battering you where you stand. Two minutes later, there is nothing but a few clouds and a blue sky. What the hell!?!!
Ok, so I know this was more stream of consciousness than planned out blog-stuff. Hope you get the point though....
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