a traveling travel writer stops over in Ojai

At the Ojai’s Farmer’s Market today a friend encouraged me to talk to the “poet, travel writer, and embodied writing coach” afrose fatima ahmed. She was sitting at a table in the shade near the center of the little farmer’s market. So I did, and asked her for a poem.

I asked her for a poem on the subject of “lost paradise” and she took it in with seriousness, and a frown, and thought it over for a second or two, and then rapidly typed it out on a little manual typewriter. This is what she wrote. It’s what she calls a “heart-crafted poem.”

lost paradise

how could I have misplaced
somewhere so special to me?

I went searching
for that oasis
in the high desert

for the softness
of the yucca

for the canyons where deer
can dance without fear
of being struck by vehicles

losing holiness
hands heavy   bereft

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Yes.

Sea lion attacks kayaker with octopus

In an extraordinary incident, a sea lion flung an octopus at a young man kayaking near a New Zealand shore, and was caught live on a digital camera. The clip went viral around the world. National Public Radio’s Rachel Cohen followed up with a wonderfully thorough and appropriately playful story. Check it out: it’s astonishing:

Turns out what the sea lion (mistakenly identified originally as a seal) was doing was playing with his food. And also smacking it on the surface or any nearby rocks or such, to break it up and make it more edible.

(Hey, it’s the weekend! Enjoy.)

What’s wrong with reality? (Red Desert)

It’s not a coincidence, surely, that Monica Vitti in the Italian movie poster for Michelangelo Antonioni’s classic Red Desert, from l964, assumes the position of the tormented man on the bridge in The Scream by Edvard Munch

Most of Antonioni’s movies seem to begin with a beautiful woman, usually Monica Vitti, rushing from the social scene in a state of emotional turmoil, risking themselves, and alarming their lovers and friends. That drama is part of “Red Desert,” but certainly not all, as it turns into a mother-and-child story at times. Almost it becomes an updated female version of the classic Bicycle Thief, with a desperate and hurting parent searching an unforgiving landscape with a sole companion,  her little son.

Towards the end of the film, the bereft mother says to her would-be lover Richard Harris, “There’s something terrible about reality, but I don’t know what it is.”

Dirt: People of the PCT (Oregon 2018)

This is Dirt, with whom I briefly crossed paths at about mile TK on the PCT. We had a short but interesting conversation that’s still very alive for me. Our brief dialogue touched on two or three or so topics, but seemed full of the immense uncertainty of human life.

Quite possibly I might never see this person again. On the other hand, who knows, in another world I might fall into a rhythm of walking with him and we could become trail buddies.

We started to chat a little and I asked him if I could take his picture.

He shrugged.  “I always mean to take more pictures of people on the trail, but I don’t do it.”

Dirt was in pursuit of a friend he made in the Sierra. He said his buddy was about 160 miles ahead of him. He wanted to catch him so they could make it to Canada together.

“He’s doing twenty-five mile days,” Dirt said. “So that means I have to do thirties.”

 

Stunt journalism scores again (in the Guardian)

A terrific story today in the Guardian puts the infamous all-beef diet extolled by Jordan Peterson and his clan to the test. This could be described as a stunt journalism, much like Supersize Me, but given that we’re talking about food; yes, it’s fair. It’s reporting. Gabbatt does talk to a medical expert, who sharply tells him to get off it.

It’s a great story and it’s a reminder that what some call “stunt journalism” has a long and honorable history, if you think about it. After all, Walden — “an experiment in living” as Thoreau said — could be described as a literary form of stunt journalism.

Puttering about in a Small Land (Philip K. Dick book review)

Ojai through the eyes of a great American writer

Philip K. Dick, now widely considered the most brilliant of all science fiction writers, wrote hundreds of extraordinarily imaginative stories and forty-four novels, and — like an innovative artist who only becomes famous after his death — in recent years has had his work splashed across all sorts of screens, including two current television series (“The Man in the High Castle,” and “Electric Dreams”) and numerous movies, including “Minority Report” and “Blade Runner.”

