... and now for something completely different

Bear over there, and there, and there...

2011-08-31T14:11:00.000-07:00

Another slow month, another archival trip.

My friends had expected to depart on a worthwhile hike early the next morning around dawn. A several mile jaunt up Mummy pass, and then a couple close 13ers (mountain peaks over 13k feet elevation) on the northern edge of Rocky Mountain National Park.

Unlike my friends who had managed to drift off to slumber in the adjacent cabins on the edge of our quiet glacial valley, insomnia gripped me and held fast. Tossing and turning, and turning and turning in my bunk my thoughts began to shift from my inability to sleep to the high probability of sleeping through my three alarms (which was not an infrequent occurrence) and then being left behind if I were to finally fall asleep being that it was already so much later than intended. Thus I grabbed my pack, wrote a note, and left with a six hour head start.

Mile after mile the trail passed below, expected exhaustion lurking around an upcoming bend, but for the moment I was energized and enjoying the view. Clear skies at altitude made for a celestial display unparalleled to any city lights, and the crisp mountain air was pleasantly thin. The rugged silhouette horizon of Rocky Mountain National Park framed the night sky while the noises of the night completed the experience with an ethereal soundtrack.

Such a moment. Such an all encompassing sensation. Hiking alone at 1am, there are few similar instances of elemental peace.

Until the eyes.

Glancing off trail to my left there flickered two eyes in my headlamp, then just as quickly as they had appeared, they vanished. Probably just a deer.

Less than a minute later, they appeared again, closer, and again after another minute.

Deer don't follow people, bears don't follow people, but mountain lions do. Why couldn't it be a bear, I like bears. Bears rarely charge, or act aggressively, and fewer still attack with yet fewer of those attacks actually killing people. Mountain lions on the other hand do attack more frequently and if they attack they want to kill so they can eat.

My hope is that I'm simply an unwanted trespasser so if I make a lot of noise, and keep moving in an expeditious manner I may pass through without incident.

Plan B? With my headlamp illuminating ahead of me, my backup flashlight is hopefully distracting or confusing while it points backwards. My knife is now open and carried in hand. If I am to become a mountain lion meal at least I won't be easy. Think soufle vs. tv dinner.

Ok, at this point I'm not overly concerned. I've been around mountain lions before. I've even almost walked into one on a trail when I turned a corner and found the back-end leaping into the brush only 3 feet away.

Again, the eyes. More hiking, more noise, more singing (from my deepest register so as to sound as big as possible), and still there they were again. And again, and again.

About a mile and a half later I'm above the cusp of timberline, tundra uphill to my right and stunted midget trees downhill to my left. It was there I again saw the eyes. It was there that for the first time the eyes were not the only thing to catch illumination. Rapidly turning to leap over a log and dropping out of sight was the fuzzy bear rump.

What is more frightening than being stalked in a predictable manner by a mountain lion? Being uncharacteristically stalked by a bear. They don't do that. Just like they don't attack without provocation, they don't just walk into a tent site and start gnawing on someones face.

I couldn't help but think about local news. Living on the east coast and hearing about a national park in Colorado searching for a deranged bear that woke up a camper by gnawing on his face and dragging him out of his tent is novel. Hiking alone, rapidly, at 2am in said national park only a couple weeks later with no news of a successful capture, is for lack of a better expression, unsettling.

My energy long since plummeted being replaced with exhaustion, but thanks to adrennaline saturated blood, I kept up the pace.

(to be continued...)

Ex-stream blogging and the soggy helmet

2011-07-07T16:33:00.000-07:00

Just a little further,

must go faster,

almost...

there.

No, never mind, how about this small overhanging rock beneath which spreads a lilliputian patch of ground not yet saturated. Why yes, this will do, sort of...

Beneath my knees I am soaking wet because not all of me fits under the only semblance of shelter for about a mile in either direction. (There may be others but they are also rare, small and likely overlooked except for moments of great need) The trail only inches away from my feet is faring far worse, or shall I say the recently developed stream is faring rather well with measurable flow rate, and if I wasn't on the east face of Mount Manitou, I dare say small fish could find adequate habitat within its energetic ripples.

At present I am bemoaning my choice of closing statements found at the end of my last entry. Admittedly I wanted out of the metaphorical archive, however it would seem to be at the bequest of karma's contemptible sense of humor I am now found to be quite literally, outside.

Outside, during an unusually impressive (and close) lightning storm, under an average boulder (this is the safest option, it is far lower than any of the surrounding trees), three feet from an impromptu waterway. Here I find myself waiting out the very abrupt deluge,

by blogging.

