Strikingly Beautiful

Cirque Peak, Foxtail Pine
Cottonwood Basin
Southern Sierra Nevada

Don't get me wrong. Thunder and lightning terrify me. I have sprinted like Usain Bolt through many a high altitude Sierran meadow, jettisoning my pack and water bottle and all common sense as lightning strikes around me and the air crackles with the dry, sandpapery smell of ozone. I become primal at such times and rather stupid: do I run towards that lone Foxtail Pine or away? Do I run uphill or down? Do my metal hiking poles conduct electricity? What exactly are eggs Benedict? Yet once I am safe and sound and sheltered in my tent, please let the show begin. Let me feel the earth shake beneath my Thermarest. Let me roost like a sparrow in a kettledrum.

I understand that lightning strikes planet earth 70 times every second. That's a lot of current! That's a lot of curly hair! Many people are struck by lightning; few live, and those that do can speak only in italics. What follows is the remarkable true story of a lightning strike survivor...

Luz Lapitas was a simple woman. She lived alone in the Oakland Hills with her taxidermied guinea pig. She enjoyed macrame, People Magazine and visiting wax museums. She bought slurpees at 7-11 on hot days and poured them over her head when she returned to her car. She was a knuckle-deep nosepicker, but only when she listened to NPR on her car radio. She worked in Human Resources for the animals at the Oakland Zoo and once spent an entire year settling a meerkat strike (They unionized and decided to stop acting cute until their grain supply increased by several bushels).

Everything changed for dear Luz Lapitas during the storm of November, 2005, when the barometric pressure fell, the tides went haywire and the moon waxed instead of waned. It was also the night of the time change (Spring ahead, Fall back) and the 1,000th episode of Sabado Gigante on the Spanish channel. It was the recipe for the perfect storm (as well as the recipe for bouillabaisse). Poor Luz didn't know this, however. She had watched the weather reports on the Weather Channel, but regrettably, she had watched the Weather Channel reruns which she had TiVoed from the previous Summer. While everyone else hunkered down in their basements with candles and their rosaries and extra batteries, Luz was out walking on the fire trail listening to Glen Campbell's Not So Greatest Hits on her iPod.

She didn't notice the approach of rumbling thunder, the sky becoming thick and dark, the stampede of rodents running for cover, and finally, she didn't notice the hair on her forearms standing at attention and the static-like smell in her nostrils. She was singing "Like a Rhinestone Cowboy" along with Glen and just loving life as she summited a rocky prominotory.

The bright light came quickly and caught her by surprise, like an irritating relative with a flash camera at a family gathering. She felt a searing, electrical pain enter her right ear and exit her left foot. It was similar to stepping on a hot thumbtack, just 1,000 times worse. "This is not pleasant," she thought, and for an infinite moment she felt shish-kabobbed and somehow connected rotisserie-style to both the heavens above and the magma within the earth beneath her. Her life flashed before her eyes: the operation where the doctor removed the mole from her neck, the time she tried chewing tobacco and thought she would die, the time she put the spiders in the microwave...

Then, all went white. I know that sounds strange, but for our protagonist, Luz, all certainly did go white. She heard a voice, a man's voice. "Luz," it said gently. It sounded soothing and welcoming.

"Regis, Regis Philbin?" Luz asked. She wasn't sure if she said it out loud.

"No," the voice said, "I am not Regis." He laughed as if he had heard a mildly amusing pun.

"What is required of me?" Luz asked, trying to see from where the voice came, but again, all was simple whiteness without any form.

"It is not your time," the man replied. "Luz, " he continued, "Remember, all is mystery, and all is not nothingness, but somethingness. Return from whence you came, do good works, love your enemies, seek my face, keep the thermostat set at 60 degrees when you leave the house and machine wash warm, tumble dry."

Then her mind went blank.

Some hikers found Luz on the trail in the morning. She was unconscious but breathing. Her hair was frizzy and course like a brillo pad. Her skin was diffusely blistered and tomato red. When the hikers removed the iPod from her ears, they noted that the device seemed to be stuck, and the line Riding out on a horse in a star spangled rodeo from Rhinestone Cowboy was playing over and over. Luz convalesced for several months, during which time The Oakland Tribune ran a front page story about her which uncharitably read: "Nut Survives Bolt."

