Monday, August 30, 2010
Light
From bed at night, as I try to sink my neck between the two pillows and wash my hips into the mattress, I gaze through the open blinds to the building that rises above the bank on the corner, above the library just beyond. The BB&T building, Spartanburg's lone skyscraper, stands as my nightly beacon. Rectangle with a rounded top, blinking red bulbs at either end, with jutting sculpted ledges near the top on each length, the building is the last face I see before sleep.
Always, there are lights high in the stories peeking out in the dark, somehow shaded and sketched into curves and, with eyes, a face. The first night I noticed him, from the horizontal angle of my bed, the face grinned, eyes steady and bright, with even a crease on the left side made by a phantom cheek. I smiled back. This friendly and familiar face warmed me, and I slept. Spartanburg seemed to be saying, you're not lonely, you're not alone. In the morning, at dawn, the eyes were gone but the grin remained, awaiting the sun at its back as the orange deepened.
My first weekend in South Carolina was Jedsen's last, and we spent that Saturday on the French Broad River in a raft. Neither of us had been white water rafting before, and we decided that we wanted to live our last days together until our next visit (not thinking it would be a full ten weeks) among water and trees and mountains--all of which we had little of in Kansas. In Arkansas over New Years last year, our fifth anniversary, we had stayed in a cabin on Petit Jean Mountain in Arkansas, walking along Cedar Creek and hiking in our winter coats down to Cedar Creek Falls after breakfast on our last morning. We had been at peace there, in the cool but not cold, and among the ledges, cliffs, and water flowing downhill into more water and over falls. The water had been a wonder to us, a force that calmed and excited, bellowed and hushed, and, of course, claimed Jedsen water bottle.
On the French Broad, allegedly the third oldest river in the world, we rooted our feet in creases of the raft, seated across from each other and between two other couples and, at the back, a ten-year-old and Lilly, our guide. Lilly had been our entertainment on the bus ride down from the Nantahala Outdoor Center to the river, telling jokes about the road, the tobacco growing in rows, and the way the bus driver took the switchback turns. Though she instructed us perfectly--"All forward." "All back." "Forward 3." "Rest."--she didn't stop the jokes on the water.
"What's the difference between a raft guide and a large pizza? A large pizza can feed a family of four."
I would slowly turn my head around to her and smile, but my eyes rose with the tips of trees. I wanted to tell her to hush, let us hear the water and the leaves. I could tell Jedsen felt the same way. His chin jutted out from the strap of his helmet as if he were grinding his teeth while smiling. At once annoyance and peace.
Before each rapid, Lilly explained its name, its class, and how we might have to get through it. I learned to yearn for the Class II rapids, the biggest on our trip, and the rush of a small wall of white aimed at me. I wanted to be hit by the crushes of water, dip into them at the edge of falling over and rise, wet and beaming at the living.
Then again Lilly would speak, during the quiet between rapids, when the water lapped lightly and I watched the wash of boulders affect the surface of the water.
"How do you know when your raft guide is lying to you? When her lips are moving."
That much we had learned on the way down, that the stories were largely false and the knowledge of the river itself, the way it pursed and swayed, was the only truth.
About halfway down our stretch of the river, a five mile wrap through ancient pines, we ran our rafts to the side and stopped for Jump Rock. A skinny path of wet rock led up to a small ledge, jutted out over the river. The young ones were the first to jump. And Jedsen, who cannonballed off without much thought. I hung back in the water, walking chest-deep with my life jacket on and waiting in the pulse of the river. I have never been a jumper--fine and please at heights but not experiencing the distance between the height and below. Jumping wasn't really an option, the purposeful suspension of weight and the give in to gravity. But then the guide at the ledge, pushing people off and counting down to release, called for second rounders. And Jedsen said, "You're going to do it, right?" "No, no, no." "Well I'm going again." And then that feeling of life returned, that one that soaked my $5 canvas shoes from Walmart on that one spot on the French Broad, with Jedsen, and at the start of this new Southern life. So I climbed.
It was much higher from the ledge, and the water looked like thirty feet below, a muddy and unforgiving surface licking the rocks. I felt like if I jumped I would land instead on the rocks below, impaled or gasping for breath. The guide started counting. Three. "Oh God." It was one of those times, yes, of anticipation and fear and doubt and the knowledge that in two more counts something would happen, you didn't know what, and you would feel what you have never felt before, whether it be pain or laughter or love. And by the last count you know you're going, his hand is on the small of your back, and you might scream but you don't know, and you don't feel his push, but you see brown and more brown and then hear the clap around your ears and the turmoil of turning over in the water to again see the sky and the next person on the ledge as you shake your head of water and flap to find a balance and flap to get out of the way of the next jumper whom it takes a few seconds to realize is the man you love jumping too, after you.