(Disclaimer: I am indeed writing this blog entry, however due to the welcome lack of wi-fi in Pike National Forest, posting will be delayed until I return to an established network, or when forwarded in partially written form as a warning to people that blogging outside in a downpour saturated with lightning under a small lip of granite is not what most intellectually sufficient individuals would consider wise)

Out of all the many questions you may be asking yourself, I expect one may be "What idiot takes a netbook on a 13mile hike, but no rain gear?."

This idiot.

Typically found on the implied, though non-existent list of 10 hiking non-essentials, netbooks must be one of the relatively plausible items most absurd to take with when strolling into the backcountry. (Downpour is slowing, I need to go while I can. To be continued)

(ahhh, dry pants are comfortable pants)
Basically those of you who know me know that rain is hardly something to slow, let alone stop me when hiking, but when non-hardened gear is in peril...

So to answer the question of why I brought non-hardened electronics, without bringing rain gear... this mornings hike was not even a single synapse of forethought before reaching a coffee chain at 7am to chemically compensate for the 4hour nap which should have been 8hours of sleep. Surfing on my netbook revealed a group hike on a casual trail with a then barely attend-able start time. Why not?

Hence, my netbook and lack of rain gear.

Before you (overly) critique my level of preparation please note that the most essential tool is the mind. I was more than supplied to make fire, purify water, eat unpleasant plants/bugs/hikers, navigate, and of course find shelter or push through weather on the short/established/popular trail. Protecting sensitive electronics was thus an improbable task relegated to improvisation, and ultimately, execution.

and The Soggy Helmet?

I do appreciate that I can take my motorcycle to trailheads for pennies per mile. I do appreciate that because of a helmet lock I do not need to take my helmet with me when hiking for fear of theft. I however do not appreciate what looks like a helmet with only surface moisture dumping cold water down my neck when I have no need of cooling down, followed by the inevitability of my cranium engulfed in a foggy cold wet sponge for the duration of the ride home.

You should have been there....

(You could have given me a ride)

Honestly, it was fun... What did you today?

Archives, this must be remedied.

2011-06-30T15:01:00.000-07:00

Something must be written, it's been far too long.

Even more pressing however is the fact that I need more interesting things to write about. This is not to say that my life has been wholly mundane, as that is far from the truth. Instead It simply has not been interesting enough.

Maybe I am becoming accustomed to an ever increasing threshold after a few more bike races complete with almost being run over, avoiding a riders unintentional dismounts and cascading steeds. As well as an afternoon stroll up the Manitou Incline into a microburst complete with lightning, gusting winds and pouring rain. (This would not be so much an issue if it were not for the lightning, sopping slippery ties terracing the precipitous 2000ft staircase, and of course wearing only cotton.)

Accustomed, ... not likely, things are relative, and relatively speaking those are only slightly more exciting than a new screen saver.

Let me take you back, back to a time when I never knew where I would be each afternoon. Where lunch breaks could be at a sunny 14k feet above sea level with fresh donuts and hot chocolate, or a pouring deluge requiring shelter to prevent a high-voltage end as a result of working on an 8mile long, 1.3 mile high lightning rod.

Preferring to mix things up a bit instead of a casual hammock nap on this particular afternoon, I headed out on a stroll. After strolling for only a few minutes I strolled right onto a bridge. In the midst of Pike National Forest lay a utility bridge to support a water pipeline alongside a narrow walkway. Somewhere near 150' long and 100' high it was interesting enough at a cursory glance, but this trestle had a much more engaging side.

Underside.

Beneath the pipe and catwalk lay a web of 3" steel slats and girders strung end to end with occasional crisscross sections. Why bother with the catwalk which a fearful person could and would likely only walk across with their eyes closed when there is a perfectly functional underside to "walk" across. No handrails and every footfall overhanging each support on either side returns the child like wonder and awe of bridges, which as we grow older tends to fade as they become mundane and ordinary. Not to mention the toddler like fear of not being able to balance walking a straight line on a 3" slat, ok so the 100' abyss below the slat had something to do with that.

(I have long been intending a return with rigging to renew not only the joy of bridges, but that of swings, 100' high swing. The trees below are mere details)

Why not even a camera phone photo?

Like I said, let me take you back, back to a time before camera phones.
(Does this make me sound old?)

Can't wait to compose outside the archive...

Dignity? We don't need no stinkin' dignity

2011-04-26T14:17:00.000-07:00

I had hoped to capture an image as racers passed where they would appear sharp, well lit, and with the background appearing as an under-exposed blur. Lacking a human assistant, I attempted rigging one.

