Time to pitch the tent

Borderlands Traverse started out simple. After selling my newspapers due to the death of my business partner I was determined not to rush into anything new without some thought. Doing something too fast smelled like love on the rebound. I wanted no part of that. Better to wait and let the pain ooze out and the blood settle and coagulate. But, wouldn't you know it, while I was waiting I started to tidy up my home office. I ran across an old IDEA file -- dangerous buggers, those. There was a piece of yellowing paper stashed between other obvious loosing propositions with one sentence on it: "Walk the borders of a square state."

Technically there aren't any square states. Wyoming and Colorado are the closest contenders and both are more rectangular than square. But I knew what I meant when I wrote that sentence, one of the rare times of such clarity. We've got these straight lines on our maps which are really tokens of ignorance. I could expand on that thought but then I would get off-track with where I'm trying to go.

That single sentence signified an early experience of mine. Sitting in the back seat of our '48 Chevrolet crossing the border between Utah and Wyoming, age seven, expecting to see a straight line inked on the ground, maybe with abbreviations: UT on that side and WYO on the other. But of course there was nothing resembling a straight line, just rolling foothills of sage and some distance away, aspens and pines, fir; spruce higher up.

I don't think I felt disappointed but I know I felt lied to, deceived, and angry in a seven-year-old way. The maps collected, hoarded and stored in my treasure drawer - maps of magic with mysterious mountains, deserts and forests - did not tell the truth. I was morose and uninterested for almost a full week.

If my father had been alert and had lived any part of his life in his mind he might have recognized my distress. He was my idol, a war hero of mysterious accomplishments in Burma, an athletic man of grace who easily bowled over 220 in every game I ever watched, skied with the composure of a swan, swam with power and crispness, was fearless and competent in the face of nature and night sweats. I idolized him deeply and respected his few words and cautious, thoughtful approach to my questions. It took many years to realize that the answers came without a deep reservoir of contemplated connection. It may also be that they did, and that I remain merely ignorant of his Way.

"Is this the border?"
"Yep."
"Why can't we see it?"
"See the border?"
"Yeah, where is the line? There is a line on the map. I don't see any line."
"That line is so you can tell the border on a map. There isn't a real line. How would you make a line like that out there?"

I had no idea how I or anyone else would make a line 'out there.' But I promised myself that one day I would take my map and try to walk the line that some liar drew on my maps to see what the heck was supposed to be divided by that line. That is what that sentence in the IDEA file was all about.

It could have been a secret project. I didn't need to tell anyone about it. But I unfortunately am cursed with BIG IDEAS too often. And this, in rather quick fashion became one of those. I would start a blog, recruit school classes to follow the trek, send articles to the local papers, recruit a sponsor, talk interesting people into walking with me, write a book about it, become famous, go on a lecture tour, use the experience for launching myself. After all, I didn't have a real job anymore.

I talked to friends, or at least they started out as friends, and, puffed up and excited as only an aging Aries can be, painted wildly exciting and optimistic pictures of a Lewis & Clark-like venture taken up by thousands of co-conspirators who would all write wonderful essays of their experiences, take blindingly beautiful pictures and video and all of this would be a new sort of journalism.

My model was William Least Heat Moon, who did none of the stupid parts of this but did manage to do a deep mapping of a single Kansas County that occupies a full eighth of my heart, even though Kansas is not part of my own geographical imperative.

The obvious is cruelly apparent. My project is an abject failure. In the end, I didn't even choose a "square" state, although there were many reasons that made Utah, with its six straight-line borders more interesting than either Colorado or Wyoming.

No one else apparently wants to try to walk the stupidly straight borders of any state or country, marking way-points with their GPS units, taking pictures, telling stories. Geocachers, who I thought might be tempted, are more interested in finding "treasures" by coordinate, which is probably an entirely incorrect characterization since I can't say with any certainty that any ever heard of BorderWalking, Border Traverse or any of the other blogs associated with this Cervantean pipe dream.

So I am admitting the state of reality. This blog and its two sisters will go into stasis. I can't yet totally kill them. I'm not strong enough for that. Yet. I may even add to them from time to time or transfer some content. Who knows?

I don't, and that is really the point of this post. I'm going to camp for a while and see what turns up. If you have read this far though, please feel free to wander back along my trail thus far. I have walked some straight lines. And told some stories.

