for the (ridiculous) christmas shopper in you

Just in case you were wondering what to get that man (or woman) of your dreams who has everything, and values privacy, timeliness, and quiet luxury, click on over and get them a Bombardier Learjet, only 7.8 million dollars (plus tax?) minimum required.

Or, if you're feeling a little character role-playing game to get into the mood, slip on some fins and do an Ariel for a matter of 10 thousand.

10:52 AM | |

that's more like it

Ah. All better now, I hope. Blogger is back to life.

2:44 PM | |

#@!*%$¥

This is ridiculous! I'm encoding manually until the bloody blogger's fixed! Maybe Big Brother is watching after all...

2:42 PM | |

can i gush?

Carl Vergara has turned me into a gushing fan. Of his work that is. I've only met him on his site and seen his various creations through other sites, and I immediately took a liking.

Exteremly talented in art and in writing - as if writing alone isn't hard enough, some people would have to be talented in both - he is currently writing an onging series on how to write for comics. It is very well explained and very enlightening to say the least.

10:26 AM | |

telling stories

Some time ago, when I was four or five, I made up a story in English. I didn't speak English then. I was taught at school, but my monther tongue was Tagalog with a sprinkling of Bisaya in the background. I told my story in English anyway, broken as it might have been.

The story was about a man. A white man who was driving in the middle of Manila traffic and had somehow gotten into some sort of automobile accident. His head was cut off and rolled onto the street. Someone managed to pick it up and they brought him to the hospital. At the hospital, the doctors did their best to put back this man's head, and they finally did with success. Only, when the man looked at himself in the mirror, his head was a black man's head, not his own white man's head. He began to cry and was sad because he wanted his own head back. So he prayed to Jesus to give him back his original head. He went to bed and when he woke up in the morning, he had his very own white head back. He was very happy, the end.

I have an audio tape of me telling this story, otherwise I would never have remembered this strange, yet symbolic tale.

9:59 AM | |

wonky

For some reason, I can't publish to my web server. Keep timing out. It's all gone wonky...

9:50 AM | |

bibliophilia and banned books week

In celebration of the freedom to read what we want, we are going to read again L'Engel's A Wrinkle in Time, Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men, and Huxley's A Brave New World, part of the "American Library Association's top 100 list of "challenged" books". Yes, Dylan will be reading A Brave New World, in case you're wondering. I can't believe that Where's Waldo is part of the challenged list, however. Why would any one/group want to remove Waldo from public libraries across America? On the other hand, perhaps I can imagine why they would - children musn't know that women have boobs, it's imperative. About Harry Potter though, I must investigate, I'm behind on the times.

Just imagine book burnings in 2003, Farenheit 451 coming to life. What book would one choose to memorize? If it only had to be one? It would be oppressive just to chose one; the agony! Besides, I don't want to hide out in the forest beyond the tracks just because I've got a book in my head. BIG BROTHER IS WATCHING YOU.

Here's the LIST, borrwo them, buy them, read them, and put out some fires.

8:53 AM | |

more bibliophila and the ersatz elephant

I must say all those nights and days reading to my pregnant stomach and to an unresponsive infant have paid off. I waited so long to get a response, and alas the wait and constant reading aloud has paid off. Dylan now enjoys being read to which is a very good sign. Last night, as with most nights, Dylan and I went off to bed and I asked him which book he wanted to read. Usually, I'll present the usual going to bed books: Pajama Time, Good Night Moon, The Going to Bed Book, or Fox in Sox, if he's still feeling silly, and we'll have to read them all at least twice. But last night, he pulled me toward the bookshelf in protest, "Books". So I let him choose. He of course went for Lemony Snicket, and the red bound one in particular; The Ersatz Elevator. Then he decided he wanted to read it himself. So I let him flip through it while I continued with my The League. After a few minutes of pointing out pictures, he shut the book and said "End!" Then I asked him how he liked The Ersatz Elevator. He started a trumpeting sound and threw his head back. I suppose he was immitating an elephant. I suppose "elevator" sounds much like "elephant" and I thought a story about an ersatz elephant would be rather interesting. But he had had enought of that book and then decided he wanted the purple bound one - The Miserable Mill. He flipped through that one and said "End!" After shutting it he wanted to read some more. I then remembered I had two books for him, so I presented the Open Me...I'm a Dog. Of course like I guessed, he pulled on the dog's tail and petted the dog to no end, pointing out it's "Nowse, eyes, tail!" He pointed to his stuffed dog, saying, "Dog! Woo, woo, woo, sniff, sniff, pant, pant." Then he pointed to his own bum and said "Tail!" He didn't want this book to end, so we kept reading it, and he kept petting the fuzzy dog page until he was fast asleep.

