Ye Annual Bike Ride

SPRING VALLEY, OH--It's always a joy to break out of the joint early for a half-day jaunt on our annual bike ride. The weather was supremely good, perfection personified - not too hot, not too cool, constant sun, and skies the color of Sinatra's eyes. We met as usual at the idyllic small town of Spring Valley and immediately noted a big change around these parts - they knocked down a wall in the antique shop. Heresy! How dare they change something in changeless Mayberry?

After the requisite bathroom breaks we lit out for the territories on our steeds only to get a half-mile down the road before discovering two flaws: my water bottle was AWOL (just purchased at the antique shop) and Mom had reconsidered her decision not to wear a jacket. So on the strength of this dual purpose (“it still counts!” we said, concerning bike-riding mileage purposes) we headed back whence we came and uncle Mark said this was the shortest ride we'd ever taken.

I found my water bottle nearly at ground zero: it had fallen out within two yards of the starting line. I secured it better this time while Mark retrieved Mom's jacket and so we were off again on this, our 16th annual bike ride (give or take).

We started slow and then tapered off. No land speed records were set during this trip so please do try this at home. We went down the beautiful valley towards Corwin and then beyond.

Along the way we would experience many hardships. A slithering snake was passed. Mom's leg began bleeding due to the bike ride equivalent of a paper cut. Mark and I talked politics until Mom said she could take no more political talk lest her head explode. And most of all our butts hurt. Badly.

Along the way we saw marshlands and tree lines, streams and waterfalls, remote farm houses and outhouses. We saw great civilizations (Corwin, Ohio) and we saw raw nature tooth and claw (a spider landed on my back).

Four hours and 18 miles later - a pace joggers laugh at - we arrived back at the valley where it is eternally Spring, and enjoyed the pleasant atmosphere of Slim's or whatever the name of the joint is where they have good food, no patrons except those pleasantly tucked out of sight in a bar around the corner, waitresses bandying band-aids, and most importantly cold beer.

We had a picture taken, a bit too dark which when you get to be my age you count as a blessing. Good lighting for an overweight middle-aged man is very dark lighting.

We had a little snafu at the end when I gave Mom's tip and my signed receipt to another waitress (or pretend waitress?) who promised to give (or pretend to give) the money and receipt to our Florence Nightingale. But to error is human, to ride on a day like yesterday divine.

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Twelve Hours in Hocking County

Ingeniously blue skies on this sad anniversary; the skies the same preternatural blue as on that other 9/11. Right now enjoying a surprisingly ribald sun here in “the mountains” of Tar Hollow just shy of 10am. We fringe a forest of trees but are separated from, not quite “of” the trees like we were at Camp Creek. There we lived among the splendor and beside a lovely creek (at the cost, of course, of sun - can't have it all). Still, we're enveloped by nature and remote from civilization. Camping as it ought to be, not camping in tent cities with cars going by, music playing, and dogs yapping.

No cell reception though. Nuthin', nodda. No 3G even. So we're awol from civilization in more than one way.

Just beyond us stands a birch, with a sizable oval hole in it. Home for owls? Pecked out by 'peckers? Mysteries in the wood. Straight outta Hollar.

Rough sleep night; cold as the dickens; woke up to 52 degrees. Had multiple blankets though so not too bad, although there's ever a dampness seemingly present even though the tent wouldn't seem to let in dew, which was heavy this morning.

Pleasant morning reading a Shakespeare bio. One report has the young boy killing a calf and making it theatrical. You can take the boy out of Hollywood but you can't take the Hollywood out of the boy. Also came upon the riveting part of Shakespeare's use and affection for the Bible (Geneva version, not the more staid “Bishop's Bible”). Man but Ackroyd can write. This is the biography I was sore wanting to read. Others just leave me cold by comparison.

Walked up trail to the North Ridge primitive campsite. Three plus miles. Buggy as the day is long, which wasn't ideal, and slim, sketchy trail combined with corralling doggie Maris distracted from the gorgeous scenery: lichens, ferns, old trees. No timber rattlers fortunately. Every five steps got spider web in my face, so I picked up a tall walking stick and used it as a papal staff, blessing and breaking the webs by swinging it left to right.

Back to the campsite where it would it was work time. Heave ho, gotta go. Rain coming, cool coming. We got it done and I felt satisfaction in seeing a campsite with a structure (a tent) and a thousand and one items scattered here and there and by 5:04 we were on the road, everything back in pristine order.

48 Hour Camping Triplog

Creek. Tree. Stone. Primal.

Rustic camp, set up right next door to this living, breathing stereoscope of nature. Four hour drive with stop at Walmart for lantern, then much deliberation over picking a campsite, them tent, canopy, air mattress set-up…

Wild rhododendron give the place a Smoky mountains vibe. In fact this feels like Zoder's Inn, $220 cheaper and 3 hours closer. Now to relax!

(But wait! What yonder ponc lies in front? It is my exercise routine, alas and drat! I must walk a bit…)

So I walked a mile, just to absorb the gorgeous scenery. It's Brad Paisley country. I walk the creek and look up the side of a mountain hushed with the magnificence of God. The forest is dense and mysterious. Godlike. I think: “I could use more silence in my life.” More time standing dumbfounded in front of trees. Here is nature - and water - without the needling distractions of crowds as are found omnipresent in Hilton Head (even on the bike trails!)

