Monday, December 9, 2013
Where there are mountains, there are canyons—enchanting, seductive landscapes that both beguile and unnerve. New York City is mountainous—dazzling man made monoliths topped with radio steeples that cast long winter shadows across deep canyons, canyons every bit as deep as those found in Colorado. I was born a curious child and remain a curious man—a prerequisite for being a wanderer—and while I'm not drawn to the clamor and glitter of over-peopled cities, there is that one that begs exception. I am intrigued by oppositional landscapes and lifestyles, and who better to play the role of antagonist than the city of all cities, New York, with her determined, and oft misunderstood inhabitants.
Thursday, December 5, 2013
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Ok, I'm uncomfortably wedged into a child sized seat on a big ol' jet airliner—a full waist size larger and ten pounds heavier—zipping along at 35,000 feet, 450 mph, and inhaling the collective exhale of three hundred strangers. This is not a metaphor, we are sardines...elbow to elbow; shoulder to shoulder; fin to fin; nuts to butts. Not if, but when, the next plague purges our planetary petri dish of humankind's overpopulation to something more realistic and sustainable, it's mechanism will most assuredly be airplanes (cough).
Sunday, November 24, 2013
This RV/Travel/Adventure Geezer type is getting tired of trying to tiptoe around the topic of terrible temps with temper-ate tantrums regarding tumultuous torrents and tempests on his Teapot. Thus, I'm inspired by Frost (Jack, not Robert) to pen you a silly post.
Saturday, November 23, 2013
It's seven AM and still pitch black out Goldie's windows. Her furnace runs continuously, causing panes to sweat like Mike Tyson in the 14th round—39 degrees on one side 80 on the other. It's been raining for a while now, not a deluge, not a pitter patter, just enough to turn your Lazy Daze RV in to a prison cell. You see, dampness lowers chill factors, thus it's been cold enough that any sane person would have traded shorts for long pants days ago. But I resist, persist, and insist, like a child refusing vegetables. We're in the desert for crying out loud, but it's beginning to look and feel a lot like Christmas!
Thursday, November 21, 2013
It was bound to happen, two things, really. One: that our weather would go from perfect, as in mid 60's and sunny, to a fine light drizzle and mid 50's. I can't complain about a little fine drizzle and cooler weather after six weeks of autumnal bliss. Desert Rain soothes my mood like well hopped beer, and quenches my skin like aloe vera lotion. Two: that someone in our group would pull up stakes at first sprinkle and make a run for the border, chasing warmer temps and sun instead of putting on a light jacket. Boohoo. Though we didn't realize it in the moment, Guacamole would be our last ride as a complete group. Bye bye Boonster, see you in March down Ajo way...
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
Mesa: "An isolated flat-topped hill with steep sides, found in landscapes with horizontal strata." Gazing across southwest Utah's land formations from high ground—and by "high ground" I mean a hard fought pedal up the Flying Monkey, a battle of a ride just short of war against the evils of age, gravity, and arthritis—I shudder at the view, shivering from the sweat induced chill of accomplishment. Mesas...interspersed with the craggy peaks and smooth domes of Zion...fade into the haze of filth that blows in from a highly misplaced Las Vegas. So many disconnected plains of mesas, separated by hundreds of millions of years of erosion—cubic miles of soil and rock that fills the basement of the Sea of Cortez, inch by inch. If the southwest doesn't run out of soil, and water to carry the slurry, Baja will one day be a swampy delta that connects to mainland Meh-hee-co. It's our soil; maybe we could claim it as a new state, "Tortilla Flats."