On hangovers, stolen thunder, and air raids.

I woke up this morning on the most comfortable and familiar couch. This is the couch that would catch me as a I came home from 14 hour days on campus and after those endless hiring committees as the HRM. This is the couch on which I fell asleep reading by the fire for the past couple winters, and it was more or less exactly where I had left it... in Davis. I woke up in the most familiar of surroundings, my favorite couch, pool table, hearth... all the walls were right where I left them too, but something was odd. There was stuff everywhere, and when I left this place it was all but empty... wait... I don't live here! What am I doing h... ugh, maybe splitting two bottles of wine was a bad idea.

So this morning I made it back to my car, drove home and after taking a well deserved shower, I sat down to pick out stuff from the DNC that was impressive, and to find out who McCain was touting around as his new VeeP so he could try to steal Obama's thunder.

Then the church bells go off. I live right next to the Sacred Heart parish here in Sac, and the bells are usually background noise, but today they rang out, pounding out the hour loud and clear, eleven chimes. And then, like it was part of the clockwork, the air raid sirens came.

Yes. Air Raid sirens. Something I haven't heard since high school and consistently forgot about until they wailed again, the last Friday of every month precisely at 11:00.

I thought I was wincing, but I discovered it wasn't genuine until I started reading about McCain's new friend, Ms. Palin. The NY times, LA times, the Chronicle, Washington Post... even the BBC, she's right on top, and Obama and one of the better speeches he's given, is hidden in the news. 

Of course, this was completely planned, and it should be expected, but considering what I wrote about last time, I think it's a serious problem. Politically intelligent, if not wise. Then again why would I expect wisdom from an "experienced" elder statesman?

I'm enjoying the irony of late as it plays out on me personally. Over the past couple of weeks, whenever I'd speak with someone, they'd say: "Hey, did you see the olympics? Man that was awesome!" to which I'd respond "Who, that swimmer kid?  Has he won all the medals yet?" This past week, I'd be super charged about the convention, listening on the radio to the speeches given, wowing at how Bill Clinton could frame the issues of the election so completely and turn them around on the Republicans. Grinning as Joe Biden, painted by all as credible in foreign policy where Obama might not be, turns around and rips into McCain for being an idiot. Or saddened at the fact that we hadn't had John Kerry or Al Gore in the white house these past few years. 

This seemed to be a blood-sport more entertaining than any athletic competition, and those same people who were so excited about Beijing would respond; "DNC? what's that?"

A Nation of Whiners.

A little over a month ago, one of McCain's advisors got in trouble for calling America a "nation of whiners." Granted it seems that the economists that work for McCain don't actually know anything, this fellow may have been right, but for the wrong reasons.

It seems there are plenty of Americans who are spoiled, sore losers with no concept of politics, or the consequences of their actions. I'm speaking of a small subset of the democratic party, adorably labeled as Hillaryland. I'm not speaking about Senator Clinton, or her staff, to which the name referred some time ago, but rather her disillusioned (and deluded) supporters who will not let go, will not concede that they lost and that there is no second place in American Politics. This statement goes for presidential primaries as well as general elections, and that is why they need to suck it up;  electing a democrat is more important than any individual agenda. 

Last night was the first time I wasn't put off by Senator Clinton in a while. She said all the right things.

Most importantly: "We are on the same team, and none of us can afford to sit on the sidelines. This is a fight for the future, and it's a fight we must win together."

However there are plenty of people out there who seem to disagree and it kills me that people think like that. I don't know how many of those "die-hard" Hillary supporters even know what her political positions (vs. McCain's ) are but saying they're going to vote for McCain instead of Obama? Why? Because they're hurt she didn't win? Because of all the hard work and effort and emotional toil they went through that didn't pan out? I'm sorry, that's the nature of political campaigns; if your candidate loses, the staff closes up shop and goes home to lick their wounds. When the general election comes around I hope these people figure it out. A future as a nation of whiners looks rather dangerous, xenophobic and bleak.