8:10 AM | |

bibliophilia

While waiting for a cheaper copy of Endless Nights to arrive in the mail, am reading other things: some children's books; Spiegelman's Open Me...I'm a Dog, for the inner dog lover that my child is (I'm sure our dog will attest to this despite his moving as far away as possible, as soon as he hears Dylan approaching) and Gaiman's The Wolves in the Walls for the inner jam lover in me; and Moore's The League of Extraordinary Gentlemen for a rollicking laugh.

The Dog book is a rather nice story of a dog who became a shepherd of German decent, then became a frog of bullish proportions, then finally into a book about a dog that is a dog. It's rather clever and entertaining with the pop-up parts and textural experience. Dylan is going to love this (he can do his dog immitations of barking, sniffing and panting) - roughly petting the dog and pulling his tail, no doubt. The book about Wolves is also very interesting, especially the parts about the wolves eating jam on toast and listening to your inner pig-puppet. I'm not sure this is Dylan fare, as it hasn't got dogs or base balls, tennis balls, soccer balls, basket balls or footballs (his current obsessions), but I'm sure he'll like the moon in it and make pig sounds. But the one I thought was really different from what I original thought it was going to be, was the League of Gentlemen plus a girl from Dracula. I don't know why, but I thought it was going to be serious, brooding and something like V for Vendetta, perhaps because I was just reading V last night. Anyway, it's very funny to say the least.

1:50 PM | |

endless disbelief

People in Las Vegas read after all, yes comics too! And they know what could be good, artistic, tasteful, and thought-provoking as opposed to the light reading material found in the pamphlets those little guys hand out for free on the corners of hotels and convention centers.

Endless Nights has sold out. Called several places just to find out if said complaints across America ("my local store sold out") applied to Sin City. I'm guessing there were about, oh, 5 copies in each store? Did they order too little? Maybe. I'm told there will be another shipment Wednesday next week. Still. To think there are at least 5 people in each neighborhood comic book store reading something useful. I am in disbelief at the possiblities...

1:13 PM | |

jump for joy

At last, the long awaited Whole Foods is finally here! They opened late last month to a mob, and three weeks down the road, the place is still mobbed every time we're in there. The array of prepared foods is a sight to see, akin to a veritable feast spread for a health-conscious king. An hour, no two is not enough to browse all the offerings of fresh produce, processed foods, and tetra packed tofu which very much resembles taho (all you need are some sago balls and syrup). There are aisles and aisles of fruit juices, instant baba ganoush, and healthy snacks like crunchy rice cakes (ewe!). Shopping here makes you feel healthy enough without actually eating the contents of the shopping bag. I seriously think this store would do wonders in a place like Manila - are you listening entrepreneurs? Big Money.

8:21 AM | |

1602 # 1 & 2

So. Tempted by Dean's evil tempter blog, I wandered into the world of comic book stores and single issue offerings once more. I now remember why I quit this habit some years ago: I hate cliffhangers, waiting, and I can never make the comic reading last too long. It took me longer to wade through annotations to the two issues than reading the comic itself.

But. Yes, it's quite good. Artwork very much like Wolverine: Origin - beautifully done, and of course, reads just like a Gaiman piece; it would read well on its own, but when annotated takes another life of its own, down avenues and streets that are otherwise invisible.

So. 6 more to go. I hate waiting.

