and other mixcellaneousnesses ~ Below: recently we drove by the (allegedly WW2-era secret) Silos of Mysteriousness, in Glade Park (Colorawdough). Our pixure don’t do them justice — constructed of concrete, these are relatively HUGE — 50 yards or so in length. … Continue reading
This morning I signed in to register for a trail race — the MMS Desert 5-mile Water-Tower Run. Who would I be? i briefly puzzled … my real name? one of the usual aliases? and then, glancing back at the … Continue reading
or Prey, Lewd? to Oregon Beach Zombie Apocalpyse Survival Camp Vacation Weekend ! anyhow, I am bracing for the upcoming weekend “on the beach” with the family in Oregon. To cover all bases, whatever happens should fall under the narrative … Continue reading
INUKSUIT ramblings (“i used to make wombats”) Ah … a span of time without anchors. A day off from work! No chores at home either (you know, stuff like: leaky faucets, doors not plumb within frames, unsightly detritus on the … Continue reading
A nite or two ago, out peeeng in the yarrd, cigar in the other hand, the warm nite breeze stirring what’s left of my ever-diminishing hair, clothes scattered somewhere in the house, dogs snuffling about in the bushez nearby, i … Continue reading
The State of the Entropy
or … the continuing Entropy of the State. And whining about it.
Whining? the usual: i complain, no-one listens, gettin’ more and more tired (whuddelse izz gnu?). In part due to THE HEAT. i don’t know about you, but when the temps hit 80, then 90 (today) i fade. doin’ the yard chores at a pace which varies between a zombie-shuffle to the occasional medium-shuffle.
i’ll spiffify this happy post with CAT PIXURES, and when Betty flew away two daze ago to be GrandMa in Portland, she lamented she might miss her flowers bloomin’. so the cat pixures will be interspersed with flower-pictures.
and a pict. of a kitten (well, heez a BIG kitten, small kitty now) with harmonicas.
yeah, i “auditioned” tonite at a club in Fruita (check http://www.cavalcadefruita.com)
with the gist (or izzit speld “jist”?) of my plan of attack being
ROSCO BUTCHERS THE CLASSICS
and they said “you’re on” for the next monthly show.
and that’s not all …
Betty and our “old band” is also playin’ Cavalcade “talent”! and someone wants to re-start up the banned! our ‘musical life’ temporarily looks optimistic. don’t worry, it’ll pass …
the annual José Puede Ver? occurred last weekend, with Friday being one of my worst performances and Satyrday i ratcheted it up and think i performed ‘somewhat above average’. (“José Puede Ver” is what i call my annual playing of the National Anthem with blooz intro and some banter at the W. Colorado H.S. Track (& Field) Championships.)
betty’s complaints, my fault: her flight to Portland was delayed, twice. THAT was, somehow, my fault, for purchasing those particular plane tickets. and when she got there, her cell-phone wouldn’t work. That too, was my fault. ’til her daughter TURNED THE PHONE OFF, and when it turned on, the phone knew where it was and calls have been coming and going.
Ah, the Whining: sometimes i think i ‘pen’ something which WerdPress might “take notice” of. profile. push to front and center (they call it “Fresh Pressed”). deafeningly not this!, but … i figgerd “tormented souls”?? — my previous post, which was the first serious not-totally-off-the-cuff post inna while. by that i mean i axually THOUGHT about it. edited it intensely. yeah, you probably can’t tell …
and, how about FICTION CATEGORY: they didn’t pick up ERIK/DYLAN snow cave camp? or Cry Kwakiutl? ? or Uggedda Buggetta??? Seminal short stories, people!
and Japhy ryder? — an intradimensional epic!
Perhaps WerdPress ought-a have ANOTHER, ‘renegade’ category, Pressedly-Frest, with the symbol being, oh, a bl(e)ak hole — or some weird outdoor demented rock sculpture, for categories hitherto unthinkable. un-label-able. just plain outside of definition.
and T Pynchon (“Against when the sun is out”) (w)rang a chord recently:
Heading once more over the bridge, into the smoky orange sunset, he felt the sadness peculiar to the contemplation of recent time unrecapturable. Anything earlier, childhood, adolescence, they were done with, he could get by without any of that — what he wanted back was last week, the week before.
Hmmm… and i thought that was so significant when i read it a coupla daze back. Oh, well …
B ‘n me are entered into the local (low key?) Triathlon in a few weeks, as a team! She will swim, and i will split personas, one to ride, and (Rosco, i think) will run. The distance is such that i could easily have done the whole thing some 20 years ago. A mere 16-mile ride, followed by 3.5 mile CC. Heck, about 20 years ago i briefly held the (w)record for the local Duathlon (Citizen category), which was smusht the following year by REAL athletes.