God bless Jesusland, land that I love....

My favorite belligerent Wookiee brought up his grievances that our politics were being hijacked by protestant evangelicalism, or faith on broader terms. This has been one of my biggest grievances with politics since I gained political consciousness, and I've always pointed fingers at the Right. Now the party that is supposed to represent the secular "wing" of our government, the party that wouldn't throw its weight around pretending it's leading a theocracy, is having an Interfaith Gathering at its national convention. I'm going to try to play devil's advocate to Dennis who blew his top at this, pointing fingers at being stabbed in the back by a party he follows. 

Though I believe he's in the right, he's just another one of those rude atheists.

America is so much bigger than any of us in California can really conceptualize. What's worse, it seems those of us that live on the coasts and trumpet ourselves as free thinkers and rail against those in the interior of our country for being ignorant fools are in the minority. This is evident in the fact that the political direction in this country is alway pulled towards the center. Politicians know those on the left who believe in a secular government are going to vote democratic because if they withdraw their support, they secure victory for those on the right, those who draw their secure support from fundamentalists. 

It seems that those of us who sit on the left place value in things like critical thinking and science and uppity progressive ideas like universal individual liberties, regardless of our personal beliefs. Those on the right have long drawn on the values of their personal beliefs, which in turn means their representatives must share those beliefs. They're not going to vote for someone who doesn't wear their God openly on his shoulder, like the goddamn flag pin on his lapel.

Here's the problem: this political spectrum of left to right has been terribly redshifted. The majority of Americans fit more on the right than they do the left. The center is more likely to vote with their bible, because for many, it is the tool by which they think (That's another post altogether). Inviting the culture war that sits bubbling underneath the surface will do nothing for the Democratic party. If you associate them with pragmatism and critical thinking, you can only applaud them that they've adopted a very old strategy: If you can't beat 'em join 'em.

That culture war is lost if we try to fight it right now. If asked to describe an American, an outsider would draw you a picture of a white man with a ten gallon hat on his head, a cross around his neck, a gun at his hip and a Mcdonald's hamburger in his hand. That's how we arugula-munching elitists look at our country standing on the fringes looking in. How much worse does it look from afar when the man sent to represent us looks no different? This is the current brand of American that the rest of the world sees and we need time to change it.

I can say Religion has hijacked my political spectrum. I can also say politics hijacked my religion and turned it into a tool. There's a tool for every job. When that job is forwarding a conservative agenda, using it to mask the huge sums of money that are being made by political insiders and defense contractors, that tool may even end up putting his feet up on the Resolute Desk. 

What happens when one president isn't the moral champion, pitted against the godless ones' candidate? What happens when the idea of voting based on religion is negated by what seems to be over-saturation of the issue? Will other issues come to the fore and actually decide the election? What happens when bible thumpers back a progressive president, based not on who has "greater character," but who will solve the problems that last guy created? 

You tell me.

That's Rich.

So, I had a conversation with my neighbors a couple of days ago about the Saddleback Deal where both candidates fought for the vote of the faithful by answering questions in identical interviews with a reverend, in a church. Now, I didn't watch it as I don't think it's appropriate to have something equivalent to a national forum for both campaigns to be held in a church, but I was alerted to that fact the Sen. McCain ephed up when asked to define 'Rich.' After a bunch of bull about defining the term with happiness and comfort, he flippantly defined an annual income for the rich as: "How about 5 million." Then laughed that his comment might get distorted. My question is how?

I'm sorry, that's not funny.

Funny thing is, he screwed up again. Talking about mortgages and the economy, someone had the balls to ask the man how many houses he owned, and HE COULDN'T RECALL.

This of course is in contrast to Obama's answer to the same question:

I've been reading a lot of commentary that the Obama campaign needed to go on the offensive and run a few attack ads, as McCain is, and in doing so, is in control of Obama's image.