Drifting Up From The Emerald Triangle

Nightfall at Jackson Lake in the Oregon Dunes National Recreation Area

The coastal borderlands have demanded my attention of late. Sea meets shore along 7,863 miles from California to Washington. Coastal borderwalking is brutal, and both unpredictable (storms, slides, weather) and predictable (tides, wave action, sea cliffs, beach stones driftwood tangles, etc.) obstacles are de rigueur. I have done small stints at different times in my life and while I generally love the coast I generally hate doing serious borderwalking along it.

The area I wanted to visit in particular burned for the second consecutive year in 2008, fulfilling all the dire prophecies for conflagration posted its way. This summer may be the third year in a row that Northern California and Southern Oregon burn through much the same areas.

Quite a few folks might be thinking justly so. Humboldt and Trinity counties on the north and Mendocino county on the south, form what is infamously known as the Emerald Triangle, an area where growing pot is a major industry. In the two northern counties marijuana production by some counts is the base industry. If everybody isn't growing it the ones who aren't are providing all of the ancillary products necessary to sustain the industry, including an accepting or at least passive attitude.

Marijuana has been legal to use in California for medical purposes since 1996. Since then other laws defining the scope and sources of that medical marijuana have passed almost as often as California forests have burned. It is legal to possess up to 28.5 grams of marijuana if you have a doctor's prescription and it is not an arrestable offense if you don't have a note from the doc. The National Organization for the Reform of Marijuana Laws (NORML) lists the following additional consequences on its web site:

• The cultivation or processing of any amount of marijuana is punishable by up to sixteen months in state prison. There is an exception to the cultivation prohibition for patients or patients’ caregivers who possess or cultivate for personal use by the patient upon approval of a physician.
• The laws regarding possession and cultivation of marijuana do not apply to patients or patients’ primary caregivers who possess or cultivate marijuana for the personal medical use of the patient, upon the recommendation or approval of a physician.
• Selling marijuana in any amount is punishable by 2 – 4 years in the state prison. Giving away less than 28.5 grams is a misdemeanor and is punishable by a fine of up to $100.
• Sale of marijuana to a minor is punishable by 3 – 5 years in prison.
• For anyone under the age of 21 convicted of any of the above offenses, the state may suspend the offender’s driver’s license for up to one year.
• Possession of paraphernalia is a civil fine of $200-$300 for the first offense and goes up to $5,000-$6,000 for a fifth or subsequent violation within a five-year period.

See NORML: http://www.norml.org/index.cfm?wtm_view=&Group_ID=4525

If you are somewhat confused by this string of laws you are not alone although many connected to using and/or cultivating explain the seeming contradictions with both volume and the sureness of conviction. The bottom line is that there is a lot of pot being grown for so-called medical consumption. The people who sell it even pay taxes on those sales so the government is at least a tax partner of these operations.

More to come...

What's Over Thattaway?

The last rat-assed piece of logic has been filed away in the electronic netherworld. Whether it all hooks together is somebody else's problem now. I've stuffed my head for half a year with arguments about this and opinions about that, some of it written down and all of it running from room to room in my head.

It's time for the great beyond. I've got places to go where nobody knows or cares if I'm wearing pants. That big white moon, the smell of hot dirt and thirsty sagebrush, a dicky hen running like a dinosaur, covered in the brush, making sounds like a damn rattler.

I expect to be hot. Hope to be. Maybe blister up a bit along the neckline, tempt cancer with the naked top of my ears, eat some grit. Then toward sundown when all that heat is still shimmering up off the desert flats but shadows are lying down to bed I'll pull some beer from the galvanized tub wrapped in gunny sacks under the trailer - two, maybe three. The tops pop and the first one goes all the way down without a rest. That pain grows in a knob there between your eyes so you just shut em and breath the rest of the heat of the day up through your nose hairs and you smell night. It ain't arrived yet but it's comin'. And when your head stops throbbing you crack open your eyes with the next beer and think about dinner and through the slits of your eyes you look out where you ain't been yet.


Looking West Near Hickison Pass, Nevada. Toiyabe Range on the Horizon

On Semester's Border

Mostly I love school. But this last slurp at the trough of learning has been a long swallow. It coincided with an ugly rotator cuff tear on my left shoulder which eventually required surgery. Yep, it's as painful as you've heard. And very instructive on how much humans depend on being symmetrical.