9:50 AM | |

writing the hex off

Really, how hard could it possibly be to write a press release about a newly designed serial cable with slotted hex nuts? Impossible! I spent all afternoon facing a solid cement wall, unable to sledge hammer it down because it simply was impossible to explain the concept on marketing terms.

Not that I didn't understand the new feature of the all-improved cable - on the contrary - I understood the concept perfectly and why it was better, easier to install, thus superior, I simply can't translate it superlatively. See, the new cable has these hex nuts. Not just any old hex nuts, but a newly designed pair. These stand-up, slotted hex nuts can be screwed into place with a screwdriver whereas the old hex nuts could only be done by hand. Also, not only are they simply nuts, they have a grooved end to it, making it actually look like a screw, but with a hex instead of regular screw. See? Now I've lost you. Even if I knew the technical anatomy of a screw or hex nut, I doubt my readers would. Even if you saw the images that go along with the copy, it still would be quite vague. If you knew diddly squat about hex nuts, let alone slotted stand-up hex nuts, the copy wouldn't mean shit to you.

I realize I'm writing for a target audience, one that should have some idea, should at least know some techinical aspect of the products we sell. On the other hand, I've dealt with some really, shall we say, challenged types, so it's quite difficult to gauge the level of "layman" that should be infused into a "technical" press release. Some buyers are savvy, some are competent enough and updated, but some simply just want you to tell them that they need the latest product. They don't care what it does or how many ohms it is, all you need is to make them believe they need to buy it. Lately, the directive for marketing jargon is to simplify (too simple if you ask me) that it seems our target is shifting, or rather just bleeding into the masses. "We" want to be so general that our words could appeal to the most common denominator, yet we are a "Connectivity Specialist". Clearly, "we" don't believe in a target audience, on the other hand, we seem to believe that we can capture the entire world and turn them on to our brand of cables. But why should they buy our cables when we can't even translate the technical into the everyday?

Maybe things will look up in the morning; I certainly hope the wall looks more like a curtain as I can't bear another day translating the merits of accursed slotted hex nuts!

9:01 PM | |

the good nostalgist

I have no talents, no gifts, no outlandishly über human qualities to speak of. A mediocre writer, sketcher, thinker; I am an average human so to speak. But I must admit there is one thing I am absolutely good at - missing things. I am a consummate misser; a rememberer of things past, of time gone by, of time immemorial. I am a staunch supporter of the nostalgic, a devotee of reminscence, an enthusiast for the wistful. May I repeat that and say it in three different ways? Indeed, memories are my passion.

Yes, the past. It looms large in my very little brain. I spend hours, days upon days conjuring up the remember-whens, and the good-old-days. I will remember songs from my youth and gently hum them under my breath for fear of being heard, or for being thought as a crazed woman. I will recall images of what I would see on a daily basis outside of my bedroom window while growing up and older. I will re-live moments of happiness, of joy and sheer dismal pain over and over again, just to remember, just to remind me so that I won't forget.

Some days, recollections are harder to come by. Other days, my brain just overflows, as if there was some breach in section 21 of my brain and for some reason the memories just bound over the floodgates. There are triggers - a scent, a scene, a saying - these tip off the electronic fields holding in my memories and send them flying over the gates. I am instantly transported, to that day, to that time, like a fuzzy, echoing scene of a movie flashback. There I am standing in the cold, crisp air without a sweater, freezing my butt off, waiting for the morning bell to ring before going to class. There I am in my art apron painting what will be my maraca made out of a light bulb a deep dark violet. There I am eating bread pudding after the roast beef and potato lunch. There I am with a scraped and bloody knee the size of an old silver dollar after running to the pool because I couldn't wait to go swimming.

