tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79903574012444364702024-03-15T18:13:05.445-07:00Wayne's BlogWAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.comBlogger125125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-5474246478568575692023-12-09T22:25:00.000-08:002023-12-09T22:25:48.377-08:00WHAT ABOUT THE DINOSAURS, MIKE?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIUwPR2RtRjD2uXYoDZMXaMEE0FUWtwXDuQknKdM0ilqb1OYrEh8eBf8keECWdcoQfHVB2WgvE530q6abQflz903h-AcsKBVm-VHaJlq_WxoxSN8YZIsCO_plCerR761iZ1e-looSp66AutbIkC2-x9sF_TuVC5JlzrqhLvh-oZDMxjwA4QsZEuu-CirfW/s1341/ARK1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1341" data-original-width="1341" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjIUwPR2RtRjD2uXYoDZMXaMEE0FUWtwXDuQknKdM0ilqb1OYrEh8eBf8keECWdcoQfHVB2WgvE530q6abQflz903h-AcsKBVm-VHaJlq_WxoxSN8YZIsCO_plCerR761iZ1e-looSp66AutbIkC2-x9sF_TuVC5JlzrqhLvh-oZDMxjwA4QsZEuu-CirfW/s320/ARK1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about
Noah’s Ark. Our newest Speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives, Mike
Johnson, is a big fan. The man second in line to the President believes Noah’s
Ark was real. Like everything else in the Bible, it was an “actual historical
event.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">MAGA Mike, and more than half of
Americans, think this Biblical myth – the 40 days and 40 nights of rain that
flooded the entire planet, the two-by-two of all the animals, the everyone drowned
except Noah and his righteous little clan – all that is true. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I can’t get over how otherwise normal,
seemingly intelligent Americans – people like Mike – believe such claptrap. I
wish some reporter would ask him some simple questions about Noah’s Ark, like:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpFirst" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">There are 10,000 species of birds in the
world. 45,000 species of spiders. Etcetera. How do you figure that two-by-two
thing worked?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What about fish? If the entire globe was flooded
by the salty oceans, how did bluegills survive? Or Desert Hole Pupfish in Death
Valley?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If the deluge was deep enough to cover the
Himalayan Mountains, how did two snow leopards get from there to Noah’s
launching pad in the Middle East? How big a head start did God give them to get
there before the big rains started? What about Arctic polar bears? Antarctic
penguins? Central American sloths? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What did all those animals eat during their
year on the Ark, waiting for the water to recede? In all the images I’ve seen,
the Ark’s animals are totally mellow. Like Jurassic Park on weed. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpMiddle" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Moreover, what would they all have eaten after
they got dropped off, after the Big Flood, atop Mt. Ararat? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoListParagraphCxSpLast" style="mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; text-indent: -.25in;"><!--[if !supportLists]--><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font: 7.0pt "Times New Roman";"> </span></span></span><!--[endif]--><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What about post-Flood in-breeding – animals <u>and</u>
humans? Or did God just pause that part of genetics for a few generations?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I can relate to the intellectual
contortions anyone has to go through trying to reconcile religion with science.
I must have been about eight years old, sitting on little kid chairs in Sunday
School class in the basement of my preacher-dad’s church in rural Indiana. A
nice woman was telling us the story of Noah’s Ark. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After her lesson, I raised my hand.
“Yes, Wayne?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“What about the dinosaurs?”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">She was flummoxed. My little brain
went, “<i>H-mmm</i>.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I wonder how Mike Johnson would answer
that question? If he goes along with Biblical literalists, he believes the
Earth is no more than 10,000 years old. None of this 13.8 billion-years-ago Big
Bang fiction, or 4.5-billion-year-old planet nonsense.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mike probably goes along with true
believers who explain that Noah only took two of every “kind” of animals on the
Ark, not two of every “species.” You wonder <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>how they all got to Noah’s construction site. Maybe
God magically directed them, like geese migrating south? As for the how they
got across the oceans, I’m told by Ark “experts” that in Noah’s time, all the
continents were merged into one. Like a modern-time continent of Rodinia (one
billion years ago) or Pangea (300 million years ago). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Dinosaurs, which Biblical scholars
explain were created on the same day as Adam (Day 6), were contemporaries of
Noah. So, well, <i>duh!</i> Obviously, Noah took only <u>baby</u> dinosaurs.
All those 700 species of dino fossils in museums, they’re the remains of all
the ones that drowned in the Flood. I wonder why none of the five million wicked
humans that God drowned with them are fossilized.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So in just the few thousand years ago
since the Big Flood, all the millions of species of critters on Earth have
evolved (though I’m not sure “evolved” is the politically-correct verb here)
from the 6,658 animals that Noah took on the Ark. Kind of like the way we got
chihuahuas from wolves. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">At least that’s the explanation you can
get for a $60 ticket to Ark Encounter, a tourist trap set in the rolling horse
country of Kentucky, just off I-75. When MAGA Mike, who used to be attorney for
this pretend Ark, got a tour recently, it almost made him cry (<i>The New
Yorker</i>, Dec. 4, 2023). <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="color: black; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Two years ago, he said, “The
Ark Encounter is one way to bring people to this recognition of the truth, that
what we read in the Bible are actual historical events.” <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A whole lot of people are just plain
dumb. For them, I can kind of understand their blind faith in the literal
inerrancy of their Good Book. I suppose it’s easier to lack curiosity about
mysteries of the Universe when you’re stupid. You can ignore thoughts that
complicate your religious fantasies. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I sympathize. How does any human
comprehend a 14-billion-year-old Universe? Given the miniscule timescale of our
personal existence, how can anyone grasp 3.7-billion years of evolution of life
on Earth. The greatest minds to ever have existed can’t explain human
consciousness. Or why there is something rather than nothing. Or the spooky
qualities of quantum physics. Or what came “before” the Big Bang. Or if we’re
alone in the Universe. Or whether we’re merely an infinitesimal spec in a multiverse.
Or why we yawn.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Because no science – not astrophysics,
cosmology, biology, geology, anthropology – can yet answer such questions, why
not just be happy in your faith that God simply did it all for His own reasons,
so quit worrying about it? Why is the mystery of Noah’s Ark and all your
“gotcha” questions any different than the mysteries of the G-spot or long Covid?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">This saddest thing about literal
belief in Biblical myths, such as Noah’s Ark and Creationism, is that it turns the
wondrous, mysterious epic of creation into a comic book version of reality.
Whether or not God exists and made this all, the actual story of life on Earth,
and the cosmology of our Universe, is so much more glorious than the
simple-minded tales that require believers to deny science and common sense. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The next year is going to be a
challenging one for Speaker Mike Johnson, and for all of us: wars, the economy,
global warming, abortion rights, political divisions, and overriding everything
– the potential destruction of our democracy by Mike’s hero, the Orange Jesus (as
one of Mike’s colleagues branded Trump). Still and all, the question I’d most
like to ask him remains: <i>What about the dinosaurs, Mike?</i><o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"># # #<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">More:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2019/05/why-i-dont-believe-in-god.html"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Wayne’s
Blog: WHY I DON'T BELIEVE IN GOD</span></a></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
(May 15, 2019)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2015/11/when-we-all-get-to-heaven.html"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Wayne’s
Blog: WHEN WE ALL GET TO HEAVEN</span></a></span><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
(Nov. 30, 2015)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-11307400900993368162023-10-20T20:58:00.001-07:002023-10-20T21:16:08.962-07:00MEDITATIONS ON VIVALDI’S “FOUR SEASONS”* AND THE GRAND CANYON<p style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">(*<i>"The New Four Seasons – Vivaldi
Recomposed,"</i><br /></span><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Max Richter, Elena Urioste & Chineke! Orchestra)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">My rafting guide and friend, Adam, turned me on to this
modern take on Vivaldi’s classic “Four Seasons.” The music speaks to us of the place
we both know well – the Grand Canyon. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">These concertos are perfect music to attribute such fresh
associations. Vivaldi connected his compositions to Nature’s seasonal events in
18<sup>th</sup> <span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Century Europe, becoming </span>perhaps the first composer of
“program music.”<span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> From Wikipedia: <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0.5in 8pt;"><i><span style="background: repeat white; color: #202122; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">They were a revolution in musical
conception: in them Vivaldi represented flowing creeks, singing birds..., a shepherd and his barking
dog, buzzing flies, storms, drunken dancers, hunting parties from both the
hunters' and the prey's point of view, frozen landscapes, and warm winter
fires.</span></i><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Here are my own brief associations for each of the album’s pieces,
based on the place of Edenic nature I love best: The Grand Canyon of the
Colorado River. (Mostly, this was written while listening to the album on my
bicycle on the riverfront path in Eugene.)<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCqngY4eYRPktHw6eg8cVkHQU8WQX7boXA1oBSPBdm0we0U1biJYdTf3oo-tTB9ZNJgn8Q5R3cp4q83vHMG8eExmATcb2Iv6TFgbEGAaeAy6EsJR0MEevuU4tEeTgTNGqLgJH11Ox_O9e1wlV342PPp0_5Qi5JGkh5Nd5ttA9phXZEe_DUxiEclg9fKvWc/s542/MaxR1.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="536" data-original-width="542" height="316" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCqngY4eYRPktHw6eg8cVkHQU8WQX7boXA1oBSPBdm0we0U1biJYdTf3oo-tTB9ZNJgn8Q5R3cp4q83vHMG8eExmATcb2Iv6TFgbEGAaeAy6EsJR0MEevuU4tEeTgTNGqLgJH11Ox_O9e1wlV342PPp0_5Qi5JGkh5Nd5ttA9phXZEe_DUxiEclg9fKvWc/s320/MaxR1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://music.apple.com/us/album/the-new-four-seasons-vivaldi-recomposed/1613711918">https://music.apple.com/us/album/the-new-four-seasons-vivaldi-recomposed/1613711918</a></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">~~~~~~~~~~~~<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“</i><i>Spring 0</i><i>”</i><i>:</i> A short, orchestral prelude perfectly
captures the other-worldly hum of the Canyon just before sunrise. It’s a place of cosmic, vibrating strings.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Spring 1”:</i> This is happy music for a happy place,
shared with rafting friends. It took me to Blacktail Canyon, the notes echoing
off walls of the narrow crack in the Earth. The tinkling music is as rays
of sunshine, filtering in from above, as well as dripping water, at the
head of the easily reached part of the canyon, perhaps a 20-minute walk from
the rafts. You come around the last turn where the way is blocked by smooth
rock, water trickling over it, sunlight trickling down on it. You can climb up
the wet rocks and immerse yourself in the mysterious music of a mysterious
place, like no other.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">For Blacktail Canyon gives you a rarest of experiences – you place
your hands on rock layers on each side of the Great Unconformity, where hundreds of millions
of years of Earth history is missing. Gone. Eroded away eons ago. Rock under one hand – more than one billion years old; under your other hand – a
half-billion years old. You're touching deep time, a concept virtually
incomprehensible, caressing unfathomable enigmas of the Universe.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Spring 2”:</i> Tranquil melodies, like the nighttime
river singing ancient music. Me, perched on a boulder in the river’s shallows,
camp all quiet, but for little bursts of laughter from the guides’ rafts. Slowly,
the moon emerges from behind cliffs, turning the dark water’s surface into a shimmering reflection of the Canyon, now bathed in lunar glow. After a long
while, mesmerized by the river's music, I doze.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Spring 3”:</i> First time hearing this, I listened closely,
while dreaming about my upcoming Canyon raft trip, my ninth, wondering how many
more trips await. Yet nothing seemed to connect me with the music. Am I getting
too old for this rafting business? Biking along, I fumbled with my iPhone, when I hit a wrong button. Somehow, what came up playing, interrupting Vivaldi, was <i>Forever Young</i>, sung by a definitely-old Bob Dylan. First recorded in
1973, when Dylan was actually young, and now this more mature version, sung
50 years later, when he is 82.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="background: repeat white; color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;">May your heart always be joyful</span></i><i><span style="color: #202124; font-family: Roboto; font-size: 10.5pt; line-height: 107%;"><br />
<span style="background: repeat white;">May your song always be sung</span><br />
<span style="background: repeat white;">And may you stay forever young</span><br />
<span style="background: repeat white;">May you stay forever young</span></span><o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">So, are you saying, I might have yet another raft trip in
me? When his song ended, my phone reverted to right where I left off with
Vivaldi, to finish <i>Spring 3</i>. Go figure.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Summer 1”:</i> It’s like a transcendent drift on quiet
water, yet the river’s horizon ends abruptly downstream, with ominous wisps of
spray showing beyond. Suddenly, in an instant, <i>wham</i>! You drop into a
rapid. On and on it goes. A final <i>wham</i>! Then quiet.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Summer 2”:</i> In camp on the raft trip’s last night,
all still, but for natural sounds of the Canyon. The dark river surges with mystical
melodies, pulsing to a three-beat. <i><u>Thum</u>-thum-thum</i><i>…<u>thum</u>-thum-thum... </i>The
currents, invisible in the darkness, twist and swirl. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Autumn 1”:</i> “Everybody listen up!” We’re boarding rafts at
Lee’s Ferry, getting instructions – <i>this is important</i> – giddy with
nervousness, last-minute packing. All is right with the world. Every single
moment is glorious. Wearing my river shoes and Tilley hat again. Climbing back
on the raft once more, I affirm my return by bouncing high on its giant rubber tubes,
overflowing with joy, and reminded of an F. Scott Fitzgerald epigraph:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" style="margin-bottom: .2in; margin-left: 0in; margin-right: 0in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0in 0.2in; mso-pagination: widow-orphan lines-together; text-align: center;"><i><span style="color: #333333; font-family: trebuchet; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Then wear the gold hat, if that will move her;<br />
If you can bounce high, bounce for her too,<br />
Till she cry ‘Lover, gold-hatted, high-bouncing lover,<br />
I must have you!’</span></i></p><p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.2in; text-align: right;"><span face=""Calibri",sans-serif" style="color: #333333; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: trebuchet;">-- Thomas Parke D'Invilliers</span><i style="font-size: 10pt;"><o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">And soon enough, she has us; we float into the ice-cold current,
moving past trout in water clear as glass, waving back at campers – poor earth-bound
saps wishing, like us, to be carried away to the unknown. Then calm and long moments
of quiet before the first rapid. Excited chatter drowned by the
four-stroke. The magic begins.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Autumn 2”: </i>It’s a long slog up Saddle Canyon. Step
after step. Will it be worth it? Compared to other hikes, not really. But compared
to just about anything else – definitely! A hard-earned reminder, it’s about
the journey, not only the destination.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Autumn 3”:</i> It’s the last night of my first rafting
trip (1989), and everyone is giddy. We’re in camp at
Separation Canyon. Tables are being set up for the bubbly celebration later.