I spent the winter in the mistaken belief that I had a small tear that could be overcome by exercise. Exercise,
San Rafael Swell to Wasatch Plateau

though, had the effect of making things worse. Eventually I got the message and opted for surgery. The doc said hey, that was way worse than we thought! Not at all like it looked on the MRI. Just more confirmation that medicine and car mechanics are the same line of work separated only by the color of grease on your fingers.

My classwork is online from the University of Missouri. In some explosion of short-sightedness I decided a Masters degree in Media Management would be just right for me. That was a few years ago when I thought I would always own newspapers and just drift into fewer hours of work for retirement. Hell, I thought, if James Russell Wiggins could do it so can I. But - like I didn't know - there is no forward track less known than your own.

My business partner, who was always healthier and carried a tenth of the body fat I do, gets Lou Gehrig's Disease. And declines. And dies. We barely get our papers sold before his ability to communicate pretty much stops. Unlike many business partners this one was a gem, probably because we seemed to compliment each other's missing pieces. You know, what I lacked he had and vice versa. We weren't alike at all, really. The only thing we shared was an abiding respect for the other guy's strengths and some discretion about weaknesses.

So anyway, I was talking about school. My experience has been to learn about stuff I've been doing all my life with a whole bunch of people who have done it better than I did and who are mostly a hell of a lot younger. It is damn depressing when you think about it. I feel like Max Evans, who wrote The Rounders and a handfull of some of the best books about the real West you can find. I've had some beers with Max and here is what he'll tell you: It's all a con game. The whole thing. Them that learn the con and do it well have a measure of luck more than those who don't. But the con ain't being run by the folks around you, or by people at all. Nope. And even if you figger out what or who IS running the con it won't matter a spit or a lick.

I've got one more paper to trim up to end this semester and two days to do it. After that, by god, I'm not playing for a while.

Four Corners Is Not

This just in. The only place in the United States that allows you to have parts of your body in four states (Colorado, Utah, Arizona, New Mexico) at one time - appropriately called four corners - has been tricking you.If you thought you did this trick you didn't.

That is, if you stood on the X at the elevated tourist marking of that boundary. Turns out it is 2.5 miles or so from the actual place. A 2.5 mile error these days is huge. My GPS unit says it has a rate of error of 20 feet. When I post my border way points, I have noticed a fairly consistent error of about that much when I'm trying to track right on a state border.

I have wondered though if that wasn't more due to the large, triangular pointer on the GPS screen itself. Put the way point on the interior cross hairs of the pointer and the actual is slightly off. Put it on the exact tip of the pointer and it is more often than not dead on.

But 2.5 miles off? For a landmark border like this? This deserves looking into. Even older survey techniques couldn't stand that kind of error factor. Somebody is laughing up their sleeve.

Lost On The Evolutionary Border

I really wanted to leave a tribute to Charles Darwin on his birthday in February. I could just never fight my way all the way through the damn thing. It was like the nerve block they now use in some surgery that keeps every feeling dead on the downstream side of the block. I couldn't finish it and I couldn't write anything else.

The idea I had was that dying daily newspapers were a demonstration of Charlie's principle of survival of the fittest. If you don't adapt to your environment, you die. Daily newspapers are dying, ergo, they did not adapt. Between Charlie's birthday and this date, our own loved and eclectic Seattle Post-Intelligencer died. It is more than ironic that its final issue sold out and went into reprint. Not enough people wanted it until it was dead.

Smarter people than me have talked (and still are, and will into the unforeseeable future) about why these formerly strong enterprises are a disappearing medium. I don't want to talk about business models today, or consolidation, corporatism, bowling alone, N2, media 3.0, journalistic arrogance or communication theory period.

I'm posting this and moving on.

Air Borders - Spoon Popping Your Eyes

Winter away from borderwalking is a strain. It must be my age but sleep is not a constant companion or even a regular visitor much anymore. When I'm walled and roofed in I twitch and crackle on the bed. It's not quite as bad if I'm in a tent or trailer. Ambien helps but it stops all dreaming or promotes the horrors. That little white pill is my bedtime snack most nights. Then I'll read until I fall unconscious.