The idea that Democrats attack issues while Republicans attack character is absurd, though it may be true. I'm just happy to see something out there that finally pushes back after all the flak flying around about Mr. Obama:

Languid, Listless and Languorous...

... are generally pleasant adjectives when coupled with idleness on a hot summer's day. Except when you're unemployed, as I am... in an upstairs apartment with no air conditioning.

I spent six consecutive hours at my computer today; searching the education and non-profit sections of cragislist and other job boards for employment opportunities and doctoring my resumé for each job. I wrote a five page response to questions regarding a part time position as a band director at Jesuit High School in Sacramento only to find that the position had been filled two weeks previous. I even applied to a few jobs in food service; I'm looking for anything that can hold me 'til I can prove I have a degree and can apply for my substitute teaching credential.

Ironically, the last time I can remember sitting at my computer for so long was when I should have been busier than all hell. I had two jobs, was taking classes at UCD and had a girlfriend. On this particular instance we spent a Saturday afternoon playing World of Warcraft together, a very long Saturday afternoon. Don't ever let a girl pull you off your wagon, it ends poorly. I'm very glad I cancelled my account (for the second time), typed "Warcraft" into spotlight and hit delete. It freed up about 17 gigs of space on my computer. I still play games (c'mon, I'm a guy), but right now they're limited to the SNES and Sega Genesis in my living room. My computer is for work. Well, right now it's for finding work.

I started my day reorganizing my library; that is, moving it from boxes into a bookshelf. In consolidating all my books into one place, I found many that I should read again. There a quite a few people I've met that can't re-read books, and I don't understand why. There's the story -it's the same story every time- but there's also the way it's told; the words the author chooses, the imagery and how it's visualized in my brain build a different experience every time. I've read Tolkein's works (at least those related to the war of the ring) at least five times and I find something new each time I read them.

Halfway through my day, a few liters of water later, I noticed how chronically dehydrated I was in Davis. Sacramento tap water is wonderful. It's delicious and tastes like... water. It's the water that I grew up drinking. There's something about it that makes it taste better than standard bottled water, and leagues ahead of the hardest water on earth, that which springs from the aquifers under Davis. Coupled with the exercise regime I've been forcing myself to follow (I have the time, so why not?) I may just end up giving up soda. Well, if I can get a handle on my caffeine addiction.

The backdrop for my afternoon of job searching was The Show with Ze Frank. Yes, I know it's two years old, but I started from the beginning again anyways. I can actually draw the comparison to rereading those old books, as I found some of it funnier this time around. For example, in this episode he draws parallels between Argentina and the U.S. and this time 'round I understand that he means our government is a few steps away from tossing people out of planes.

Once I'd had my fill of reminding myself I was unemployed, I headed over to Davis for dinner with Sus and Dave. I hadn't seen the good doctor in weeks and it was good to sit around sipping Gin and playing some Ken Griffey Jr. Presents... on his SNES, me playing the Dodgers of course to make sure they lose.

I think it's finally cool enough to go for a run around McKinley park. The best part of my lifestyle? I don't have to wake up until I want to. Too bad I'll still be getting up at 8:00 to sit back down and churn out more applications.

Fallout.

The following isn't my writing, but taken from a story written in 1997. It's the standard setup for any story taking place in a post-nuclear-holocaust frame, but it resonates a bit more. When reading Cormac McCarthy's The Road I was left without any back story, the author forcing me to focus only on the present. My brain filled in the details with this backdrop.

War.

War never changes.

The Romans waged war to gather slaves and wealth. Spain built an empire from its lust for gold and territory. Hitler shaped a battered Germany into an economic superpower.

But war never changes.....

In the 21st Century war was still waged over the resources that could be acquired. Only this time, the spoils of war were also its weapons: Petroleum and Uranium.

For these resources China would invade Alaska. The U.S. would annex Canada. And the European Commonwealth would dissolve into quarreling, bickering, nation states bent on controlling the last remaining resources on Earth.

