Two Views of Half Dome

Just photographs of Half Dome in Yosemite National Park.

Thinking Through Winter

I have a strong affection for winter, for its short days and low sun. I do not like the Central California summer, which is relentless.

During the week this time of year, I am at the office well before sunrise. The building is quiet, and if the lights are still on from the day before, I switch off all that I can before sitting in my cubicle.

A couple of weeks ago I spent two nights in a tent in Yosemite Valley's Camp 4. I set my tent on the snow, rigged up a warm mattress constructed of an old sleeping bag and a leaky Thermarest. For a couple of days I hiked around the Valley and enjoyed fresh air, tired legs, and the post-Christmas respite from all things ordinary. I got to see a wild bobcat for the first time, as well as a healthy coyote and several deer. The last time I was in Yosemite was in September, when I sometimes enjoyed a strenuous backpacking trip that, a few days in, found me unable to either eat or sleep enough to maintain a normal level of energy.

The day before yesterday I drove up to the mountains and spent several hours of skiing in the backcountry. I encountered nobody, and I had the trees to myself. At several points I stopped to enjoy the falling snow. 

For about the last month I have had my evenings and weekends to do pretty much as I please: no classes to teach or take, no students to call, no papers to grade. In a couple of weeks I once again start teaching: two nights a week, two hours a night. I am trying to gird my mental self for the increased activity, but the thought of 30 students staring up from their seats causes me no small amount of anxiety.

I will also be taking a guitar class, basically the same course I took last semester but am allowed to repeat at least a few times. I am not a good guitar player, nor will I ever be. But I am better than I once was, and being a student again will help me (I hope) be a better teacher. Many of my students are afraid of writing, really, just as I am afraid of playing my guitar in class. I am hopeful that I am developing a bit of empathy for those who truly do fear having to write. For one Christmas when I was a kid, I asked for a guitar, and what showed up on Christmas morning was a cheap plastic thing that I treasured. Mike, an older neighbor who would end up having quite the dark side, once offered to sell me his electric guitar for $100. I balked, one of many decisions that I have regretted. If I'd started playing then, even with this fat, meaty hands I'd be a much better player than I am.

For Christmas this year I asked for and received a box of Blackwing 602 pencils and a new Rhodia notebook, requests that befuddled more than one person. With these pencils and in this notebook I have begun writing the newest tome (mentioned in in a not-so-old blog post), an exercise in futility and creativity that I'm hopeful to make habitual.

I have told my students for many years that they, too, must practice their writing, that it will get easier and they will get better if they just stick with it, no matter how fat and meaty their hands are.

Ryan and Tony

During 2-day trip to Yosemite that ended today, I happened across a memorial service for Ryan Hiller, who was killed not long ago when a tree fell on the tent cabin in which Hiller was sleeping. I caught just the last portion of the service, and I sat on a nearby bench for awhile to watch the proceedings. I was somewhat perplexed about why one of the rangers was videotaping the event, more perplexed when, when things were ending, there was great commotion as the man who seemed to be in charge positioned everyone for the group photos. Perhaps these would be good mementos for Hiller's family. I don't know. Getting "everyone in uniform" at the front of the crowd seemed a bit much, but then again, I wasn't part of the ceremony and certainly didn't know Hiller.

I have been backpacking many times, both alone and with others, and I long ago learned the term "widow-makers": those trees and heavy branches that sometimes fall onto who lies beneath them. More than once I have pitched my tent beneath a tree and looked up to see which falling object would damage me the least.

I was, though, touched to see that Hiller was remembered so formally and so well, and I was glad that I lingered for a bit. But, I might not have lingered at all if it weren't for Tony Magdaleno, who might have been the first Mexican I ever met. Tony was on my Little League team, and he had trouble throwing a baseball because of a bad elbow. I remember asking how he'd hurt it, and he said that he'd somehow caught his arm in a washing machine. We were good friends while we played together, and I seem to remember his home as being a run down apartment building of some sort, probably the kind of place farm workers lived in my hometown. I'm sketchy on the details of such things, though, for it has been a long time. Not long after we moved to California, I heard that Tony had been a car accident of some sort, and he'd come out the other end with a broken neck and paralyzed legs.