Once fully recovered, Luz's life changed in many ways. Now she could fold socks correctly after laundering them. She could predict college football scores. She could communicate with turtles. At nighttime she loved reading a good book while wrapped in a blanket full of static cling. She started a used lightbulb collection. And inexplicably she loathed Glen Campbell and became vertiginous when she heard his songs. But mostly, she now enjoyed simple pleasures like a beautiful sunset, a child's face, volunteering at the soup kitchen, and, for the first time in her life, using fabric softener.

Ointment for the Rash

Mt. Langley over Cottonwood Basin

Like a shark, I was born with extra teeth. Indeed! Rootless, undeveloped cute little baby teeth rattled around in the boney spaces of my face and sinuses like barley grains. I was a walking maraca. In the dental community this condition is known as supernumerary teeth. It is a flossing nightmare. Also, it is often associated with other maladies, including loss of hair (a condition known as baldness), fear of clowns and fabric store knees (a sudden weakening of the legs upon entering fabric stores). Luckily, I suffer from only two of these related conditions, thanks be to God.

Alas, then, when I was 7 and a tender sprig, my parents brought me to an oral surgeon. His name was Dr. Gordon Rash. Honest as the day is long! I stray not from the truth. That was his name. Without surgeries, Dr. Rash told my fretting parents, the excess teeth would grow roots and mature and protrude from my nose and cheeks like burls on a tree. This would not get me dates, I realized. I would have a face only my mother could love. Without surgery I would spend my life in a dark closet. Or, I might join the circus. But then I would be around clowns all day. These were not good alternatives.

I would meet with Dr. Rash regularly over the next 10 years. Now allow me to speak candidly. Dr. Rash never exhibited the warm fuzzies. He must have missed that lecture during oral surgery school. He was as charismatic and emotionally engaging as a plate full of polenta. He seldom spoke, and he never laughed - not once, not when I joked, not when I asked if it would be ok if I spit before I swished. His baritone voice lacked all inflection; it echoed hollowly around the sterile, clangy exam room like a forlorn bassoon. He was like a milquetoast Darth Vader.

"You will require many procedures," he said. "Yes, many procedures." (He seldom used verbs or other words implying action).

That's what he called my surgeries. They were procedures: the administration of the medication which made me floaty and nauseated and disassociated, the meticulous digging with the galvanized tools as if my mouth were an archaelogical site, the taste of blood and novocaine, the gauze wrapped mummy style around my tongue, the whirring and stuttering of drills, the crunching, the bite block mercilessly propping open my jaw, the gritty vapor rising from mouth which smelled like electricity and burnt chicken, the masked face with the sunken grey eyes staring passively into my mouth, the distant voice behind the mask asking for more suction and commanding me to keep my hands still...

At one post-procedure visit I sat face to face with Dr. Rash. His cheeks were smooth and plethoric, like uncooked roast, and his jowels hung jello-like over his tight-fitting collar. He smelled like old coffee. He seemed spent, exhausted. Maybe he had disimpacted too many wisdom teeth. Maybe Mrs. Rash was angry with him and threw a plate at his head. Maybe he needed a vacation. I'm sure that was it. I told him I was going on vacation.

"Where are you going?" he asked, very much disinterested as he held my latest panoram xray and examined it in the light. I could see the extra teeth in the xray; they looked like glowing peas.

"Where am I going?" I answered. "I'm going backpacking. In the Sierras,"

He set down the xray. He stared into my eyes. I stifled a shiver. "What kind of gun will you be taking?" he asked.

"Gun?" I said, mustering an ounce of courage, "My family never takes a gun when we go backpacking."

"Well, you should," he answered.

"What for?" I asked.

He paused. "For protection. You should take a gun for protection." He placed his hand on my forearm and squeezed tightly. His hand, I noted, was white and hairless and glacially cold.

I whimpered internally and wondered if my mom could extricate herself from that article she was reading in Redbook Magazine out in the waiting room. I tried to communicate with her telepathically:

"Uh, Mom, a little help in here! Dr. Iceberg is coming unglued!"