The main race had departed, and all whom remained was us citizens. One fellow in particular, swaggeringly clad in lycra (there was a time when THAT was somewhat unusual) came up to me and asked what i’d do the 5k run in (the CIT du was a 5k run, 30k ride).
“Oh, i’ll try for 20-some.” That sounded good to him and he announced he’d hang with me, then take off.
I ran the 20-some, finishing in the first 5 or so of our race-within-a-race. Mr. Lycra was maybe a minute back, but overtook me at mile 5 or so during the bike. Seeing his aero helmet, disk wheels, tri-bar, I (mentally) conceded immediately. (I didn’t have those then, nor ever have, since).
Much to my surprise I saw him again at about mile 16. Unbeknownst to me, I also passed the leader in the ‘team’ category. I couldn’t tell as we were moving up through the slowest riders in the “real athlete” category. They’d have to run another 5k, whereas when i finished the ride, i was done. And won.
This year we hope to finish with enough energy to stay alive enough to go to the Cavalcade that night and be rock stars. Wottaday, for old weigh-overTheHill folks, huh?
This is a post, mostly pixures, about THE INUK-THINGY NEAR WOMBAT ARCH. And, of course, there will be other, random, unrelated observations. And ruminations.
Take a look at the Betunada site picture at the top of this ‘page.’ Rosco (me) is atop ‘Wombat’ Arch — and the photo is by Benjamin George (Eddie’s dad) from a few years back.
As you can tell, it definitely IS an “arch.” It helps to have day, or sky-light visible as the backdrop. So … these photos (below) are from ABOVE the arch, and the “arch-ness”, or archeosity, or arch-essence, qualities, character, whatever, is/are not as obvious. And there’s an INUK-THINGY nearby. Enjoy … and just wait ’til dessert …
Two dogs (RockSea and da Slevv) are on top of the arch. I was leery of doing same, as it seems to have possibly crumbled a little from the prior visit, and the integrity (not to mention ‘safety’ factor) could be in question. Probably silly of me to have thought this, but it WAS windy. Never-the-less, there are several hundred pounds of rock being held up. There will, eventually, be a return visit and opportunity for goofy portraits …
What, if anything, do I think about when rambling through the high desert? One pleasant and happy thought was that I considered walking across the arch, but being alone (the only ‘human’) it would be my luck for the thing to collapse, and the good chance I wouldn’t be killed, but would be horribly and painfully mangled. So, if there’s someone(s) with me, I’d do it (walk across, stand there), so whoever could report to whoever one reports to if the thing collapsed.
The Yoga Sutras of Patanjali tell us that connection to and realization of the unity among and behind and around all things is always close. Within. If it was a measurable distance to get to it, it would be less than an inch. But … the barriers, what keeps each of us, me, you, from that realization must be daunting. Intertwined. A thicket. A large overturned semi-truck blocking the road, hazardous waste spilled and ankle-deep in places. The Haz-Mat crew out in full PPE mopping and sopping and bagging it up. No, IT AIN’T THAT COMPLEX. It should all be so very very simple. I tell myself that, and try to clear the mind, stop the infernal dialogue, concentrate. Sometimes I manage to try to hold this thought for … oh, maybe ten seconds. I am so, very … deep.
I wuzz deriving to werk a coupla daze back, feelin’ paranoid. That old familiar feeling. Doom, more gloom, around the corner, under the bed?, through and within the forest, never far away. And then another thought put it all in perspective. A line from the movie “Men In Black” (Part II or III, I think) spoken by the Tommie Lee Jones character: THERE IS ALWAYS A KIRILLIAN DEATH-CRUISER ABOUT TO DESTROY THE EARTH.
PLEASE CLOSE the GATE. (Another boring high-desert ramble Wif Da Dorgz)
I don’t know what they’re keeping out, or in. Perhaps they just want to make all the motor-idiots slow down, even stop, while going from one side to the other. This gate nor fence wouldn’t deter the bighorns, below …
The Nine-Mile Hill bighorn sheep herd, part of which is pictured above, hadn’t been very visible these past few months. Today, they’re out grazing, in their full glory for all the nearby highway traffic to view.
Meanwhile, back at “the gate” Rocksea, Sleven, and Dually engage in a pre-hike sniffaroony.