Tony died earlier just a couple of weeks ago, though I didn't read about it until 2 days before heading to Yosemite. In fact, I read his obituary in the online edition of my hometown newspaper, which not too long ago let me know that one of my best boyhood friends had died. I need to stop reading that newspaper, I think. In Tony's obituary, which is short, I read that "He was an accomplished athlete and a true champion. He was a cross-country runner in Illinois before his car accident and is in the Woodstock High School Hall of Fame. He was an inspiration to many." Think of that: a cross-country runner before his car accident. I remember him as tall and thin, someone who was probably physically perfect for long-distance running. He never could throw a baseball very far, but I can imagine he could run.

I suppose I was thinking about Tony 2 weeks ago when a woman with the last name of "Magdaleno" showed up on the roster for a course I started teaching. Last Thursday after class (and the day before I read Tony's obituary), the woman signed the role sheet in the wrong spot because she hadn't seen her name. "You're on the roster," I told her, and I showed her where.

There is, though, no good ending to all of this, at least not one that I've been able to write. I've looked at these paragraphs several times, and I think any attempt at connecting things would probably be futile. Maybe I just miss Tony, or maybe I wish I'd met Ryan Hiller.

Winter Solstice 2011

Not much cohesion here, but who'll notice?

When I was a kid, I spent a lot of time learning how to be alone. And I have to say that I got pretty good at it. When I was in the navy, it became a great skill in an environment where privacy, if you were lucky, was a few moments alone in the latrine. I think about this--being alone--now because we are finally in winter, which is arguably my favorite season. Winter seems to be a time when expectations and requirements are few, though that might be a self-imposed illusion.

Also when I was a kid, I had a small-town paper route that required me to physically collect money from each of my customers so that I could, just as physically, pay my bill to the paper's publisher. It was when I learned how to deal with money: The publisher gave me a bill every week, and I was responsible for getting the money. I had to pay the bill on Saturday morning, so I would go out on Friday night and gather coins from the subscribers. Winter nights in the Midwest can be quite cold and snowy, but I would simply dress for the occasion and trudge through snow and darkness. It was great fun, really. Between my house and the streets that made up my route was an open field in which I spent many, many hours, and on those winter nights I would often perch myself on a large granite boulder and stare up at the stars. Or, I'd sit there as the snow fell and simply enjoy the silence.

The boulder itself was, in fact, always a mystery, and as I look back I wonder if it was an erratic left behind by one glacier another. In subsequent visits to my hometown, I believe I have found that boulder near the Little League fields I played on. Now that I think about it, the boulder also plays a role in my first novel, a terrible piece of work that starts with the line "Neil Armstrong broke my heart in 1969."

Where I live now there is no snow, and I must travel into the Sierra backwoods to experience such a thing. My favorite days there include not cold so much as gray skies and falling snow--a diminishing of sight and sound. There are few experiences as nice as this. For the last several years I've spent a couple of January nights snow-camping with friends in Yosemite Valley, and a couple of those times we've lucked into fairly heavy snowfalls. Those days and nights are wonderful.

After today, the days get longer in small increments; life tends to speed up, and soon enough I'll think about getting the spring garden ready for planting.

Serenity in Yosemite

I often think that, when it comes to writing, procrastination is really just figuring out what to say. So, having sold myself on that, I'm putting off what I should be working on and instead spending time here. What the hell.

Taking advantage of a loose leash late last week, I packed some cold-weather clothing and headed the car south and east to the Yosemite Valley. My friend Tom introduced the place to me not many years ago, and I've been returning as regularly as possible. And because I'm getting fatter and older and lazier, I opted to rent one of the tent cabins at Curry Village, a shelter from potential storms that meant I wouldn't have to set up my own tent and sleep on the ground.

Arriving at Curry Village around noon after a long but enjoyable drive that included the discovery of a small coffee shop in the small town of Mariposa, which I found not because I was looking but because I saw 2 men walking up from a side street, a paper coffee cup in their hands. I parked the car and walked down that same side street, found the shop, and walked away with something called an Oregon Chai. Maybe it's similar to Starbucks chai latte. Tasted good enough that I would also stop on the way home 2 days later. I talked to the owner about how long he'd been there (6 years), about the science of advertising his business (his wife says he has "sign anxiety"), and the number of people he employs (5). Amazing how much a person can learn in a 2-minute conversation.

