Amelia Earhart Peak over Ireland Lake

09/09/2011
My sister, Celerina, and I enjoyed lunch from this vista earlier this year. Ireland Lake is off trail in a relatively obscure part of Yosemite. Lunch consisted of an inch of Gallo Salami, 2 cheese sticks, a handful of plain M and M's and a liter of water. Oh, and one flour tortilla.

On a totally unrelated note, it was noted that one of my son's friends broke up with his girlfriend. "Why did they break up?" I asked, to which H, my youngest, replied, "Well, Dad. He simply said 'We're freshmen, so we both know this isn't going to last anymore than 6 weeks. So let's break up now and just get it over with.' "

The Geyser Grill

Signage in the Geyser Grill, a burger joint in West Yellowstone, Montana (our 14 year old son failed to see the humor).

Menu items in the restaurant included antelope burgers and elk chili. I ordered a bison burger and developed a hump in my upper back after eating it.

I spent the entire week saying "Yosemite" when I meant "Yellowstone." More to follow...

Innies and Outies

Skyblue Lake

Route to Crabtree Pass in background

Sierra Nevada

On this day, a boy I know ate an In-N-Out burger immediately after undergoing in and out surgery. I wish him many happy steps...

Of Snowmen Dreams and Stranger Things

The letters from the publishers came sooner than expected...first one, then another, then five or six replies on the same day. Regrettably, none of the publishers acknowledged my spark of genius. Some of their responses are printed here:

Dear Writer: Your obsession with your theme is troubling. Please do not write any more stories. Please do not write back to us. Ever. We are busy here.

You scare us.

Dear Sir: Although I chuckled when I read your cute little gags, that was all you composed... cute little gags. We cannot support our fine printing company by publishing cute little gags. Please find a different hobby. Have you considered scrapbooking?

You need help. Please find it. See the attached list of phone numbers for services in your area.

Dear Sir: Cease and desist. Please see the enclosed restraining order.

I need only quote Truman Capote: "Your writing isn't writing at all. It's typing." Please do not send us any more of your insipid, vacuous, egotistic chicken scratch. Shame on you.

Gentle Writer: The most enthralling and well-written part of your writing is the address you printed on the envelope. Please run away from writing and all writing-related endeavors. You will thank us later, as will your family and friends and your pets (if you have them).

I don't care about your writing or you, for that matter, though I suspect your grandiose temperament will misconstrue these words as complimentary.

Your writing gave me and my associates terrible headaches; we are still recovering. I even had to take sick time. HR is not happy.

Your writing isn't funny. I'm actually not sure what it is. I will use it to line my my parakeet cage.

If you must write, might I suggest keeping a journal? And please do not share the contents with anyone. It can be your own little secret journal, ok?

Where did I go wrong, I wondered. How had my brilliance unravelled? Here is my story:

Was it the meatloaf I had enjoyed for dinner? Or perhaps it was the McMillan and Wife reruns I had watched earlier. Whatever the reason, while sleeping that night, I found myself in a vivid, epic dream, the kind you have when recovering from a wisdom tooth extraction. I forget many details, but I know it involved Robitussin and elves (the short kind, not the Lord of the Rings kind). I awoke suddenly as a voice in the dream (it sounded like Burl Ives) said, "Manicotti? Again?" I sat up in the dark, bent 90 degrees at the waist. I was hyperventilating and sweaty, like the time I ate dinner with Loretta Falseto, a dimunitive Portuguese woman with precipitous breasts and a lint moustache.

I flicked on the nightstand light. I frantically pulled out the drawer, seeking my 3 x 5 cards which I kept in my nightstand for such occasions. The drawer crashed to the floor. I found the cards and began scribbling on each one. In my unrestrained excitement, some of the cards flew out of my hands like I was performing a Vegas card trick. My brain was ripe like a soft persimmon losing hold of its branch. I needed to record the images and words spinning around in my head before they were lost forever. Something about the dream had triggered a cascade of unexpected but most welcome brilliance. Eventually, without realizing how or when, I succumbed to sleep's embrace.

I awoke at 9 AM exhausted and headachey. For migraineurs like myself, disrupted sleep can be lethal, a sure migraine trigger (like going to Cirque de Soleil on a hot Saturday afternoon). I cracked my neck by moving it like Stevie Wonder does when he sings, and my spine made a sound like breakfast cereal. I stuck my thumb into my right eye and pushed hard. That always helps. Suddenly, though, the 3 by 5 cards caught my attention. They were scattered over my bedspread. I gathered them. Oh, yes, I remembered. The cards! I read each one...

S'mores

I scratched my head. S'mores? I closed my eyes and ventured into the fogginess of my recent dream. In a moment, all became clear, like finding Waldo. The snowmen! Picture several snowmen sitting around a campfire. They are smiling and telling campfire stories. One of the snowmen plays a guitar. They roast marshmallows over the fire. The marshmallow sticks, however, are about 30 feet long, thereby keeping the snowmen a safe distance from the fire's heat.

I laughed hard. I read the next card:

The NHA

The NHA? I tap the card against my forehead. No Helium Allowed? No, that's not it. National Hairdryer Association? That's it! The National Hairdryer Association. Imagine a snowman driving a pick-up truck. The snowman is wearing a hunter's plaid, wool jacket. His stick elbow is jutting out the window. There are several hairdryers on a rack on the back window. The bumper sticker on the rear bumper says: National Hairdryer Association. Support a snowman's right to bear hairdryers.