Randomly, scatologically splaying out from neurons sending out electrical pulses from section 21 to section 30 of present thought. Like droppings, invading every part of the brain, sometimes left out to dry before they can be reeled in, in their fresh, steaming glory. The that-was-then and this-is-now's of my life are on constant play-back. There is more to rewind and review each time. It builds upon itself, and soon this very moment that I am writing this will be part of the tape back-up storage in section 21 of my brain. I can access the main server and do a search and pull up memory #1,523,890 and remember this day as I'm writing this piece. I'll remember that I'm currently writing about my passion, my fondness for memory storage, back-up RAM and how, above all things that I can't do, I'm quite a good nostalgist.

2:14 PM | |

this movie will self-destruct in 48 hours

Just read an article about a ridiculous premise - self-destructing disposable DVDs (EZ-D). The idea is preposterous: you buy a vacuum sealed DVD pouch at your local 7-11 or Walgreens. As soon as the package is opened and exposed to air, the chemical process to obliteration begins and the DVD will be rendered unusable thereafter. Discs will retail between $6-$7, and would usually be offered succeeding the full price version. So, far this is only a test (that started 09/09/03).

But it's nonesense. Why would you waste $7.00 on a two day rental when you can rent it at your local Blockbuster for $3.85 for 2 nights or longer if you forget to return it? Why waste $7.00 when you can, if you want to, plunk down an extra $7.00 to get the lifetime version (and let's face it, millions already do)? Why would you even spend $7.00 when you can get the full pirated version for half of that? Why, why think of it all?

Think of it: young vandals at Walmart with nothing to do, tear open packages of EZ-Ds when no-one's looking, then run like mad. There lies a wasted pile of hundreds of dollors worth of dead DVDs at the Electronics aisle after two days. There lies piles of plastic waste that no-one will take the time to recycle at Greendisc Services (trust me, who recycles photocopy toner cartridges in offices accross America - even if postage is free?). And yeah, I really want to run and preview The Hot Chick for $7.00 bucks right after the full-priced version just came out.

I hope Flexplay have done their research and answered my questions above before they began the test market. But really, who is so lazy to go and rent a movie and so lazy to return it? You can't even lend it to your friend after watching: "You better hurry and pick up the movie, you only have 2 hours left before The Hot Chick self-destructs! Watch it take America by storm.

2:23 PM | |

gallery

Spent a few hours working on my Gallery section last night. Not completed of course, but I have the Grand Canyon Weekend up. This was the North Rim section, traveling down the North Kaibab Trail to Cottonwood and back again. We were pretty beat up at the end of the trip, except for Dylan who acquired not one or two, but a whole chorus of comments both on the way down and up about how he had the best seat in the house. Did he ever - not a sore muscle in that tiny body!

7:59 AM | |

negotiations

Getting Dylan to say "please" when he wants something is like negotiating a hostage situation with a criminal. It can last hours and hours, going back and forth.

We don't want to negotiate.

"You want to get down (from the high chair)?"
"Uhhh (yes)."
"O.K., say 'please' first."
"NO!"
"You're not getting down then."
"Noooo (with a half-cry/whine)!"
"No. You will stay there until you say please."

Repeat around 5 times. Dylan gets antsy, impatient, a little crazy. Fine. Let's try to negotiate then.

"Does Dylan want to go down? If you say 'down please', I'll let you down."
"NOooooo...."
"Just say 'please'. Just one word. All you have to say is 'please' and you can go down."
"NO!"
"Please?"
"No, (crying out) mamamamama..."

And back and forth, for about 10 more minutes. Patience is very difficult. Holding steadfast is harder. Not getting angry or impatient - harder still. Sometimes you just want to throw in the towel and say O.K. and let him down. But it's just imperative to go on. He may have said it but very reluctantly and hardly audibly. He may have said it, but hard to discern, putting a tongue twist like "ease", obviously not really meaning it. Then when you think all is lost, he finally says "pease". Triumph, success, praises to him on a job well done. He is only too happy to be free. Sometimes I wonder, did he really get the point of that long excersice? I hope so. Other words, he has absolutely no problem repeating. I really can't say why "please" is so difficult while "firefly" is not.