Tonight the smile in the dark has no eyes, has left before the moon. And there are no stars here, here in the middle of the city of kudzu and crape myrtles, only parking lot lamps and the frequent blast of swirling red from neighboring firetrucks and ambulances. But the two warning lights still blink together, in unison though apart, above the limestone and asphalt, above my heart and his heart too, until I leave this week, in the air once more, to land Kansas, the rude, beautiful surface of my youth.
Always, there are lights high in the stories peeking out in the dark, somehow shaded and sketched into curves and, with eyes, a face. The first night I noticed him, from the horizontal angle of my bed, the face grinned, eyes steady and bright, with even a crease on the left side made by a phantom cheek. I smiled back. This friendly and familiar face warmed me, and I slept. Spartanburg seemed to be saying, you're not lonely, you're not alone. In the morning, at dawn, the eyes were gone but the grin remained, awaiting the sun at its back as the orange deepened.
My first weekend in South Carolina was Jedsen's last, and we spent that Saturday on the French Broad River in a raft. Neither of us had been white water rafting before, and we decided that we wanted to live our last days together until our next visit (not thinking it would be a full ten weeks) among water and trees and mountains--all of which we had little of in Kansas. In Arkansas over New Years last year, our fifth anniversary, we had stayed in a cabin on Petit Jean Mountain in Arkansas, walking along Cedar Creek and hiking in our winter coats down to Cedar Creek Falls after breakfast on our last morning. We had been at peace there, in the cool but not cold, and among the ledges, cliffs, and water flowing downhill into more water and over falls. The water had been a wonder to us, a force that calmed and excited, bellowed and hushed, and, of course, claimed Jedsen water bottle.
On the French Broad, allegedly the third oldest river in the world, we rooted our feet in creases of the raft, seated across from each other and between two other couples and, at the back, a ten-year-old and Lilly, our guide. Lilly had been our entertainment on the bus ride down from the Nantahala Outdoor Center to the river, telling jokes about the road, the tobacco growing in rows, and the way the bus driver took the switchback turns. Though she instructed us perfectly--"All forward." "All back." "Forward 3." "Rest."--she didn't stop the jokes on the water.
"What's the difference between a raft guide and a large pizza? A large pizza can feed a family of four."
I would slowly turn my head around to her and smile, but my eyes rose with the tips of trees. I wanted to tell her to hush, let us hear the water and the leaves. I could tell Jedsen felt the same way. His chin jutted out from the strap of his helmet as if he were grinding his teeth while smiling. At once annoyance and peace.
Before each rapid, Lilly explained its name, its class, and how we might have to get through it. I learned to yearn for the Class II rapids, the biggest on our trip, and the rush of a small wall of white aimed at me. I wanted to be hit by the crushes of water, dip into them at the edge of falling over and rise, wet and beaming at the living.
Then again Lilly would speak, during the quiet between rapids, when the water lapped lightly and I watched the wash of boulders affect the surface of the water.
"How do you know when your raft guide is lying to you? When her lips are moving."
That much we had learned on the way down, that the stories were largely false and the knowledge of the river itself, the way it pursed and swayed, was the only truth.
About halfway down our stretch of the river, a five mile wrap through ancient pines, we ran our rafts to the side and stopped for Jump Rock. A skinny path of wet rock led up to a small ledge, jutted out over the river. The young ones were the first to jump. And Jedsen, who cannonballed off without much thought. I hung back in the water, walking chest-deep with my life jacket on and waiting in the pulse of the river. I have never been a jumper--fine and please at heights but not experiencing the distance between the height and below. Jumping wasn't really an option, the purposeful suspension of weight and the give in to gravity. But then the guide at the ledge, pushing people off and counting down to release, called for second rounders. And Jedsen said, "You're going to do it, right?" "No, no, no." "Well I'm going again." And then that feeling of life returned, that one that soaked my $5 canvas shoes from Walmart on that one spot on the French Broad, with Jedsen, and at the start of this new Southern life. So I climbed.
It was much higher from the ledge, and the water looked like thirty feet below, a muddy and unforgiving surface licking the rocks. I felt like if I jumped I would land instead on the rocks below, impaled or gasping for breath. The guide started counting. Three. "Oh God." It was one of those times, yes, of anticipation and fear and doubt and the knowledge that in two more counts something would happen, you didn't know what, and you would feel what you have never felt before, whether it be pain or laughter or love. And by the last count you know you're going, his hand is on the small of your back, and you might scream but you don't know, and you don't feel his push, but you see brown and more brown and then hear the clap around your ears and the turmoil of turning over in the water to again see the sky and the next person on the ledge as you shake your head of water and flap to find a balance and flap to get out of the way of the next jumper whom it takes a few seconds to realize is the man you love jumping too, after you.