Where do you suppose that phrase came from? I'm not aware that humankind has historically been in the habit of standing to sleep and would therefore fall unconscious. Or drop off to sleep. Drop off the tree? We American English speakers have strange constructions that describe implausible literal actions and we say them with serious intent and expect them to be understood and not ridiculed.

That aspect of our conversation was one reason I started writing dialogue poems 30 years ago. They may be poems or just doggerel, I'm not sure. I am fairly certain it is impossible to say which from inside them. This one, for instance:

Those Who Have Ears
"I see what you mean."
"You see what I mean?"
"Sure. I see what you mean."
"How can you do that?"
"Do what?"
"See what I mean."
"It's just a figure of speech."
"What does that mean?"
"A figure of speech."
"Come on!"
"No, have you ever thought about it?"
"Thought about what?"
"That we use precisely that word: figure of speech."
"So what?"
"So, you have to see a figure."
"You mean a figure is something you have to see."
"Yes."
"So you have to see a figure of speech."
"Yes!"
"I see what you mean."

I have a friend, Alex, who has taken up rock climbing. Rock climbing deserves an essay all to itself and much more but it is not what you would call virgin ground. Rock, I guess, in this case. Many folks have already written about it. And I'll eventually get around to writing some too. But today, as a climber myself, although some retired, I wanted to tell you to your eyes that the more you do it, the more you see what it means. The picture here is me in a very difficult (at least for me) 5.10b jam crack on the granite of Gate Buttress in Little Cottonwood Canyon down from Alta and Snowbird ski areas. Of course it was summer and I could easily have just said the canyons east of Salt Lake City. But Salt Lake City is a nervous name for me. Someday I'll go into that, too.

The climb pictured here with with that 'natural athlete' photo of me apparently imitating someone with a wooden leg, is a narrow vertical jamb crack just under a single 150 foot pitch. You progress upward by jamming your toes and fingers into the crack and twisting to achieve the frictional torque necessary to hold your toes and fingers in place. It is awkward and painful to a degree. The width of the crack varies making the necessary depth and twist also vary. Progress upward can make you look like a praying mantis.

A trick of the canyon wind also mutes your rope-mates' voice. Rock climbers on long, exposed vertical pitches like this talk back and forth a lot. The climber above needs to keep just the right amount of tension on the rope. Too much affects your balance. Too little and the rope can get in the way at a critical time. People who haven't done it think rock climbers use the rope to climb with. They don't. They use it to fall with - 'coming off,' it's called. A climber fell to his death here the day after this picture was taken, so you can see having a rope to fall with is not always a successful strategy. The technical explanation of all this is complicated.

I spent a very long time in a position about three feet above the one shown in the photo. Briefly, I could not remove the piece of protection, called a hex nut, and the slings and carabiners attached to it from the back of the crack. I could not pass it and go on without untying from the rope and retying in, nor could I descend. My right ankle was turned at 90 degrees with all of my weight on it - like pogo-ing on a sprained ankle. The cliff face was slightly overhung and kept pushing me out of the crack.

When I finally joined my partner, Gordon Douglas, he said one thing. "You look like you been popping out your eyes with a cold spoon."

So I replied, "I see what you mean."

Cure for the Right Brain - the Z-Word

So, if you're a regular reader here (an admittedly valiant few), you have intuited by now that I am the victim of a two-pronged conundrum. The right-side prong is that I cannot yet get away again to the sanity of far border places. The left-hand prong is my vow of disciplined contribution here. One result is I see borders to 'walk' almost everywhere. The other result is that 'walk' has those single quote marks around it.

My latest 'walk' has to do with the border between the hemispheres of my brain. The model of distinct left brain and right brain attributes works in my stimulus reaction. As a wee lad people around me noticed I had two distinct gears: one very linear, the other very abstract. They also mostly said I was in neutral anyway so any progress made was invisible in the short term. Many would also argue that 60 years hasn't shortened the gap either. I say different, but then only to people with a good gap of their own.

The actual working of math problems for me is a very linear, teeth-gritted process. The understanding of math dancing however, is a gap-mouthed, slobbering enlightenment somewhere behind my eyeballs. The writing process brings the two sides much closer together. Some kinds of writing can be absentee -- you can sit in your chair and watch your fingers going on the keyboard. Not always, but sometimes. It's a guilty pleasure that feels like cheating. Where the hell is this coming from, you wonder. You may have run across something you wrote years ago and said to yourself, wow, did I write that? And sometimes you say it because you're surprised it's so good. Other times because the stink is rolling off it in waves so large you wonder that people in the same room aren't knocked over and suffocated.