Running parallel to the trail is not exactly stable terrain with tufts of thick grass, rocks, rodent burrows, and cactus all making a sideways run that much more difficult especially when pacing the racers, while looking through a viewfinder, with a flash being dragged through the air with my pants.

Did it work, welllll sort of, though not exactly as I had hoped. (See image of Doug Johnson on my Photo blog)

This was just another element to a not-so-average shoot. However it was far preferable when compared to my having started the day by dropping down for a unique perspective adjacent to a rock obstacle only to painfully leap back into the air after my bum made direct and forceful contact with a most well endowed mini-cactus lurking beneath the clump of dry grass.

Then of course not one racer shall forget the olfactory assault that is the aromatic munition of an expired skunk. Mind you this is not the typical stench of the pungent bi-colored creature, but the experience which comes from said quadruped having its post-mortal shell take up residence in the middle of the trail, and consequently get run over, repeatedly. (Note: If you are the old guy who decided it best to fling the most rancid carcass from the trail, yes it was not an optimal location, however out of courtesy to those spectators already tolerating the atmospheric contamination, must you have poked and then thrown the skunk with a stick?)

Did I mention forgoing dignity when in front of a half-dozen spectators I jumped down onto the trail get a close up shot of the skunk, for some reason that's not an image the other pros went for.

(Tech detail for my rigged "assistant")
Paracord, rocks, a big stick, my monopod, more rocks, a bush, a short tent pole, caribiners, a previously constructed flash housing, and of course the sacrificed pride and dignity in order to use such a rig. In the above photo the flash is in its housing dangling from the paracord anchored on one end to the bush, and behind me on the other end to a rock, buried under another rock wedged against a boulder, which also supported my monopod to vector the cord higher than the boulder, and then over a taller forked stick to vector the line higher than the monopod. In the image you will also see the tent pole attached to the flash housing, shortly after it disappears out of frame it has another caribiner clipped to my pants.

What's next? (multiple choice, short answer, essay, or ?)

2011-02-11T12:08:00.000-08:00

I am approaching one year since my early departure from the windy city, and here it is that I am sitting again, writing in the same coffee shop only feet from where I started this blog.

My life situation is... could be good, bad, or ugly, depending upon on the perspective of truth.

The Good(or at least amusing):
This past year I have traveled all over the US, doing professional photography, personal photography, or both. I have driven thousands of miles, and flown even more in both tiny propeller planes and large jets. I have sat at the edge of tolerance in a cubicle staring for 10hours straight at a computer monitor performing work typical of corporate America, while later spending hours hanging in a climbing harness or crawling through muddy cave passageway.

There have been days spent alone in some of NYCs worst neighborhoods "protecting" expensive equipment, and days spent in a casual coffee shop reading up on business models where the greatest risk is emailing on an unsecured wireless network. I have hiked trails in Sleepy Hollow NY, Columbia River Gorge OR, Mt. Rose NV, and a handful of 14k ft. peaks in CO.. There have been vast quantities of paperwork, physical labor, sleeping in rental cars, caffeine, and mosquitoes.

I have had to explain myself in a police station relying only upon my personality and sense humor, and later relying only on experience to capture interesting photos of an indoor bike race. There have been signs for arsenic laced water, people flying off of horseback, and being shot on sight. I have been offered a free Mercedes to drive, blessed with three weeks of complimentary 4/5star breakfasts, and had a red carpet rolled out for me and my pilot after landing. I've fixed a flat tire with a quarter ton of rocks and two dozen saplings, while I've also fixed a quarter million dollar camera system with a swift kick.

Any regular readers of my writing should understand I aim to surpass the simple title of wordsmith and thus trend more towards word-alchemist. I search for those unique elements in the ordinary, and when the current ordinary is homogeneous from all honesty based perspectives, I strive to create my own new ordinary as an antitheses to generic reality, pushing further into the novel realm with a fluid perspective.

Yet it is not for the sake of words that I manipulate reality towards a more captivating storyline, but as a student with required reading, I want to enjoy the story no matter the content, and when possible, favorably manipulate all that is remotely open for interpretation. I think in a conglomeration of words, pictures, colours, sounds, and energy which is greater than the sum of all parts. But it is here in the reflection of my momentary realities I attempt to convey traces of these thoughts and experiences with only the written word, and occasional photo(s?).

So what is my current perspective?

What's next...? and I would really like to know soon!

Fragile? Handle with care? So then how do I do cave photography?