Tonight the smile in the dark has no eyes, has left before the moon. And there are no stars here, here in the middle of the city of kudzu and crape myrtles, only parking lot lamps and the frequent blast of swirling red from neighboring firetrucks and ambulances. But the two warning lights still blink together, in unison though apart, above the limestone and asphalt, above my heart and his heart too, until I leave this week, in the air once more, to land Kansas, the rude, beautiful surface of my youth.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
The Belleville Outfit
The headliners and organizers of The Music Camp, The Belleville Outfit (originally from Spartanburg but now out of Austin) rocked last night. I'd really just never seen live music like that--a big band with a fiddle, lots of instrumentals, big voices. It was a wonderful night, and now I have a few new bands to delve into--and a new genre of music.
Saturday, August 21, 2010
Warren Hood and the Goods: So Good!
Hear this band. Hear Warren Hood. Hear and smile. The fiddle--the fiddle!
Marsh Boardwalk
August Staff Picks
This month I chose The People of Paper by Salvador Plascencia, A Walk in the Woods by Bill Bryson, Vacation by Deb Olin Unferth, Peace by Richard Bausch, and Reality Hunger by David Shields.
I love love love nonfiction and read and lust for it more than fiction, but Erin tells me we can't fit another nonfiction book in the store. Alas, I need to choose contemporary fiction but don't know where to start. Help? What would be your staff picks if you were me?
Tuesday, August 17, 2010
Monday, August 16, 2010
In relationship
The Latin root religio means "to bind fast." There are lots of ways that our modern religions attempt to bind us. Ritual, collective history, mythology, and social dictates all serve to solidify our attachment. My question here is, To what? If the purpose of an organization is to help us conjoin with God on a profound inner level, then I'm all for it. If instead its objective is to tie us more firmly to identification with a particular group, tribe, or set of opinions, excluding all others, then I'm not sure I want to be bound.--from Us by Liza Oz
I gave up religion and the Christian God three years ago. When I had been in the religion, Methodist, for twenty years, I was bound up in it as a member of a community. I loved that community, the common bond of praising and serving with friends and family. Then I moved away and lost that community and, though I tried to replace it in Manhattan, couldn't find it. I realized that my faith had been entirely wound in my own church--that I didn't actually have faith without it. It was a slow realization, and one that I'm not entirely comfortable with still.
I don't believe in a God but in some natural spirit--something tied to nature that isn't a god but an energy. But not mystic or transcendental. I don't know how I would describe it, and I honestly haven't gotten back to trying to discover what it is I feel. All I know is that I'm closer to spirituality in nature--the mountains, the ocean--than I am around other people or a city or near a church.
I don't want to be bound. But I admit I need something on an inner level. Something inside to love.
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Darius & the Clouds
You can never have too much sky. You can fall asleep and wake up drunk on sky, and sky can keep you safe when you are sad.--from The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros
Wednesday, August 11, 2010
Oh, Grandfather Mountain
Hello from what was Grandfather Mountain. Well, it still is Grandfather Mountain, of course, but, unfortunately, I'm no longer there. I left Spartanburg around 8am on Saturday (full day off #4--see, I told you I go to the mountains on my day off) and drove some back highways--rather disappointing in their lack of mountain views at times--to just outside Linville, North Carolina. I can't remember how I found Grandfather Mountain on the map, but I decided on visiting pretty instantly. A Mile High Swinging Bridge--who can reject that?
I first stopped at the Visitor's Center about halfway up the mountain and ate an expensive lunch of pork bbq sandwich, fries (really good!), coleslaw (really dry), and coke before checking out the habitat areas. The animals in the habitats--black bears, deer, cougars, otters, and eagles--are all wild on the mountain but were in large enclosures here. It was about time for "bear enrichment" when I arrived, so the bears were very interested in the onlookers.
The one above, Carolina, stood. The worker who threw them frozen peanut butter balls said that the one with her tongue out used to have a mouth problem and would stick her tongue out to relieve the pain. Well, of course they fed her when she did that, so now it's her little trick. They want her to lose it, though. These bears shouldn't have tricks.
The clouds hung over us, moving quickly but lingering.
And then, after buying some chocolate peanut butter fudge from the fudge shop, I drove up to the lower parking area for the Swinging Bridge so that I could hike the rest of the way. It was a rocky but fairly moderate .4 mi. hike. I had my backpack, all decked out.
