footsafari
Every obstacle is an opportunity to improve our condition
Monday, February 22, 2016
Sharon's New Digs
Friday, February 19, 2016
Tuesday, January 12, 2016
Monday, January 04, 2016
Wednesday, December 23, 2015
Welcome to 2016
Welcome to 2016. Every.
Single. Thing. is changed. Where I was sure
of the route I am finding myself uncertain.
Where I was clear on the method I find myself unprepared. Is there a map for this? As I'm winding my way within the breath of
the winter season, the sultry squirrels chatter in a new voice and the delicate
canyon wren floats beneath a sky of a different color. If I'm patient and quiet there is a whisper of
encouragement in the cold air. We'll
find ways to be inspired again. Motivated
again. Let's at least think for a minute
that we can end each day with gratitude and wake up within the optimistic
embrace of this New Year.
Monday, October 26, 2015
Old Friends
I arrive at the meeting spot early so I might have a little time to myself under the big-cone pines. I'm sipping my coffee and there are people scurrying about with headlamps on. They're looking for friends in the dark, stepping carefully, calling out in whispers and listening for familiar responses. There are more dogs than usual and they don't mind the cold morning but are eager to be let from their leashes. They are also looking for their friends and the meeting of a cattle-dog and a husky mix causes me to laugh a little. They run toward each other jumping and circling and cooing just as old friends who have a lot to catch up on.
I am also waiting for an old friend but I choose to sit on the wall where I am sure to be found and watch the day begin. Sure enough, Sharon arrives and greets me with a soft voice just as the morning comes into focus. Its a cool, yellow sky of October and it holds us still for a moment.
It seems there is a lot of ground to cover but we loiter in the gentle
quiet of the early hour. I have the
feeling of having been gone a long time but also of having traveled very
far. Although I've been here countless
times, today everything is new as every day now starts somewhere else and
finishes with something unfamiliar. In between the beginning and the end are
sights and sounds I have yet to fully embrace.
Sharon and I are back on the trail of our beginnings. The trail where we met some fifteen years
ago.
Tuesday, October 13, 2015
Rushing for Gold
We hit the road before the sun rises. Such a sacrifice is necessary when one wants
to travel back in time. We have packed
for an entire day on the trail; our backpacks lay heavy with tools, camera
equipment, maps, snacks and water. The
mood however is exceedingly light; we are floating in the anticipation of a
newly hatched scheme like raindrops still amidst the clouds. Everything before us is drifting with possibility
and we need only choose to participate to be carried away within the
storm. We will float beyond the ordinary
and gently descend into a world filled with all that is unexpected and
surprising. Our destination today is
1849 and we are rushing for gold.
When I first mentioned this plan to a friend I presented it
as simply hiking somewhere new. We would
make our way to a few locations where panning for gold is said to still be
happening. Maybe we’ll talk to a miner
or two if we can find any. We’ll take
some pictures, commune with nature and absorb the aura. Our conversation escalated with a tone of
excitement as I spoke further about what I had recently read about the Gold
Rush and we soon became giddy. As we moved
along it became apparent we could think of nothing else. More specific plans were made which included
actual digging and we quickly adopted a strategy of secrecy. We outlined some rules: (i) It will be just us
on this mission; (ii) We will tell no one lest the word spread and we are
forced into subterfuge when faced with the desperate pleas of our friends who
would not be left behind; (iii) We’ll divide the spoils equally regardless of
who digs more vehemently; and (iv) We’ll get home before dark. We started to consider how we would stimulate
the economy with our newfound riches.
Sharon wants to go on an Alaskan cruise and I want a yurt. There was no turning back from there. The seed had been planted; it had been fed by
gold’s brilliance and was already sprouting.
We officially had the fever and I could begin to understand what might
have happened 166 years ago.
I have been fascinated by the Gold Rush since I moved to Los
Angeles in 1989 and began to learn a little about the history of
California. I’m a backpacker and my maps
are covered with place names like “Gold Creek” and “Miner’s Mountain.” I had thought those labels were only of
historical significance or maybe even an effort to encourage activity in the National
Forest. Upon further investigation I
learned that people still find gold in our local mountains and professional
prospectors still exist! I visited an
old friend who I consider to be an expert in such matters and was aptly
forewarned: the area is considered
lawless; the miners are territorial, irascible, and armed. It seems at least that much has not changed
in all this time and my spirits were lifted by the possibility of authenticity.