2011-01-03T15:08:00.000-08:00

Details are not necessary, but suffice it to say that the camera gear in the bags and cases lashed to my old backpack frame amount to a value easily four times that of my SUV. Not only is it expensive, but it's also heavy, 65lbs heavy. Part of the cost assures a durability higher than your average wal-mart special point & shoot camera, but there is no escaping the nature of camera gear. Lots of precise mechanical and electrical components in addition to the glass. Perfectly clear precissely ground lenses. No amount of hardening will ever make glass appreciate blunt force trauma, dirt, and did I mention trauma.

What sort of trauma you may ask? Why the sort of trauma which is not far removed from probable when six pounds of camera and lens is hoisted twenty-five feet in the air at the end of an eight foot monopod, while I hold only the bottom foot long section over my head, all while standing on a narrow muddy rock fin twelve feet above the cave floor.

But that's only a potential disaster. There was no avoiding the necessary transit.

After hiking ~half a mile up the canyon and then 300ft above the floor we finally reached the entrance to Swirling Mist cave. The pelican case was remove from my backpack frame and then stuffed onto a toy sled along with my other lowepro and padded dry bags. Many minutes and creative knots later I was crawling through the narrow cave passage dragging the equipment filled sled by means of a chord tied to my ankle. For the most part the bags stayed on but from time to time my ankle felt slightly less likely to rip off my ankle, thus necessitating the need to reattach something to the bulbous load.

Thankfully I was not alone. I was joined by two fellow cavers who knew what they were getting into. Mostly.

The tricky part was shuffling everything up, and then down a chimney section. The environmental gate at the top was probably twenty-five feet above the initial crawl. This required one person at the bottom of the chimney to pass me bags and cases while I grabbed the gear with one hand, the other holding an anchored iron chain for balance while one foot balanced precariously on top of a ladder, (mind you not the top rung, but the top of the side support), with the other foot maintaining a semblance of support on a small slippery mud foothold.

Needless to say I was not exactly surrounded with ample room to maneuver said bags as I passed them up to the third caver, but it was enough, barely.

I can work with "barely", so much better than "not enough" and "almost." If it weren't for "barely" I wouldn't have many of my quality images.

Cornucopia of phobia

2010-12-02T23:39:00.000-08:00

Why would two seemingly sane people…

Nevermind, let me rephrase.

Arachnophobia – Fear of spiders

Claustrophobia – Fear of tight spaces

Darkophobia – Fear of the dark

Three of the most common fears, fears which when considered alone do not effect the average person on a regular basis, but three elements which were all present two weeks ago when I took my beautiful friend out for a short “hike”. True, the only part of the hike which could be considered hiking would have been the approach to the cave entrance, but it was a rather small cave, and consequently both of the terms “caving” and “spelunking” sound all too adventurous for the reality that was.

I am lying on by back with an inky blackness at my feet somewhere in the tiny passage. My head however has managed to protrude into an only slightly larger dead-end section where my companion is crouched. Her headlight beam focused on the same spot as my own, brightly illuminating a particularly expansive spider in the especially cramped space. Puffs of humid breath drifting through the light add an airy sense of surrealism to the moment. Here we are, in a cramped passage end with barely enough space for her and me, yet both of our attentions are intriguingly fixed on the gangly spider which if it were to lay flat and take up residence on either of our faces, its legs would span from ear to ear.

Fear, no. Apprehension, no. Fascination, yes.

Soon we began the slither out, leaving behind the spindly creature on its peculiar trek around the empty limestone cavern. Being such a short cave system, after only a couple minutes of creeping we were again in the sunlight. Standing immediately outside the cave entrance on the canyon rim the dust wafted off our clothes only to drift and then dissipate over the valley below. This was a good day.

Though the cave was short, the hike was beautiful with pleasantly mild Colorado fall weather, and now we're looking forward to the passages ahead.

When the going gets slow, might as well head to the archives

2010-09-22T13:45:00.000-07:00

There are a couple prospective stories simmering in my life which are not yet worth writing about.

So in order to keep this somewhat current and not forgotten, I shall do the opposite.

When fresh food is absent, one must seek that which is preserved by strange unnatural chemicals, or by the older traditions such as drying and pickling. Thus here, where fresh stories are not to be had I will resort to a sampling of that which has been floating about my own briny cerebral spinal fluid.

So without further verbose culinary metaphor, I now present an archived tale of sledding in the mountains.

Toboggans, inertubes, plastic sleds, and "borrowed" caffeteria trays all make for the typically acceptable vehicles to hurtle down snow, ice, or even sand. This is a great experience of simple joy, known first hand by many despite the expected hazards. These are often common elements such as trees, ski lifts, yeti, metal stakes, rocks, jumps, etc... and when common do not often make for the most engaging of tales.

This is why you are reading about the inherent quality of sledding on a a railroad.