I first passed under the bridge and touched the springs and cables that held it.
And then I crossed it, and it giggled and swing slightly. It swing slightly from the weight of the people walking across it both ways, and slightly from the boys who gripped the sides and tried to make it move. Their mothers usually squealed. On the other side, I made my way over rocks, all natural and unpaved, without steps, to the ledge, the outermost ledge where I could be on the edge, near nothing, above everything, and sit. The picture below is the view of the outcrop just beyond my feet, and beyond, that I couldn't get to. And what follows are the views from my seat, alone, except for the man who briefly sat behind me and worried about getting vertigo. I told him I only kind of felt like I was floating, like I wasn't sure if there was anything below me, but that it was worth it. I was not scared--only felt that feeling of doubt of ground.
Then the next picture looks back at the bridge, where I started on the other side. This looks back at the upper parking lot (where I hiked up to) and, beyond, Macrae Peak, blurry in a cloud.
See the cable? I'm on the bridge, walking back across to the start of the crest trails.
I just set out, by myself, with my pack and eagerness and determination, to go as far as I could in the time I had and with the bravery and skills I had.
It was wonderful, strenuous, rocky, with cables and slick rocks and high steps and roots to grab and clouds and overlooks. (Unfortunately, you always catch me in moments of exhaustion, when I don't have a chance to truly elaborate here. Trust me, it was work and worth it.) The first ladder came, and I stood in shock for a moment. This photo is no trick of the eye; the angle is accurate. I shimmied between boulders and climbed out, up.
And up. And kept going. With only two moments of hesitation. One, which you'll see later, at a point where the climbing got vertical and where, at the very bottom of it, I slipped while trying to get my foot up on a rock and scraped my left shin and knee. Blood. I thought that may be a sign to stop, considering I don't have health insurance. But, after a moment, I decided I couldn't turn back then, when there was the opportunity to conquer the spot of injury (which, after all, only barely stung). And so I climbed and climbed up rocks and ladders until I came to a spot where there was only rock and a ladder and a cable, diagonal against the rock, connecting to another ladder. It required exposing my body to the sky and trusting the placement of my feet and the strength of my arms. I doubted and descended the ladder and waited, saw the Swinging Bridge far to my right, farther than I'd expected, then disappear into clouds. A man then came down and told his wife, sitting below me on a ledge, that it had been worth it to make it past those cables to the peak. She apologized and said hated not going but that she thought she would pass out there and couldn't risk it. I thought not of passing out but of slipping, floating back down into trees. I thought of the exposure--me and the sky and the rock at my feet. But I knew I could do it because I had watched him come down the spot with rather ease.
And so I climbed again and reached over the rock and set my feet across rock and to the next ladder, and the next, and the rock crops beyond until I made it to the final ladder to Macrae Peak. And then I climbed that and was at the top, not alone (people, couples, were laying down), but by myself enclosed but completely open in clouds.
I again crawled out to the edge, this time over 700 feet higher than before, and sat in the white. I ate some of my fudge (I've eaten fudge at 5,939 feet!) and called Jedsen. I called Jedsen and told him I was calling from a cloud, with four bars (rightly so), and then took several feet down and dropped the call.
See the person on the behemoth rock? That's Macrae Peak, and I sat for ten to fifteen minutes on the edge to his right. That was my peak--my first peak.
And then I descended, following the blue lines and arrows that had led me up. I followed the ladders back down, the ladders that gave me doubt, and because I had used them, ridden my fear of them by passing them, I stopped and took photos on the way down. The following photos are of the vertical, exposed area of doubt, and the ladders that led to and from the spot. You are looking down, then, up, then out.
And then I was back to the trail head after a three hour round-trip, solo hike to a peak. It was only .9 miles but was largely vertical, and there were 1.5 miles to go to the second peak and the end of the trail--but I couldn't have made it back in time. And one peak was a good start for a beginning but all-too-eager hiker. I didn't want to be stupid in my excitement.
So I went back to the bridge to say goodbye. You can see my shadow on the slopes.
I took a different way home, hoping for more mountains. I had heard of the Blue Ridge Parkway but hadn't been on it, so I sought out the sign for the Parkway to Asheville and decided to take it home. I learned while driving on the driving road (not a highway) that it was built along the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains, and so I drove, over two hours (way longer than I had anticipated or planned for) past countless overlooks and through borderless clouds to Asheville. It was one of the most beautiful drives I have ever taken, and the photos below can't capture it. Want to know the best thing? One entrance to the Parkway is only an hour away.
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