Then, the bugle of a trumpet echoes through the Canyon. Not a great trumpet,
mind you, but a pretty good approximation. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Where everyone else saw “table leg,” Ray saw “trumpet.” He was blowing through the end of one of the steel pipe, screw-in table legs. Soon, other
rafters joined in bleating a table-leg cacophony of happiness.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Ray, my oldest friend on Earth, did two more trips with me
after that. Now 80, his rafting days are behind him. Can I get in my tenth raft
trip before… well, you know? Maybe it’s kind of like when you go to sleep on
the beach after living on the river all day – the lovely rocking and swaying of
the raft never stops. Until it does.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Winter 1”:</i> We’re in North Canyon. Vivaldi’s opening,
barely audible sounds, the strange squeaks – like rocks scraping under your
sandals. Hints of music drift by. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">When the full orchestra storms in, it takes me back to that
seminal moment with the string quartet. I’ve had moving experiences in my
77 years. But that musical moment in North Canyon was the most beautiful
and blissful experience of my life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Hiking far up into North Canyon, and high above the Colorado River,
our rafting group hushed, as ethereal notes reached us. Around the next bend
in the trail, perched on a flat spot on the steep canyon slope, sat a real-life
string quartet, with all their instruments, playing classical music – the most enchanting
sounds I’ve ever heard. The beauty of the moment was over-powering. Its memory still can bring tears to my eyes, nearly two years later.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Winter 2”:</i> The roar of the jet boat, when leaving
the Grand Canyon behind, blocks all conversation for nearly an hour, to get to
your take-out boat ramp. The blast of the wind dries any tears left. Now the
music exists only in your head, as you try to process your recent gifts and
revelations, ensuring they are cemented in your memory. Sweet memories.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i>“Winter 3”:</i> We zig-zag up Deer Creek Trail, an
arduous climb. And then, after traversing a nerve-wracking, sketchy trail along the precipice of the slot canyon, the calm of the Patio, a desert oasis from a dream. Soul-cleansing waterfalls, ancient Native handprints, golden dragonflies, flat meditative rocks. </p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMTnjRuPsmEGO3Wpnempp_m_bwMVFJJAiAVMPxASeWweRXhCmDd7OKgboZBX3aJuF2CeWyO6RHNgID7eJ2zo2WDtNkypD9uoDxZ5G9FVNHw4PTgvmBQD2aQKwL9kbYuE8N0HFRmzkN-sNF33LI8k2uwYXawzefzFisPK6T6qSEuAHfuEPyKJFkJytEh_r5/s4032/GC21-007.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMTnjRuPsmEGO3Wpnempp_m_bwMVFJJAiAVMPxASeWweRXhCmDd7OKgboZBX3aJuF2CeWyO6RHNgID7eJ2zo2WDtNkypD9uoDxZ5G9FVNHw4PTgvmBQD2aQKwL9kbYuE8N0HFRmzkN-sNF33LI8k2uwYXawzefzFisPK6T6qSEuAHfuEPyKJFkJytEh_r5/s320/GC21-007.jpg" width="240" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal">But always too soon, it’s
time to leave the moment in Paradise. Then, gliding back down the zigzag trail, back to the river.</p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"># # #<o:p></o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"> </p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-78481999639089397062023-07-19T12:47:00.001-07:002023-07-19T12:47:44.949-07:00Excerpt from LIFE WITH BIG GREEN<p></p><div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; margin-left: 0.7pt; margin-right: 0in; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; margin-left: 0in; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><i>Following
is an excerpt from my memoir, “Life with Big Green,” recounting cataclysmic
events surrounding the National Wildlife Federation’s Board of Directors
meeting in the summer of 2003. At the Skamania Lodge, with the spectacular
Columbia River Gorge as backdrop, NWF’s CEO unceremoniously and
unexpectedly was fired. My job, as his assistant, went on life-support.<o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; margin-left: 0in; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><i>Links to
my full story are at the end. </i></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbGukpnLgbNN3HtzcY_fdYiCnipDoaRZyCI7Xnr0ZNNIQBp_LnTlBjHOMVvvS2JCXkZpRUtCpGkVUIB4yPGdKBcInCOEI1-XcqyUYzpPC7RPdn6LQ6SFxWlFfoMGMPcLsIknjpjyTYkRjc875xnt4n3CszZVdAs1JKpLlCi8jPd_D-peH2D_D3P8S2HB2H/s2400/Cover.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="1600" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbGukpnLgbNN3HtzcY_fdYiCnipDoaRZyCI7Xnr0ZNNIQBp_LnTlBjHOMVvvS2JCXkZpRUtCpGkVUIB4yPGdKBcInCOEI1-XcqyUYzpPC7RPdn6LQ6SFxWlFfoMGMPcLsIknjpjyTYkRjc875xnt4n3CszZVdAs1JKpLlCi8jPd_D-peH2D_D3P8S2HB2H/w133-h200/Cover.jpg" width="133" /></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; margin-left: 0in; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">…[CEO] Mark retained support from where it mattered – the Board of
Directors. Nevertheless, the staff dysfunctions were not invisible to all Board
members. In June [2003], one director, Ed Clark, spelled out criticisms of Mark in a lengthy
letter to the Board’s Executive Committee. It had to have been informed by
insider knowledge of Mark’s management crisis. Someone on staff must have been
spilling the beans to Ed.</p></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It wasn’t me. I stayed out of it, despite my frequent
interactions with Board members in my new job as Board Relations Director. I
bit my tongue, even though by the time of Ed’s searing critique, I had secretly
decided to quit my job at NWF and flee my nasty boss. <o:p></o:p></p>
<h3 style="text-align: center;"><a name="QuittingInSecret"><u><i>Quitting in Secret</i></u></a></h3>
<span style="mso-bookmark: QuittingInSecret;"></span>
<p class="MsoNormal">It had been three years since I had been on a solo outdoors
adventure away from home. It had been so long that I didn’t even feel my usual
guilty pleasure about sneaking away. This one I had earned. I needed to heal.
Low dusky clouds hung over the wet, black tarmac at Dulles Airport. It seemed
fitting to be leaving for Oregon in April rain. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From the Portland airport, I drove out to the Pacific coast
in my rental car for a few days of birding prior to meeting up with Jim Martin,
a Board member and retired head of Oregon’s fish agency, who was going to take
me fishing…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On the Columbia River with Jim, I caught the biggest fish of
my life, a seven-foot-long sturgeon weighing at least 250 pounds. The following
day, I caught the biggest salmon of my life, a 29-pound spring chinook.</p><p class="Center-Normal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7RUNKPwmEzn41c1psruIyzibOh8IbwPSPAKDWfFMFVgOGVloRJy6f69leMJOXoLfe4hpmlz5xpTWrXKUE8UAkrat9vTicui8UTbQdvDwIqz6IFimP41JEooDjGwG5inKII3BOiWPovnZanoIcueNbz4J0PIabi3CclGam831h--suLvP1nMK084vzF2a/s842/Fish.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="636" data-original-width="842" height="242" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN7RUNKPwmEzn41c1psruIyzibOh8IbwPSPAKDWfFMFVgOGVloRJy6f69leMJOXoLfe4hpmlz5xpTWrXKUE8UAkrat9vTicui8UTbQdvDwIqz6IFimP41JEooDjGwG5inKII3BOiWPovnZanoIcueNbz4J0PIabi3CclGam831h--suLvP1nMK084vzF2a/s320/Fish.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Back at my motel room that evening, I was feeling mighty
fine. All was well with my world. “Like velvet on the palate,” is how the label
described the local pinot noir I was drinking. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That was the fateful moment when I decided to check my
email. I hoped to do quick triage on the 78 new ones, fewer than usual for two
days, but then, I was on vacation. First priority – dealing with Mark’s
missives.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I can’t recall what he said in his email that set me off. I
suspect it was nothing out of the ordinary, just another condescending harangue
about some mistake that was my fault. I sat there for a long time in the
growing dusk, stewing with my pinot, and asking why I kept putting myself
through such misery…<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Now, drunk on wine in my Oregon motel room, the thought of
going back to working with that asshole every day was overwhelmingly
depressing. There had to be a better way to get through life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The next day, I decided. I called my wife and told her I
wanted to accelerate our planned future move to Oregon. I just couldn’t take it
at NWF working for Mark any more. We would move to Portland. I’d find some kind
of environmental job there. Now midstream in her nursing college, Eva would
have to transfer. She said okay. And that’s how our big decision was made…<o:p></o:p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio8ZZtbbAlPImFl4rt0vFtANPtSGSapAaL62mGMDSS2z6m-LHN3x8_E6PxWyzj5ZW_RPUNuZpxOgLvSL6gou-d3TsVihCVGK_9jLJ-ctJ2KbLOdxkE9lGHafT1MrwyQsasVtyyogb53xWEzyH5aSRJUEaXGV4lt65yaiXxMMmfboqHv2OUBe_mxJ2W7kZn/s622/Selfie.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="415" data-original-width="622" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEio8ZZtbbAlPImFl4rt0vFtANPtSGSapAaL62mGMDSS2z6m-LHN3x8_E6PxWyzj5ZW_RPUNuZpxOgLvSL6gou-d3TsVihCVGK_9jLJ-ctJ2KbLOdxkE9lGHafT1MrwyQsasVtyyogb53xWEzyH5aSRJUEaXGV4lt65yaiXxMMmfboqHv2OUBe_mxJ2W7kZn/s320/Selfie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>The hour I decided to quit NWF.</i></td></tr></tbody></table><h3 style="text-align: center;"><a name="Unquitting"><u><i>Un-quitting</i></u></a></h3>
<span style="mso-bookmark: Unquitting;"></span>
<p class="MsoNormal">When I returned from Oregon, our family quietly began
preparing to move west in the fall. I slipped my resume to a headhunter in DC.
My wife informed her nursing school that she would not be returning the next
school year. At NWF, I told no one of our plans.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I hated going to work more than ever. I hated dealing with
Mark. Even so, I felt I was doing a good job. I told myself:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Italics11-Indent"></p><blockquote><i>In order to do my job well, it requires me to almost
get inside Mark’s skin, to really understand his thinking and motivations in
order to anticipate his expectations. That is creepy. It’s really time to move
on.</i></blockquote><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By a happy coincidence for me, the Board’s summer 2003 meeting
was scheduled for a conference center on the Columbia River just 50 miles east
of Portland. My job included overseeing the planning and logistics for such
meetings. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">In July, I flew to Portland for on-site preparations. And,
unbeknownst to anyone at NWF, to look for a new job and place to live in
Portland. My wife and one of our kids came along, and we spent a day driving by
houses that a local realtor in advance of our trip had identified for us. After
my family left, I spent more time in the city, trying to imagine living there,
not just in summer, but in the dark, rainy days of winter. The more I saw, the
less I liked the idea.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I visited every environmental and fishing organization in
Portland, ostensibly for the purpose of inviting them to attend our nearby
Board meeting the next month. My secret reason, however, was personal. I was
checking out job prospects. It was bleak. The environmental groups were too
greenie for me. I would never fit in. As for the fishing groups, most devoted
to salmon restoration, I saw no openings for a job. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">On my last day before heading home, Jim Martin took me
salmon fishing one last time. We drove several hours before sunrise from
Portland to the coast. Motoring the several miles out from the Tillamook Bay
launch ramp to the open ocean, fog was so thick that Jim had to navigate by
radar. A dozen other boats blindly tracked in our wake.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Jim got the lines set and started trolling slowly through
the ocean swells. Up. Down. Up. Down. Up. Down. <span class="Italics-NormalChar"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Don’t
think about it; watch the horizon,</span></span> I told myself. Except with the
fog, there was no horizon, just the claustrophobic world of gray mist
surrounding the sickening rise and fall of the boat. No wind and the engine’s
fumes hung on board. Within an hour, I was puking my guts out. It was the most
humiliating fishing excursion of my life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had thought I could handle it, even with my lifelong
propensity for motion sickness. I had taken Dramamine. I had just wanted to
fish on the ocean so badly. My pathetic showing seemed a fitting metaphor for
my entire trip.<span style="mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt;"> You can’t always make
things work out through force of will, wishful thinking, or drugs.</span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Eva and I agreed that moving to Portland wasn’t the right
thing to do, after all. Living in another big city was unappealing... Most
importantly, I had no confidence that I could find a decent-paying
environmental job in Portland. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">We went back to our plan of sticking it out in Virginia for
another three years. My wife enrolled in graduate school. Our daughter would be
done with college in that time. Then, finally, I could retire from NWF, and our
move to Oregon would be to small-town Cottage Grove (home of Eva’s parents),
not to big-city Portland. Eva would start her nurse practitioner career.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I returned to work at NWF surprisingly chipper. At least now
I had certainty about my future (or so I thought). I had survived this long
with Mark. Somehow, I could get through another three years with him…</p>
<h3 style="text-align: center;"><a name="MyFirstInkling"><u><i>My First Inkling</i></u></a></h3>
<span style="mso-bookmark: MyFirstInkling;"></span>
<p class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, Board member Ed Clark’s attack on Mark had
fizzled. The Executive Committee declared Ed’s tactics to be divisive and forced
him to resign from the Board of Directors. Ed had been in line to become chair
of the Board – a dream for him. Going after Mark killed any chance. At the
time, Ed couldn’t have known that one day he would be vindicated. For the
moment, though, Mark’s hold on his job seemed secure.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I had gotten my first inkling that Mark’s troubles might be
bigger than I imagined in Rock Springs, Wyoming. I was there to coordinate the May
meeting of the Board’s Executive Committee. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">During our free time, I went for a drive around the Flaming
Gorge Reservoir with Dan Chu, one of Mark’s favorites and the guy in charge of NWF’s
field staff. That job gave Dan a pipeline to the Board and NWF’s internal
politics. Like most of the executive staff, Dan didn’t trust me because of my
role as Mark’s handmaiden. But on this day, after I shared some of my job
frustrations, Dan told me cryptically that there were things going on that I
didn’t know about. Then he floored me: “Mark will be gone by the next annual
meeting.” That was just ten months away. He sounded so certain. How could he
know that? How could he be so sure about such a prediction? But Dan clammed up.<o:p></o:p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBvWDlImxqM-a7-TRCEXKmOMln4S0CFmZgCfNzM4sFGP_WD6g7iW-te1hMhzOehhpY30Q_VQAROgelKMZCfIhMYFjcJzPR0fSF5TDlgTATbTZQbx5peRLk1PXEHNKfPgi9nqMkrFTl1_IE0caIOYDunSi0xqQsnRP7mXHMvntWcM6cotq-rq0oSujntQg/s1050/Chu.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1050" data-original-width="549" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBBvWDlImxqM-a7-TRCEXKmOMln4S0CFmZgCfNzM4sFGP_WD6g7iW-te1hMhzOehhpY30Q_VQAROgelKMZCfIhMYFjcJzPR0fSF5TDlgTATbTZQbx5peRLk1PXEHNKfPgi9nqMkrFTl1_IE0caIOYDunSi0xqQsnRP7mXHMvntWcM6cotq-rq0oSujntQg/w209-h400/Chu.jpg" width="209" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Where Dan Chu told me that Mark’s days were numbered –</i></span><i><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">three months before it happened.</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">In the months leading up to the August Board of Directors
meeting, Mark seemed more nervous than usual. As we parted before heading out,
we had no way of knowing it would be our last conversation in the headquarters
we had built together. I looked at him and offered my unsolicited
encouragement: “You should be ok. I just can’t see any problems for you with
the Board.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">It was heartfelt and what I believed, but it shows how
little I knew about what was going on behind the scenes at NWF. Mark had
insisted that I steer clear of Board politics and that I play the bad cop with
his staff, and now I couldn’t have warned him of what was coming even had I
wanted to. </p>
<h3 style="text-align: center;"><a name="BigGreenKabuki"><u><i>Big Green Kabuki</i></u></a></h3>
<span style="mso-bookmark: BigGreenKabuki;"></span>
<p class="MsoNormal">The August Board meeting looked to be a good one – we had
planned field trips to a fish hatchery, a riverboat ride, and a salmon bake on
the spacious front lawn of the Skamania Lodge overlooking the Columbia River.
NWF’s Northwest regional staff were queued up to make presentations about their
latest accomplishments, and I forced them to rehearse in front of me to make
sure they could stay on schedule. It proved a moot concern.<o:p></o:p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4GdW70Wx_jbmEEyK_4D9xpAmMk-iY4LST7Mj0vof1kR39QzCIDscwF03a12wPlp2qrcBpKoL5BBkR5PYIz2PXhG2CyLgWgz_P_xhywHpse-3lwieuM8BdXNr8M8zd4SnyqnV8UZh23EwgxtjGB9l9nNEygtfzgusaIAhEqi3vBXQTbt28P2p20wF87Tvy/s8725/Lodge2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="6655" data-original-width="8725" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4GdW70Wx_jbmEEyK_4D9xpAmMk-iY4LST7Mj0vof1kR39QzCIDscwF03a12wPlp2qrcBpKoL5BBkR5PYIz2PXhG2CyLgWgz_P_xhywHpse-3lwieuM8BdXNr8M8zd4SnyqnV8UZh23EwgxtjGB9l9nNEygtfzgusaIAhEqi3vBXQTbt28P2p20wF87Tvy/s320/Lodge2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><p class="MsoNormal">The first night, Wednesday, the Board’s Executive Committee
met over a private dinner that lasted uncharacteristically late. The next
morning, they resumed their private meeting until midafternoon.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Because I had been in the dark regarding a secret Board
conspiracy to get rid of Mark, I had a hard time grasping what was happening.