The actual working of research and writing it is horribly linear and hard on tooth enamel, like math problems. Neither does it bring the analytic left closer to the abstract right of my brain processes, as do other types of writing. I was tutored in research by such greats as Mrs. Wheeler and Mr. Waterson, scourges of the upper elementary grades whose students left their classes with 3 x 5 index cards protruding from every possible bodily orifice. Summaries only. Lifting material directly onto index cards was punishable by being killed twice. Use of encyclopedia articles was controlled by a requirement that half of those used must refer both to the article's author and background authority to write such an article. A sensible and short topic paragraph. Logical progression of the argument. Citations clothed with explanations of your own making. A badly done research paper was a suicide bomb. Hard days. Hard days.

Now, having been reincarnated as a grad student, the days are much better. Oh wait. Grad students do research papers. Crap! For a while there I was saved by software. First Reference Manager, then ProCite cataloged my reading and allowed me to tie electronic strings between sources and notes. But Vista and Word 2007 killed that. My research world was once again being blown apart and my right brain permanently fenced out by my left - anal retentive, plodding, tentative side that it is. Software no worky. Krikey!

ProCite was never too good, maybe even as good, as 3 x 5 cards in note-taking and connecting notes to sources. But at least the "CWYW" feature (which I always accurately misunderstood to mean see what you write, rather than cite what you write) worked through Windows XP and Word 2003. But since Vista? Poof!

The cure - the hedline teaser - for this mental urban rubble comes courtesy of a bunch of do-gooders at George Mason University in the Center for History and New Media. It is a Mozilla Firefox FREE plug-in, Zotero. It is ohmygod stuff. That link you just passed takes you to a video explaining Zotero's capabilities. As I write this there is a friendly little link down in the right-hand corner of this screen, zotero. And it will free the right side of my brain.

Will it make my research papers better? Hmmm... I'd settle for harder to detonate.

Coastal Borders: Mysterious Science

I worked in Maine once. I found it a singular borderlands. Native speakers have a language of misplaced Rs. Stories and their tellers wait just behind every grimace, every sigh. Maine was another country to me, somewhere between Carolyn Chute and the Boston Symphony. You might run into characters from either down any road.

I once did a story about a little-known lab at McKown Point in Boothbay Harbor. I posted it over on the Walk the Lines, Tell the Tales sister blog. [SINCE I WROTE THAT I HAVE TAKEN IT OFF WALK THE LINES BECAUSE IT WASN'T A TALL TALE, IT WAS TRUE] Bigelow Laboratory for Ocean Science. That was 1989. It's still there, still doing ocean science perched on the coast of a place of such beauty it makes you hurt.

There was a guy there, a scientist, who didn't make it into that '89 story. He had a grant from the Navy to study ocean calms. You look out over a big expanse of water - a lake or reservoir say - and you see ripples and waves and you see those places where it is smooth as glass. Those are calms, places where the water doesn't seem affected by the wind or currents. On Chuckanut Drive between here and Bellingham, you can park and watch these calms shift and dance like bubbles in a lava lamp.

Well, this guy, this scientist, had a grant from the U.S. Navy to study calms. He was going to find out what caused them and how to predict where they would start and where they would go. He would find out if maybe they resulted from a convergence of currents, or maybe the sea floor topography, or upwelling of warmer water, or whatever.

He had a small office in the upstairs looking out over the bay. When I met him he had been looking out his window through a pair of binoculars. When he put them down to talk with me he rubbed his temples with his fingers and then placed the heel of each hand over one eye and just held it there for almost a full minute.

"I've got to push my eyes back into their sockets," he said. "Damn magnification sucks 'em right out of my head."

Finally I got around to asking the question.

"No, fuck no," he said. It's not a dumb question. Satellites can track a nuclear sub very easily in an ocean calm. Their propellor cavitation leaves no footprint in most conditions but they travel through a calm and they pop out like flashing neon. So the Navy would like to know how to predict and avoid them. They are paying me to find out. The Bay bottom is mapped to the centimeter. I've deployed instruments for temperature and currents. I can tell when a lobster wiggles its butt. I'll find out.