Who needs snow, ice, or even sand dunes for a sledding experience when you have a rock strewn 14,000ft mountain? (Well, anyone with a 14,000ft mountain devoid of an incline railway snaking its way to the summit.)

Here there is an opportunity for more adrenaline and speed than the body can handle, literally. Originally a mode of practical conveyance for the workers on said railroad, formal track sleds took advantage of buttery smooth rails which dropped over 7,000ft in only 8 miles, but inevitably such a ride combines with the hubris inherent in the laborers on such a unique railway. Reaching speeds of over 60mph workers could soar over the ties and on at least one confirmed occasion, loose all semblance of control, and consequently their life.

As a result the track sled was banned by means of immediate employment loss to any employees caught on such a rig.

I do admit they could be somewhat hazardous, but the desire to keep my job was the only real reason I never did it (far enough to get caught). So in lieu of the slightly hazardous illegal track sled, we made due with the very hazardous though acceptable track shovel.

A flat-headed shovel with a three foot wood handle would be placed on the rail in a manner which enabled the "rider" a.k.a. idiot, to sit on the shovel head, balance their feet on a railroad spike further downhill on the rail, and let gravity have its way with them. (Which was always downhill, and not in the most friendly manner)

Slowly the shovel began its precariously balanced slide, picking up speed on the highly polished steel rail, aided somewhat by the ever present track grease. Picking up speed, the acceleration could be surprisingly rapid, enhancing the challenge of retaining balance with both the bum and the feet. (and the occasional hand tapping the ground on either side being careful not to snap a wrist if were to catch the edge of an exposed railroad tie)

Brakes, we don't need no stinking brakes (We just wish we had them. Did I mention that the "unsafe" sleds did have brakes?)

Stopping was often an even more unique test of skill, luck, and often pain tolerance.

Most often the stop came suddenly in the form of slipping off of the rail and then loosing the shovel in a manner which allowed a denim clad posterior to slide over the ties which were preferably flush with the ground in between, or at least with an edge that was not too excruciating once hit. (Similar precision was used in the other stopping techniques, such as having the feet fall off of the spike balanced on the rail while hopefully not shattering an ankle, or just forgoing balance and orientation completely and hoping the ensuing tumble is not "all too unpleasant")

Though only ever achieving a factor of the formal sled top speeds, "shovel sleds" were still plenty exhilarating.

And inspiring...

Imagine a throwback to the days of old, now extract the concept from past reality and reconstitute in the present with machined aluminum, high efficiency bearings, modern brake pads, and a desire to trade hiking down for a gravity fueled ride saturated with adrenaline and questionable legality. (In addition to a thorough knowledge of the track, and a healthy respect for physics)

Machine shop needed, accomplice wanted.

Casualties of exhaustion

2010-09-16T14:03:00.000-07:00

Two apologies.

The first being to you, the well educated reader of my blog. This is off topic, and sadly I cannot promise a worthwhile entry in the foreseeable future. I hope there may be one, but you know what often happens when you read a blog where someone forces regular entries, you eventually end up reading about why their cubicle walls are a particularly irritating shade of beige. (or a similarly inane piece of drivel)

The second and primary apology being to the English language and its constituents, spelling and grammar.

Today a friend pointed out to me the severity of my failing in how I have used you, and this spurred many memories of how I have wronged you. I will try harder but I ask for your understanding of where I am coming from.

I write occasionally engaging stories of novelty/adventure ranging from mild to worthwhile. Here there is an inherent tendency towards sleep deprivation which is often the state in which I must write so as to defeat both procrastination and memory loss.

Forgive me for what I have done to you, and will likely continue to do. You deserve much more attention, and I do know better. (And will hopefully soon use that knowledge when I am more awake to edit past posts)

Broken tire, constitutional llama, and other entertaining oddities

2010-07-29T13:34:00.000-07:00

Sinking my knife deep into the sidewall felt odd being that I had never slashed someones tire before, then a similar feeling as I slashed again, and again.

Such aggravation. What was supposed to be a most enjoyable climb with my beautiful friend had failed. This was made all too clear as we headed to the trailhead to begin an ascent of the second highest point in the contiguous US. Due to pure idiocy there was an SUV blocking the middle of the 4wd trail.

The worst part was that it was my SUV...

A simple mishap where a rock punctured my tire became an epic endeavor as I came to discover the last fellow from Discount Tire Co who had worked on my SUV had over-torqued my spare requiring me to lash my lug wrench to a 5' waterlogged log.