Eons later I met my mom in the waiting room. She quietly tore a few pages from Redbook Magazine and placed them in her purse and whispered "I'll want to finish this article later. Good casserole recipes!" She then carefully placed the magazine on the shelf between a copy of The National Review and The Plain Truth. While driving home I asked my mom why we needed to take a gun backpacking.

"Oh for God's sake! Did Dr. Rash tell you that?" she asked.

"Yes," I answered.

"Well," my mom explained. "He's just very conservative."

What made someone conservative? I had no idea. I suspected it had something to do with turning off lights to save energy and storing lots of canned foods in the pantry. I wondered, then, why people who were conservative would take guns while backpacking. I wondered if all oral surgeons were conservative. I wondered if oral surgeons went backpacking.

"Mom," I asked, "Will there be any oral surgeons in the Sierras where we're going backpacking?"

"No," she answered. "Heavens no!"

"Phew!" I said. "That's a relief!"

A few years later, while recuperating after one of Dr. Rash's procedures, I propped myself on my bed at home. My cheeks were swollen and stuffed full of bloody gauze. Although I was pickled in percocet, I managed to focus on the coffee table book propped on my lap. It was a Sierran photo book. One photo showed the view from Mt. Sill, the Queen of the Palisades. "Mt. Sill Top" the caption simply stated. (Mt. Sill boasts the best summit view of any Sierran peak). I stared at the photo for minutes and hours and days while I nursed my wounds and sipped Miso soup.

Mt. Sill and the Sierra Nevadas leapt out of those photos and infused me with their beauty. It was healing like a salve, like God's breath.

I return there often lest I forget.

Catalogue Chatter

Great news! I now write for the REI catalogue! Most of you are familiar with REI, the outdoor equipment store which markets glitzy and over-priced outdoor items like the flossing compass, the edible trowel and Thermarest underwear. Now I get to review and do write-ups about all sorts of recreational equipment for the REI catalogue! And my dear reader, you are in for a treat, for here are some of my initial write-ups:

Sleeping Bags

The Mother Goose Bag, by North Face: North Face has taken a novel approach in their new sleeping bag design. The sleeping bag shell is filled with actual, live geese. The bag provides incredible warmth (while using this bag on an expedition to Mt. Aconcagua I slept commando style). However, be prepared for a lumpy and noisy night as the geese never cease bickering and honking and snapping at your appendages. One bonus: during the holiday season you can remove a goose or two for a nice Christmas dinner.

The Helium Bag, by Kelty: Kelty's new bag is filled with actual helium. It is airy and light as a feather and provides incomparable loft. Additionally, it has a nifty valve which allows you to inhale the helium and say things like "Luke, I am your father!" while you gaze at the stars. You need to be really careful with the Helium Bag, however. On a recent trip, my hiking buddy, Turkey Tetrazzini Pete, forgot to stake his sleeping bag to the ground. He fell asleep in Yosemite, floated over the Rocky Mountains and woke up at a truck stop in Casper, Wyoming. Also, the bag provides as little warmth as Ms. Stiles, my high school calculus teacher. She had the personality of a crock pot, and one Friday night we saw her out on a date with her overhead projector.

The Bag Bag, by Outdoor Designs: The Bag Bag has incredible specifications. It is one ounce and can be compressed into a thimble and carried in your pocket next to your chapstick. On a recent trip to Kings Canyon I set up camp and spread out the Bag Bag. My brother, Jay, commented: "That's it? That's your sleeping bag? It's just a black garbage bag! You ding-a-ling!" I examined the bag more closely. Indeed, it was a classic Hefty Cinch Sac garbage bag. The Bag Bag is truly the world's first disposable sleeping bag. In a pinch it also functions as a trash bag.

The Bacon Bag, by Eagle Creek: Eagle Creek's developers have designed a remarkable sleeping bag which smells like bacon. Prior to marketing, each bag is placed in an oven and slow roasted with several slabs of sizzling bacon. The aroma permanently seeps into the sleeping bag material. That way, whenever the sleeping bag is unravelled in camp, all of the backpackers can enjoy the smell of fresh-cooked bacon which permeates the camp like incense. The good people at Eagle Creek wished to create a homey, Sunday morning kind of feeling for backpackers who purchased the Bacon Bag. My friend Ferbs (not his real name) and I (not my real name either) used the Bacon Bag on a trip in Sequoia National Park. At a moment past dusk every animal in the forest, including the mosquitos, showed up in our campsite drooling and hyperventilating (yes, mosquitos can drool and hyperventilate). Rumor has it that the Eagle Creek research and development team is now working on The Waffle Bag and The Burnt Toast Bag, and for those who enjoy lounging around camp at noon, the crumbled gorgonzola bag.