So here was a guy - a plainspoken, clear, concise scientist - and looking back I can't even begin to count how many borders he was looking at through those big glasses.

He also did much of his research in the Gulf of Maine so asked him if I could tag along with him one time. He said sure. But I never got around to getting back to him before I left Maine and returned west.

In and Out of Ruts

Both the Oregon and California Trails, with cutoffs and alternates, have left a physical and chronological mark on the borderlands of Utah, Idaho, Wyoming and Nevada where- hope to God - I'll be walking again soon. Those were the interstates of the times though. Wagon tracks criss-cross the real West. In some places the country is sensitive, despite its best efforts at putting on a contrary face. Any place where more than 100 knife-wheeled wagons passed or re-passed in a season tells that tale to educated or experienced eyes.

This map from Chaco Roads, John Kantner

Any time spent walking arid western deserts qualifies as class time, although some preconditions have to be met. The first is you have to think about how you would get a wagon across the country you're looking at. The second is you have to be looking at country not already populated by dirt, gravel and tarmacked roads - not so common these days. The third is you have to know where things are or were. Rivers, ravines, and ranges need crossing if there are between point A and B. Box canyons with no water, pasture or ore don't get many visits. Traffic lines are actually fairly predictable if you ponder on it for a while.

There are some historical exceptions - at least one that I know of - that maybe work to prove the rule. That exception would be the Anasazi roads around Chaco Canyon around the 4-corner borderlands in northern Arizona and southern Colorado. For reasons only guessed at the Anasazi built straight directional roads, sometimes in pairs only yards apart, through redrock country. They carved steps on cliff faces to keep to a true direction. From the time they stopped being used in the 12th century or so, until just some decades ago, the Anasazi roads were invisible to the logic of travel.

A satellite filming vegetation in the infrared spectrum prompted the first official investigators. Amazingly straight lines appeared in the desert where such lines are unnatural. They had to be vegetation as only living matter would show in that hue of red. When human eyes reached the spot they found curb-like structures of laid stone 30 feet wide that trapped what little moisture there was in parallel troughs. More water, more plants. Stone roads in the desert, hundreds of years old. Some straight as a compass reading where no known compasses existed. Straight in defiance of topography and good sense.

The Anasazi roads are still a puzzle. The current take is that they are religious in nature, rather than functional. I don't know. Many of Chaco's mysteries are put on the altar of ancient religion. I know a lot of people around here pray about roads.

Floods in Season (Turn, turn, turn...)

The official measure for the Stilly as of the time of this writing is 21 feet above flood stage. The photo here taken yesterday showed the water moving between 19 and 20 feet on the gauge. It's still raining here so the real crests won't come until this afternoon around four p.m. It is supposed to be getting cooler. That means instead of rain in the mountains and melting snow it will begin to snow again. That's either good news or delayed bad news - too soon to tell.

Seattle is cut off from all points south and east. The Chehalis River has overflowed I-5 in parts of a 20-mile stretch. The passes are closed over the Cascades to the east for fear of avalanches and mud slides. The Interbay area between Queen Anne and Magnolia, two Seattle communities, had a largish mudslide early in the a.m. More than a 50-foot swathe was reported to have crushed a carport and four bikes. No one was killed. Hard to imagine that even being news but Seattle people take their bikes very seriously. And really, mudslides around here can kill many people and change the topography in a very disturbing and personal way.

I'm posting a column I wrote way back in 1998 to the Walk the Lines, Tell the Tales sister blog. Looking at moving water in flooding rivers is a personally disturbing experience to me. A very graphic dream about my own death in a stream many years ago kept me from several river rafting trips. But it faded over time and I entered the waters again as a fly fisherman and canoeist. At least until the experience I report in the story, titled Sweepers.

Floods - Part of the Season

I am sandwiched by rivers. The Stilly on the north, the Snohomish on the south. Then Puget Sound via Possession Sound immediately to the west. These are large flow rivers draining their Cascade watersheds immediately to the east.

Winters are flood times here. Big floods happen when there has been a lot of snow (check), then warming with rain (check). This is true for most of western Washington with the difference being the relative increase in miles for the rivers to reach the ocean and the relative small difference in feet above sea level for the river's course. When a lot of snow melts and combines with a lot of rain, these rivers fill fast and just as quickly top their banks and fill their flood plains.