9:07 PM | |

Found this piece burried along with all files eletronic - May 24, 2002. Must have been an extremely furstating phone day.

phone hell

Ubiqutous. All-encompasing. A big black void. A hell, of sorts.
Who would have thought we would have to be stuck a good 30 minutes on the phone, pressing numbers, star and pound signs, trying to spell out first names, last names; where the hell is the 'Q' and what comes after 'Y'? Can I just talk to a damn operator? Why doesn't the damn zero work? Isn't the big fat '0' for operator/help/emergency?

I have a question.
Is it too much to ask a company to pay a decent wage to a woman (or a man, if you want to be correct) who can pick up the phone and mispronounce your name when they leave the message for the person with whom you really want to speak to, but is incomprehensibly away from their desk every time you call? Are we truly reaping the benefits of hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of communications equipment to merely press '0' to reach an operator who then passes you on to the person who is unquestionably, undeniable constantly away from their desk every time you call?

Your waiting time is approximately 10 minutes.
And thank you inventors, for the speaker phone, headseats, muzak, what-have-yous as I waste more time holding after pressing several buttons then realize I have misspelled the name of the person I want to reach and hang up to redial. I just want to know what your extension number is or if you have a direct line since I so conveniently forgot to ask you in the last phone conversation we had. Can I please by-pass the message and just dial your number?

Listen carefully to the following options. Our menu has changed.
If it's so technologically advanced, can it at least be idiot-proof? Rue the day when you press the wrong button and you have to redial the entire 10-digit number several times because you keep pressing invalid selections. LISTEN TO THE MENU. There can be at least up to 9 choices, if you press the wrong button, like taking a wrong turn in the labyrinth, you're back at square one, or worse, locked out.


That slection is invalid. Thank you for calling.
How much does this voice make. She sounds exactly the same on every company's answering service. Press one now. If you have no idea what you are doing press 3 now. If you are exasperated, impatient or just plain stupid, hang up the phone and dial again, or don't even bother to attempt to make conversation. Stay home and plot a take-over of telephone companies, nation-wide.

7:57 AM | |

in the operating room

Last Wednesday, I arrived at Goldring Surgery Center for a little "procedure". The procedure was to remove a lump (three or four maybe) in my right axilla - armpit in layman. It was a simple outpatient undertaking, simple, my doctor made me believe. He said I would be partially sedated and the thing would be over in an hour. I had nothing to worry about. I hadn't had anything to eat or drink from midnight and not lotion, perfume, deodorant, hair stuff or jewelry as instructed on my checklist sheet. I got there an hour early, checked in then we were sent into the Recovery room, which was more like a waiting room for family and kids - T.V., kid's toys, armchairs. I waited there then a nurse came in with more paperwork. More release forms: I allow them to have an extra guy in the room if applicable, I allow a camera in my armpit and allow them to take pictures for a later discussion with the doctor, do not have a history of the usual illnesses or adverse reactions to general anesthesia. I had to write on my arms the "NO" side (left armpit) and the "YES" side (right armpit), complete with an arrow to indicate where they were supposed to cut me. I stripped down to the old hospital gown with the ties in the back, which one can never tie anyway so one has to walk around with their ass hanging out. Got on the bed, temperature taken, blood pressure taken, then one nurse tried to proceed with threading the IV needle in my hand. Of course she was unsuccessful and ended up poking around my hand with the needle. Hey, I was dehydrated, I was told not to drink anything past midnight and now, they try to make excuses for my "rolling" veins. Anesthesiologist plus another guy and the doctor all come out to talk to me, then an OR nurse comes to wheel me into the operating room while mapping out what is about to happen ("the operating room tends to be colder, the anesthesiologist will put in an ivy, gas mask, etc). I move to a narrower bed, more like table. She piles a warm blanket and there are about 7 people in the room. I look above and there are the menacing operating room lights that we've all seen too many times in movies after horrific accidents and malicious operations involving removing body parts or inserting foriegn objects into the body without your knowledge because, well, you're out like a light.