But before becoming known in science fiction in the 1960’s, the relentlessly hard-working, fast-typing Dick wrote a half-dozen traditional novels. The best of these, most critics agree, is “Puttering About in a Small Land.” Although not published until shortly after Dick’s death in l985, it’s still in print, and though conventional in form, a little shocking in content: half suburban angst, half film noir. To read this book is to see a literary x-ray of Ojai, beautiful but stark, a place physically and psychically removed from the rest of Southern California.

Ojai in the novel has an almost frightening beauty. Dick focuses on the wealth and privilege of white people in Ojai as well as the allure of the land, including barren, fire-scarred hills, prowling hunters with guns, and Mexican workers who know the land better than the white residents. The dominant character in Ojai in the novel is the head of a private school, the imperious Mrs. Alt, who embodies the power and wealth of the school, but seems to care not at all for traditional middle-class values like fidelity in marriage.

As Ojai contrasts with Los Angeles, Alt stands apart from the other characters in this post-war story. She runs the Los Padres Valley School, as it is known in the novel, and from her aerie in the hills looks down on the town, much as she seems to look down on the young couples in this novel.

In real life, Dick — the only child of unhappily married parents who divorced when he was five — attended such a school. His father abandoned the family, as the father in this book abandons his son, and as a teenager Dick himself attended a boarding school in Ojai, the long-gone California Preparatory School. At that time the school was housed in what once was the grand Foothills Hotel.

His counterpart in the novel, a boy named Gregg, is put in the school by his ambitious mother, Virginia, against the wishes of the father Roger Lindahl, a small-minded man who owns an electronics shop in Los Angeles. Mrs. Alt observes the conflict between the parents with cool dispassion. When Roger drives up to Ojai to pull Gregg out of school, the day after his wife enrolled the boy against his father’s wishes — because of the cost — Alt does not object. She returns the check, but observes sharply that the strong-willed Virginia was in “a state of great tension” when she dropped off Gregg the day before. To an admiring Roger, Mrs. Alt “was an “I-take-no-shit-from-anyone woman.” Roger changes his mind and lets Gregg stay.

Dick’s biographer suggests that his time at boarding school was a refuge from an unhappy family home for Dick. Ojai appears to have awed him, and he returned to visit later in life. In “Puttering about in a Small Land,” the long drive from Los Angeles through the wild hills alarms the mother Virginia. Dick describes what is now the well-marked Highway 150 from Santa Paula to Ojai with a touch of the menace for which his imagination later became known

          Their road…took them through a dense pack of trees, up a rise away from the farm country and orchards and fields. Tangled growth appeared; they entered an abandoned area that gave her the shivers. The road became narrow and tortuous and again she was aware of the desolation, the between-towns emptiness. Once, she and Gregg saw a hunter with a gun. Signs everywhere warned: NO TRESPASSING. PRIVATE PROPERTY. NO HUNTING OR FISHING. The hills had a hard, primitive vindictiveness, she thought. She noticed rusty barbed wire hanging from trees; it had been strung here and there and then — she supposed — cut away to make passage for some hunter.

Because the drive is hard on Virginia, at Mrs. Alt’s suggestion she and Roger carpool with another couple with boys at the school, the businessman Chic Bonner and his wife Liz. Roger ends up driving to and from the school with the attractive if restless Liz. She can tell he’s attracted to her, but scoffs out loud at the idea of a fling — and then impulsively changes her mind, weary of her overweight husband and his unsatisfying sexuality.

This “other woman” in real life, according to biographer Lawrence Sutin, was based on a dark-haired woman with whom young Dick had an affair after seven years of marriage to his first wife. When Dick’s wife Kleo found out about the affair she went away for a time to let Dick think it over, and the affair cooled. Kleo let it pass, and in fact had the dark-haired woman (who has not been named by biographers) over for dinner with her. The dark-haired woman confessed to Kleo, “I never feel like I know a man unless I go to bed with him.”