The land surrounding us is peppered with Yucca, chaparral
and poison sumac. The air is scented with
mountain sage and promise. The
occasional oak offers a cool shadow as the sun begins to emerge over the
surrounding mountain range. We are
hiking close to the river and must cross in several places to stay on the
trail. There is more water than I expected
and I’m unprepared to submerge my legs up to mid-calf; my boots filling with
cold water and my camera held high above my head. The hike to our proposed digging site is
approximately six miles from the parking area and even though it’s still early
we’re beginning to heat up. The morning
light washes us in a fresh glow and this has the benefit of making us appear
young and adventurous so we stop for photos.
When we finally agree on a spot which we have chosen
according to the various instructions and bits of advice we have received, we
collapse onto the river bank and finally relieve ourselves of our packs and our
soggy boots. We dig a hole by the bank
and fill the bucket with the bounty.
With our pans in hand, we enter the river carefully and begin to wash
the material. The swirling of the gravel
is hypnotic and one quickly devises a particular style which is certain to be
successful. The colors and patterns of
the rocks are exposed and each one has its own entrancing beauty. I don’t see any gold though. I’m now questioning if I could even recognize
gold and we begin to more closely inspect each other’s pans while we debate if
maybe we should have done more research on identification. The pans are surprisingly buoyant and when I
turn my back for just a second, it’s rushing off down the river and I have to
chase it. For the original miners, “panning for gold turned out to be one of the most exhausting
forms of manual labor ever devised” and that “to the hard work with pick and
shovel, panning added the necessity of squatting or stooping… either beside the
icy water or in it, for hours…”.
I can attest to the accuracy of this and we soon begin our complaining
of a numbness in our toes and a burning in our back. Though we are good friends, we will hear
ourselves bicker before we call it a day and agree to head back. Our packs seem heavier now, we are absent the
spring in our step and our heads hang a little bit low.
In my sleep I’ve been dreaming of gold. In this dream I am surrounded by friends who
share intimate knowledge of which I know nothing and I feel abandoned. They’re laughing as they go about their day,
speaking around me, and I feel shame that I’ve somehow disassociated from
creativity. They’re on their way
somewhere and I’m not invited because they are part of a lifestyle which
eclipses self-imposed responsibilities and regulation of which freedom plays no
part. I have an inner-turmoil as I might
if I had gone to bed angry and woken with the vestige of that distaste still on
my lips. As if I had said something ugly
that I now wished to take back but knew I never really could.
I wake suddenly in the still dark and I feel worried as if
I’m late for something. Relieved that
I’ve been dreaming I recollect on the nighttime images and in order to quiet my
mind I form new images which are more pleasing.
I am pushing away the heavy rocks which weigh on my mind. I am sifting through the gravel and the sand
that chafes my being. I am washing away
the dust that clouds the sunshine. I am
separating the tiny specks of glittering placer and holding them aside. Holding them inside. Gold is a soft metal
and if we caress the particles they can collectively form a dream that is more
brilliant than standing atop the highest mountain and staring down on the
clouds. It is more invigorating than waking
to the morning light of an alpine sunrise to find the coffee already at brew. It is more satisfying than the meal of a king
placed before the peasant.
I am awake. I feel
more awake and alive than I have felt since the time I left home and struck out
on my own chasing my dreams across the continent. I felt anything was possible then and my
potential was only limited in its grandeur by how hard I was willing to
work. I was frightened and I was hopeful. My thoughts are racing in a new direction and
I will not sleep tonight. I stumble to
the computer and send an email to my co-conspirator. There are two days to Saturday and I propose
another trip to the diggings. No sooner
than the sun begins to shine than my phone rings. Sharon has also been woken with a new sense
of inspiration and significance. We
share this new spark and the power of it is a driving force so great we must
not allow it to extinguish. We now have
a common knowledge and it needs not be said aloud that this new motivation must
be protected from the damp, cold, jagged cliff of modern reason. This is Hope.
This must be held like an egg as the wolves circle. The drudgery of structure and predictability
are predators with envy and malice. They
do not dream but we dream again! We have
not yet held the nugget but we have fully realized the magic of its nature.
Besides, the grasp of the elusive element is not out of our reach it’s just
around the next bend. We have to spend a
little more time on it. We have to hone
our technique. We have to dig a little
deeper. We just have to try again.
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