So. Five people set to work on me. One piles another warmed blanket. Another pulls the gown of my "YES" shoulder and wipes it down. Another inserts the IV, yet another straps me down - legs, torso, both arms, spread eagle, then the last guy puts the gas mask over my face. It smells awful. Rubber, plastic and I begin to feel suffocated while pin pricks are felt on my left hand. The last thing I hear amidst all this is the doctor talking to the anesthes. about where the other was from. Then I'm out. Helpless. Utterly imobile and unable to move or do anything. Whether they removed my lumps or my spleen, I wouldn't have known. I had been calm until the last few minutes when I had begun to shake uncontrollably as I saw them strapping me down, and it wasn't from the cold.

I dream about extremely sticky bubble gum that I'm trying to chew; the more I chew the more sticky it becomes, adhereing to the roof of my mouth, to my lips to my entire mouth. The next moment, I'm coming round and I can't tell where I am. It's still dark but I hear the nurse "They called her husband already. He's still changing the baby." My body's heavy, I'm groggy, sleepy, barely awake. Just voices talking loudly to each other. Then suddenly I see Dino next to me with Dylan. He's trying to talk to me but I can't put together a coherent sentence, or I just can't seem to understand what he's asking me. I say "I'm having a hard time waking up", nurse says, "Take deep breaths, that'll help you wake up faster". I feel nothing but the heaviness of my body. I think they're trying to explain a few things to Dino about the wound, not to take a shower for two days, taking the bandage off, things like that, but I just want to go back to sleep. After a few moments, I'm finally lucid enough and I'm helped to the changing room. Dino changes me like I'm a kid because I can barely lift my extremeties. Then I'm finally wheeled out to the car. And here I was thinking, it's just going to be some little out patient thing, while the next day I feel like I'm floating at work, still high on the sleeping gas. There isn't too much pain, but the simple little procedure sure as hell felt like one big operation.

5:56 PM | |

ribbon falls

Next day, as the gray skies slowly lit up from the sun creeping along the high canyon ridges, groans echoed at the campsite as aching bodies got up for the day. Evil sun was creeping along the ragged edges of the tops of the canyon walls, premonitions of firey hell for the day ahead. Half of the group decided to hike it out another 7 miles to the Colorado River over at Phantom Ranch and back. But the saner of us decided we were going to cool off in the river for the day and forget about a 14 mile hike. The sun was already filling out the canyon floor as the other party headed out for a hot day on rolling terrain. Dino talked to the ranger and learned about Ribbon Falls about 1.2 miles south of the campsite. 1.2 miles was certainly bearable in light of aching muscles and stiff limbs.

Ribbon Falls falls in thin ribbons, from an opening above down on a domed rock, shag carpeted with soft moss. There are tiny pools on the top of the domed rock and a trickling shower of cool water. The wind tunes the sounds of falling water into a roaring crash against rocks, or a quieter splash straight to the collecting pool below. Earlier, we had met a girl and her companion who happened to have Bomika packs. They were filling up on water at Cottonwood and we just had to ask her about the pack, as only someone in the Philippines would have a pack like that. It just turned out that she was a U.P. Mountaineer from batch '93 and knew Boboy, maker of Bomika packs. Our good friend Boboy had exerted his influence half way around the world as this girl returned to the United States to trek the Grand Canyon from North to South Rim. It was a pleasant surprise and we talked with her some more as she came down from cooling off beneath the Ribbon Falls. We knew some people in common and then they headed out to finish out their day's hike.

We finished out the day at the falls and Dylan swam in the stream four hours. He threw rocks, splashed around, went skinny dipping, slid down the rocks with the flowing water and wondered in amazement at the water skippers. For all his fun and enjoyment, it was all worth the aches, pains, and numb body parts. We took a nap behind the shade of the falls and had a lunch of beef adobe in tortillas. By the time we hit the trail to get back to Cottonwood camp, the afternoon heat had risen to 100º F. The hottest 1.2 miles on foot but it was nice knowing that 1.2 miles was all we would have to go on foot for the day as my mind wandered to the rest of the group 7 miles away and yet to return to camp for dinner and the evening. They were probably sipping down cold beers and bumming smokes off people for the moment they were resting their tired legs, getting ready for another long trek back to their food, tents, and sleeping bags.