Soon, however, it became evident that a small group on the Board had come to
the meeting intending to do just that. Word also leaked out that Ed Clark had
rescinded his resignation from the Board. His broadside against Mark had found
new supporters.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Friday’s meeting of the full Board started with Mark giving
his regular update report. Judging by the body language of Board members, his
enemies were obvious; they were the ones who wouldn’t look at him. Mark had on
his game face, but the strain was apparent. He had arrived for the morning
meeting with nary a word to anyone, a man under siege.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">After his routine CEO report, my carefully constructed
meeting agenda was discarded and all staff except Mark were told to leave. We hung
out in the hallway, awaiting news.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Throughout the morning, the closed doors would swing open to
disgorge one director after another heading for the bathroom. Each face was
some version of withdrawn, gaunt, serious, exhausted, and beaten. I wasn’t
surprised. Backing Mark into a corner was a dangerous undertaking. He wasn’t
going to make it easy for them. Later, several Board members would call it the
worst day of their lives.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The Board’s chairperson, Becky Scheibelhut, appeared
blindsided by the get-rid-of-Mark attack. She sure hadn’t signed up for this
back home in Indiana. She had no experience in running a bloodthirsty tribunal.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A sweet, simple, gray-haired grandmother, Becky had been
hand-picked by Mark for her rise from her local, Indiana outdoors club up through the
ranks to become NWF’s top volunteer leader. She epitomized his “one big vision”
of training and empowering ordinary citizen conservationists. <o:p></o:p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3AUVZHRy5wY-7zXzQd-dAyrm18iENL7AVFTIv8BXSMoN1nzpXiGUFUj0fD8cOYcUIBxQO8HW4vVrfwsow4PwuDwlYDCJZUHe5OErL-LbdqcJxyUilumCl8R4P-AUA-ut4fjuj5mBOswrU0Y02X-2wZ_xbZ5Bc72nRYoOjG8n5kvgqcU1CZrjnGOIfYZL/s2238/Becky.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1704" data-original-width="2238" height="244" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN3AUVZHRy5wY-7zXzQd-dAyrm18iENL7AVFTIv8BXSMoN1nzpXiGUFUj0fD8cOYcUIBxQO8HW4vVrfwsow4PwuDwlYDCJZUHe5OErL-LbdqcJxyUilumCl8R4P-AUA-ut4fjuj5mBOswrU0Y02X-2wZ_xbZ5Bc72nRYoOjG8n5kvgqcU1CZrjnGOIfYZL/s320/Becky.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="text-align: left;"><i>Becky – reluctant hatchet-woman.</i></span></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="Italics11-Center">During one of Becky’s breaks from the meeting’s drama, she
saw me sitting alone in a deserted hallway and walked over, expressing her
bewilderment at the situation exploding on her watch. She said the Board was
being told that “all the staff” have lost confidence in Mark. “You too?” she
asked, her eyes hoping to be contradicted.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I measured the political implications for me of whatever I
said, but decided it was a time to simply tell the truth. I looked up at her
sadly and said, “Yes.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Becky nodded and went back to her distasteful role of doing
what had to be done.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Midafternoon, about an hour before the meeting concluded,
Mark sought me out and explained what was happening. For the first time in a
long time, and for the last time ever, he talked to me as the friend he once
had been. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">The upshot, he told me, was that the Board had voted to
reinstate Ed Clark to the Board. This was an obvious rebuke to Mark and his
remaining defenders on the Board. In addition, the Board had appointed a
committee charged with negotiating with Mark either an employment contract or
terms of his separation.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mark was angry, feeling set up and betrayed, although by
whom I wasn’t sure. He felt his “business record” spoke for itself and
dismissed charges of staff morale problems as not significant, conceding to me only
that for the past two years he had neglected staff as a “constituency.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">By the end of the day, most staff at the meeting assumed
that Mark was being fired, but nothing was for sure. Despite the tension and
uncertainty, everyone tried to put on happy faces for the social events, which
included meeting and greeting those local environmental leaders attending as a
result of my personal invitations during my ill-fated trip to Portland.
Saturday morning’s field trips went as scheduled but were rife with tension,
every hushed conversation viewed as a potential intrigue. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mark put out the word that staff were to convene Saturday
afternoon. The meeting would be in a classroom set off in the fir trees away
from the conference center building. Groups of ones and twos and threes
converged on paths through the hushed woods, sunlight filtering through the
tall conifers. It felt like we were heading to a funeral.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Inside, Mark seemed oddly defiant, given the circumstances.
He started with a strained metaphor, comparing the Board meeting to a kabuki
drama. He said it’s about what you don’t see. No one could understand what he
was talking about. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He explained that the Board had taken two specific actions.
First, was Ed Clark’s reinstatement to the Board. Second, the Board “also
passed a motion of confidence in me.” He paused, then continued, “It’s
important that I be honest with you about what happened…” I don’t remember
anything he said after that.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mark’s explanation left everyone scratching their heads. How
did a “motion of confidence” square with being fired? But, in fact, <span class="Italics-NormalChar"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">technically</span></span>, he was right. A
motion had been introduced (by the wealthy Mexican director who had been
personally wooed by Mark to join the Board) to charge the Board’s Executive
Committee to either negotiate an employment contract with Mark or, if that
failed, a severance agreement. Another director, who was sympathetic to Mark,
amended the motion to add a vote of confidence in Mark. That all passed, though
not unanimously.<o:p></o:p></p>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5LlNflE1Vs9ihMlfHpfr6d3UFfHYg6QBpaVNt4kWuS7_L2BpyV14bXIuK-NBpsexMkh-L2OfjWqhUQnJue5r-zwGTUL8B6ke8zcpwJmHReNqmZTjPzIr5LF_nNE--tOIZ9jNUnkfTPGNChII0vnG2-HxqcAxjX8bchGU-W1v8lbHs4Jbf2LAKMhzIlb1p/s634/Board.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="440" data-original-width="634" height="222" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5LlNflE1Vs9ihMlfHpfr6d3UFfHYg6QBpaVNt4kWuS7_L2BpyV14bXIuK-NBpsexMkh-L2OfjWqhUQnJue5r-zwGTUL8B6ke8zcpwJmHReNqmZTjPzIr5LF_nNE--tOIZ9jNUnkfTPGNChII0vnG2-HxqcAxjX8bchGU-W1v8lbHs4Jbf2LAKMhzIlb1p/s320/Board.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="text-align: left;">NWF Board of Directors – 2003</span><br style="text-align: left;" /><span style="text-align: left;">(Ed Clark – front right)</span></i></td></tr></tbody></table><p class="MsoNormal">I have no idea what they were thinking with that duplicitous
“vote of confidence” in Mark; obviously, it wasn’t true. Within an hour after
Mark’s staff meeting, I learned that the Executive Committee intended to place Mark
immediately on administrative leave. I noted in my journal: <o:p></o:p></p>
<blockquote><p class="Italics11-Indent"><i>Notwithstanding the mask MVP displayed to staff, they
intend for him to be out within two weeks. Meanwhile, MVP is either seriously
delusional about the reality of his predicament or he is giving it his ultimate
spin for his benefit in negotiating an exit. I think the first, but am not
certain.</i><o:p></o:p></p></blockquote>
<p class="MsoNormal">That day, my tangled, 21-year relationship with Mark ended.
I never learned what he thought I did or said that made him abruptly shun me,
but from that day forward, it was clear he wanted nothing more to do with me. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Throughout the entire Board meeting, I had assiduously
avoided any Mark-talk with Board members. Even when some had not-so-subtly
invited my criticism, I had deflected the conversation and changed the subject.
I did not, however, rise to Mark’s defense. I couldn’t.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">From my notes written at that moment:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Italics11-Indent"></p><blockquote><i>I’ve tried to remain honorable to Mark while
protecting my integrity and my loyalty to this institution. That’s not easy. It
probably was not lost on Board members that I didn’t privately decry the
pending actions. When they learned that “all the staff” have lost confidence in
MVP, that includes me and I don’t deny it. It’s time for a change at the top.
Quickly.</i></blockquote><o:p></o:p><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Mark’s animus towards me remained a mystery. I’ve always
assumed he blamed me in some way for his downfall. But I wasn’t his Brutus. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">More likely, however, his shunning me was as simple as my
refusal to fall on my sword for him. To madly declare like a Samurai, <span class="Italics-NormalChar"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">If Mark goes, then I go! Hara-kiri!<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">During the first days of our environmental partnership – two
decades earlier when Mark still saw me as a mentor – I had advised him: “You
have to fight another day. Nothing’s worth falling on your sword.” I had assumed
that the “not even you, Mark” part went without saying.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Center-Normal" style="text-align: center;">* * *<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Just like that, he was gone. Gone from NWF. Gone from my
life.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Within a week, I shared a “confidential epiphany” with my
friend, CFO Larry Amon, who was named by the Board to be the acting-CEO:<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Italics11-Indent"></p><blockquote><p class="Italics11-Indent"><i>On a lunchtime bike ride today, it hit me. A feeling
I had forgotten existed. I’m happy at work. I can’t remember feeling like that
since the headquarters building project three years ago. <o:p></o:p></i></p>
<p class="Italics11-Indent"><i>We can do this. I’m anxious to get started. We can
put this place together in a humane way that makes sense and works.</i></p></blockquote><p class="Italics11-Indent"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I felt lucky to have survived, lucky that I hadn’t quit to
move to Portland just before the ax fell on Mark. Others hadn’t been so
fortunate. Several senior vice presidents recently had been forced out by Mark.
NWF’s education senior vice president had been job hunting and accepted a
position just before Mark was fired.<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">But wait. My mistake. Mark wasn’t really <span class="Italics-NormalChar"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">fired</span></span>, as his widely distributed <span class="Italics-NormalChar"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">resignation</span></span> letter of September
3, 2003, made clear. From his irony-free zone, he wrote: “Obviously, it is a
painful decision for me to leave the staff of an organization I know so well
and love so much. But it is time…”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">He told the <span class="Italics-NormalChar"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Washington
Post</span></span>: “I accomplished everything I set out to do… I thought why
not go out on top.”<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Italics-NormalChar"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Now there,</span></span> I
said to myself, <span class="Italics-NormalChar"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">there is some <u>real</u>
theater. Big Green kabuki.</span></span><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Unfortunately for Mark, during the nearly three weeks
between the Board meeting and his “resignation” announcement (while he and the
attorneys were negotiating his separation agreement), the rumors had spread
that Mark was out. While details remained murky, few could have assumed that
Mark’s unexpected vanishing act had been of his own doing, as NWF officially
pretended. <o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">His survivors celebrated. Few mourned. Mark made it easy.
From my journal (omitting my colleague’s name):<o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="Italics11-Indent">I heard the story last night about when --- went to
deliver the notice from the Board that placed him on leave after the meeting. ---
called and Mark said if --- showed up that he would consider it, on advice of
his attorney, “criminal trespass” and the worst form of aggression by NWF. --- still
hasn’t gotten over that one. <o:p></o:p></p>
<div style="border-bottom: solid windowtext 1.0pt; border: none; margin-left: 0.7pt; margin-right: 0in; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-element: para-border-div; padding: 0in 0in 1pt;">
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; margin-left: 0in; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;">NWF’s
fictional account of Mark’s departure reminded me of Chico Marx in <span class="Italics-NormalChar"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-bidi;">Duck Soup</span></span>: “Well, who you gonna
believe, me or your own eyes?”<o:p></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; margin-left: 0in; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in; text-align: center;"># # #</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="border: none; margin-left: 0in; mso-border-bottom-alt: solid windowtext .75pt; mso-padding-alt: 0in 0in 1.0pt 0in; padding: 0in;"><o:p> </o:p><a href="https://books.apple.com/us/book/life-with-big-green-a-memoir/id873357969">Life
with Big Green: A Memoir on Apple Books</a></p></div><p class="MsoNormal"><o:p></o:p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/life-with-big-green-wayne-schmidt/1119459276?ean=2940045918275">Life
with Big Green: A Memoir by Wayne Schmidt | eBook | Barnes & Noble®
(barnesandnoble.com)</a><b><o:p></o:p></b></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><u><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></u></span></p><p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><u><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Readers’ reviews:<o:p></o:p></span></u><br /><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">From former environmentalist colleagues:</span> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"> </span><span style="font-family: Calibri;"></span><br /></p><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Riveting. I couldn't put it down.”</span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“A real page turner. If you need to hide from attorneys, we’re available.”</span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="color: black; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Well written, unvarnished, and artfully constructed. Parts poignant, others deeply disturbing.”</span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="color: black; mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I just finished most of Wayne's book. I think I must have PTSD. I'm sick to my stomach.”</span><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></div><p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">From a former environmentalist Board of Directors member:<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman"; font-feature-settings: normal; font-kerning: auto; font-optical-sizing: auto; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: 7pt; font-stretch: normal; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; font-variation-settings: normal; line-height: normal;"> </span></span></span><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I think you got it right.”<o:p></o:p></span></div><p><span style="font-family: Calibri;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span><br /><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">From a former journalist colleague:<o:p></o:p></span><br /><span style="font-family: Times New Roman;"></span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span style="font-family: Symbol; font-size: 10pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Symbol; mso-bidi-font-size: 12.0pt; mso-fareast-font-family: Symbol;"><span style="mso-list: Ignore;">·<span style="font-size-adjust: none; font-stretch: normal; font: 7pt "Times New Roman";"> <span> </span></span></span></span><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“What a motherfucker of a book it is. Holy shit!</span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-align: center; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"># # #</span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><br /></div><div style="margin-left: 0.5in; mso-list: l0 level1 lfo1; tab-stops: list .5in; text-indent: -0.25in;"><span face=""Calibri","sans-serif"" style="mso-ascii-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div><br />WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-48745657399820414072022-12-28T20:25:00.002-08:002022-12-28T21:00:08.634-08:00"F**K THE MORMONS!" ??<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdlleb-_0-AS4T_dOOkMZZrRgw7Easyw2_7eUfSadGa7JMhjwOq9MLi7djuWsFfyolLHLzuudq0P2FUmrmKWcb5nSL9_R9OmDHbI-traaokGlF8rBMAqGszJQJ_zkh1kJpHXvhYnnkhnKpZj_Ait0Nudt_ixkqnxdjD1RuEFs85_85SulGQkp80h6CA/s6609/01A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4480" data-original-width="6609" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDdlleb-_0-AS4T_dOOkMZZrRgw7Easyw2_7eUfSadGa7JMhjwOq9MLi7djuWsFfyolLHLzuudq0P2FUmrmKWcb5nSL9_R9OmDHbI-traaokGlF8rBMAqGszJQJ_zkh1kJpHXvhYnnkhnKpZj_Ait0Nudt_ixkqnxdjD1RuEFs85_85SulGQkp80h6CA/w320-h218/01A.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><div><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-family: inherit;">The vulgar chant at the Oregon Ducks
football game was deafening: </span><i style="font-family: inherit;">“Fuck the Mormons! Fuck the Mormons!…”</i><span style="font-family: inherit;"> I’m
sure that few of the student chuckleheads at Autzen Stadium last Fall had any
idea of the roots of their bigoted incantation, directed at the Mormon Cougars
of Brigham Young University.</span></div></span><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Disgusting? Yes. Embarrassing? Yes.
Inexcusable? Yes. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And yet…<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mormons have been hated for 200 years. Truth be told, they <u>are</u> pretty easy to mock. It’s a mystery
to me how anyone can seriously believe their religion’s nonsense. If you’ve
seen <i>The Book of Mormon</i> play, or listened to its soundtrack, you’ve got
a fair summary of their kooky history and beliefs. One might be excused for
thinking that Mormons have brought on themselves some of their never-ending persecution.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was, for example, Brigham Young,
himself, the second president of the Mormon church, who was personally responsible
for one of the most horrific mass murders in American history (more on that,
later).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But regardless, why single out Mormons?
(And at a football game, of all places. BTW, the Ducks beat BYU,
41-20.) Is their religion any crazier, or any more blood-stained, than any
other religion? Like Catholicism, for example. But can you imagine opposing fans at a Notre Dame
football game chanting, <i>“Fuck the Catholics!”</i>?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What is it about Mormon theology that makes
it such an easy target? Is it the magic underwear? Secret handshakes? Sister
wives? The belief that Jesus came to America right after his resurrection to
visit the Nephites… (long story)? Or that when Jesus returns, he will first go
to Jerusalem, then to Missouri (site of the Garden of Eden, per Mormon belief)?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If you’re a good Christian, you
probably read right past that “resurrection” part. And the “Jesus returns”
part. You take those supernatural things to be true. Fundaments of your faith. But
really. Is all that Son of God stuff any more or less realistic than an angel named
Moroni coming to upstate New York, in 1823, to visit Joseph Smith, and tell him
where mysterious golden plates were buried, which Smith turned into the <i>Book
of Mormon</i>? And inform him that he had been chosen by God as the one guy in all the world to
restore His true church on Earth? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Every religion has its myths. The ones
from ancient times, however, somehow appear easier to accept than those of more recent
origin. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Take Scientology, which seems
especially wacky, since it was dreamed up just 70 years ago by a science-fiction
writer, L. Ron Hubbard, in Camden, New Jersey. Scientology’s story about the “frozen
thetans of Xenu” is insane, but is it any loonier than the Genesis story of
Adam and Eve and a talking snake, which many Christians believe absolutely?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Legions of Biblical literalists each
year visit a “replica” of Noah’s ark, just off I‑75, in Kentucky. And you can
charter a raft trip through the Grand Canyon with “experts” explaining how that
six-million-year-old chasm was created by Noah’s flood, just a few thousand
years ago. How can seemingly intelligent people believe such malarkey?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was in 1830 that Joseph Smith’s hallucinogenic
writings and ravings founded the Mormon religion – today’s Church of Jesus
Christ of Latter-day Saints, which now defines life for millions of its adherents.