The end of the world occurred pretty much as we had predicted: too many humans, not enough space or resources to go around. The details are trivial and pointless, the reasons, as always, purely human ones.

In 2077, the earth was nearly wiped clean of human life; A great cleansing, an atomic spark struck by human hands, quickly raged out of control.

Spears of nuclear fire rained from the skies. Continents were swallowed in flames and fell beneath the boiling oceans. Humanity was almost extinguished, their spirits becoming part of the background radiation that blanketed the earth.

A quiet darkness fell across the planet, lasting many years...

The author recognizes both the Marxist concept of the economic nature of warfare throughout history and the Maoist idea where militarism and capitalism are leading humanity.  Does this portend our future or is it just an awesome narrative?

Smokey knows his shit.

At 2:30 this afternoon my father, Mike and I collapsed into a booth in the Jimboy's in Placerville and ravenously fell upon our food without saying much to each other. We were covered in dust, mud, ash and soot, washing my hands hadn't seemed to make a difference. The evening previous, Mike and I had set our alarms for 4:30, expecting to get up before the sun (and most everyone else at camp) and get ready to lead about 120 people in the elaborate, maddening exercise that is putting away camp.

 We had spent the majority of the last evening of camp working while all the families came up to watch their kids get awards at a very long campfire. We did an inventory of our gear and then prepped Silvius lodge for the cleanup on Sunday. Wearing large dust masks we reorganized the loft, and the main area of the lodge, sweeping it out and clearing it of everything that didn't belong. On Sunday,  every thing that makes camp camp is packed up and put away into three lodges, each not much larger than an old one room schoolhouse. We're put in charge of Silvius because Mike and I are a little anal retentive and we've done exemplary jobs in packing it before. It's like the biggest game of tetris ever, as everything that needs to be packed in is orthogonal and when everything is planned out, it all fits together like a giant jigsaw puzzle. We have to get up earlier than everyone else and get a jump on it though, or we cause a hang-up and slow down the progress of the cleanup.

About 6 hours after we woke up, the lodges were packed completely, locked up and camp was concluded. Everyone headed out except a few of us who chose to stay behind as to not eat the dust of a train of 100 people, or fight the traffic with everyone trying to turn left onto Hwy 50. The Junior Camp director, his immediate predecessor, my dad, his program director, the scoutmaster, myself and Mike were standing around idly for a while, when I said "Why are we just standing here?" and turned around to retrieve my pack. Mike and I were headed down past the lake from the lodges when we saw a plume of smoke rising from the a campsite on some flats just above the volleyball court. Expletives came streaming out of our mouths along with shouts of "FIRE!" as we sprinted up the hill. 

I don't think I've ever ran so hard in my life.

Now, here's a look into the brain of a couple of college educated eagle scouts: 

We've just locked everything away in the lodges; all our fire equipment, hoses, pumps, shovels, rakes and implements of destruction. We have no tools, no containers to carry water on hand, no means at all to fight a forest fire. What do we do? We run TOWARDS it. 

Smart guys, real smart. We were so focused on getting to the fire that Mike even got tangled up in a manzanita thicket on his way up the hill. I had pulled off a nylon/acryllic sweater and I  had thought to use it as a tool to beat out some flames, as that was all I had. 

We were lucky, the fire was small enough that we could stomp out the flames and throw some dirt on it to keep from spreading. Upon further investigation, we found the the fire had travelled through the root system of a manzanita bush. When we dug into the soil it was scalding to the touch, some of it was even ash. We pulled out charred roots and cut lines around the torched brush to contain the embers. Others carried nalgenes and camelback bladders to and from the lake filled with water to douse what remained so it didn't spread. We kept digging  in the hot mud with our hands and someone's tiny spade to find an extensive scorched root system - this fire had been smoldering underground for hours, from either early in the morning or the night before. We found no butts but were pretty sure that it was started by a smoker, who, even if he took his butts with him, left ash enough to start a fire.