Next I found that it is hard to take off all of the lugnuts when not all of the lugnuts are the same size. However this was easier to fix than the three nuts which were crossthreaded, particularly the one of those that broke the lug free from the backside, and preventing the flat from being removed.

So on a trail which requires average ground clearance, I did not have the option to just drive out on the flat tire and accept that my rim would be trashed. Due to my stubborn nature I could not allow myself to simply sit there and end up with over a grand for offroad recovery fees.

My tire was flat, I needed an inflated tire, there is no reason it must be inflated with air. So therefore I inflated it with what I had plenty of.

Rocks...
(Unfortunately these are very hard to force through the valve stem)

Enter the knife... imagine the rest

Do you enjoy the unusual, and if not, how did you happen to be here?

If you do, I would suggest visiting beautiful Manitou Springs. If you are unfamiliar with Manitou, think of it as "Boulder Light" all the oddity, and none of the trust funds.

Anyhow the other morning began cool,drawing out all those seeking activity prior to the sweltering heat of midday, or the drudgery which is the average nine-to-five. It was this very morning while cruising towards a beautiful cave riddled canyon a glance out the window brought smiles to the faces of all of us in the truck. Walking up the sidewalk she stood tall, with curly hair, and strut unlike anyone else in the tourist district. Even the long time locals would have their heads instinctively turn.

It was not so much her gait, nor her hair, or even the collar around her neck, but the simple fact that the woman following behind held the leash, and that there are very few municipalities where a woman walking her llama is a common sight.

Ah, that just made the day better.

Wanted: Better novelty

2010-07-05T15:28:00.000-07:00

Imaging sitting in a tiny plane.

Consider the deafening sound from two piston propellers chewing through the thin air at 23k feet above the earth.

With that in mind, can you fathom the sound a door makes when one of the two latches holing it shut decides that it is tired, in need of a break and thus rapidly relieves itself of its duty?

In this instance, believe it or not, the sound is only mildly disconcerting.

Why "mildly" you may ask? Because I have come to expect this from the oil streaked Navajo. Because this plane has already exhibited a litany of issues of which the general population would likely view as unsettling.

If you walk up to a plane and notice that the exterior is supposed to be primarily white but is instead striped with polychromatic shades of various aviation fluids, you begin to wonder. When the plane takes off and you hear a peculiar throbbing noise from the right engine which is in perfect harmony with the rhythmic pulsing of the right engine gauges, all while not being instigated by a deranged pilot, then the wonder begins to formulate a less than ideal dream. (note: my pilot was awesome, this is only my personal reflection of how I would have had more faith in the plane if the pilot had instead been the source of the problem)

Now take into account the issues of a human being at altitude. As a Colorado native I am certainly not a stranger to a lower O2 density. However we were now working at an altitude just shy of Everest camp III with only an hour flight to acclimate from our sea level airport. Consequently supplemental oxygen was necessary, though in step with the rest of the plane and partaking in the same verb as our oil, it to was leaking.

Next, the minor problems which were more cosmetic issues than functional foibles.

The plane was not pressurized because some equipment needed a three foot hole in the bottom of the fuselage running up into the cabin (here I must note how cold the air is at 23k feet especially when venting up ones pants). Then there was the floor which had sections of detached sheet metal after more than a couple screws had worked themselves loose and were now rolling about the floor. Finally, there were small chunks of ceiling which on occasion would fall into my lap. Not worrisome in regards to structural integrity, it just sparked my curiosity about when asbestos was discontinued as a manufacturing material for aircraft interriors.

Once our engine trouble, leaking oxygen, dripping oil, and slowly self disassembling interrior were taken into account, a sudden pop initiating another rush of air into the already non-pressurized cabin is thus not as disconcerting as one may expect.

As a final note, I cannot begin to describe how excited I was to again board a less than optimal craft for a flight home. Yes there were two severe thunderheads which we had to slip between, and yes I would be stuck in a most uncomfortable/ cramped seat for 6 hours, and yes it was turbulent almost the entire trip, but we did land, safely, or luckily, back in CO.

(Authors note re:delay in posting.... I write what is hopefully unique and consequently entertaining or at least somewhat interesting to those who might happen upon this blog. Thus when my job has mostly been the same old boring flights, recording data, checking in and out of hotel rooms, I don't feel its worth writing about, or even exaggerating about unless something seems striking. Or when I go for a spot of vacation to visit a friend in OR, I find myself otherwise engaged in enjoyable moments which though fitting for a "life" blog where people write encouraging or flowery stories of the average if not mundane in the hopes of encouraging those seeking "chicken soup for the ____ soul", I try to keep this more entertaining, uniquely based, with an aim for eventually achieving what could be considered "Boiled goat for the adventurous spirit who is currently stuck on their couch or in their cubicle but would like to get shanghaied, or at least read about it")
Cheers
Me

I've got a stip of dirt.