We stop on a ridgetop just south of what I call East Pass to Cactus Park. View is to northwest — with snow-covered Pinyon Mesa on the horizon, and the red desert sandstone cliffs along Unaweep Canyon beyond the relatively flat Cactus Park. What would be impressively visible just a couple miles further west — unseen from this vantage point — are the massive pre-cambrian granite cliffs which displace and replace the reddish sandstone.
Turning 120-degrees to the east, we look to the shaley steep slopes of theBookcliffs. What you can’t see is that my house, along with a few thousand others, is on the valley floor before the Bookcliffs.
Gibbler Mountain, the primary west-edge landmark of Cactus Park. A pleasant breezy cloudily-scattered-cloudy day.
Dool pauses alongside an inuk-thingy in the trees.
Rocksea peers down …
The truck is just off the “road” towards the left.
We get home. The kitten is prostrate at the foot of the Lithograph of the Cat-Saint Bearing Fish.
… we’re in trouble.
Ay caramba. El ùltimo fin-de-semana de Julio fue difìcil para me porque estuve cansado. Asi que …
Mis perros y yo fueron de caminar cerca de las MicroOndas de Nuevo-Milla-Cerro (“Nine Mile Hill”). Este es “Duallie” en una caverna (pequeño) con un pared de “hornunculuses.”
Es el re-construccìon de “inuk-thingy” de Whitewater. Es un dìa nublado y un pocito magnìfico, verdad?
Dually (y la cola de Rocksea) cerca un otro “Inuk thingy” de Whitewater. (¿Es una lengua grande, sì?)
Mi hija y mi nieto en la playa cerca de Port Angeles, estado de Washington. No, no fui allì — mis hijos fueron … fui solamente cerca de mì casa …
Son dos de mi favorita cervezas oscuras. Old Rasputin (North Coast Brewing) y Storm King (Victory, de “Downington” Pennsylvania). Recuerde: fue un fin-de-semana que nada paso.
Los tigres buscan y quedarsen en un estanque en la selva …
Un arco (“el” arco?) de Bean Ranch, Whitewater. Hay arcos cerca de mì casa que no estan en Moab !
Este arco es, mas-o-menos, veinte kilometros despues de mì casa. Hay un arco MAS GRANDE que es diez kilometros (o menos) despues de mì casa.
Es el inukthingy de Nuevo-Milla Cerro numero dos porque construì un otro hace unos meces. Creo que numero uno es muy difìcil a encontrar …
Desafortunatamente, no estoy aqui. Mì yerno y mì hija fueron a Port Angeles mas temprano de este mes. Mì yerno tomò este foto. ¿ Magia, sì ?
(“i used to make wombats”)
Ah … a span of time without anchors. A day off from work! No chores at home either (leaky faucets, doors not plumb within frames, unsightly detritus on the premises). Spouse off to her job ’til the dark evening hours, weather not too hot nor too muddy nor too frigid to be outdoors. Time to go ramble, with the dogs.
We (well, the dogs have little choice, they bark and lean over the sides and sometimes poop in the back of the truck) drive a short distance from the house. I go to trailheads where the likelihood of encountering others is slim, partly ’cause that’s the way I like it, and the dogs need time to be free-spirited unleashed beasts without boundaries. Reducing the possibility of bothering karmically-challenged people who worry about strange dogs intruding into their sacred spatial arenas. The buttheads.
I’ve brought two cigars for this trip. And filled-up the brandy flask. No telling, really, where the muse will take us, long as whatever it is ends by dark-thirty or earlier. I did tell Betty a different destination, but the almost-usual last-minute decision dictated elsewhere. I park 6.5 miles from the house, but it could be a few thousand years away. After a half-mile along a trail, we’ll diverge. Chances are after another half-mile, we’ll see little or no indications of other people having been there. Cows, maybe. This is Federal land. And where we’re headed, there aren’t supposed to be any trails…
I used to make wombats. I don’t know why I ever embarked on this pastime, nor do I remember my first wombat. A back-country dog-hike was not ‘good’ until I found a spot to spell out “W O M B A T.” (In rocks. on the ground.) The less likely anyone will ever see it, the better.