LDS members take Smith’s <i>Book of Mormon</i> as seriously as Evangelical
Christians take the Bible.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><u><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">June 2022 – the
Utah Outback</span></u><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">These were some of the mysteries I
pondered, the night before visiting Mountain Meadows, site of Brigham Young’s terrorist
atrocity, committed by his God-fearing followers 165 years ago, a few miles to
the west. I had pulled off the dirt road, once used by pioneer wagon trains bound
for California, to camp in southwest Utah’s high desert. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: yes;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywhNcmTXRRK1aBwsggfmUgYvY7QABSLuBXYLFow8msfK_Udxdm7ENT348KOO4ZQIQfJdDDaFPiQu93IluyvciWKwM4qjqas73OCMoCnD1Qt16DE4cnmC3E7pXKduzo3df9pRulGIMKp4-im52Ug97C5h4ThslJnuwQtoJaRvPVf8cMV-r5pCawqmAwA/s6075/02A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4056" data-original-width="6075" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiywhNcmTXRRK1aBwsggfmUgYvY7QABSLuBXYLFow8msfK_Udxdm7ENT348KOO4ZQIQfJdDDaFPiQu93IluyvciWKwM4qjqas73OCMoCnD1Qt16DE4cnmC3E7pXKduzo3df9pRulGIMKp4-im52Ug97C5h4ThslJnuwQtoJaRvPVf8cMV-r5pCawqmAwA/w320-h214/02A.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></span></div><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s a forlorn landscape of sagebrush
and scattered junipers. In the howling wind, a somberness infused the air. Perhaps that was just my imagination, chilled by bedtime reading of the
gruesome details of the Mountain Meadows massacre. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTKxYJqZlFu2xiYZpsDFMkUjAnkGb_YAkhmD6391whA_G6YT81wRGSq2Cf5OElT_14BwV_fih1mhQjq-1ygWK1HJpx6GV5FTrTjyhBfqra4P4U7XxaTh9auWQHwOvhaYdJ7zxm8oNQawuHyGNTisSAEJ6YahsTZAMvT8p_ufyEdc96qdkUdVTJNzYMXg/s1280/03.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1280" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTKxYJqZlFu2xiYZpsDFMkUjAnkGb_YAkhmD6391whA_G6YT81wRGSq2Cf5OElT_14BwV_fih1mhQjq-1ygWK1HJpx6GV5FTrTjyhBfqra4P4U7XxaTh9auWQHwOvhaYdJ7zxm8oNQawuHyGNTisSAEJ6YahsTZAMvT8p_ufyEdc96qdkUdVTJNzYMXg/w200-h200/03.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In 1857, a wagon train of well-to-do
Arkansas pioneers crossed here, carrying some 40 men, 30 women, and 70 children, and
all their worldly possessions, along with their mules, horses, and an enormous
herd of 100 oxen and at least 800 cattle. Passing the very spot where I had
stopped, they hurried to set up camp a few miles down the road, in an alpine
valley – the remote, rich grasslands known as Mountain Meadows. This was, and
is, Mormon country, and the Arkansas travelers had entered their land in a time
of unprecedented political and religious paranoia and rumors. War between the
fiercely-independent Mormons and the U.S. government was in the air. The
Arkansas wagon train was in the wrong place at the wrong time.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">For at Mountain Meadows, Mormon
settlers and leaders (aided by Paiute allies), with cold-blooded premeditation,
murdered at least 120 men, women, and children of the wagon train. Their bodies were
left to rot. Only 17 of the youngest children were spared (the ones they
thought wouldn’t remember the killers’ faces), though some were grievously wounded.
<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">This is the odious reality of the
foundations of one of the world’s fastest growing religions – the Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Is it any wonder that <i>“Fuck the Mormons!”</i>
remains a living execration today? <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In my camp, a beautiful pair of
ash-throated flycatchers gave melodic chirps, flitting about the trees. It was
a cruel contradiction. The birds, of course, were oblivious to the evil history
of this place. Some of the site’s ancient junipers, however, may actually have
witnessed the last happy moments of those pioneer families, passing by here to
their tragic destiny. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><u><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The Night before
the Massacre<o:p></o:p></span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The night before arriving at Mountain
Meadows, the doomed travelers camped at a meadow and springs a few miles east, farther
back the wagon trail. I learned that from Lisa Michele Church, whose Mormon
ancestors homesteaded on that very spot and built a rustic, log home and barn,
just one year after the massacre. The family’s still-standing Page House was
built there, a generation later, in 1899.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTtUR5UbNbBSt0Xp9zwGxnSxGS3S8IG0BmfKszyBGZ_xkHrKL9k8yxwfMGvpyp2V1ALNcaNG2kiG1fCkIvqHzXIVaGDdk8YwRu_XXY-SzaqL0Qv_ge_pZrAKmR4pRBRdrwi2SgoJMob_kJvAtAkX2qr63GVjKOsrJS-xp98W_91wDpDXPKcNVeCXsnw/s3024/04A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLTtUR5UbNbBSt0Xp9zwGxnSxGS3S8IG0BmfKszyBGZ_xkHrKL9k8yxwfMGvpyp2V1ALNcaNG2kiG1fCkIvqHzXIVaGDdk8YwRu_XXY-SzaqL0Qv_ge_pZrAKmR4pRBRdrwi2SgoJMob_kJvAtAkX2qr63GVjKOsrJS-xp98W_91wDpDXPKcNVeCXsnw/w320-h320/04A.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I had stopped to read the historical
markers in front of the fenced-off, boarded-up house. That’s where I met Lisa,
who was doing some cleanup in the dilapidated place that was built by her
ancestors. I asked if she would show me the house’s interior, and she agreed. I
slipped through the heavy iron gate, and learned about her prodigious work to
preserve, and one day hopefully restore, the crumbling, once-elegant mansion. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The thousand-acre property no longer
is owned by her family; they lost it during the 1930s Depression. But Lisa managed to get the current owners to let her work
on the house, including putting on a $7,000 new metal roof, paid for by
proceeds from her remarkable history book </span><span style="line-height: 107%;"><a href="https://wchsutah.org/documents/church-page-ranch-book3.pdf"><i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Sunlight
and Shadow – The Page Ranch Story</span></i><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">.</span></a></span><span class="MsoHyperlink"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><u><span style="color: #0563c1; font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: yes; mso-themecolor: hyperlink;"></span></u></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><u><span style="color: #0563c1; font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: yes; mso-themecolor: hyperlink;"><a href="https://wchsutah.org/documents/church-page-ranch-book3.pdf" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;" target="_blank"><img border="0" data-original-height="1086" data-original-width="871" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpcSKViipo9_fJdEpb3i_yqYNbLeCD_4CARsMZF5zU6FCEQ_qenVo1FXEQ0O14VYGbwWYgyTsa2H08_5l1vHQJ72XN9ozNYPnb2wSqsbSbWLxdBbZUomFdi0qr_aC8ZB8r19NFkjIZ31Bc6ZD3jhw5_0Zm9OUtXOrtZBa5KnhCZn1RkoNBBYg6M_g2ZQ/w257-h320/05.jpg" width="257" /></a></span></u></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Seen through Lisa’s eyes, the Page
House was a mansion once more. The dark, vandalized rooms and broken windows disappeared
– instead, fine furniture from Chicago filled the spaces, grand art hung from
walls framed by Victorian woodwork, and peeling, water-stained wallpaper again
took on a luxurious glow. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Lisa’s stories of her Mormon relatives,
including the complicated, polygamist lives of plural wives who had lived here,
came to life, as I listened. These had been her people, her family.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOCt2Hyn1ZQGSSQrmZStjV6dT9VV5G0EQcwJNpkTRzcUzPyf3HCiCWLCZNm8-SsJTxx15cmFEm5HU4kTJQo0NYrdlexYezka-TYjfw7kvz6OXoppDyPzfuEB3BlHbO2OpMc6gY9mQnZ9HwhPmljsv4IJQnoP_5omioDr8z9lyNrtYl_CmGgcVytt5-vA/s3500/06A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3500" data-original-width="2487" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOCt2Hyn1ZQGSSQrmZStjV6dT9VV5G0EQcwJNpkTRzcUzPyf3HCiCWLCZNm8-SsJTxx15cmFEm5HU4kTJQo0NYrdlexYezka-TYjfw7kvz6OXoppDyPzfuEB3BlHbO2OpMc6gY9mQnZ9HwhPmljsv4IJQnoP_5omioDr8z9lyNrtYl_CmGgcVytt5-vA/w227-h320/06A.jpg" width="227" /></span></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Still, it was hard for me to
understand. Why did she care so much about a place that she didn’t even own?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I wanted to bring dignity to the
house,” Lisa explained. Moreover, “I will see mother in Heaven one day, and
wanted to have done right by her.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I told her of my intention to visit
the site of the Mountain Meadows massacre in the morning, but didn't dwell on the topic. It can be a touchy
subject with Mormons; the Church denied any complicity in the massacre for 150
years. Blamed it all on the Indians, or the victims themselves, or more
recently, on renegade, local Mormons. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Historians are split on whether LDS Church
President Brigham Young directly ordered the massacre. Here’s the conclusion
that I believe:<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“[W]ithin
the context of the era and the history of Brigham Young’s complete
authoritarian control over his domain and his followers, it is inconceivable
that a crime of this magnitude could have occurred without direct orders from
him. Virtually every federal officer who became involved in future
investigations of the massacre would conclude that Young personally ordered the
atrocity, used his position to shield the killers who had followed his
instructions, and personally directed the elimination of all evidence incriminating
himself and his closest advisors. The evidence of Young as an ‘accessory after
the fact’ is abundant, though documentation of his earlier role as orchestrator
of the massacre is elusive.” (Denton 2003:152)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Not to this day have LDS officials
accepted responsibility for the massacre. The closest has been an expression of
“profound regret.” Why not apologize? To do so, I believe, might open the
Church to demands for reparations to the ancestors of the Arkansas families
they destroyed, and the generations of trauma they caused. You know the saying:
follow the money. The LDS Church, one of the richest in the world, owns $100
billion in investments. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Camping that night, just off the
pioneer trail, it was easy to imagine the Arkansas wagon train passing by, the
sounds of creaking wagons, mooing of cattle, laughter of children, the hurried
commands of men anxious to pass through the land of Mormons who hated them for
no apparent reason. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But maybe that enmity is not that
hard to understand. The Mormons, intent on carving out their Zion on Earth in
the Utah wilderness, had been persecuted for their bizarre beliefs wherever
they had settled. In fact, a beloved Mormon elder </span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">(Mitt
Romney’s great-great-grandfather) </span><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">had
just been murdered back in Arkansas (a polygamy love triangle gone bad). Church
leaders, led by Young, had made it clear that outsiders were to be feared as a
threat to their peculiar religion and to the very survival of their unconventional
way of life. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When I drifted to sleep, I
felt tormented by the insanity and gruesome details of the Mormons’ cruelty (reminiscent of Christians’ bloody Crusades a millennium earlier). And haunted
by the evils conducted by otherwise normal men in the name of God, religion,
and in this case, their nutty prophet, Joseph Smith.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><u><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The First
September 11<sup>th</sup> <o:p></o:p></span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It was early Sunday morning when I
reached Mountain Meadows. Sites of the atrocities, and their memorials, are
spread over several miles of grassy meadows. I walked alone down the paths to
spots where the unspeakable actions took place over several days in 1857,
culminating with the Arkansas wagon train finally surrendering, only to be
slaughtered, one-by-one, face-to-face, in an orgy of butchery and bloodshed.
Men, women, little children. Shot, stabbed, clubbed, throats sliced. Bodies stripped naked, robbed,
heaped in piles, and left for wolves, coyotes, and vultures. “Lord my God,
Receive their spirits. It is for Thy Kingdom that I do this,” one of the
killers prayed to his God, as he fired his gun into defenseless humans. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: yes;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwF-QrBp8xSavF21FvD6vn1yAxSBLHTms7xuK3Lnwf8C5qdeyAh6TlKWd_gVrXXcJufevC9SGTSVzyoGj9yiLMNJCLEBMmNEdc2KFVqW-LpCKJAj-3gTM_YUs7E9GpAtXsNTVs4tdMgtZw5xenrlgh0RIavDwV_CpMKIWX5aDoAMLa5urkjk9VAPqT8w/s3981/07A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3981" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhwF-QrBp8xSavF21FvD6vn1yAxSBLHTms7xuK3Lnwf8C5qdeyAh6TlKWd_gVrXXcJufevC9SGTSVzyoGj9yiLMNJCLEBMmNEdc2KFVqW-LpCKJAj-3gTM_YUs7E9GpAtXsNTVs4tdMgtZw5xenrlgh0RIavDwV_CpMKIWX5aDoAMLa5urkjk9VAPqT8w/w243-h320/07A.jpg" width="243" /></a></span></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Those Arkansans got
caught in a larger battle by Mormons against the federal government. Brigham
Young, the Mormon President as well as Utah Territory Governor, had trumpeted,
“Any President of the United States who lifts his finger against [my] people
shall die an untimely death and go to hell!” Young railed against the
tyrannical federal government infringing on their rights (e.g., polygamy; Young
had at least 56 wives).<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The end times were
nearing, Mormons believed, with the overthrow of the U.S. government assured,
when their one-and-only true church would rule the globe. To that end, “lying
for the Lord” was righteous. The end justified the means. Sometimes, even including
murder.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The West in the 1850s
was a violent place. LDS “prophets,” however, took that culture of violence to
another level. Brigham Young thundered that “blood atonement” was demanded for
sinners who had committed unpardonable sins; meaning, they must be killed in
order to save their eternal souls: “[Sinners should] beg of their brethren to
shed their blood.” One of the “unpardonable sins” was apostasy – leaving the
Mormon faith and abandoning unquestioning allegiance to Young. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">U.S.
President James Buchanan had declared the Mormons in Utah Territory to be in
rebellion. Federal troops were headed to Salt Lake City to oust Young as
territorial governor.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">In the
month before the massacre, Young had travelled with his adopted son, John D.
Lee, to his southern Utah settlements, fanning the hot August fires of paranoia
among the faithful. The Second Coming of Jesus was fast approaching, he
preached, as was war with the U.S. Army. Lee told Young that his local Mormon
neighbors (in the Mountain Meadows region) were “anxious to avenge the blood of
the Prophets.” The upshot was that Lee and other local Mormon leaders were
certain that Young, their Living Prophet, had commanded them to kill every emigrant
passing through Utah.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="background: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Blind obedience
to Mormon authority was (and is) a central tenet of LDS theology. To disobey a
church prophet (i.e., Brigham Young) is to rebel against God, with unimaginable
consequences.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">And so,
with the Arkansas wagon train headed their way, the Mormon militia was called
up and plans detailed to enlist Paiute allies and wipe out the emigrants. In
the nearly-full-moon-lit darkness of Sunday night, September 6, 1857, Lee and
his men donned warpaint to disguise themselves as Indians. As the emigrants
were waking and having breakfast of quail and rabbit, in the gray, dawn light,
the slaughter began. The Mormons’ first shot killed a child.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">The
emigrants who survived the initial half-hour assault were surrounded, without
access to water or firewood, and a siege ensued for five days, with periodic
attacks.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;">Finally,
on September 11 under the Mormon militia’s diabolical use of a white flag, the
surviving emigrants surrendered, and they were lined up. The order was given: “Do
your duty!” Amid the murderous horrors of gunshots, screams, and wailing,
rapes were likely.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 0in;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">
<!--[endif]--><span style="background: white;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Eyewitness accounts of the bloodbath
at Mountain Meadows, those crimes against humanity, are nauseating to read,
even after all these years later. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“[Wagon
train] Captain Jack Baker held four-year-old Nancy Huff in his arms as he was
killed; the little girl then watched her mother ‘shot in the forehead and fall
dead.’ She looked on helplessly as teenage girls begged their murderers to
spare them, to no avail. Vina, ‘the prettiest of the three Baker girls,’ was
last seen by one of her sisters being led away, her beautiful long black hair
hanging straight. One eyewitness reported ‘children clinging around the knees
of the murderers, begging for mercy and offering themselves as slaves for life
could they be spared. But their throats were cut from ear to ear as an answer
to their appeal.’ Another witness reported that two attractive young girls were
told that if they danced nude their lives would be spared, yet after doing the
macabre performance they too were put to death. ‘You don’t forget the horror,’
one of the survivors said. ‘And you wouldn’t forget it either, if you saw your
own mother topple over in the wagon beside you, with a big red splotch getting
bigger and bigger on the front of her calico dress.’” (Denton 2003:138)<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Before the week’s
atrocities ended, at least 100 Mormon men from across southern Utah (half of the
entire region’s adult white men), and 50-100 Paiute Indians, had been in the
fight.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><u><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">The Aftermath<o:p></o:p></span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Brigham Young and the
LDS church immediately denied any role in the massacre and orchestrated a
massive coverup of the Mormon role. Oaths of silence were sworn by the killers.