2010-05-21T15:20:00.000-07:00

Ok, so it was not exactly a dirt landing strip, the runway is paved.

Even still, this easily has more overt character than any place I have stopped with the plane. Though in truth it is not the runway itself, nor the spartan hangers adjacent to such swath that captivated my interest, but the older man in the cowboy hat.

Not just any old man in a cowboy hat, for they are as easy to come by as the hats themselves bought by the legions of retirees passing through western tourist towns while fleeing to Florida for the winter.

No, neither this hat nor this man would likely have easily been swayed to dwell in a simple shop selling tourist trinkets. No, these two are the genuine article.

My first and brief encounter came as we taxied in to refuel, and there was a certain humor in such a character found to be sitting in a golf cart equipped with an arsenal of fire extinguishers and a foot long, snow white, fu-man-chu whipping in the wind, shaded by a most faded Stetson.

Quiet at first, and very focused on the task of refueling the twin-engine, I had only known him to be the kind fellow helping my pilot and I return to the air. Taking shelter out of the blistering desert wind, it was longer than expected to refuel, and eventually had me wondering if there had been a misunderstanding of the phrase "fill'er up". No sooner had I thought that I may be swimming in petrol during takeoff, than the man in the stetson came in commenting on what his wife had just called him for while listening to a police scanner.

"Something about get as many as you can...police...drugs...bodies..."

From there on it was quite engaging, despite being an entirely one sided conversation. Everything from the other characters in the region, past personal histories, and even his own impressive role in seizing a couple tonnes of Columbias finest with a bulldozer added to the experience.

If only all layovers were this interesting....

(my apologies to you. The few, the very few, the readers of this blog.

I deleted my recent rant about my current employment due to the substandard writing and primarily because that is not what you nor I would care to read about. I promise that I will continue to keep this for interesting stories with subjects more interesting than what was ultimately only a reflection on my disdain for poor business practices.

Thank you for reading)
Me

Souvenirs...

2010-04-17T12:24:00.000-07:00

Does anyone really buy mini-lady liberty, ironically made in China?

Aside from most tasty food I am not much for the average souvenirs, preferring instead to bring back my own photos highlighting my own unique perspective.

These are only a few of my images from yesterdays excursion into downtown Manhattan.

For more of my recent photography please go to my photo blog http://danosullivanphoto.blogspot.com/

Or visit my photography website
http://www.danosullivanphotography.com/

Reflections on a puddle

2010-04-17T11:51:00.000-07:00

"I woke up in a puddle and thought 'This isn't normal'"

Many things overheard while strolling through downtown Manhattan are quite unique. My favorite storytellers being those that are not as they appear. For example the above quote was spoken by a girl who could pass for an average Paris Hilton knockoff, or more finely put, an individual for whom a judgmental thought would have you think it unusual for her to wake up in a room furnished with no less than the GDP of a third world country.

Might this have been a puddle of imported glacial water from the northern reaches of Greenland having been ferried thousands of miles by dogsled, leerjet, yacht, and then helicopter, yet destined only to tip over on the nightstand of some Manhattan socialite? Could this perchance have been not an entire waste of water in that it has provided a semblance of conversation for one whom shoes provide the subject of average discourse?

Perchance may this be an inspiring story highlighting that there is more to this girl than an apparent ultra-thin veneer covering an empty void? May she in truth be one for whom expensive clothing is her way of patronizing those who do not farm out production for the sake of substandard wages and exploitatively large profits?

Said puddle may have been discovered after an unpleasant encounter in the rougher outskirts of Beirut where she had been visiting distant friends whom share her passion for researching ancient approaches towards renewable energy. While journeying back to her hostel she found her ten years of ju-jitsu insufficient to completely fend off the dozen marauding miscreants who liberated her from only her macbook and consciousness.

May it be that this puddle is merely a literary precursor to an exceptional story.

Sadly, for myself this puddle story is only a precursor to a mediocre story of an afternoon and evening in the largest city in the US. What do I think about NYC, well its a big city, the buildings are tall, the people are many, and the city is a lot like other cities... just bigger.

For all of you who love NYC, please do not be insulted for I am not insulting the big apple. In fact, I know my judgment is a most shallow perception from a very limited time span, drawn only from my perspective wandering about alone and unguided. Ideally I would have much preferred to have been shown around by a New Yorker who had a passion for their city and whos excitement would prove contagious in a way highlighting what is most often missed by the hordes of tourists who descend upon the streets of Manhattan every day.