When we were finally satisfied that the fire was out, we called in the forest service to double check and make sure it wasn't going to start up again and then walked out of camp in a mildly catatonic stupor. Now I'm home and can't really sit still, wound up about the idea of what could have happened if we had left with everyone else.

We had driven...

I was once told that nostalgia is like a grammar lesson: one finds the present tense, but the past perfect. Today I found myself living an adventure that seemed all too familiar.

Back in high school, my life was rather boring. I read alot, I did my homework, I spent my weekends with my girlfriend (she lived a busy life in another city, far enough away that we only saw each other when we had nothing else to do), I schemed with, played or fought with my little brother and hung out with Mike. I had other friends, but I'd known Mikey the longest. He lived down my street a ways and around the corner. We had the same friends, carpooled to the same high school, were part of the same scout troop... I'd go on but it gets rather sickening. My parents both hold him up as their favorite son - and of course he would be. For the price of a meal (he had free reign of our fridge) he'd show up and cart me off and out of their hair.

The key to all this was my truck. In high school I drove my father's 1971 Chevy C10 long bed. It was red with a white cab top, and Mike in his infinitely strange system for naming things thought it appropriate to name this truck "Truck." Sometimes, I think he'd come by not to hang out with me, but with it. As I said, we were boring, so we had to make our own fun. With an old Chevy engine we had our fill.

The quintessential memory of this was during my junior year after our 'Red and Blue Scrimmage,' the showcase for all of our fall sports teams at Brothers. The football team would play itself and the cross country team would run a very boring 5k around the entirety of the school... a couple of times. Other teams did stuff, but I had developed tunnel vision to keep from going insane. After the race was over, I walked out to my truck and couldn't get it to start. It was still early in the morning and it was cold, I had tried to choke it with the accelerator, but ended up flooding it. I called Mike up, and woke him with the words "Dude, Truck's being a bitch." He came out to school and said a few hellos to the varsity football team, which by this time had finished the game and was clacking across the parking lot in their cleats. We had to open up the carburetor and rev the engine to get some air in and it took two hands in the engine and someone inside with a foot on the accelerator. Not a rough fix, but it was better to have him there. After this, he rechristened Truck to Bitch and we headed off with our oh-so-refined palates to the Taco Bell down MLK boulevard so I could buy him breakfast.

When the vehicle worked, we'd load up the bed with junk and head out to the dump. Sacramento county has a landfill at Kiefer blvd and Grant Line road, and with the bed full of crap (the kind hoarded by our mothers) we'd tune the AM radio to one of its only two stations that played music (country), roll down the windows, and drive 65 mph down Hwy 16 to pass the afternoon. The most memorable trip comes to mind with Mike sweeping out the bed after we'd tossed everything saying: "Wouldn't it be fitting if this thing wouldn't start and we had to leave it here?" Of course to spite him, when he got in the damned thing gave him hell; the starter clicking and straining, insolent and hurt at such allegations that it belonged with the hideous antiques we had just junked. We got out in one piece -without burning out the starter- and headed back to town singing along to Alabama's If you're gonna play in Texas.

My dad sold the truck while I was in Germany, between my Senior and Freshman years, and began his trooper fetish. In the past 6 years he's gone through an equal number of troopers. A 1986 Red (engine subsequently scrapped for the blue one)  a 1989 Red (my current ride),  a 1986 Blue (restored and sold, then wrecked two weeks later), an '87 Silver (blew it's engine), a '91 White (totaled) and his shiny, "new" 1996 green one. Me dad was a mechanic for the Air Force and hasn't quite gotten it out of his system. It was easy to learn the new engines (mine is actually a Chevy engine) but it wasn't quite the same as the lumbering, 10 mpg V8. 