There's a reason monasteries are founded in remote locations. There is quiet. Here is quiet. Here are mountains that have produced many a godly Baptist man, like Billy Graham. I hear Thoreau singing!

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Murakami:

“As if pulled in by a magnet, people gather on the banks of the river. Seeing a lot of water like that every day is probably an important thing for human beings. For human beings might be a bit of a generalization—but I do know it’s important for one person: me. If I go for a time without seeing water, I feel like something’s slowly draining out of me. It’s probably like the feeling a music lover has when, for whatever reason, he’s separated from music for a long time.”

Author Edmund Morris laments the “screen-ization” of life, how so many prefer virtual experiences to real world ones. But I find this hypocritical coming from a writer. What are words but simulacrums? Can't reading be seen as a substitute for “real life”? Describing a forest is a completely different thing than experiencing one. In fact, you could say pictures are closer to the real world than words describing pictures.

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So what is it about being in the forest like this that so enchants? Such a simple thing, setting up a campsite in the woods yet I ran ecstatically a couple miles, transfixed by the passing woods and mountains. Idyllic spot: of the eleven rustic campsites we're the only campers. Yes, we have the whole Bluejay campground to ourselves! That will likely change tomorrow but I'll let tomorrow take care of itself.

This morning spent a few minutes reading “Jesus” by Fr. James Martin.  Am wanting to read the collection of essays Edmund Morris has out now. When I heard there was one on the Library of Congress, the poetry of his rapture carried me away. I also wouldn't mind reading his wife's book on Claire Luce. She lived a rather colorful life. Certainly I'd like to read about her conversion story to Catholicism and about her close association with the great Fulton Sheen. (Alas! I read his cause for sainthood has been suspended. Sadness.)

DAY 2

Sleep is not why you go camping, given the “rigors” of an air mattress and uncontrolled heating/cooling, but I did appreciate last night's white noise in the form of the rushing creek bed outside our tent encampment. Steph thought it sounded like it was raining, which is also a comforting backdrop for sleep.

It gets cold in the mountains at night, or so we found out. Not having heavy blankets wasn't ideal, so I woke up a couple times and put on a t-shirt and later additional thin blankets. Also had to pee, which isn't totally convenient other than being able to go pretty much anywhere outside that I wished.

Woke up and lit out for some electricity so we could make our Keurig. Nothing at the first couple restrooms/party shelters we stopped; not even the bath house on the main campground. So we had to “borrow” an empty campsite's electric.

Then we did a short road tour of the area outside the park. Nothing prettier than a house situated on a broad plain, witnessed from a surrounding height.

At the camp store's entrance, four men of varying ages - a early 30-something cop and three older gentlemen with wrinkled visages like those of old time farmers, stood talking like you might see in Mayberry. Just shootin' the breeze. Would've loved to have listened and eavesdrop. I heard them one say “twenty years in the mine ain't long,” or words to that effect.

The big break was we didn't get any rain yesterday or last night. Rain is to camping what a flat tire is to bike-riding. Supposed to be another fair chance of the dreaded event today and tonight.

Lazed around until about 1, at which point we took a walk down to the amazing waterfall. We walked around there and sat there for awhile, even entering just above the falls via dry rocks. Then down the road, past the horse campgrounds, to where it forked off into two different trails. So maybe a mile and a half walk, enough for Buddy. Saw a black snake, presumably a Northern black racer, climbing the slick wall of rock along the path.

Wondered if this creek empties into West Virginia's New River, the place we went whitewater rafting. Thought about the oddness of a river, coming seemingly out of nowhere, built from rainwater. Or rather built from creeks, which are built from run-off rainwater. The great Mississippi seems almost created ex nihilo, starting from a tiny sprig of water. Maybe from a spring? Either way it seems amazing that the earth's water has arranged itself into these creeks that feed rivers that eventually feed oceans.

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Ahhhh….yes…another wonder-restoring hike. Two miles, same as what I ran last night, but it felt like Hocking Hills of old with those grand vistas, the far tops of the mountains having some sort of magical pull for me, that distant inaccessibility somehow charismatic purely on account of being distant and inaccessible. The free, wildness of those tree-clad peaks. The succor of sun on those lucky tops. And all of this contrasted with the foreboding glade, the dark tangle of firs and birch and oak.

The cool thing about this trip is we stayed the same amount of time we would've at a Hocking Hills cabin but without the amenities of hottub and television and comfortable bed. But so far so great! The highlight and inspiration of Hocking, like Camp Creek, are the hikes down the long lanes past lawns and forest and mountains.

Felt strange to be completely disconnected. No cellphone service, no wi/fi. But probably good for the soul. Am now reading some of Shelby Foote's Civil War trilogy because it fits the scene: old-fashioned, epic, 19th century living (but for this ipad…).