Young demanded written evidence of LDS complicity destroyed. Apostates who
dared speak out were ostracized, terrorized, and sometimes, killed.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Only one Mormon leader
ever was brought to legal justice – John D. Lee – and not until two decades
after the massacre. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I first learned of Lee’s
story from my adventures rafting the Grand Canyon, which embark from a spot
just below the Glen Canyon Dam, called Lee’s Ferry. It was here, 14 years after
the massacre, that Brigham Young exiled his favored, adopted son, to
hide out and operate a ferry across the Colorado River, in one of the most
deserted places in Utah Territory. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">In years immediately
after the massacre, however, Lee had become the richest man in southern Utah, blessed
with multiple wives, children, land, and power, due to his connections with
Young, his unrepentant life, and a good share of the loot stolen from the
murdered pioneers. He was a respected LDS church elder. Though shunned by
some in the Mormon community, not by all. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">During my private tour of the Page House,
I had asked Lisa about John Lee, since her ancestors had </span><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">homesteaded the property shortly after
the nearby massacre. She told me that Lee had been a close friend of the ranch's original patriarch, Robert Richey, her great-great-great grandfather, and had visited the homestead often. Lee’s diary notes that he
visited the Richeys just six months after the massacre and
“catechised” and re-baptized the entire family. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">Lee also records another visit, several years after, when
he “preached to them the gospel and exhorted [Richey] to ... never swerve from his duty <i>because others done wrong"</i> (italics added). Was Richey questioning his church leaders because of what had been "done wrong" down the road at Mountain Meadows? Whatever the true story, in 1869 he was excommunicated from the Mormon faith "for unbelief," a devastating blow to his entire family, particularly since it appears that the charge was wrong. </span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"><span style="font-size: medium;">Robert Richey had devoted his life to the LDS church. After his conversion to Mormonism in 1842, at the age of 36, he gave up a life in Indiana as a schoolteacher with one wife, in exchange for a hardscrabble life preaching to Indians in the remote desert mountains of southern Utah with (eventually) three wives. </span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"><span>Lisa in her book said that h</span><span>er ancestor was a man "who thought deeply and felt strongly." I have to believe that such a man could not have ignored the immoralities of the massacre and his church's coverup of the crimes. Is that why he was excommunicated by his beloved religion, his </span></span></span><span style="font-family: inherit;">family ostracized by the LDS church and its members, despite the Richeys' devotion.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-size: medium;">I've seen no evidence that Robert Richey was involved in the massacre. In any event, he would not have had the option of being neutral regarding its perpetrators, including his friend, John Lee. After all, Richey's home was one of the closest neighbors to Mountain Meadows. He certainly would have known the truth about the massacre and Lee's role.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">How had this monster, Lee, lived and traveled among his Mormon brethren, when everyone in Utah knew he was
a primary organizer and leader of the mass murders?</span><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;"> Treating him as a man of God, hosting
him in their homes, and accepting his sermonizing? Letting him baptize their
families?</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">It’s conceivable that at least some felt they had no
choice. Lee was brash, sanctimonious, tyrannical, and the adopted son of the
Prophet, himself. A bully. Possibly a sexual predator. Maybe no one in southern
Utah could say “no” to Lee. Besides, he was known as a medical and spiritual
healer, and was a compelling storyteller; his lies about the massacre were
still being argued by his descendants well into the 1930s. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Following the massacre, no Mormons
admitted to a role in the bloodshed. But </span><span style="color: #333333; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">in the close-knit,
cult-like LDS culture, virtually every person in
southern Utah had had some connection to the atrocity. Dozens of men had
committed murder; all had families and friends who supported them and shared
their vile secrets. <o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Who among the faithful
in southern Utah were without sin? After the massacre, residents from nearby
Cedar City and elsewhere had converged on the macabre scene to loot and steal.
The wagon train had been relatively wealthy, carrying supplies and cash for the
emigrants’ new lives in California. Corpses were stripped for clothing and
shoes; fingers amputated for rings; wagons and carriages appropriated; every
item of value went to someone, and the Church took its share. The 17 surviving
children were doled out to local Mormons, even to some, including Lee, who had murdered
their families. Federal troops two years later gathered the traumatized children
and returned them to relatives in Arkansas.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Twenty months after the
massacre, Army soldiers came to Mountain Meadows to bury the remains of the dead
Arkansas pioneers. It was grisly duty. One reported that he filled “a two
bushel basket of women’s hair that was strewn around among the sage brush.”
Over a mass burial site, they erected a stone cairn, 12-feet high, and
assembled a 24-feet high cross. Inscribed was: “Vengeance is mine: I will
repay, saith the Lord.”<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Two years later, in
1861, Brigham Young, and an entourage of 60, visited the site. Wearing a heavy
overcoat against the springtime chill, he walked up to the cross and studied
the inscription. His voice boomed out: “Vengeance is mine and I have taken a
little.” He raised his right fist to the sky – the signal of his Mormon vigilantes. The men knew what he wanted done; he didn’t need to say it aloud. They
quickly destroyed the cross and scattered the cairn’s stones.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Despite the enormity of
their terrorist crimes, nearly everyone escaped legal accountability. Brigham
Young and the church stood up to the feds, lied and blamed the Indians, and
only one person, Lee, was ever punished for the atrocity. Not any church
elders. And certainly not Brigham Young. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Young masterfully
delayed and thwarted all efforts at justice for decades. Yet the festering
story of the Mountain Meadows massacre refused to die. As his “blame the
Indians” account became untenable, he decided to blame Lee as the scapegoat.
So, in 1870, he excommunicated Lee, then banished him to today’s Lee’s Ferry.
With the ponderous wheels of federal justice finally turning, Lee and eight
others were indicted, 17 years after their murderous fury. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Young stage-managed Lee’s
trial, </span><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">manufacturing
evidence, coercing witnesses, suborning perjury, bankrolling Lee’s defense –
all leading to a deadlocked jury. Lee walked free, as Young had demanded, but
not for long. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">The trial had captivated the Nation. Not
until the Lindbergh baby kidnapping in the 1930s and the OJ murders in the 1990s
would Americans be so universally transfixed by every detail of a trial. Few
outside the Mormon communities doubted that Young was responsible for the mass
murders. </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">So Young orchestrated a new federal trial
for Lee, one in which Lee would be convicted, in order to deflect
blame from himself and the LDS church. It worked, though the public largely saw
Young’s complicity for what it was. With Young’s direction, the second jury convicted
Lee of murder.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">As for the dozens of other killers, not
one was ever brought to trial. </span><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">Nevertheless, the event left an indelible stain on the LDS Church
and its believers. However much the perpetrators and their accomplices denied
their involvement in the massacre, for the rest of their lives, they had to
live with the nightmares of their sins. Some died in spiritual torment.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">I found meager solace at
the site of Lee’s execution, in the same Mountain Meadows fields of his
atrocities. It’s the place where he sat on his coffin, awaiting the firing
squad, loyal to his Prophet and religion to the end.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: yes;"></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-no-proof: yes;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKS28_63fK2ifoIvBx5MU7Q3czyBzJXvcSnA7iylAB5wa0ER7ZIndNG4eW68ev5J6XjxXqgco72CqLIupKwVT40RLTiisi83rmFoQNI5PN8jkzLkx_K0zQHE1nW_jbx4ipdmFQrCFUo7i9NaIcd3tfNEkXWBoYRE3WZ701XjsW6ygUIrNTcd_lnAEqg/s4032/08A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGKS28_63fK2ifoIvBx5MU7Q3czyBzJXvcSnA7iylAB5wa0ER7ZIndNG4eW68ev5J6XjxXqgco72CqLIupKwVT40RLTiisi83rmFoQNI5PN8jkzLkx_K0zQHE1nW_jbx4ipdmFQrCFUo7i9NaIcd3tfNEkXWBoYRE3WZ701XjsW6ygUIrNTcd_lnAEqg/w240-h320/08A.jpg" width="240" /></a></span></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">And what of the Indians who shared in
the slaughter? </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal; margin-bottom: 8.0pt; margin-left: .5in; margin-right: .5in; margin-top: 0in; margin: 0in 0.5in 8pt;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">“Mormon descendants of participants number in the
hundreds of thousands if not millions, and even the children who survived the
massacre often left large families, but the Paiute bands that were lured into
the killings have vanished.” (Bagley 2002:343).</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVWQS4jjikbYbbNpJ8R6BQ4RpiRH90GpZxtqRpskW1peKQhBDwsS36EaNMPpr56wN74IlESShQ2k_VsfoVkbWjD0-tgGeB-J0FZdCPD4T7SJRbPrPkCNq5fm1HS72oRvpUg23fnUX0IcuP7bn2lnw4o6YNstnq28nCfKSYQbcx2JmkrNkkb2HeUKH-sg/s4032/09A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVWQS4jjikbYbbNpJ8R6BQ4RpiRH90GpZxtqRpskW1peKQhBDwsS36EaNMPpr56wN74IlESShQ2k_VsfoVkbWjD0-tgGeB-J0FZdCPD4T7SJRbPrPkCNq5fm1HS72oRvpUg23fnUX0IcuP7bn2lnw4o6YNstnq28nCfKSYQbcx2JmkrNkkb2HeUKH-sg/w320-h240/09A.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<p class="MsoNormal"><u><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Conclusion<o:p></o:p></span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Bigotry is bigotry. It’s but a short
walk down Fanatic Lane from the Oregon Ducks fans shouting <i>“Fuck the
Mormons!”</i> to tiki-carrying neo-Nazis in Virginia chanting <i>“Jews will not
replace us!”</i> It’s an even shorter stroll to the MAGA morons screaming <i>“Lock
her up!”</i> and <i>“Hang Mike Pence!”</i> <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We navigate a world filled with all
manner of bigotry, hatred, and ignorance. America’s history is rife with bloodshed,
tragedy, and injustice. Religion plays a central role in much of that history,
and in today’s cultural polarization. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">In a country in which one of America’s
richest, fastest-growing religions refuses to honestly confront its wicked history at Mountain Meadows, where its adherents cling to myths and lies and
wishful thinking, how can Mormons expect to find the respect and tolerance they
preach to others?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mormons today explain away their inconvenient history, as Mitt Romney did in 2007: "There are bad people in any church and it's true of members of my church, too." They refuse to acknowledge the terrible responsibility of their church and its leaders for the massacre and its coverup.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I’ve visited other American killing
fields – Gettysburg, Richmond, Antietam, Manassas, Wounded Knee, Little Bighorn. None
affected me as deeply as walking the languid grasslands of Mountain Meadows.
This mass murder of 120 fellow Americans by Mormons was done in their God’s name. What sort of God countenances such evil?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Could those heinous acts have been committed
by the same Utah Mormons that I’ve passed in the aisles of Lin’s Market in Cedar City. Are they the same nice, family-loving, God-fearing citizens as their kin from another era? After
all, a decade after the massacre, John Higbee, one of the leading murderers, was
elected mayor of Cedar City; until his death in 1904, he professed his
innocence and blamed the Indians.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">On the surface, it may seem like there
was no justice for the Mountain Meadows massacre. Only </span><span style="font-family: inherit;">John D. Lee was executed, 19 years
after his crimes. But who suffered more for their sins – Lee, who coolly joked
with his firing squad? Or the men and women who had to live with their guilt,
and the ghastly images of their own role, every hour of every day for a
lifetime?</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I suspect that few Mormons, today,
give much thought to that long-ago massacre. They may be ignorant or just accept their church's rationalizations. But not all. Some must recognize the awful burden of their
religion’s legacy. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="background: white; line-height: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="color: #333333; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman";">How could ancestors of
the assassins of Mountain Meadows not be haunted by the horrors
hiding in their families’ pasts? </span><span style="color: black; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin; mso-color-alt: windowtext;">Knowing with certainty, or even suspecting, that
their relatives played a role in the killing of innocents must be terrible. That painful guilt, however, is itself a form
of justice -- delayed but not denied.</span><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And what of the LDS church, never
convicted of its responsibility for the infamous massacre? To this day, it bears
shame and guilt for its wretched, blood-stained history. And a well-deserved stigma on its reputation.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So, <i>“Fuck the Mormons!"</i>? No, I
think not, despite my revulsion with their history and their ridiculous canons.
Because at least when it comes to the Mountain Meadows massacre,
the Mormons pretty well fucked themselves.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabKXhhP6w7aF8Iho4QpoV_SUao4-TE41tTpCtNwUpFP9tSE-23pb6ZwN0WNy_rgof8kzPK_MUOtHRqaqFv88c7kfQNOzwH3hGOQak_-uGVrhvSQ9W8lKS5hCtDi2bAAfFIbaLeqwukI57iRhHFCLv8DzI4as7EU1731Frs-SuKVcLuEuPNASEobgRdQ/s5951/10A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4021" data-original-width="5951" height="216" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjabKXhhP6w7aF8Iho4QpoV_SUao4-TE41tTpCtNwUpFP9tSE-23pb6ZwN0WNy_rgof8kzPK_MUOtHRqaqFv88c7kfQNOzwH3hGOQak_-uGVrhvSQ9W8lKS5hCtDi2bAAfFIbaLeqwukI57iRhHFCLv8DzI4as7EU1731Frs-SuKVcLuEuPNASEobgRdQ/w320-h216/10A.jpg" width="320" /></span></a></div>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"># # #<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><u><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">References<o:p></o:p></span></u></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><i><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">American
Massacre: The Tragedy at Mountain Meadows</span></i><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>,
September 1857</i>. Sally Denton. 2003.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><i><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Blood of the
Prophets: Brigham Young and the Massacre at Mountain Meadows.</span></i><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Will Bagley. 2002.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><i><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Massacre at
Mountain Meadows.</span></i><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> Ronald W.
Walker, Richard E. Turley, Jr., Glen M. Leonard. 2008.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>Sunlight and Shadow: The Page Ranch Story.</i> Lisa Michele Church. 2017.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"># # #</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I wrote briefly about the Mountain
Meadows massacre six years ago, in a blog about the takeover of a national
wildlife refuge in Oregon by right-wing militants:<br /></span></span></p><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i><span style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2016/02/blame-mormons_7.html" target="_blank">Blame the Mormons</a>.</span></i></span></span></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Here's a collection of my stories, also available on Apple Books and Smashwords. Free.</span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><span style="line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/schmidts-shorts-wayne-schmidt/1137446250?ean=2940164210649" target="_blank"><img alt="" data-original-height="2400" data-original-width="1800" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEjvoNVof3arBxiyBaQkvhlk7uVxpH7PglZWmcKdOpFLRkmIrq_81OMTMCXHO57HjmfxG8dfbYuqY6K-aTLMPabH_DtgnnMvwOnOpVNsBVt11x6AbFX2kOTy1Ojr0rx5cB9tHLrGlsHJG9R1IsEAQCZrmN25p4s4vUuxFzTczkgRSgqLDymILNe3p7GYJA=w150-h200" width="150" /></a></span></span></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/schmidts-shorts-wayne-schmidt/1137446250?ean=2940164210649" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>"Schmidt's Shorts: Stories to Make You Smile"</i></span></a></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/schmidts-shorts-wayne-schmidt/1137446250?ean=2940164210649" style="font-family: inherit;" target="_blank"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i>by Wayne Schmidt | eBook | Barnes & Noble® (barnesandnoble.com)</i></span></a></div></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><p></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"># # #</span><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"> </span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit; text-align: left;"><br /></span></span></p>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-91951496687290044982022-04-21T00:51:00.003-07:002022-04-21T01:07:02.050-07:00ON THE BRINK<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlwj0NjE3oINBFhwN3H8d-zktNgu7Jsvj56x2IjI6agYRA6UlCEEAb0aOLcZpNk5wZLMZoF5Z_HVrrJAcQbbqLnSgoqNwcjAa6AQVKl0ySDvb3ytvegB2HoRr6A_fdCF16QkzXhLxEr-Yixrkw3eB1CQHX-BiLpp4sLn8HXz6nAxATpKwcEt2TOC_1pQ/s512/Flag.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="288" data-original-width="512" height="113" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlwj0NjE3oINBFhwN3H8d-zktNgu7Jsvj56x2IjI6agYRA6UlCEEAb0aOLcZpNk5wZLMZoF5Z_HVrrJAcQbbqLnSgoqNwcjAa6AQVKl0ySDvb3ytvegB2HoRr6A_fdCF16QkzXhLxEr-Yixrkw3eB1CQHX-BiLpp4sLn8HXz6nAxATpKwcEt2TOC_1pQ/w200-h113/Flag.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">There’s no
reasoning with a crazed beast. Putin is like a rabid dog backed into a corner. We’re
on the brink of some really horrible things happening in Ukraine.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Don’t take
my word for it. Here’s what <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bill_Browder">Bill
Browder</a> said last week (on <a href="https://podcasts.google.com/feed/aHR0cDovL2ZlZWRzLmZlZWRidXJuZXIuY29tL2luc2lkZS10aGUtaGl2ZQ/episode/Y2E5ZDk4MDItMzhlYS0xMWVjLTk5MDItMTM2MjEzMWNiMmVl?hl=en&ved=2ahUKEwjx8YX6u5r3AhVGKEQIHfb_BE0QieUEegQIAhAF&ep=6">“Inside
the Hive”</a> podcast), regarding what comes next:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: 12pt;">“There’s
no question it escalates from here. This has to escalate. Because Putin is not
a guy who can do humiliation. He can’t be a weak, humiliated leader. He has to
be the strong man. He has to be the feared man. And that’s not how he’s looked
at by us now. So what is he going to do? Something truly awful. Whatever
awfulness we’ve seen, and we’ve seen some awfulness, is going to pale in
comparison to what he’s going to do going forward. He doesn’t want to be liked.