Never content with only one engine to play with, my dad recently went out and found a junker of a yellow 1979 Chevy Custom Deluxe and restored it. I'd never driven it before tonight; it's his baby. Tonight however, Petey cooked up a meal for us all, invited our father over (he brought the beer), and we dragged Mike in as he got home from work (Maria's in Denver for the week). After dinner, he took my trooper home and Mike and I headed off to Davis with the truck to move our desks.

It was like nothing had changed over the past 6 years. We hit the freeway, rolled down the windows and turned up the only station we could tune in, it was country of course.

Dynamic Camerawork

Tuesday, 8.5.2008

WARNING: Do not watch if you suffer from motion sickness, vertigo, are pregnant or nursing or dislike uncomfortable closeups. I swear I'll get the hang of that camera one day.

This is our rock. I sit at the top and Mike's at the bottom. He's the champion of the Safety Dance and I'm the maestro belayer. Most of the campers know me as the guy who sits up on the rock and screams "Belay on!" "Climb on!" or "ROPE!" all day.

The reason I can say that this is the safest climbing program (possibly ever) is almost completely due to Mike's hard work. Where any serious climber not affiliated with the BSA could look at us and write us off as a bunch of neurotic, paranoid, chumps who don't know the strength and security of our equipment, Mike takes every measure to meet the standards of the BSA with unwavering attention to detail. We have a four inch thick binder with records of all our equipment, its purchase dates, receipts and individual uses as well as a novel's worth of pages relating how our program meets each one of the hundreds of mandatory standards the program requires for it to be certified and not shut down. 

The camp as a whole is inspected every year, but the climbing program gets its own inspector. Each year we're told something different and no one is on the same page back at the council or regional level. This year they had a problem with our bolts. Each climb has three bolts to anchor it to the rock. In the past there have only been two, but when we couldn't verify their date of installation, we drilled in a third, which we could document. Previously we were told this was ok, but this year it wasn't. We were instructed to sling natural anchors (giant boulders) instead because it wasn't safe. Nevermind that climbing societies in the Alps have been climbing on the same bolts for the past 90 years, because we couldn't verify the date of the installation of these bolts besides "mid-nineties," installed by people who ran the climbing program at camp before there were hoops to jump through, we couldn't use them.

Thankfully institutional knowledge at this camp runs deep; people flock to this place like swallows and we were able to track down who put the bolts in and get a date. After the inspectors left, of course.

A three year old photo album of our program is available here

Home.

Friday, 8.1.2008

When I returned to my house in Davis, I didn’t receive the overwhelming feeling of relief I had expected upon returning home. Davis had been my home for the last six years, but upon setting down my suitcase and flopping onto the couch, something was missing. Generally I define home as where my bed is. I grew up in Sacramento, but it hasn’t been my home since I moved out and my mom started using my room for storage. When I got to back from Buenos Aires, my bed was missing. My brother had moved it, and had been sleeping on it for the past month. My room was missing all furniture that didn’t require the bed of a truck to move, which was everything but my desk. My clothes were gone, either packed in my suitcase or moved by my brother and Mike, my house-mate (now neighbor) while I was away. Enough had changed that this wasn’t the place I had left, and it was no longer my home. Our apartment in Sacramento was no different.

My brother had been living in our apartment since the beginning of July, while I was away. I walked in the door and I had to question his standard of living. The living room furniture consisted of a television, two chairs (one a desk chair) and the top half of our grandfather’s recliner, on which Peter sat crossed legged doing his homework at an old coffee table. My room was filled with boxes and a few bits of furniture piled in the middle of the room, mattress and box spring stacked against the wall. My brother’s room was austere, lacking any furniture besides his bed. I came back out to the living room and asked him how he had been living all this time, if he even had dishes, how he could eat.
He replied: “Yeah, I’ve got dishes… well, dish. I had two but broke one…” I threw my palm up to my forehead and dragged my hand down over my face. I spent the last week furnishing the apartment, dragging things one load of my Trooper at a time, each day heading back to Davis and bringing one more piece to turn the place into a home. A dining room table, a coffee table that’s more than six inches from the ground, chairs, a media stand, stereo, dishes, cookware, spices. The place is looking more and more like someone lives there.