I took this picture just below the junction of the north and south forks of the Stillaguamish, what we call the Stilly. I'm looking north from Haller Park at the old and now unused railroad bridge that still spans the river here. The water is flowing from right to left, east to west. The water is moving between 19 and 20 feet. I just Flip-filmed a 100 foot tree, roots still attached, shooting past this point at a pretty good clip. It zipped through the railroad bridge abutments but hit the central abutment on the Highway 9 bridge sideways and backed up a huge wave for several minutes. Then another cut log with what looked like a two or three foot diameter swept down the current and rammed it on one side snapping it in two. The halves squirted on downstream.

Calculating the exact force that bridge abutment had to withstand would be an interesting exercise for an engineer and that would be exactly what the building specification would require. But think about it. Force is calculated by multiplying the surface area on the log (which changes as the water flows around its circular trunk and a drag factor also would have to be added) by the density of the water (water weighs about 2.2 pounds per liter) by the square of the water's velocity. I think that's pretty close to the right calculation, maybe another reader can add corrections, if needed. But the resulting force is then also transferred to the point of contact on that central pier.

In Path of the Paddle, Bill Mason says the force of an eight mph current on a canoe caught in a similar predicament can be two tons. I know from experience that you won't be moving that canoe against that current. The water flowing in the Stilly is traveling at what looks to be at least 20 mph, maybe faster.

Rivers Rising

Rivers will flood shortly. I looked for the anthology on rivers that Gary Holthaus contributed to, along with many others but have as yet not found it. One problem with owning a lot of books is figuring out where to put them all. This one must be either packed away or is hiding somewhere among the shelves. I recall it being over-sized, wider than it is tall, mimicking the landscape of looking at a river. Rivers are and will be a major theme of borders. That, I guess, is obvious.

Taxes, Ha! Death Should Be Enough

Henry Miller spent a whole book talking about his connection to his parents. I don't remember right now whether it was in Nexus, which would make sense, or Plexus, both part of his self-obsessed multi-volume collection he labeled The Rosy Crucifixion, composed of seven titles all told. I read all of them a long time ago, what seems like at least two lifetimes and many border crossings ago. Not because I, like Miller, was obsessed with all things sex and self at the time, although I was, but because he was a writer who just seemed to let loose.

Execrable he was to decent folk - not a word or sentence structure that appears in most blogs. He was generally detested. Too wordy and rambling as a writer, too quick to make everything into an opportunity to fornicate or eat, too facile an imagination with his own history. His books were banned in the U.S. for straightforward lewdness up until just a couple of decades before last. What's not to like? Henry walked in many of those borderlands I have only imagined, certainly international in scope (he wrote and published mostly in Europe) if extremely local in topic. Libido, I would argue, is a local and very subjective map.

As it happens, the apex of my Miller reading occurred in the Four Corners borderland near Telluride, Colorado, in the late '70s. I think. I share a soft memory of timeline with Henry, but the town was still mostly a rundown former mining settlement just starting to be a ski town then. I just posted a story on the sister non-blog to this one you might enjoy. Or you might not, what the hell. It does touch on fornication though, if you're interested.

I've mostly moved away from fornication and Miller to death and Julian Barnes and Jules Renard. Fornication and death are sometimes compared with a small equal sign. I am not yet old enough to know why but I'm of an age to find the latter more interesting than the former. I've got a different take on Across the Borderline, the song written by Ry Cooder, John Hiatt and Jimmy Dickinson for a movie called The Border about Mexican drug trafficking. This is one of those songs that grows to mean much more. It expands to easily fit the proportions of a Roland Barthes 'Myth' with a capital M. It was sung right by Willie Nelson on the album of the same title. You just listen to Willie sing the first verse and the chorus and you have the death thing pretty well nailed. And the Rio Grande flows easily into the waters of Lethe.

The Borders of Old Men

Old men have all kinds of borders. Since blog experts tell you that statistics and facts are valued by blog readers, I'll even tell you the number: 743. If you're really bored some time (well, you're reading this aren't you?) you can make a list. I don't have to make a list because I carry those 743 in the creases and wrinkles they have etched.