He doesn’t want to be even accepted. He just wants to be feared. At this moment
in time, we don’t fear him. We watch him and we just think this guy is a
failed, corrupt, tinpot dictator. He has to change that narrative. He has to
change that impression. He’s going to do something really horrible.”</span></blockquote><p></p><span style="font-size: medium;"><o:p></o:p></span><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">What will be
Putin’s next move, when his invasion inevitably stalls again? Chemical weapons?
Probably. Tactical nuclear weapons? Why not? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">And then
what? Events are spiraling beyond our capacity to understand. It's
hard to recognize when you’re in the middle of history. But that’s where we
are, and the ending is impossible to know. It’s coming quickly, however, and it
will affect all of us.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">A year from
now, will we look back at today as the last calm before this Russian cataclysm
surged out of control? Will all our angst about Covid, inflation, “don’t say
gay,” political dysfunction – will today’s anxieties seem quaint by comparison?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Early on, I
thought that <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Volodymyr_Zelenskyy">Volodymyr
Zelenskyy</a>, notwithstanding the Ukrainian president’s heroic, brilliant
leadership of his country, was being hyperbolic when he insisted that Putin
won’t stop with Ukraine. I figured that not even Putin is so crazy as to
challenge a NATO country, such as Poland. But I’ve come to understand that
Putin’s own history (Georgia, Chechnya, Syria, our own 2016 election), and the
horrific history of Ukraine and surrounding nations, ensure that the worst bloodbath
for Ukraine is yet to come. And as Zelenskyy warns, if Putin is successful
there, where does it end?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">In the <i>Wall
Street Journal</i> a few days ago, foreign policy expert <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Walter_Russell_Mead">Walter Russell Mead</a>
wrote (“The End of Russia’s Empire?”):</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“[A Ukraine victory] would challenge
the idea of Russian exceptionalism and fatally undermine the view that
despotism is the form of governance best suited to the Russian soul… Putin and
those around him know that in Ukraine they aren’t fighting only for an adjustment
of frontiers. They are fighting for their world, and it may be psychologically
impossible for them to accept defeat until every measure, however ruthless, and
every weapon, however heinous, has been brought into play.”<o:p></o:p></span></blockquote><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The
brilliant Russian-American journalist, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Masha_Gessen">Masha Gessen</a>, wrote a
moving piece about the conflict in this week’s <i><a href="https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2022/04/18/the-holocaust-memorial-undone-by-another-war">The
New Yorker</a></i>. Gessen told the story of the war in context of the Holocaust,
and efforts to come to terms with its horror in Ukraine. I learned that in a
place called Babyn Yar, in Kyiv, thirty-three thousand, seven hundred and
seventy-one Jews were murdered in thirty-six hours. It was the biggest single
mass execution of World War II. German Nazis did the killing. But Ukrainian
citizens brought sandwiches to the killers. Ukraine has a violent, complex
history.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The Russians,
who desecrated Babyn Yar for decades after the war, nearly bombed the site last
month in their current “special military operation” to rescue Ukraine from imaginary,
modern-day Nazis. Now it’s the Russian citizens who are bringing “sandwiches”
to the killers – supporting their own sons, fathers, brothers, who are
torturing, raping, and murdering Ukrainian women and children. Every Russian is
complicit in the atrocities underway in Ukraine. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Of course,
many Russians must be horrified at what’s happening to Ukraine. I believe, however,
that it’s a country of true believers: the vast majority of Russians accept the
Kremlin’s propaganda because it’s what they want to believe, no matter any “fake
news” to the contrary. It reminds me of Trump’s true believers: Are Putin’s absurd
lies about his war crimes and genocide all that more fantastical than Trump’s
Big Lie, which is believed by most Republicans?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Putin is
right about one thing: Ukraine has a long and complicated history of being part
of Russia, though not necessarily by choice. Only after the breakup of the
Soviet Union, in 1991, did Ukraine become an independent nation.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">For at least
seventeen centuries, its land was regularly drenched in the blood of invasions
and wars, its peoples savaged, its cities razed. For example, a Viking leader
in 882 took over Kyiv, murdered the city’s rulers, and created the first
capital of the new Russian state. But its land was a magnet for invaders, including
occupations by Mongols, Lithuanians, Tatars, Cossacks, Poles, and Germans.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">My paternal
ancestors immigrated from Ukraine to Kansas in 1874. They were part of the
Dutch-Prussian Mennonite community that settled in Ukraine in the late 1700s. Their
migrations to America and Canada were driven, not by war, but in large measure
by their pacifism in order to avoid supporting Russia’s military. Though living
and farming in Ukraine for nearly a century, the Mennonites never were truly
Ukrainian, and certainly not Russian.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">And through the
centuries of Ukraine’s violent occupations, including the decades of Soviet rule, most Ukrainians were never truly Russian, and always sought their own national identity and independence. That’s
why the inspired, unified defense they have displayed in this
current war shouldn’t be surprising. Ukrainians have always wanted freedom, and
since their independence, they were just starting to find that a democratic style
of life was as good as they had hoped.<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Last month,
a few days after Putin invaded Ukraine, I discovered while out for a walk that
on Facebook you could add a Ukrainian flag to your profile pic. Seemed like a
thing to do, so I stopped and did it, and started to resume my walk. But
suddenly, I had to stop. Tears were streaming down my face. WTF? Then it hit me,
that this was such a small, pathetic gesture, so immeasurably minute, in light
of the suffering and sacrifices going on right that moment in Ukraine. <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">But what
else can you do? <o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve since
added the sky-blue/ sunflower-yellow flag stickers to my truck, our front door
and mailbox, and my N95 mask. It’s my silent scream to the world around me: <u>pay
attention!</u><o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The New
Yorker</span></i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">’s Gessen
wrote:</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><blockquote><span style="font-size: 12pt; line-height: 107%; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“When this war is over, Europe will no
longer be defined by the history of the Second World War. The next era of
European history, whenever it begins, will be the aftermath of the war in
Ukraine.”<o:p></o:p></span></blockquote><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">What about
us? As horrific events in Ukraine tumble over the brink, as the world confronts
unimaginable horrors yet to come from Putin and his heinous thugs and murderers,
what will that aftermath mean for us?<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">
</span></p><p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"># # #<o:p></o:p></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0.5in; tab-stops: .5in 40.5pt;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><p></p>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-43515361904712975292021-09-03T16:01:00.001-07:002021-09-04T09:37:11.612-07:00F**K TEXAS!<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_VPLf_gs_TwGctPOXh4Kk37gvOzc60NlX_QCr_y17EJUQypc-7cGlxmNngmyg34GsVyug_bP2tzQJmRRMrJmz4yO3vDR4ul1tt2vTurdSDdiCppE-_98o5ED6za_QkPJfnEBW7QvsCswA/s262/TexasRose2.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="254" data-original-width="262" height="194" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_VPLf_gs_TwGctPOXh4Kk37gvOzc60NlX_QCr_y17EJUQypc-7cGlxmNngmyg34GsVyug_bP2tzQJmRRMrJmz4yO3vDR4ul1tt2vTurdSDdiCppE-_98o5ED6za_QkPJfnEBW7QvsCswA/w200-h194/TexasRose2.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Texas’
medieval anti-abortion law won’t stand. That’s my silver-lining prediction. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">The law,
which if you’re reading this you already know its particulars, is so draconian,
so cruel, so anti-democratic that it cannot stand. Not in a country where
justice and human rights matter. The law will eventually reach the Supreme
Court, to be decided on its merits. Notwithstanding a couple of conservative
assholes led by Justice Thomas, I don’t believe a majority will uphold Texas’
overreach.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Maybe
Kavanaugh will switch? I don’t know. I just don’t see how such a piece of garbage
can stand. You gotta hand it Texas – this is as BIG as legal horseshit gets.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Texans have
been trying for years to strip rights from women (just as they are trying to
strip voting rights from Democrats of the state). They think they finally
found a way. Texas has deputized all its anti-abortion lunatics, while offering a cash
bounty on the head (or uterus) of anyone who gets or abets an abortion (beyond
six weeks pregnancy). You sue and win – you get at least $10,000, plus costs.
You lose? You just walk away to try again.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">I’ve never
been a fan of Texas. However, this law seems about as un-Texan as that state’s braggarts
boast. You know. Wide-open spaces. Rugged individualism. Don’t mess with
Texas. Zoning? We don’t need no stinking zoning!<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">I know, I
know. Texas is full of fine people, proud of their state, who think the Republicans
in Austin, and some of the laws they pass, are nuts. They cry that such laws
are not their fault; most in Texas accept abortion as legal and necessary. Yet
somehow, this puffed-up place keeps setting the pace in the race for the worst
laws in the country. How about we all just acknowledge that Texas is a
hopeless, regressive backwater and be done with it?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Prior to
this abortion shutdown, a waitress took time off work and drove 300 miles to
McAllen, her closest abortion provider, along with her two kids. Because Texas
requires two visits, she had to stay overnight. They slept in her car. She paid
for her abortion with ones and fives from her tips.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">As hard as
that was, what would such a woman do today? I wonder about any young girl who
last week finally had reached the agonizing decision to end her pregnancy. She
got advice from everyone who knew her plight. She talked about it with God. She
cried buckets. But for all kinds of reasons I might not understand, she made
her decision. Then, after all that, she now learns that she is past a magic
date decided by a bunch of mostly white men in Austin. They decided that she
will be having a baby, after all. What are the chances of that being a good
thing? What are the chances of that baby, literally unwanted by its mother,
having a happy life? What will happen to that girl?<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">I
acknowledge that my record in political prognostication is dismal. I freely admit
it was beyond my capacity to understand how Trump could get elected. In no way
can I explain to myself the miasma of lunacy adrift in our land. I can’t
understand anti-vaxxers or the Jan. 6 insurrection. So what do I know? Maybe believing
that the Texas law won’t last is just wishful thinking. <o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">Here’s one
prediction I know absolutely will come true. On Sunday morning, the pulpits of
Evangelical churches, in Texas and across the country, will thunder with sanctimony
and thanks to God for delivering this victory. Some might even acknowledge how
tough it has been to root for a lying, womanizing grifter in the White House in
order to get their anti-abortion judges appointed. But the Lord works in
mysterious ways, so thank you Jesus! The wisdom of our moral bargain with that
evil man has been vindicated.<o:p></o:p></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;">We’ll see about
that. And we’ll see what happens to this awful Texas law. But in the meantime, I’ve
said it before and I’ll say it again: <i>Fuck Texas!<o:p></o:p></i></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt; line-height: 107%;"><o:p> </o:p></span></i></p>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-53910080891720032012020-11-22T00:27:00.000-08:002020-11-22T00:27:28.166-08:00SPOOKY, SLIGHTLY CREEPY TIKTOK<p><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I hate cleaning gutters, which,
apparently, TikTok knows. Here’s my spooky, slightly creepy story of how I discovered
that.</span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXdlF0UgsXbmtYqAifbklsHiX2d3jx8e0UQfRTk4qU7OQcDukhDoJ_XQbSvsrjTMr261CHr8boi5q9yz-N-vVL4MM-x-DjE1iCfogMEAZAqZ2c0p8JB7-wV8SXtOL9rJYmtynL2KnagRt8/s591/T1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="591" data-original-width="591" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXdlF0UgsXbmtYqAifbklsHiX2d3jx8e0UQfRTk4qU7OQcDukhDoJ_XQbSvsrjTMr261CHr8boi5q9yz-N-vVL4MM-x-DjE1iCfogMEAZAqZ2c0p8JB7-wV8SXtOL9rJYmtynL2KnagRt8/w200-h200/T1.jpg" width="200" /></a></div><p></p><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">It’s the time of year, before
rains turn to drain-clogging ice, to clear dead leaves and fir needles choking
the eavestroughs on our house’s high, steep roof. It’s a dangerous, but
necessary job, and last year I learned a trick from my son-in-law, Troy. For
years, I’d cleaned them by inching along the roof’s edge on hands and knees,
secured with a safety harness and inch-thick rope, reaching down to scrape out debris
with a putty knife. Troy said, “Why don’t you just use a leaf blower?” (I can’t
recall if he added, “you dummy.”)</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">So last year, that’s what I
did and it was, indeed, way easier. It’s what I would do again this year.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Last night I sat up late,
walking through my plan for the morning. I’d need to haul up the ladder to the
roof several buckets of stuff – gloves, rags, three bags of zinc sulphate to
kill moss, harness and rope, a gallon of roofing tar to redo some repairs, a few hand
tools, and the leaf blower. (And my cell phone, in case I got in trouble and
ended up dangling over the edge and had to summon my wife to rescue me.) I did
<u>not</u> want to climb the ladder more than once; it’s the scariest part – getting off
the ladder onto the roof, before I can secure my safety harness to an anchor
bolted solidly up top.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">When I’d finally worked
through my plan, I decided to relax before bed with a few minutes of mindless,
15-second videos on TikTok. I downloaded the app a few months ago, though I’ve
never created an account or posted anything. But right from the start, my feed has been an addictive mix of
guys catching gigantic fish, skiing down near-vertical mountains, diving off
insanely-high cliffs, and surfing ginormous waves; weird animal encounters –
usually with some hapless tourist risking death with bears or alligators;
pretty girls doing what those far-younger than me recognize as dancing; car
crashes; the occasional Karen tantrums; a few political rants; and, for some
reason, lots of videos of macho men cutting down big trees. What’s not to like?
Like I said: addictive.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Just a couple more, I said to
myself. That’s when the short video appeared, proclaiming “hands down best way
to clean gutters,” with a guy blasting his eavestrough with a leaf blower.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKetoVBHyNiJPN5s1QEuxV6zgPRtoSnLiXCMPa0YA8fGi-nWJJczNIprLG4gK-udYAt-HH8nmCKxDLgiJlJjRrRh00s-HCmNnPYxaVpoIz-VksRRg2Qd9SBzkadfpP8iTU6UbnfqY1Su4b/s1160/T2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1160" data-original-width="591" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKetoVBHyNiJPN5s1QEuxV6zgPRtoSnLiXCMPa0YA8fGi-nWJJczNIprLG4gK-udYAt-HH8nmCKxDLgiJlJjRrRh00s-HCmNnPYxaVpoIz-VksRRg2Qd9SBzkadfpP8iTU6UbnfqY1Su4b/s320/T2.jpg" /></a></span></div><p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Okay, so that’s a little
weird, I thought, especially since I seldom saw home repairs on my TikTok feed.
But when I noticed the source of the video, wayneshomeservice.com #MN, I knew
it was definitely time for bed.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Maybe that’s the future, when
apps will read our minds and deliver the “hands down best way” to solve
whatever unpleasant chore is before us. Maybe, somehow, I got the beta version app of just
that. After all, I successfully cleaned our gutters today, and can vouch for a
leaf blower being the hands down best way.</span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"># # #<o:p></o:p></span></p><br /><br />WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-6649741961221472612020-11-02T20:05:00.003-08:002020-11-02T20:29:22.948-08:00ON THE CUSP OF HISTORY<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQo0ASCr80QW7JgHA-mMaRNI3agY-G3iAJcWCmQ7fNnd7_cWAGEjOSAuQ97n1pEtLlN4o3dmQF5ydP7whh0VypmAUCLhhHWccSdDEXliMSh1BQ424V0s5K994xEFzpwLp5YAD9gKOeMw1D/s1035/FLAG00.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1035" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQo0ASCr80QW7JgHA-mMaRNI3agY-G3iAJcWCmQ7fNnd7_cWAGEjOSAuQ97n1pEtLlN4o3dmQF5ydP7whh0VypmAUCLhhHWccSdDEXliMSh1BQ424V0s5K994xEFzpwLp5YAD9gKOeMw1D/s320/FLAG00.jpg" /></a></div><p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Nov. 2, 2020</span></i><span style="font-size: 14pt;">
– We’re living on the cusp of history, this Election Eve. I can feel in my
bones the national angst and anxiety.</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Joe Biden is going to win
this thing. Comfortably, if not by a landslide. And Kamala Harris is going to
be our Vice President. Democrats are going to control the Senate and the House.