I feel quasi-nostalgical already on this trip. The campfires. The smell - so fresh, so leaf pungent. The walks. The thrill of being outside at twilight turning into night. The flushless, walkless bathrooms (at least for number 1). The creek, the trees, the rocks. The sight of trees seemingly growing out of rock. The lichened stones. Maybe even the black snakes. Seems like we're just hitting our rhythm and it's time to go home. But better to leave wanting more than leave wishing for less.

But as Steph said, “this is medicinal.”

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Took me a West Virginny bath! Just headed on down to the clear, rushing stream, soaped up my face, hair and underarms and rinsed in the refreshingly cool water. While lot quicker than bath house trip.

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I wonder if anybody just walks gold courses, to admire their beauty?

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Too cool: I hear what sounds like coyotes or wolves howling in the distaff distance.

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I randomly came across this from this year's Old Farmer's Almanac and it pretty accurately describes what we're unwittingly doing:

Without a doubt, a walk in the woods lifts our spirits and makes us feel good. In Japan, this has developed into a new form of therapy and preventative medicine known as shinrin-yoku, or “forest bathing,” which involves taking a stroll among the trees, breathing it all in.

A woodland walk affects all of our senses…and our health. Even a short walk in the forest will lower blood pressure and pulse rate, decrease fatigue and tension, increase the number of anticancer proteins, and encourage the growth of disease-fighting white blood cells. Some of these effects occur after we inhale chemical compounds from plants, fungi, and bacteria. These include phytoncides, which trees and other plants emit to protect themselves against insect attacks and rotting.

So, like drinking, I'm camping for medicinal purposes. Ha.

Sleep this second night was plentiful if compromised by the deep chill and inadequate blankets. I put on a T-shirt and a sweatshirt both, but the air was so cold I developed a cough and wondered if I was getting a cold. But then I thought to pull part of the blanket over my face and thus breathing warm air was able to get back to sleep and not feel like coughing.

I sipped precious java in front of a campfire until eating a by-then-cold but still good sausage/egg/cheese biscuit. Sudden upon us it was 10am, and I knew Steph wanted to pack up and head home but I asked for a 10 minute hike. Turned out to be closer to twenty because the scenery was so life-giving. A mere shaft of light could transport me, offer a moment of transcendence. The song “Wolverton Mountain” came to mind, as did the writings of John Muir.

But like all mountaintop experiences, this time literally a mountain top experience, I had to come back to earth. And so we toiled from to pack up everything with Steph-ian meticulousness. Then the drive back, begun at 11:30 and ended just before 4.  A fine way to end the summer!

Sympathy for the Occupiers

Wired for Complaint

There is the smell of leftwing extremism in the Occupy Wall Street crowd, or perhaps that's just the result of a lack of bathing facilities. (And just where are they going to bathroom?) Sometimes I sense that they are merely picketing reality, that they are upset over a fallen world. And who can blame them for that? For in a fallen world you would see a divergence between jobs tailored to humans and humans tailored to jobs. In other words, in a fallen world it seems you have to go where the jobs are and wrench yourself into a very imperfect fit, rather than having the jobs come to you, designed for your temperament and skill set.

In a mature post-industrial economy, it seems work comes mostly in the form of low-paying service-oriented jobs or decent-paying white collar jobs. It's blatantly unfair that there aren't many jobs for the high-school graduate blue collar worker. In a healthy job market you'd hope for jobs for those with both brain and brawn. But then the whole history of mankind seems to be a series of adjustments to the job environment, rather than the job environment modifying itself for man.

Over the hundreds of thousands of years of the hunter/gatherers, we evolved towards a lot of exercise (running after prey) without undue mental strain in the form of mundane office work. Today we have the opposite - little need for exercise and a general favoritism for mental activity over brawn. The difficult transition to agricultural system left many at a loss; think about how devastating it was for American Indians to go from semi-nomadic tribes to an agricultural, reservation-based lifestyle.

I think there are a couple assumptions that are implicit, a sort of "social contract" (rightly or wrongly) with and by the American people. One is that if we are going to have the largest military in the world, then we want our money's worth: we expect to be safe. To the extent we are not, we will retaliate and retaliate to the max. (Hence two endless wars.) Second, the bargain with capitalism is that we go with it if we have nearly full employment. When we don't, as in the 1930s, there were fears that we would become Communist - which supposedly was the rationale behind some of FDR's moves. "I have to move left," he seemed to say, "to prevent us from going all the way left."

Herman Cain said that the protesters should be occupying D.C. rather than Wall Street and there's some truth to that although I can certainly understand the fury at Wall Street. The investment banks are treated with kid gloves since like it or not they seem to be the oil of the overall economy. They are the gate-keepers of capital and loans, the engines of capitalism. And Wall Street did have a big role in the financial collapse, by making huge uncoverable bets that the housing market would never fall. Charles Krauthammer calls Wall Street a scapegoat, but some scapegoats do give off the whiff of rightful blame.

Linkable

Want to get these links in my archives:   Darwin on the rural ideal versus the suburban compromise and Betty Duffy's response.   The rural ideal seems less and less appealing to me unless the farm is right by a church.  It feels like I've spent my life commuting and I'd druther not spend my golden years doing that with daily mass, if I had my druthers.