I was now giddy. My headache was nearly gone, thanks be to God. Another card stated:

Belly of the ship

I recalled this image immediately. A human man and a snowman are shoveling coal into a furnace on a ship. The furnace emits an orange glow. The snowman says to the human: "It's hot in here!"

From another:

barbecue

Ahh...A snowman sits on his front porch in a rocking chair. He is reading the newspaper. He has charcoal briquets lining his mid-section (his "buttons"). The humans next store are barbecuing. A man is walking away from the barbecue and says to his wife, "Don't worry, honey, I'll be right back with more coals." He is holding a blow torch. The snowman is peering over his newspaper. He looks worried.

And from other cards:

abdominal bloating

The jackel

Certs, Tic Tacs and Listerine

Don't peel the carrot

I'd like to buy a vowel

Metamucil

Igloo Repair

I stared long and hard at these cards. I was clueless. I left my bed, shaved my face smooth, showered, then ate two eggs over medium. I popped some bright orange Advil and drank some strong, black coffee, thereby chasing away the migraine remnants. The meaning of the few mystery cards remained elusive. Never mind, I thought. I typed up the gags and mailed them, along with the 3 by 5 cards, to hundreds of publishers. On each envelope I drew a picture of snowmen doing various human things, like drinking water, ironing and holding up "We're number one!" signs at ballgames.

This was my key to early retirement. My rewards would come soon enough. I only had to wait for the replies...

It's a commercial. Get some tea.

To my dedicated readers:

Let me reassure you that the apparent stall in my blog is a mere temporary issue. Life has been happening a little more robustly these days. This is a good thing, though it interferes with my words. I am working on a story about snowmen and another about a man who never eats his vegetables.

In the meantime let me leave you with a bit of wisdom:

There are two kinds of people in this world: those who think there are two kinds of people in the world, and those who do not.

Sincerely,

The Sierra Musing's Management team

The Triceps will Inherit the Earth

Simply Sublime

A guide to the lesser known photographs of Ansel Adams:

1) "Moonrise Over Marmot"

A marmot is seen peering over a rock. A crisp, silver moon rises behind the marmot such that a halo, or a piece of fine white china, seems to hover behind its head. The marmot looks saintly and introspective, like a dog sitting in the kitchen on Thanksgiving as the turkey is removed from the oven, or a beauty school student completing her thesis on sideburns. A granite boulder roosts in the foreground. A shadow is cast upon the boulder. The shadow looks like the facial profile of Spiro Agnew.

2) "Half Dome on the Solstice"

A man is sitting at a table outside an In-N-Out Burger joint on Hiway 99 in Manteca. His hands hold a burger, and his elbows are propped on the table. The burger is a few inches from his mouth. The man is balding, and his forehead has a domed and bossy appearance. The skin across the scalp seems stretched and tight, like Saran wrap. It glistens, thereby implying that the day's heat stored in the asphalt must be escaping now that dusk is near. The man's eyes look at the camera and seem to express his gnawing discomfort and awareness that his head is too big for his body. Three boys sit at the table and shove fries into their mouths. They are smiling. A girl and a woman also sit at the table. The girl, apparently the oldest child, glances at the boys and sports a subtle scowl, her nostrils barely flaring and her eyes squinting as if there is unseen dust in the air. The woman (the mother?) empties a ketchup packet onto her plate. She is stunningly beautiful and ethnically ambiguous, as if she is Portuguese (or Burmese?).

3) "Yosemite Falls at Midnight"

This photograph is completely black, like someone smoothed tar over the confines of the photograph's frame. It is stark and sublime and invokes primitive emotions, like the emotions you might feel when you put away the dishes from the dishwasher then realize the dishes were actually never cleaned. Now you realize you don't know which dishes in your cabinets are clean and which are dirty. You then must spend your entire day washing every cup, dish and piece of cutlery you own. This photograph is best viewed in a darkened room or with your eyes closed, thereby heightening its emotional impact.

4) "Mirror Lake"

Yosemite's Mirror Lake is in the foreground. The sheen across the lake surface reflects Half Dome rising skyward. A family of deer nibbles grass in a meadow near the lake. A deer with antlers looks at the camera. His jaw is askew, as if he is chewing his cud, or chewing gum (it is difficult to tell). The male deer wears a bemused expression, as if he has never seen a camera on a tripod or he really enjoys Trident sugarless gum. A dogwood and an oak are near the meadow. Like all oaks described in literature, this oak is hoary. It is sublimely hoary.

5) "Wanda Lake in Winter"

Wanda Lake is shown with patches of ice floating over its dark, foreboding surface. So powerful is the image that gazing at it makes you feel physically cold. It is not unlike the feeling you get when you swallow ice or you step into a cold shower. (It is not recommended that you swallow ice while taking a cold shower while gazing at this photo). There is a group of hikers in the background wearing Sherpa style backpacks and snow shoes. They are bulging Michelin Man style with what I suppose is several layers of clothing (or inflatable longjohns). You can tell it's an old photo, because the hikers all have beards and walrus-style moustaches like the guys on baseball cards from the 1890s or like my neighbor, Chad Stiles, who is severely allergic to pronouns.

Join me next week when I review little known writings of John Muir, like his "Home for the Holidays" cookbook, his "Classic Opening Chess Moves" for chess aficionados and his gluten free haikus.