I can’t tell you how happy all that makes me. But still...<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Did it take a pandemic to
wake people up? Would Trump have been reelected, but for death and disease and
suffering on a scale unseen to any of us? Is coronavirus America’s price for
buying Trump’s con?<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Of course, with or without
the pandemic, he still would be a despicable human, destined for the ash heap
of history as the worst president ever. Nevertheless, his idiot fans are
legion. Who knows what might have happened tomorrow without the virus?<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I’ve been amazed at Biden’s
brilliant campaign. It’s been pitch perfect. The terrible times we’re in have
delivered a perfect antidote to Trump. I wasn’t an early Biden fan. Hell, I had
a Bloomberg yard sign for a few weeks, but that was in another era, in what
seems like years ago. That was when most had given up on Biden as a boring old
man, before South Carolina revived him in its primary.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">He has risen to the moment, fueled
by the existential threat that Trump and his minions pose to our democracy. A
voice of reason to Trump’s lunacy. Science to his ignorance. Calm to his chaos.
Decency to Trump’s vulgarity.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">I’m old enough to have lived
through other national tragedies, worried every moment for the future. Worst
was the division over the war in Vietnam, epitomized in the violent 1968 Democrat
national convention. (See “The Trial of the Chicago 7” on Netflix and
supporting context at: <a href="https://sevenstories.com/blogs/190-abbie-lives?utm_source=Seven+Stories+Newsletter&utm_campaign=402968c7f4-EMAIL_CAMPAIGN_2020_03_27_03_30_COPY_01&utm_medium=email&utm_term=0_2850039782-402968c7f4-167161721">“Abbie Lives!”</a>)<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">On 9-11, our family lived in suburban
Washington, DC. For weeks after, we kept hour-by-hour tabs on loved ones, with
plastic sheeting and duct tape at the ready in our home, in case of a chemical
attack. Then there was the DC sniper, where for a long time, pumping gas was a
life-threatening task. Duck and cover for real.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Now, once again, we’re
waiting for a return to normalcy. We’re in another unique crisis of history, to
be decided tomorrow. It’s an amazing time, an awful, awful moment, led by an
awful, awful man. How do we get out of this mess?<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">We start tomorrow by throwing
out the asshole in the White House. And his family of dimwits. And his crew of
grifters and fanatics.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">Tomorrow begins the long road
of healing divisions. I know it’s necessary, and Biden’s up to that dirty job.
But count me out. Fuck healing. I want the Democrats to do whatever it takes to
drive Trump’s dumb-fuck supporters back into hiding. Pack the court, eliminate
the filibuster, do what you have to do to undo Trump’s bullshit.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">And speaking of fools, everyone
understands that after our traumatic experience in 2016, only a fool would bet
the farm Biden’s victory tomorrow. As for me, I’ve been wrong more than most
about Trump. I was just sure he was too incompetent and narcissistic to survive
all his scandals. At one point, I predicted he’d be gone by last Valentine’s
Day. Needless to say...<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">So, am I a fool for believing
that those long lines of pro-Biden, masked voters outnumber the maskless morons
cramming Trump’s rallies, chanting inane slogans, spouting nonsense to curious
reporters? The ones who sold their souls, and put kids in cages, to further
their “pro-life” agenda?<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p></o:p></span><span style="font-size: 14pt;">We’ll know soon enough what
history has in store for us.<o:p></o:p></span>
</p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">No, you can’t always get what you want,<br />You can’t always get what you want,<br />You can’t always get what you want,<br />But if you try sometime you find<br />You get what you need.<o:p></o:p></span></i></p><div style="text-align: center;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 2;"> </span>--The
Stones<o:p></o:p></span></i></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><o:p> </o:p></span></p>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-72689365228992332102020-09-11T13:49:00.006-07:002020-09-11T15:16:06.679-07:00TROUT FISHING IN THE TIME OF COVID<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Safely vacationing in the time of Covid is no
small feat. My friend and I mostly succeeded, on a week-long trout fishing
expedition to the Henry’s Fork of the Snake River, in eastern Idaho. What
nearly ruined our trip, however, wasn’t coronavirus, or even slipping over our
waders into the river.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">No, what came close to ending our August vacation was David’s bicycle wreck on a deserted trail to the river. More on that
later.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;">When I picked him up at the Idaho Falls
airport, no hugs, despite our 40-plus years of friendship. He had flown from
the East Coast, and I’d driven from the West Coast. Now, elbow bumps – a meager
greeting for a momentous reunion.</span> </span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyyTL8TQGrFv83f9Y8rjCNKkxvrBtj4Wq9w1Ovq9vhOZQ3Khyphenhyphena3vRYAN5aQMIToozF8185oD4SLhtG0HgJnw6xXMH2sRmIh4BKdIj0ERXmaULw1PdiYWZPJSPf_jJr0lvtFdY8wc-DByjd/s2048/01.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiyyTL8TQGrFv83f9Y8rjCNKkxvrBtj4Wq9w1Ovq9vhOZQ3Khyphenhyphena3vRYAN5aQMIToozF8185oD4SLhtG0HgJnw6xXMH2sRmIh4BKdIj0ERXmaULw1PdiYWZPJSPf_jJr0lvtFdY8wc-DByjd/w320-h320/01.jpg" title="On the road with fly rod and bike, 735 miles nonstop." width="320" /></a></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span> </span></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span>On the road with fly rod and bike, 735 miles nonstop.</span></i></span></span></div><p>
</p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Not so, when I met Tom, the owner of our
Airbnb. Out of habit, I thrust out my hand, then visibly flinched as he took
it. Tom noticed, and said, “Oh, I don’t worry about that.”</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span>
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“I do,” I replied, but what was done was done.
</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span>
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Out here in Idaho’s rolling ranchlands,
blanketed green with vast, irrigated fields of potatoes and hay, Covid
precaution is a resented formality. This is, after all, a state that’s solidly conservative
red. And Mormon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span>
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Tom’s house, which he and his wife vacate to a
next-door travel trailer for a few weeks of summer rental income, was a shrine
to Mormonism: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Book of Mormon</i> and
pictures of Mormon temples prominently displayed. Mormon hymnals on the piano.
Shelves packed with Mormon books and bric-a-bracs. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Visitors are welcomed with a thought-provoking
plaque: “Have you thought to pray today?” Dozens of photos of their large, mostly
blond, photogenic family smile out from the frig door and shelves. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt;">A miniature replica of Noah’s
ark, with animals, two-by-two, heading up a tiny ramp, covers one shelf. My
favorite art-of-the-faithful was a large painting of a vegan lion laying down
with a lamb.</span></span><p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I thought about exploring their eight-volume
VCR set – <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">History of the Mormon Church</i>, curious about how it might explain
the Mountain Meadows massacre, wherein their ancestor Latter Day Saints shot
and clubbed to death 120 men, women, and children on an immigrant wagon train
headed from Arkansas to California, on September 11, 1857. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But I digress. We hadn’t come to Idaho to be
cultural or political critics, a trait that comes oh-so naturally to both David
and me. We’d come to fish, starting with the Fall River, a stone’s throw from our
Airbnb’s back deck. Unfortunately, the river was running hard and fast, making
wading its slippery cobbles dangerous, even in water only knee-deep. We caught
a few tiny rainbow trout; then, for the rest of our week, we just enjoyed the
river’s music, its resident osprey, and sunsets.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdChwKDl7d2YD6UgQtnDJA7H3V_hISTARxlPen1WbqNdSPOkI1KBoxWveY1KHFfDfV4vr6B2N4GbV9Sv5qLvMsJ72PATtrZjzH22GlG7D_JOsjzumLO7zllY914f8JOoE4NdXJ7hhQ04eb/s2048/03.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1564" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdChwKDl7d2YD6UgQtnDJA7H3V_hISTARxlPen1WbqNdSPOkI1KBoxWveY1KHFfDfV4vr6B2N4GbV9Sv5qLvMsJ72PATtrZjzH22GlG7D_JOsjzumLO7zllY914f8JOoE4NdXJ7hhQ04eb/s320/03.jpg" width="320" /></a></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span> </span></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span>Sunset on the Fall River.</span></i></span></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">
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<![endif]--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Our rented house was less than a half hour from
the Henry’s Fork. We’d fished it for a week last year, but that was earlier in
the summer, so everything was different this time. Especially the insect
hatches, which determine which flies you use to try and catch trout. None of early
summer’s big stoneflies or green drakes; now we were looking at small mayflies
and honey ants – tiny flying ants that get blown into the water. </span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We met a local woman coming off the river our
first morning, clad in appropriate waders, hat, sunglasses, and a bulging fly-fishing
vest. We’d caught nothing. She had caught a couple of nice ones, though fishing had been slow. She told
us about honey ants and gave us two that she had tied herself. Over the course
of the week, they did tempt a few trout.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If you’re a fly angler, the Henry’s Fork,
especially the seven miles where it flows through Harriman State Park, is what
you picture trout fishing heaven to be like: broad flat water, mostly wadeable,
rich with complex insect hatches, chockful of big trout, and flowing through
sage meadows ringed by distant mountains. Until it was turned into a public
park, 43 years ago, it had been the exclusive playground for the Harriman
railroad barons and their privileged friends. Locals still call it the Railroad
Ranch.</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"></span></span></p><blockquote>“The Henry’s Fork is the favorite trout stream
of so many flyfishers because it’s exactly what you’d dream up for yourself if
you could invent the perfect place using only thin air and the loftiest
elements of the fly-fishing tradition.” – John Gierach (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The Big Empty River</i>, in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The
View from Rat Lake</i>)</blockquote><p></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6RXEdPGY-VaGe7tV5j61d6dtzCkl-ULY4P-TnitLX6GG53sDjZMV3zAKdtGv-5G71IzysS1kCRIzisP2yJghPwnoQ-r_P4hgcGck-9NMz2xg0xyIlebpjcbS42tFflEGNMEw9pmhYEZiu/s2048/04A.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj6RXEdPGY-VaGe7tV5j61d6dtzCkl-ULY4P-TnitLX6GG53sDjZMV3zAKdtGv-5G71IzysS1kCRIzisP2yJghPwnoQ-r_P4hgcGck-9NMz2xg0xyIlebpjcbS42tFflEGNMEw9pmhYEZiu/s320/04A.jpg" /></a></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span> </span></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span>David seeking trout on the fabled Henry’s Fork.</span></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><div style="text-align: left;"><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But as we had learned the hard way, home
to trout that are just about as smart and wary as trout get. Finicky doesn’t
begin to do them justice. These are trout that get fished every day by the best
anglers on earth. Not just fly fishing bumblers like us. They see a nonstop
parade of drift boats, with clients paying $600 (plus tip) for a half-day float,
guided by guys who catch trout for a living.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We watched these pay-to-fish anglers catch
more fish than us, but from what we could tell, no one was doing all that
great. Part of the problem may have been that it was prime irrigation season on all the downstream ranches. So at the upstream impoundment of the
Henry’s Fork, they were releasing lots of water, to be sucked out downriver.
You could tell the water level was high because the grassy banks were flooded,
making sloshing into the river, in waders, a tricky walk. I learned that
approaching the river sideways, shuffling step-by-step, was best, to avoid
tripping into an unseen hole.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">A rule of thumb on the Henry’s Fork is that
“blind casting” a dry fly – casting to water where you haven’t actually seen a
trout rising, as it eats bugs floating on the surface – is almost always a
waste of time. With an actively feeding, rising trout, however, you at least
have a chance.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Assuming that you’ve picked the right insect-imitating fly (Trico,
PMD mayfly, caddisfly, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Callibaetis</i>?),
in the right life stage (dun, emerger, cripple, spinner?), in just the right hook size (14, 16, 18, even smaller?), and color (grayish, tannish, yellowish,
olivish?). And that your leader is the right length (9’, 12’?), with the right tippet
length (2’, 3’?) and strength (5X, 6X?), and that your cast drops your fly delicately
in the trout’s feeding line, and that your fly doesn’t drag unnaturally in the
current.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After all that, is the damned trout even in the mood? But maybe, just
maybe, the trout will eat your fly. And then maybe, just maybe, you will set
the hook in time, before it spits out your fake, feathery bug – which happens
for me a dispiriting percentage of the time.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If none of your floating dry flies work, you
can try a smorgasboard of underwater imitations – nymphs or streamers, for
example. Or maybe a terrestrial (fake grasshopper, beetle, ant?), with
their own variations of colors and sizes, depending on infinite preferences of
the fly tier.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If by some convergence of luck and skill you
happen to hook a big trout, netting it is another story. On the Henry’s Fork, regulations
favor the trout. Fish hooks usually have a little barb on the point, which
keeps a hook from slipping back out of a fish’s jaw. But on the Henry’s Fork
(as with most blue-ribbon trout rivers), barbs are banned. With each new $3-$5
fly you use, you first must crimp down the hook’s barb with needle-nosed
pliers. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">By the way, if all this sounds terribly
expensive, that would be correct. When we arrive and walk into the
world-famous fly shop in Last Chance, adjacent to the river, we start by buying $75 worth of flies. (That’s
on top of fly boxes we already have, filled with hundreds of flies from a lifetime of such trips
– none of which seem to be what the trout are </span></span><span style="font-size: 18.6667px;">currently </span><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: 14pt;">feeding on.) Then, as we
fish and learn which flies work for us and which ones we’ve lost, we return to buy
more. (I’ll not even mention the extravagant price I paid for a new Winston
5-weight fly rod, the week before our trip.)</span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">By late summer on the Henry’s Fork, a lot
of weeds are growing in the river. A hooked trout’s instinct is to
burrow into those weeds. Sometimes that’s all it takes to escape. It might
break your hair-like tippet, or your knot might fail – the one you’d tied for
the hundredth time that day, as you (mostly fruitlessly) changed
flies, often in fading light and eyesight, searching for the magical fly that the
fish want.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">What fly do you tie on, for example, when the
water is covered with millions of minute, dead Tricos (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Tricorythodes</i> mayflies)? Even if the trout were feeding on them
(which, apparently, they were not), why would any reasonably intelligent trout
pick your fake bug amid Nature’s all-you-can-eat buffet of real ones?</span></span></p>
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<![endif]--></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1imi32N9OxbXIQR9wjeIzItVz2GW5cuCE7mzVO4wlGDGLXQWY0VLqkfc0QeVab0FwEHwWUSprzGWxoi-lasUgQK1E7irLE4gWXeDMhhjCE2G0Eiz6-qFv0qi8F7CRv-nykeWxs3WH4qgK/s2048/05.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1imi32N9OxbXIQR9wjeIzItVz2GW5cuCE7mzVO4wlGDGLXQWY0VLqkfc0QeVab0FwEHwWUSprzGWxoi-lasUgQK1E7irLE4gWXeDMhhjCE2G0Eiz6-qFv0qi8F7CRv-nykeWxs3WH4qgK/s320/05.jpg" /></a></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span> </span></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span>#18 Trico spinner.</span></i></span></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</span></i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If, after all that, you do hook and net a
trout, it has to be released, unharmed, to inspire and entertain the next
frustrated angler. The river has 5,000 trout per mile; I suspect nearly all
have been hooked at least once. Which must be how they get so smart.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fortunately, the Henry’s Fork is not all
about, or even mainly about, catching fish. It’s about:</span></span></p>
<p align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZn7Ygv_ysWU6iJ8PJAi3Fc967S5GEcO59YX7stSHK_cDegORq8V90i6cJvqcUr3WmNfzlm4b2XdGMe8P4okzEwNAAKPMO_9RRIymOaYz-1EgEZ7kok8raiJGRHJOmkMWOZFkIUhExy1f6/s2048/06.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="2048" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZn7Ygv_ysWU6iJ8PJAi3Fc967S5GEcO59YX7stSHK_cDegORq8V90i6cJvqcUr3WmNfzlm4b2XdGMe8P4okzEwNAAKPMO_9RRIymOaYz-1EgEZ7kok8raiJGRHJOmkMWOZFkIUhExy1f6/s320/06.jpg" /></a></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span> <br />Fishing sacred trout water once reserved for the filthy rich.</span></i></span></span></p>