I have had to take a ten-day vacation from being a homemaker, however, as Mike and I are back in the Sierra honoring our annual commitment to our old scout camp, Camp Cody. This is our fifth year together running their climbing program; something no one else is qualified to do, so it guarantees us a spot at camp every year. This place is absolutely amazing, not just for the natural beauty that inspires reverence in anyone introduced to the area, but for the people who volunteer their time and allow the camp to exist for two weeks every year. The majority of the adult staff is made up of men whose boys once attended camp, but have now long graduated and moved on and away. Something special keeps these people coming back, and many are staples of the camp. Most of the adults were staff here when I was an eleven year old scout, caked in dirt and whistling idly by the campfire. I can’t really imagine this camp without them. From George Morrow, the septuagenarian cook who has returned every year to camp since before world war two, to Bob Hearst, the aged story teller and keeper of “Cody lore,” who introduced me to the constellations for the first time. I still can’t look at a summer’s night sky without envisioning it from the dock on the lake here at Cody. There’s Gene Domek, my cub scout den leader, role model, mentor and assistant scout master; this is the man who convinced me that I should run cross country in high school and has consistently pushed me to become an educator. There’s Jon Brozek, my old scoutmaster and four-time companion up to Pyramid Peak and John Allen Cann, the camp’s poet laureate, and finally, of the men who stand out, there’s the senior camp director, my father. When I was a scout, my dad was invited to camp to be a geology merit badge counselor. I graduated, moved on to college and my little brother had to deal with him all on his own. A year before Peter’s last year of camp my dad volunteered to go to National Camp School (or rather, camp camp) to become certified as our camp director. Maybe it’s because he’s a glutton for pain and project management (two things I consider synonymous) or maybe it’s just because he’s loud and can get people to listen to him, but he loves it and continues to be active in the camp long after both my brother and I have moved on from scouting.

Preparing for camp was an exhausting and stressful experience for both Mike and myself, and the closer camp gets, the less we look forward to it; that is, until we actually hit the road and head up here. We pulled off highway 50 at mile tract 42 and rolled down the windows. We could smell it. The pine and cedar, the clean mountain air, the traces of woodsmoke, they all roll together and the smells caused a flood of memories and smiles to cross our faces. We had left Sacramento at 6:30 or so, reached camp closer to 8:30 and hiked the three quarters of a mile from the parking lot to camp (Cody’s a backwoods camp, it’s not connected to any exterior plumbing or power grid, all the food, propane, sailboats, gear, everything needed by the camp and campers is hiked in down this 3/4 mile long trail). We found our tent, dropped our gear and joined the folks around the fire. After saying my hellos, I broke away from the group and walked out onto the dock. The sun had set, it was 9:30 or so, and the sky was full of stars. I don’t know if I can convey the sky at Cody, but I’ll try. We’re at 7,250 feet to start, no lights for miles, the closest being the light dome at south Lake Tahoe. The air is clear and calm, and this week there’s no moon. The darkness is total, but flashlights aren’t necessary because the stars envelope you completely.

Standing on the dock, focused on Polaris, just north east of Pyramid Peak, I just stood and stared. I let my eyes drift in and out of focus and the constellations seemed to draw a circle around the north star. I don’t know how many people understand why our galaxy is called the Milky Way, but here it’s obvious, there’s a band of stars running across the sky, so thick that they’re almost indistinguishable from each other. Other old friends that I haven’t seen in a year rose as the sun set; Cassiopea, and Cepheus, Delphinis, Boötes, Aquila, all constellations that can’t be seen from the valley floor. I sat there with the soft blue light slowly fading in the west, listening to the water of the lake lap at the shores and I smiled, sighing with relief.

It was good to be home.