Well, that's it for now. Please look for additional reviews in the REI catalogue coming out next month. In that edition I review inflatable toilet paper and the Trout-powered Stove. I also wrote an article entitled Granola: How it has Shaped American Politics. Stay tuned!

Summer Remnants

Here, dear readers, are the best uphill walks from the Summer of 2010:

The Ragged Peak saddle, Yosemite

The stone path from San Damiano to Assisi

Memorable uphill walks naturally segue into memorable downhill walks. Ages ago my brother, Jay, and I were walking downhill from Nevada Falls in Yosemite. Primed, adolescent and full of sinewy goodness, we allowed gravity to propel us downhill at a remarkable clip. In the reverse direction, innumerable hikers puffed and strained and grunted their way uphill like poorly oiled locomotives.

One boy, a rotund, ney, a Rubinesque fellow in his mid teens with a pink, sweaty face lacquered up with sunscreen, stopped his ascent when he saw us approaching. He placed his hands on his knees and gasped imploringly in measured fashion:

"How...far...to...Nevada?"

Obviously, he was referring to the falls. However, Jay, not missing a beat and not altering his stride, replied matter-of-factly: "About 150 miles" as if the boy were referring to the state of Nevada.

The boy stared vacantly, uncertain what to make of Jay's quip. We simply continued our downhill journey, enjoying the tumbling cataracts carving through the rocky canyon beneath the trail. Moments later, though, Jay looked at me over his shoulder and smiled wryly.

"Nice one." I said.

When we reached Happy Isles I asked Jay if he thought the boy ever made it to Nevada.

"No," Jay answered. "No, I don't think so."

The United States of Vespucci

Pointing the Way

Amerigo Vespucci Range

Patagonia

Argentina

October 1st, 1969

Actually, there's no such thing as the Amerigo Vespucci Range, and I was 5 years old in 1969, and I've never been to Patagonia or Argentina (though I have visited other Spanish speaking countries, like Canada). It just sounded neater than saying I was on Hannegan Peak in North Cascade National Park on 08/25/2005, which is exactly where and when this picture was taken.

Following are some interesting facts about Amerigo Vespucci taken from Wikipedia. (Anyone from around the world can contribute to Wikipedia and edit the entries, so you can rest assured and be confident that you are getting the most reliable, historically accurate information possible):

Amerigo, for whom the Americas were named, was born in 1454 in Florence, Italy, the son of Michael and Linda Vespucci. Amerigo was an ordinary and highly unimpressive child while growing up in Tuscany. He had no more ambition than a barnacle stuck on the pilings of the Ponte Vecchio. He cared not whether his hair was parted on the left or the right. He ate only mozzarella. He feared squirrels and opera in the park. His closest friends were his three cats: Luigi, Raphaelo and Leaning Tower (Leaning Tower, a manx, had only three legs, but he was a prodigious mouser).

At the age of 13 his parents sent him to explorer school where he learned how to be an explorer. Later, he became a ship captain, contracted scurvy, befriended some pirates, married a mute siren, invented shuffleboard, then discovered America. (That same year he discovered hair growing out of the mole on his neck). He wanted to name the New World "Vespucci," but luckily cooler heads prevailed and "America" (the English version of "Amerigo") was chosen instead.

When Amerigo discovered the New World and first saw the native peoples, he lapsed into song. Here is that moment captured in a restored photograph:

Quaking like an Aspen

Today we will explore Greek mythology. We are all familiar with gods and goddesses from Greek mythology. For example, everyone remembers Achilles, the God of tendonitis. We all know Poseidon as well. Poseidon, God of the oceans, rivers and irrigation systems, directed a movie about his adventures called The Poseidon Adventure. It starred Ernest Borgnine and many other top-notch Hollywood actors. Years ago my barber looked exactly like Ernest Borgnine, but that is a story for another blog entry.