Uneventful is not always a bad thing.

2010-04-14T13:10:00.000-07:00

For example: It is 2am and the tires are all too close to squealing as I careen the Lincoln Towncar around a corner in an area of The Bronx which is obviously not entirely unfamiliar with violent crime. There is your usual assortment of graffiti and theft deterring gates covering all the storefronts, as well as the far too consistent looks from those noticing this long haired young white guy driving an all too expensive car in area where the car, and my mere presence clearly indicate I am a stranger, or even worse, a tourist in a place they do not belong.

Normally I would not be pushing it this hard to get away from an old police cruiser, however when it is no longer owned by the police and in their stead operated by two shady individuals who had made an aggressive u-turn and are now pursuing me, I will admit that my regard for the traffic laws comes in a distant fourth place behind my concern for my own personal well being.

(The second place award goes to the fact that I do not wish to explain to my coworkers and employer how I lost the rental car to a car jacking or why the windows are shot out. Third place goes to the fact that I simply do not wish to be out driven by some punk New York ghetto delinquent.)

Now for the sake of honesty and plausibility I will admit here that for as dramatic as a 2am car chase through the Bronx may be, it was very short. Lasting no more than 15-20 seconds, it is here I ask that you take into account Einstein having proved that time is relative and now try to imagine how relatively long 15-20 seconds would feel when the pursuers may be armed, and you don't know how it will end, how long this will take, nor do you know where you are going, or where you are with any precision, and neither does anyone else.

Hard right, spin left, straight, hard left again, shift reverse, stop shuffle steer to right.

Now driving just a little more on edge with eyes peeled for the distinct shape of headlights from a Crown Vic in my mirrors I eventually found my way to familiar territory and returned to the hotel. True, I would have preferred to be in a WRX, or 9-3turbo, as well as being slightly more awake and on familiar territory, but even with bags bouncing about in my passenger seat it was fun.

This in retrospect.

Just another day at the office.

prologue, Ill try to keep it short.

2010-04-12T07:29:00.000-07:00

Sitting in a shop of books and coffee, I settled in a most comfy leather chair while my mind perused the events of the previous year.

"I had taken the leap from being a directionless unemployed graduate to a self employed freelance photographer. Worthwhile was the decision, yet self sustaining it still has yet to be. After only a couple of months this was put on hold when another opportunity came to fruition in the form of a year long volunteer service program.

Having lived in Colorado my entire life, I headed off to Chicago last August with few expectation of what could be. In the interest of brevity, and to protect the innocent, names, places and events have been excluded. My disappointment upon arrival began to fester, culminating towards a final conclusion mid-February and ultimately ending before March began.

Despite the quality time spent with great friends, the enjoyment of delectable food, and the unique experience from the spectrum of acquaintances it brought much joy to leave Chicago for a return to Colorado"

Walking down the back hallway to subtly answer my ringing phone, I regretfully learned that I would need to find another job because my former boss could not hire me. On the last day of volunteering in Chicago, I had been filling out a resume when I called a former supervisor for a reference and hung up with a job offer. So it would seem this was not to be.

Again I opened my laptop, this time woefully to job search knowing that I could not yet sustain myself with my photography and, due to the economy, would consequently need to be willing to accept almost anything. Before my browser could begin, again my phone rang. Recanting the rejection and solidifying my job offer I now had an appointment for paperwork and an expected departure date three days later. Though I would learn only 10 hours prior to departure that I was not going to leave as planned, this would only be a week before my actual takeoff.

Wheels up, and away for another adventure.

Those responsible for lifes script have been sacked

2010-04-11T20:50:00.000-07:00

Once I was almost trampled by a moose...

Really...

but that's another story,

Similar to a cool afternoon with swarming mosquitoes forgotten due to the arrows sped long through the air, whistling through the trees close overhead before landing within arms reach, or the summer morning when I found myself 100 feet in the air clinging perilously only by my fingertips to the rusted underside of a bridge.

Still these are not this story, they are only minute excerpts from the prequel...

This story begins the same as many ever popular archetypal blog cliches.

Enter the twenty-something post college grad living at home with a useless psych degree and no solid work experience who is in search of a job, one which is preferably edifying and sustaining or at least leading towards that mythical ethereal triad where one knows what they want to do, how to do it, and that they are capable.

Insert bad economy here.

Skip three years of more prequel stories which may be referenced and consequently explained in future posts.

Enter 1am, in the 4th city, in the 3rd time zone in less than a week. Thus I am tired and shall continue said blog and story, hopefully later today, probably in the evening, and certainly not now.