In the novel, Roger’s Virginia discovers the affair, and confronts Liz. Liz wants to marry Roger, or even continue the affair. Mrs. Alt at the school encourages Roger to marry Liz; she likes them both, and even set aside a room at the school for their assignations. With a school group of kids and Mrs. Alt, Liz and Roger go on one last camping trip into the hills above the school. They camp by a fire under the stars and Roger once again kisses Liz.

But in the morning, unable to face her or his wife, he loads his cars with televisions and leaves for Chicago, abandoning his life out West. Liz takes her two boys and leaves Chic, never speaking of her fling, so as not to lose custody. Chic goes into business at the electronics store with Virginia, who also never reveals the affair to Chic. Their business succeeds, and Roger is not missed, and all seems placid — on the surface.

Dick — who married five times in his fifty-three years — loved many women but could not make a marriage last. With a spectacular imagination, he dramatized his existential doubts about the trustworthiness of reality itself in his science fiction, but in “Puttering About in a Small Land” he brought forward smaller but similarly corrosive doubts about the American dream.

For him, far-off Ojai was a sort of temporary respite from the dreary suburban life of an everyman: beautiful but harsh, and — despite its romance — ultimately unsustainable for most people. In an introduction to a collection of his short stories issued many years later, Dick wrote:

          I became educated to the fact that the greatest pain does not coming zooming down from a distant planet, but up from the depths of the heart. Of course, both could happen; your wife and child could leave you, and you could be sitting alone in your empty house with nothing to live for, and in addition the Martians could bore through the roof and get you.

 

 

 

Great trees of the PCT — honestly, how is this even possible?

The force through which the green fuse drives the flower and this tree — my God Almighty, How is this even possible? The first vegetation of any stature whatsoever seen in miles and miles along the PCT through a laval field.

At mile 1986, about, near a junction to dayhike to a crater (that sounds great) called Little Belknap. A Tsuga, or mountain hemlock (pine) I think.

Cowboy camping on the PCT: from Crater Lake Nat’l Park to Timberline Lodge in Oregon

What does it mean to cowboy camp the PCT? Put simply, it means camping without a tent. Throwing down a mat and your bag (or your lighter and maybe even warmer down quilt) and using the stars for your night light, and dawn for your alarm clock.

But expand the definition a little and cowboy camping (for at least one older gent) means walking no more than ten hours a day, typically, and not expecting to cover the 25+ miles a day that thru-hikers need if they are to complete the 2650 mile in four months. It’s more than how many miles you traverse: it’s a question of when you call it a day, if beauty plays any part in the decision on where to camp, and how close you choose to be to the wilderness.

Here’s an example of a prime cowboy camp I improvised this year by a little lake on the PCT in Oregon called Jude Lake. In this case it’s on spagnum moss that most of the year would be much too mucky to lie on, but in mid-August was dry and soft to the touch.

To be honest, if a conventional campsite had been available, I would have taken it, and possibly even put up my tent, for the sake of privacy and sanctuary. But I’m glad I had to look around, because I ended up camping in a beauty otherwise unattainable, and I camped lightly, disturbing nothing (and not being disturbed in turn by as much as a single mosquito — believe it or don’t).

More to come on this section, but here’s the point: despite the John Wayneish connotations of “cowboy,” it’s actually a way to get closer to the wild, and enjoy it. To sleep with the earth, unafraid and grateful.

The Not-Quite-Sober John Muir (review)

Here’s a book review/essay I wrote a while back for a journal called Wild Earth, that I repost here on A Change in the Wind because I want it to be Google-able. Below the fold I’ll put it the remainder of the review in a standard font. For Muir admirers, please let me say it includes some of his “lost” poetry, and that it’s worth your five minutes.

Continue reading “The Not-Quite-Sober John Muir (review)”