Today we will focus on the myth of Apollo and Daphne. As the story goes, Apollo, the God of the sun, insulted Eros (a.k.a. Cupid) by teasing him about his bow and arrow.

"Ha, Eros!" Apollo chided, "What have you to doeth with thine arrows that you shooteth? Thou shalt surely misseth all thy targets. " (Many people don't realize that Greek Gods spoke an Old English dialect).

"Chide me not!" Eros retorted, "for as thou chidest me, I shalt smite thee rightly with mine own feathered darts!"

In the midst of all the chiding, along came Daphne, the wood nymph. She seemed to float into the scene as she approached in her new toga (it was made from contour sheets). In the Greek world, Daphne's beauty was legendary and knew no season. So great was her beauty that when men beheld her countenance they would weep and rent their hair and gouge out their eyeballs, knowing they could never hold her or possess her or take her out for a date.

Eros, still stinging from Apollo's rebuke, noted that Apollo began panting like a labrador as Daphne entered the glade where they stood. Apollo was rightly smitten by the goddess before him, and he fell to his knees, overcome with the inability to fulfill the lust which reduced his burning heart to embers. He babbled like an idiot.

Eros, never missing an opportunity to exact revenge, removed two arrows from his quiver. One was gold, and the other was lead. (He also had some regular arrows as he was planning to go pheasant hunting with Socrates later that day). The gold arrow instilled love in he whose heart it pierced, whereas the lead arrow would instill abhorrence. With a wry smile gracing his impish face, Eros shot the gold arrow into Apollo, and he shot the lead arrow into Daphne.

This is where the story gets really interesting. Eros left for his periodontal appointment, but that's not the interesting part. Apollo stood, smoothed out his toga, and told Daphne, "I lovest thou from the depths of my soul and the temple of my loins. What sayest thou? Wilt thou accompaniest me for baclava? My treat!"

Daphne, flushing with venomous hatred and repulsion, made a face as if she had eaten an undercooked dolma, then turned and ran, her ears hot and red and pounding with each beat of her heart. So fast did she run that her toga fluttered and snapped like a sail around her porcelain yet supple torso. Her feet barely grazed the forest floor as she leapt over fallen logs and creek beds and ran up and down mountains. Like a beautious flash of whiteness and loveliness, she sprinted through the Greek countryside for the better part of the afternoon.

Daphne did not tire, and soon she was certain she had outrun her newfound adversary. She glanced over her shoulder. "EEEK!" she shrieked, as if she had come face-to-face with Medusa. It was Apollo! He was running effortlessly a few feet behind. Worse yet, he smiled mischievously as he casually popped olives into his mouth. His lips glistened in the sun, his sun, from the olive oil which now dripped down his chin. Daphne serpentined between trees, attempting to gain her advantage.

"Oh you-hoo! You-hoo! Daphne," Apollo chided, "spurn not my advances. Retreat thou into this nearby grove for some ungodly kanoodling!" He spat out an olive pit and skipped like a giddy schoolboy as he chased his prey.

My god, Daphne thought, this lovesick, pit-spitting rogue will have his way with me. I care neither for man nor the fixed routine of wifely duties, yet that may come to pass.

"Father," she called out, looking up at the sky. "Help me! Help me! Change my form or command the earth to swallow me up!" Daphne's father, Peneus, a river god, heard his daughter's cry from the heavenly realm where he was playing Scrabble with the other gods. Peneus stood, cracked his knuckles then peered over the fringe of his cloud down toward Earth. "Daphne, my daughter, my seedling, change thy form!" Peneus stormed as he pointed his finger toward Earth. Zeus was nearby wearing an apron as he prepared a snack tray. "Peneus," he said, "I likest thy style! High five!"

Meanwhile, back on planet Earth, Apollo grabbed hold of Daphne's toga with a surge of triumph and a tsunami in his nether regions. He could not restrain himself any more than Cyclops could wink. Apollo ripped off Daphne's toga and for a solitary, rapturous moment, he gazed upon her alabaster nakedness and silky, heaving form. Amidst the tumultuousness of his half-crazed mind he could muster only one coherent thought: "I wonder if she's wearing lip gloss!"