9:05 AM | |

a hop skip and a jump

into the great beyond. Into the great canyon, a gaping hole, the biggest wound on the face of the earth. From over 8800 feet down into 4000 in a matter of hours. Six to be precise. A bone jarring decent into a steaming hot canyon that feels like a decent into hell, a parched land of gashes and wounds, of ridged stone and devil red walls. Who would be sane enough to do it? I certainly questioned mine and my husband's as my legs turned into jello down on the twentieth or so switchback as loose rock and red soil threatened to throw me off the trail with my 30 pound pack and down the rocky cliff below. I watched my husband up ahead carrying our 28 pound son, an extra pack and a trekking pole. Yes, our son will not soon forget this!

We had a late start due to a delay in obtaining a backcountry permit. So, in the heat of the day we began our decent into the canyon. But the gods were thankfully on our side as creeping cloud cover prevented the sun from baking us into useless piles of limbs and bones. The canyon is fierce and unforgiving, looking down on feeble human beings attempting a foolish walk through its ravines and ridges; getting the best of them when they become low on water and have exhausted all their bodies' fuel. If a hundred things could go wrong with the human body, this is the place where it will all happen simultaneously.

But after a few hours, the secenery changes and the decent is no longer too steep. Millions of years of evolution will show through from Kaibab and Muav limestone to Bright Angel Shale to Vishnu Schist , you will find fossils of living things and blue-green algae along the way. The pines and aspen of 8000 feet will soon give way to more desert shrub and grasses, and soon as you come up on Roaring Springs, the roar of the river will actually ease the aches in your body and signal 3 more easy-going miles to the campsite.

Another hour into the hike, you begin to wonder if it was indeed only 3 more miles, because it feels like we'd been walking forever, the canyon stretching on and on into the distance, without an end in sight. We gain momentary relief at a water stop by the gushing river. An old artist inhabits the small dwelling in the clearing of the water faucet, where he maintains a garden of sorts and a set of steps down to the river's edge. As we imbibe and cool off with water on bandans, hats and neck scarfs, a woman emerges from the steps. She says hello and vanishes as fast as she had appeared. We get ready to set off for another mile and a half or so. We cross a short foot bridge and are brought to the other side of the river, the river now on our right. My husband behind me, and suddenly yelling indescernable words to me as the wind mangles his voice. I stop and ask for clarity. Apparently the woman was swimming naked in the river in plain view. Of course, my husband didn't miss a thing!

Trudge as feet ache and blisters form. The heat now beating down, unbearable and oppressive. The clouds have gone. The sky is big, open, wide and loud. The end seems distant as we struggle on. Then up ahead I see a red landing flag. It signals "rescue", "chopper", "safety", "get us out of this place before I die". I know it means something significant, and hope against hope, the end of our 7 mile journey. I didn't want to ask for fear of a let-down, but I did anyway. To the lone camper setting up his tent, "Are we there yet?" He answers back, not with good news, but with another question, "Depends, where you headed?" "Cottonwood!" I yell back. "You're here," he smiles. "Best news I've heard all day!" So we find the rest of our party, I drop down to the ground like I'm about to die, kick of my killer boots and assuage my dying feet. Dylan begins his exploration of the place and takes up the entertainment for the evening, commenting on people's farts ("Ewwee, fart!"), kicking his imaginary ball to the moon and stars, and showing everyone where his head, eyes, nose, mouth, hands and feet are. The quarter moon appears in the dusky sky and Dylan begins to yell, "BOON! Boon!". Then the twinkling stars start to light up, a single one, the in twos, in threes and then a cresendo of white sparkles in the vast night sky. Dylan yells, "Ohhhh, stars!" As the sky becomes black, the Milky Way appears, smearing accross the canyon sky. I hadn't seen the Milky Way in years, not since I left African skies behind. So Dylan and I lay on the dusty ground with eyes upward counting the endless lights and saying goodnight to every last one.

8:02 AM | |