An inuksuk (plural inuksuit) alternatively inukshuk is a stone landmark or cairn built by humans, used by the Inuit and other peoples of the Arctic region of North America. The inuksuk may have been used for navigation, as a point of reference, a marker for hunting grounds, or as a food cache.*
Now wombats are on the back burner. I had been considering, experimenting, constructing ‘test’ inuksuk, or inunnguaq (if one wants to get technical as that is the human form of the Inuit cairn-expression). And about two weeks ago the muse, or the subterranean intradimensional influences, or the mental/psychic/emotional equivalent of a long-overdue quasi-artistic urge, manifested in an inuk manner. I found the spot, the materials were available, an inuksuk assembled itself … with some help from me. The dogs just wandered around sniffing and digging and occasionally checking on me and then wandering off again.
So we wander. I have a general area in mind. A ridge beyond where even I occasionally sojourn. Perhaps the ridge after that. It just depends — on the so-called muse, and, of course, the muse would take a good location and decent construction materials into account.
We cruise up the trail, and where it turns to continue up the ridge just north of Highway 141, we don’t. Zigzagging down across the next valley and up the slope to the next ridge. Then down, and up the next ridge and we’ll proceed with the muse-gates more receptive and open on the other side.
I see human boot-prints, and am glad somebody else forsakes the established trail to bushwhack. Whoever it is, an artifact hunter? worse yet, someone with a gun? or a random itinerariless wanderer with an agenda as vague yet esoteric as mine? helps me decide that we go yet another ridge. Beyond the pale, whatever that means. Actually, I wonder if anywhere on this earth is beyond the pale, what with the GPS eyes in the sky and the ever-more accurate precise mapping of everything. Personal, and I’m sure, general experience has shown that one can not just tweak, but whack the pale out of the park with the right mix of psychotropics. But that is not to be seriously approached with my preferred combo of brandy and cigars …
Pale out of the picture, the horizon looks as it probably did a few hundred, nay, a couple, three thousand years ago. The circum-polar landmark potential beckons.
Dogzeneye survey the ridge-top we’re on. The inuk-spot location optimization does not exactly call out for action. The dogs become pre-occupied with pee-mail nexuses and bones to chew on, olfactory delights. I decide that a rock ledge half-way up from the valley bottom to the top of the next ridge north is our candidate location.
But it is not. There comes a time when the line in the sand has to be drawn, and attaining the 5th or 6th (it’s easy for me to lose track) ridge-top north of Highway 141 will either be THE SPOT and if not, we’ll back-track to one of the more-promising locations considered earlier.
It is breezy, nay, windy on this ridge. The approaching winter storm is stalled a few miles to the west.
The word inuksuk means “something which acts for or performs the function of a person.” An inuksuk is often confused with an inunnguaq, a cairn representing a human figure. There is some debate as to whether the appearance of human- or cross-shaped cairns developed in the Inuit culture before the arrival of Europeanmissionaries and explorers. The inunnguaq is distinguished from inuksuit in general.*
I begin the
inunnguaq creation by following a process I initiated a couple weeks before. Gather material, pile it around ground zero. Choose big blocky chunks for the feet. These have to be stable! Take care that the leg-pieces are also flat and preferably square-ish. You will need a couple or more large flat ‘body’ pieces to rest on the legs — and not of the inferior quality sandstone which would break to pieces if you dropped it from waist-high. Be sure there are several thin small pieces for shims and ‘chinking.’ Take care to locate strong and long rectangular rocks for the arms. Enough solid preferably cubic blocks for the upper body and to weigh down the shoulders. A collar-bone section, upon which the neck pieces and, finally, the head can securely rest.
Periodically, rock the structure-in-progress gently with one hand and note where shims or ‘chink’ pieces should be inserted to dampen sway. You do want this to withstand a windstorm, not to mention death by bird-perch. Granted, if a cow were to bump into it … I’d need either a half-dozen labor crew and/or construction machinery to make an inuksuk that large!
The dogs have little or nothing nearby in the olfactory delight availability, maybe the wind or impending storm has them apprehensive, and they are glad to leave.
There is a customary Inuit saying: “The great peril of our existence lies in the fact that our diet consists entirely of souls.”
(By believing that all things, including animals, have souls like those of humans, any hunt that failed to show appropriate respect and customary supplication would only give the liberated spirits cause to avenge themselves.)*
I do not exactly backtrack, and make this a circular, not out-and-back, wandering. I’m not tired, the dogs are more energetic than I, there is yet another cigar and the brandy flask has heft. Unlikely, but perhaps my diet of recent has been mostly comprised of souls. No wonder my seemingly sedate existence is paralleled by the great peril a millimeter away. So I build a smaller inuksuk up but across the valley from the ridge-top one.
Later on, I spell out a ‘wombat’ on a windswept hilltop much closer to the car.
* thanks to Wikipedia.com for selected excerpts