Anyway. Arriving at the desk 5 hours before the official check-in time, I was given keys to a tent because "we just happen to have one available." I had to wonder just how many unheated tent cabins would actually be occupied that night (though it would turn out to be quite a few, including the one beside me, one in which an man older and fatter than I slept well and snored loudly). The desk-clerk asked if I was there "for the conference," and I assured him that I was not. After stowing my pack of clothing I simply started walking--I'd say "hiking," but I'd be more accurate saying "strolling." All of the walkways and common tourists areas were filled with visitors, and most of them had white nametags hanging from their necks.

I love cities, their commotion and energy, but I also very much enjoy being anywhere else. The air was cold and fresh, and that first night was cold enough that 6 wool blankets laid over me weren't enough to keep me warm. But, warmth would've cost me $65 more a night, and I thought it was a fair tradeoff. The next day got a late start but managed a hike (certainly not a stroll) to the top of Vernal Falls where several months ago 3 young people walked around a guardrail, slipped into the water, and tumbled over the falls: a 25-foot float that led to a 300-foot fall that ended in a sudden stop in the rock-filled pool of water below. I looked at the waterfall and tried to imagine their terror at realizing what was going to happen. If we're lucky we die without such terror, though perhaps if we take our time dying that terror is longer.

Eating an apple and drinking some water at the top of the falls, I watched some clouds move in and realized how cold I had become: the sweat on my layers of long underwear wasn't drying, so I started hiking down just to regain some body heat. (Every see the movie Body Heat? It's kind of old, a little racy; I wrote a college paper on the opening scene, which I must've watched 20 times.) When I got to the road, I found the bus stop, intending to ride to the Valley's small deli where I could pick up a sandwich. After a few minutes I was joined by a man who was toting a fair amount of good camera equipment. I had camera-envy. "You hike to the Falls?" he asked. "I did," I told him. "You here for the conference?" "No," I said, and I let it hang there for a moment. "Which conference is that?" He looked at me. "The Al-Anon conference," he told me. "Nope," I said. I couldn't tell if he was sad. Maybe he had camera-envy, too. "I didn't mean to imply anything," he said, and I assured him that no offense was taken and no apology was necessary. "It's called 'Serenity in Yosemite'," he said, and we talked about the Valley's beauty.

We both eventually got on the shuttle bus, and though I was still quite chilled, I got off at the deli as he continued on. When I got my sandwich, I came outside to find another shuttle that would take me to Curry Village. The man was still on the bus, and we exchanged greetings. It's sometimes nice to see a friendly face.

Back at my tent, I ate the sandwich and shivered. When the sandwich was gone I walked to the showers and let hot water warm me up. After reading in my tent for awhile, I started walking again, making my way to a bar near Yosemite Lodge where I was charged $10.50 for a simple gin and tonic. The bar wasn't crowded--at least, I didn't see anyone wearing nametags. Toward dark and wandering around Curry Village, I found that 2 buildings were full of people watching some type of video: Al-Anons watching that night's keynote presentation. I found a dark corner outside one building where I could hear the speaker through the window. She was a comely blonde woman who interspersed "shit" and "fucking" quite well into a somewhat humorous personal story about her own journey into the group. Finally, when my feet were called, I sauntered back to my tent, read some more, and finally went to sleep with my blankets over me and the tent-neighbor snoring happily.

That second night was warmer than the first, or I was more tired and more acclimated to the cold. The next day I awoke to a light rain. I packed my things and loaded my car. I walked to the cafeteria for some hot oatmeal, and as I sat among many Al-Anons again, snow started to fall--big, wet snowflakes. I drove through snow until leaving the Valley, then drove through rain, then drove beneath sunshine for the rest of the way home. There I settled into the sofa and turned my attention to my students' papers and questions, trying hard to not lose what I'd gained over the previous couple of days.