"CAMPING" AND APOLOGIES FOR THE SPRUCE

To my dear blog followers who grow more and more incensed by each click that brings them to the all familiar, "world's largest spruce tree", I offer my sincerest apologies. I'd like to say that leaving that post up for the last few months was my clever way to emphasize just how long that tree has been growing on this planet, but alas, that thought just occurred to me.  Life has taken this writer/photographer down some interesting rabbit holes these past few months, and the epiphanies look like maturity and a new relationship with money (if the epiphanies hold). While the hiatus was lengthly, know that the key points of what transpired in that time will be discussed in future blog posts or an ebook. For now though, here is a post I began two months ago.

If you look closely at the picture above you will find that one party is actually camping, while the other has chosen to bring an air-conditioned house with them to the ocean. It's funny that both these activities are refered to as "camping". Marketing geniuses have expanded the definitions of words so we feel good about activities that might be bad for the earth or ourselves (another good example is "diet soda"). Surely everyone believes that "camping" is a good thing. Yes, tent camping is a good thing: it allows people to get outside and slow things down, to reconnect with nature. It is a spiritually positive event. RV camping involves expending tremendous resources to get that box from point A to point B. The carbon footprint is huge and chances are, the endless barrels of oil needed to move those things around aren't all coming from enlightened democratic countries. Whether people acknowledge it or not, these factors weigh on them. It's also hard to be rejuvenated by nature when you spend your time inside an air conditioned box watching TV. That's what the people shown above were doing when I snapped this picture. It was a sunny 70 degrees on this cliff overlooking the Pacific, and they were inside watching JAG reruns. I was in the tent next door trying to read Siddhartha, and the crashing waves were not quite loud enough to drown out their generator noise. My fragile zen calm quickly gave way to anger.    

WORLD'S LARGEST SPRUCE TREE

On the shores of Lake Quinault in western Washington sits the world's largest spruce tree. Julie and I, with the aid of several unconventional measuring tools, were in fact able to confirm its dimensions (though for the life of me I could only locate 921 AFA points). I suppose anything will grow well with the aid of twelve feet of annual rainfall. It occurred to me during our visit that planting the world's smallest spruce sapling next to this monster would offer a nice juxtaposition. If you squint , you might be able to make it out next to Julie's right foot.

ARTIST JEAN LEON GEROME

This is one other artist from the Legions of Honor that I took a shine to. Gerome was a 19th century French painter who specialized in Orientalism. His paintings seem to offer a level of social criticism as well (see unhappy white woman bathed by native). The amount of detail on the canvas was impressive as well as the three-diamensionality of the piece. You could almost taste the bathroom mold.

LEGIONS OF HONOR: FLEMISH SURREALISM

I've never been a fan of your average, run of the mill art museums. When I was younger I wasn't able to express just what it was about the vast majority of art that didn't sit well with me. As I got older and dug a little deeper into the absurdity that is the art world I understood what I hated: most art museums are just tools that rich people use to prop up their art investments. Real art, art painted with passion and blood, is rarely is seen in public galleries. Of course there are exceptions, artists like Van Gogh, who became known in spite of collectors, but most of the time I leave galleries feeling uninspired. Most of the art hanging in the Legions of Honor in San Francisco was lackluster, but the Flemish painters of the 1500s were something special. I could stare at these paintings all day. I'm still trying to figure out just what's behind Jesus' expression in the last picture. The best I could come up with: "Really, I'm dying for these assholes sins?" I also love how all the artists above use soulless anxiety-ridden eyes to capture the evil that is the mass of men. They are hauntingly beautiful, unique, and worth the price of admission (we used our college IDs).  

FRANK LLOYD WRIGHT'S MARIN COUNTY CIVIC CENTER

The Marin County Civic Center in San Rafael, California was Frank Lloyd Wright's last commission before his death at age 92. It occurred to me while walking around it the other day just how fine the line is between genius and crap. The building's materials would be a gaudy Vegas hotel in lesser hands, the same way any Kubrick film is a breath away from being an unwatchable disaster. Originally Wright picked gold for the color of the roof, but it was determined after his death that the color wouldn't hold up to the California sun. His widow Olgivanna chose blue instead, a nice choice that I dare say improved the design. Even at the end of his career, Wright was still a controversial choice as architect and was continually challenged by unhappy board members. Now the building is a proposed UNESCO world heritage site.  

HOUSES FLOATING IN SAUSALITO

It really doesn't get any better than literally living on the water. Not only is it relaxing and aesthetically beautiful, it also prepares you for the worst case scenario of global warming, or if you're a bit more paranoid, end of times flooding. Granted, a floating home is no arc, but you would be surprised how much propane and spaghettiOs you could tuck away in one. Monthly slip fees to moor your house in the ideal California climate of Sausalito start at $1500.00 a month, and the smallest houses (around 600 square feet) sell for around half a million bucks. Considering those prices, I really felt that the wildlife in the area were freeloaders. If seals want to lie on these folks docks all day, they should pay them something, even if it's just some regurgitated fish.

BACKPACKING TO THE BOTTOM OF THE GRAND CANYON

Here's a good recipe for walking like a geriatric for a week: Hike 7 miles down into the Grand Canyon with a backpack full of stuff, sleep, then hike 7 miles out the next morning. The North Kaibab trail decends 4255 feet from the north rim visitor center in a series of never-ending switchbacks that eventually lead to the Cottonwood Campground. Once at the bottom, hikers are met by a wall of heat with temperatures hovering right around 100 degrees. We found respite in the nearby Bright Angel Creek that ran fresh snow-melt from the nearby mountains. The irony of a creek in the scorching desert that was uncomfortably cold to swim in was not lost on me. The bottom of the canyon is a lonely place, and spending time there you can't help but feel like an unwelcome guest.  The campsite had only 11 spots that are booked years in advance by swarms of bucket-list wielding 50 somethings. We lucked out and got a last minute cancellation pass even without a detailed life wish list. All in all we packed well for a spontaneous backpacking expedition. Julie did however carry a large cucumber down and back up that we never even considered eating.