Besides, with old men the what and how many aren't as important as the developed adeptness at moving over and through those borders. When this year started I was going broke. One day later I was on my way to earning my next, albeit small, fortune. My finances haven't changed a lick, nor have my prospects. What has happened is that I have moved through the borderlands, examined the country, reassessed the lay of the land. Borders, when you carry your years right, aren't fences, they are mysteries. Everywhere and nowhere.

I have young women friends all over the world. My wife is okay with that. She likes that I talk with attractive, intelligent women like her. She says it improves my sense of humor and other areas that you don't need to know about. I like it also because it is a way to walk along a social border of monogamy in a mental world of polygamy.

Don't misunderstand me. I don't respond to Fey, who has a picture I can look at and wants to be a friend of mine on Skype. Not because Fey is by all counts really Dlohg from Pitesti but because as an old man I have no borders to cross in that direction. I block Fey/Dlohg. My women friends have been and are all people I want to talk with for hours about what they think and see and do.

Women are inherently more interesting to old men than other old men. I've taken a poll and fully 93 percent of the respondents said yes when asked that question. The other seven percent merely gibbered unintelligibly. But I hadn't yet taken my medication that prevents gibbering. That said, I admit that I did not ask any of my gay friends the question.

One of my women friends sent a concerned email when she read I was going broke and expressed relief that the next day I was back on track. She is living and traveling in Europe. Others sent concerns from Mexico and South America. Old men must be ready to move across many borders, sometimes in many directions at once.

All borders, it can be said, should be open to examination and exploration. I know that because I have, in fact, just said it. Old men who have put their time to good use know how to place their footsteps and make the journey worth taking. And wouldn't it be nice if they died trying?

Mind Border

There are all kinds of borders. I said that yesterday walking in the rain. It is still true today in spectacular sun and winter clouds. And what's funny is the same physical place can be a border for many things. Or maybe that's not so funny as much as obvious. The state I was in yesterday is not the state I am in today though; that I know.

I took the same walk on Grand Avenue that I took yesterday but the terrain was completely different. The grand houses clustering on the north end? Not real. Sure, there is the real-life mansion on the 300 block of Alverson, but Alverson isn't yet Grand Avenue. You don't really get to Grand Avenue until you get to Maulsby Lane. What you run into going south isn't those grand houses I imagined in the mist but a fairly typical mix of middle class houses. And yes, the prices are not what you could classify as middle class but neither is the view - when you can see it.

The photo above is from just about the same place as the one I posted yesterday. See, there is a carrier docked there at Everett Naval Station, the U.S.S. Lincoln. And when you finally reach the Grand Avenue Park across from the late Senator Henry M. "Scoop" Jackson's home it becomes just a rather large white house on the corner of a block with some other rather large houses. They're all nice older houses that you might associate with "old money" but not grand, and certainly not movie or sports star ostentatious. Not fifty bedroom mansions with double that in bathrooms. Maybe more like fifteen bedrooms.

Yesterday I was about to go broke. Today I'm on the edge of remaking my [very small] fortune.

The Border of Money

There are all kinds of borders. I like to walk along what could be called a socioeconomic border in nearby Everett, WA. In about 15 minutes I can be on Grand Avenue. At the north end it has grand houses, towards the southern part of my walk the houses are working class. The street runs along the top of a bluff overlooking a part of Puget Sound called Port Gardner, which used to be pretty much a working port and waterfront. Now, not so much.

The biggest of the big houses are multistory and have views, although not today. It's raining and there is a heavy mist between my eyes and the yachts moored at Everett Marina and Everett Naval Station, where only a hint of our big carrier suggests itself. Hat Island seems to be there and Whidbey Island's coast appears and disappears. That view west is as gray as my thoughts.

A couple of hundred feet below at the bottom of the bluff are the train tracks used as a switching yard but the clanks and groan of humping rail cars are also muffled in the mist of January. The tracks hug the bottom of the bluff north under the big houses and run south to the paper mill that dominates the shoreline and the views of the raggedy houses where its workers once lived. They now house poor people from all walks of life.

A few of the relatively smaller north end houses are for sale: $695,900, price reduced. Of course the really big ones do not include prices or a plastic box stuffed with Xeroxed full color description sheets screwed to the For Sale post. They cost what they cost. Scoop Jackson's house is on Grand Avenue so, you know.

I like to walk on Grand Avenue. In the rain. In January. On the first day of the year I'll probably go broke. Which is another story and one that certainly isn't and won't be original.