But wait! Godly trickery was at work, and even the power of Eros' lethal arrows faltered. Daphne's pace slowed. She stiffened; her gait became wooden. Apollo released Daphne as he noted the sudden hardening of her supple flesh. Overcome with horror and emotional detumescence, he fell backward like a steamed grape leaf, gasping in fits as the scene unfolded.

Daphne looked skyward and raised her willowy arms. Just as branches with tiny buds sprouted from each of her fingertips, viney roots erupted from her feet and spread outward, eventually burrowing into the mossy earth. Her expression was resolute and knowing, and she nodded subtly and looked heavenword and mouthed the words, "Thank you, father. Thank you for hearing me. I know I interrupted your Scrabble game."

The setting sun seemed to be peering over Apollo's shoulder, frozen in space and time, as Daphne's transformation continued, her legs fusing into a trunk, her breasts becoming burls, her skin furrowing with bark-like delineations, her hair blowing upward and forming a canopy of sprigs, her face withering and finally disappearing, disappearing forever into the leaves which had freed themselves from their buds.

The sun set, and Apollo had fallen unconscious. The crepuscular wind blew gently, like a mother's breath cooing over her baby, and Daphne's leaves quaked and rustled with newfound joy and freedom. All night long she swayed and held her branches aloft, blissfully experiencing the sappy pulsations within her bark and the rings which spread outward from the core of her trunk. She nestled her roots deep into the loamy earth; it felt like her walks in the wet sand along the seashore. She sensed the night air entering and exiting her myriad leaves like sighs. Somehow the entirety of these sensations was familiar (she was a wood nymph afterall), and she understood this was her new destiny.

Morning came. Apollo awoke. He stared at the tree before him. Was it an aspen? A birch? A dogwood or an alder? He rubbed his eyes. Suddenly the events from the night before tumbled into his mind in quick succession. He approached the tree and touched the smooth, papery bark. He noted the green, silvery leaves shimmering in the morning sun. He sat. He wondered. He understood this was his new destiny. He would sit in the shade of this tree and lovingly tend it like a gardener tended his rosebushes. He would make wreathes from its fallen leaves in Autumn, and keep vigil in the Spring, waiting for the moment when the new leaves erupted from their buds. His head was quiet, and he relished the unfathomable contentedness which now coursed through his veins.

"Thank you, Eros," Apollo whispered, "You knew what you were doing all along."

That, I can assure you, dear reader, is exactly how it all happened. I have acquired some additional information. Experts in Greek mythology have determined that Daphne transformed into an aspen, otherwise known as Populus tremulus, such as the ones pictured here:

These wondrous beauties, also know as quaking aspen, frequent the Sierra Nevada at elevations of 6,000-9,000 feet and tend to congregate around rivers. They love moisture and the communal shade which their leafy canopies engender. There is a grove of aspen on the shores of Lake Tahoe near Taylor Creek, where salmon hatch and salmon return to die:

Quaking aspen do not grow well at sea level. As such, those who dwell near the ocean must find a related alternative if they are to enjoy the aspen. I suggest the white birch; it grows well at sea level and is similar to the aspen, a cousin of sorts. The leaves are almost indistinguishable from those of the aspen:

Gian Lorenzo Bernini, the Neapolitan sculptor, also understood that Daphne had transformed into an aspen. He captured the moment in a perfect block of pure Carrera marble in 1625:

In the close-up view one can appreciate the aspen leaves sprouting from Daphne's fingertips:

On a final note, if you inspect the sculpture closely, you can see that Daphne is, indeed, wearing lip gloss.

My Own Illuminated Landscape

This month's Sierran book comes highly recommended. The Illuminated Landscape is an anthology of writings about the Sierra Nevada.

From the book's preface:

The vitality and grandeur of the Sierra Nevada offers no greater palette for the muse.

By the way, I hosted a bbq to celebrate the one year anniversary of the blog, Sierra Musings (08/31/10). Inivitations were mailed. Noone attended, but that's ok. I ate a hot dog with some potato salad. I gave the leftovers to our dog, *Kaweah. Kaweah enjoyed the food very much and wagged her tail appreciatively and intermittently succumbed to her sudden fits of joy by jumping on me. She seemed to be saying, "I just realized that you're here!"

*Kaweah is the Piute word for "I squat here." To quote Dave Barry, I am not making this up!