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</div><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilX5AtiO3e3iPPaDhBY9zWhPhCmbGNiXM7o_cEJI8sPDrTF0sxFfcdccFtRy_EmihOi4NnOTGOAWdiFp6W5ZFZ96l99_VeSU9UCmDZ92_vaRjYqkKE9OKVljWKnhyPH5_lwyDPLiLXYlcM/s2048/07.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1552" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilX5AtiO3e3iPPaDhBY9zWhPhCmbGNiXM7o_cEJI8sPDrTF0sxFfcdccFtRy_EmihOi4NnOTGOAWdiFp6W5ZFZ96l99_VeSU9UCmDZ92_vaRjYqkKE9OKVljWKnhyPH5_lwyDPLiLXYlcM/s320/07.jpg" width="320" /></a></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span> </span></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span>Sharing the river (and trout) with white pelicans.</span></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span> </span></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;"></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3dW4rCya5lhQxx-uCyA2Mfepmq8VmRZE5hV0JiKQ7lmS0PmbtON4glV72hoeguPMYcSg64QLTGuujiY9RAOfnxEOZ9dkpcwZmr6L-iSMd1sj3rHthSZ-GkALtYzPsTjxQ36OqXmtutS8/s2048/08.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1656" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw3dW4rCya5lhQxx-uCyA2Mfepmq8VmRZE5hV0JiKQ7lmS0PmbtON4glV72hoeguPMYcSg64QLTGuujiY9RAOfnxEOZ9dkpcwZmr6L-iSMd1sj3rHthSZ-GkALtYzPsTjxQ36OqXmtutS8/s320/08.jpg" width="320" /></a></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span> </span></i></span></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span>Perfuming the air with pungent sage, crushed underfoot as
you walk to the river.</span></i></span></span></div><span style="font-family: inherit;">
<br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggTgQBVLeUMQ0YUaI1tfysHErGzlPn8lw86YLdpIUKesVsab7TwkbncdaFxlVLjUZ-f-lZ15b3R_C7l63CHicRwNdzayoaQoWa-qhW_D9Ou5KdjPWjghB35AvAcAnWoA7cKRqBTRR0DYJ9/s2048/09.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1566" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggTgQBVLeUMQ0YUaI1tfysHErGzlPn8lw86YLdpIUKesVsab7TwkbncdaFxlVLjUZ-f-lZ15b3R_C7l63CHicRwNdzayoaQoWa-qhW_D9Ou5KdjPWjghB35AvAcAnWoA7cKRqBTRR0DYJ9/s320/09.jpg" width="320" /></a><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;"> </span></span></i></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><span style="font-size: medium;">The grace of casting a
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<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_BQhLE5WLK6evPpplO2crLaoWFeyjXcVUCBikGra-4QvaiH86EvzctgtCGWX1fPaiRRAl2gjXVAYxPjyd-maTma66eEj_GPwybUk5GiA-BkP8eJ0abCbe7rJ6XJc3Kdxju7dME6uANj3/s2048/10.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1601" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT_BQhLE5WLK6evPpplO2crLaoWFeyjXcVUCBikGra-4QvaiH86EvzctgtCGWX1fPaiRRAl2gjXVAYxPjyd-maTma66eEj_GPwybUk5GiA-BkP8eJ0abCbe7rJ6XJc3Kdxju7dME6uANj3/s320/10.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span> </span></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span>Doing nothing much with a friend, when the wind blows too hard to
fish,.</span></i></span>
</div></span></i><br /><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh55shHOBILTPlTVduC8pRdoGPrGBkOzmqb7YoJkZCigXhjghWWLGm0uJEr6RVZX72BX3GtX7ogqRxLL2WdI8HpWxd0sKXA0O5ji0FBJi7huRdMQ0S2DFgaIy3MvmDr-ls85aWThUE8z4sR/s2048/11.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1555" data-original-width="2048" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh55shHOBILTPlTVduC8pRdoGPrGBkOzmqb7YoJkZCigXhjghWWLGm0uJEr6RVZX72BX3GtX7ogqRxLL2WdI8HpWxd0sKXA0O5ji0FBJi7huRdMQ0S2DFgaIy3MvmDr-ls85aWThUE8z4sR/s320/11.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span>Being immersed in beauty.</span></i></span><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></i></span>
</div></span></i></span><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And, of course, this:</span></span></p><span style="font-family: inherit;">
</span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJibVXOPV2M8ejxp4qkEnH6QJG4w6T0z31VpkX_QJCnb8ePZ8k5zAqJomucxquw16GgE5-5a3ZjD6MT4DGRqUVU6Eb44LGhh5CpzhU8fVoeeqM_MflIY6xR_UiVRMq7L4todT4TwYUiMmQ/s2048/12.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="2048" data-original-width="1662" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJibVXOPV2M8ejxp4qkEnH6QJG4w6T0z31VpkX_QJCnb8ePZ8k5zAqJomucxquw16GgE5-5a3ZjD6MT4DGRqUVU6Eb44LGhh5CpzhU8fVoeeqM_MflIY6xR_UiVRMq7L4todT4TwYUiMmQ/s320/12.jpg" /></a></span><span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span></i></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: medium;"><i><span>Looking good.</span></i></span> <br /></span></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;"><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The only way to reach most of the prime
fishing water in Harriman State Park is on foot. Or by bike. I’d brought mine,
and David rented one in Idaho Falls. In the middle of the park, a mile-long
two-track, closed to autos, leads from busy US-20, across sandy sagebrush
meadow, to the river. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">One morning, we parked our car at the
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fishing vests, put our waders and nets in backpacks, and carried our fly rods in
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</a></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">We hadn’t gone a quarter-mile, however, when
David hit a patch of loose sand, flipping his front wheel sideways and dumping
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otherwise in one piece. Not so his shattered fly rod, which he landed on.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">After David finished cursing, we assessed our
situation, and agreed it could have been a lot worse, since David just two
months earlier had a hip replacement. Our vacation could have ended right there.</span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“Here’s what we’re going to do,” I said.
“I’m going to ride back to the car and get my spare fly rod. But I’ll carry
it.” Which is what we did.</span></span></p>
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</a></span><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I’d like to say that David’s crash was the
price for getting to where we caught lots of fat rainbow trout, but that didn’t
happen. Only a few smallish ones. We did, however, have to ourselves some of
the most heavenly trout water on earth. Just what we had come to Idaho to find.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">For a full week, we mostly escaped the
reality of this insane year of 2020. Except, not entirely.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Our Airbnb had cable, so in our isolated
evenings after dinner, we couldn’t resist watching a good share of the Democrat
convention, and listening to the talking heads on MSNBC. We found it all quite
uplifting and hopeful. The DVR taped each night’s session, and we made a point
of leaving them for the Mormons to watch. In case they had missed any parts. </span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When I dropped David, along with his rented
bicycle that nearly messed him up, at a relative’s in Idaho Falls, we started to
say goodbye with another elbow bump routine. But I couldn’t stand it anymore. I gave
David a full-on hug, and we held it for long seconds. It was the first time in
more than six months that I’d had genuine, physical, human contact with anyone except my wife. It
felt good.</span></span></p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Fighting tears, I drove off into the West, back to masks and social distancing, and into the apocalyptic
fires that seem only appropriate in this surreal time of Covid. If a plague of locusts is next, I only
wish they could have shown up while we were trout fishing.</span></span></p>
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<![endif]--><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span> <span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></p>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-64750925574218710392020-05-27T22:09:00.000-07:002020-05-28T22:37:13.577-07:00YOU CAN'T FIX STUPID<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">If
you believe coronavirus is overhyped, I wish you wouldn’t read my story. It
will just piss you off. You’ll find it elitist, self-righteous, and
condescending. Which doesn’t make it not true. Still, why put yourself through
it?</span></i><br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">~
~ ~</span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I think I’ve figured out why so many people
are ignoring public health rules about social distancing. Why the majority of
people in the community where I live, and most other places, never wear masks.
Why they think it is at the least, overhyped, and at most, a hoax. And really,
really inconvenient.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s like a switch was flipped this past
holiday weekend. The lunacy of packed pool parties, on the news, is obvious. But
it’s everywhere. Simple things: Shoppers ignoring one-way aisles. People travelling
to other states for trivial reasons. And no way are they going to wear a mask!
Too this... Too that...</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Yet, nothing has really changed. The virus is
resident in far more people now than when this all got started. Four in five of those infected are asymptomatic. Eighty percent! Given the increasingly
casual behavior of so many people, how can we <u>not</u> have another
serious spike in infections? What biological explanation can avoid that
inevitable fate for us?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Aha! There’s the problem. It’s <u>science</u>. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Science? But on the other hand, “a lot of
people are saying...” blah, blah, blah. In TrumpWorld, everyone’s entitled to
their own facts, science be damned. Those scary stories about the pandemic are,
to borrow Al Gore’s term, inconvenient truths. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Why should I be surprised, however, at
people’s irrational rationalizations of their selfish behavior? The ones
poo-pooing health agencies’ warnings are the same people who believe that
Noah’s ark was real (half of Americans). It includes the one in four who believes
the sun revolves around the earth. Many of these ignoramuses are the same
people who believe that the Deep State is out to get them. And their guns. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">How have other countries done so much better
than us in tamping down the spread of infections? The immediate answer is
obvious: people took social distancing dead-seriously. But why? Their people
aren’t any smarter, or dumber, than our country’s people. I’ll bet lots of New
Zealanders believe things as ridiculous as Noah’s ark. So why the startling difference
in body counts?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s about leadership. And empathy. I’m
willing to go out on a limb and say that having a moron in charge of a pandemic
makes a difference. Our man is certifiable. The technical term is malignant
narcissist. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">This crazed fabulist has contrived dangerous nonsense
and displayed Orwellian incompetence at every turn. Never mind that each breath he takes is devoted to his psychotic vanity. His fans, that forty-some
percent who love his flabby ass, they hear what they want to hear. He gives
stupid people license to let their stupid flag fly.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Scientists are boring. They don’t really know.
Their numbers are inflated. Trust your gut. And no matter what, never wear a
mask. They’re for sissies.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That’s our president. That’s our leader. He’s
modelling behavior for the narcissism now sweeping our country. The behavior I
see in the aisles of the local Walmart starts at the top. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">These are the stupid people who are tempting
fate, and putting people like me at risk. I’m damned lucky to live where I do.
The infection rate here is minimal – just 67 cases so far in a county that
stretches from the Cascades’ crest to the Pacific Ocean. But I’m not sure that good
record can hold. We’re right on the I-5 corridor connecting California and
Washington, both states with serious hot spots. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">While the chance of infection from the coronavirus
may be low where I’m living, the costs would be severe. In our family, from our
youngest to the oldest, we have underlying health issues that could make any infection
fatal. And while the overall mortality rate from COVID-19 is low, that ignores
the 20% of cases that require hospitalization, often resulting in terrible
health consequences.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">One of my hyper-religious acquaintances told
my wife on Facebook that she was being self-righteous in her caution. As for her
especially vulnerable family members (i.e., granddaughter, daughter, son-in-law,
parents, husband), “I’d suggest you keep them isolated.”</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIoFTPZ2G-1WSH79bnMN0cKQY5FVsAaHP5B69noudYj0KOublykEYF7jaJTojS0Fjf04UmGbRAjQMvgBMA3xfVATRO4io7l-IEe1AZPNPGsc-sibiZwadOJeRTpWE5hQX-w5lqbdBWOn84/s1600/FB01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="860" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIoFTPZ2G-1WSH79bnMN0cKQY5FVsAaHP5B69noudYj0KOublykEYF7jaJTojS0Fjf04UmGbRAjQMvgBMA3xfVATRO4io7l-IEe1AZPNPGsc-sibiZwadOJeRTpWE5hQX-w5lqbdBWOn84/s320/FB01.jpg" width="171" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s much like Jesus said, “Verily, verily, I
say unto you, the strong shall inherit the earth. You have a right to party.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s all about freedom. The freedom to be
stupid, apparently. Sadly, you can’t fix stupid.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Take that ridiculous storming of the Michigan’s
capitol building by AR-toting assholes. They’re going to teach “that woman” (Gov.
Whitmer) a lesson:</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcAulLSKPS9Tz1aSWk4RewgK1UaEAsrU8o0ypCVTlbjeapg3By-sjfPxTxDEsMS6oAxR_HFx6TTj190oi-NVxtQT5JTRAd_HEaYY6aHvlA1-Cs2X8fJ73xIc9PPX8xoFpArpHvEwvmnMP1/s1600/FB02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1149" data-original-width="591" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcAulLSKPS9Tz1aSWk4RewgK1UaEAsrU8o0ypCVTlbjeapg3By-sjfPxTxDEsMS6oAxR_HFx6TTj190oi-NVxtQT5JTRAd_HEaYY6aHvlA1-Cs2X8fJ73xIc9PPX8xoFpArpHvEwvmnMP1/s320/FB02.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">That’s why I’d just as soon these fools not
read my story. I know, with the certainty that I know the earth revolves around
the sun, that nothing I write could change their certainty of their own facts
and truths. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Which brings me to my sad conclusion: we are
fucked. This pandemic is going to be around for a lot longer than necessary. It’s
just tragic. And stupid.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"># # #</span></div>
<br />WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-40075142711574050892020-02-13T23:14:00.000-08:002020-02-13T23:16:49.894-08:00BLOOMBERG 2020<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-k8dUn329JMSvK36q6I1LuK1Yo6Ob3A6n84M_o8myDyBe8ZfvtkG5eQxIZgDVZ3-xpgnfgsyk-EDGwz4pZytYEv-rKGCwqrPVmSmXkfHVfccIVqFaY1nFCGH4WsfVEuyZo3zEYpC4kY6-/s1600/BloombergYardSign.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="225" data-original-width="225" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-k8dUn329JMSvK36q6I1LuK1Yo6Ob3A6n84M_o8myDyBe8ZfvtkG5eQxIZgDVZ3-xpgnfgsyk-EDGwz4pZytYEv-rKGCwqrPVmSmXkfHVfccIVqFaY1nFCGH4WsfVEuyZo3zEYpC4kY6-/s200/BloombergYardSign.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">My new “mike BLOOMBERG 2020”
yard sign is a first. A billionaire businessman and former Republican mayor wouldn’t
ordinarily be my pick. But this is no time to be fussy.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">We’re living a crisis. Our
democracy is under assault. Our institutions, political norms, rule of law, and
national character are suffering. The damage Trump will inflict on our world,
if he gets another term, is incalculable and unimaginable. He is deranged and capable
of anything – literally, <u>anything</u>.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">This will be an emergency
presidential election. Only one thing matters: ridding ourselves of the bully,
the malignant narcissist, the unhinged man-child, in the White House. Everything
else is secondary.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Issues matter, of course. Health
care. Climate change. Guns. Russia. China. Electoral reform. Cannabis reform. Compared to the
threat posed by Trump and his minions, however, Democratic debates on these
issues </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">are like Medieval arguments
over the numbers of angels that could dance on a pin head.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It can’t be about who best matches my opinons. It’s about winning. About beating Trump. (And replacing spineless Republican Senators.) Otherwise,
we are fucked.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Bloomberg seems like a tough
sob, and up for the job. I love his eagerness to
take it directly to Trump. He <u>knows</u> Trump. He gets Trump’s con. </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">You can tell a lot about a
man by the woman at his side. And Bloomberg’s partner of 20 years, Diana Taylor,
seems like a badass. I’m impressed.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">As far as issues go,
Bloomberg has put his fortune where his mouth is; I like his priorities, and
his moderation. I like his sharp intellect, tempered with common sense. And I love
his understated, workmanlike slogan:</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Mike will get it done.</span></i><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Here’s my view of the other
Democratic candidates:</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Amy</span></u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: She’s great. She’d make a fine President. I think
she <u>probably</u> could beat Trump. I hope Bloomberg picks her for VP. </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Mayor Pete</span></u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: I love him. Wicked smart; born for this moment. He
could be a great President. I just don’t think he could win. His combination of
gayness and inexperience is too much of a risk. This is no time to take
chances.</span><br />
<br />
<u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Warren</span></u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Brilliant, driven, but probably unelectable. Her
moment has passed.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Biden</span></u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: Old. A tragic figure, sad and tired. His moment is gone. (And the Hunter Biden nonsense will never die.)</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Sanders</span></u><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">: If picked to run, we might as well anoint Trump as
savior and king. Democratic Socialist? Give me a break! Moreover, a quarter of Sanders
(suicidal) backers say they would not support any other Democrat. What’s wrong
with these people?</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So there you have it – my sky-is-falling
take on our current politics. I know that it’s easy to scoff at my Chicken
Little clucks. Sometimes, however, the sky really is falling (as the dinosaurs
discovered 65 million years ago). This is such a moment.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Some are outraged that
Bloomberg is trying to buy the election – spending hundreds of millions of
dollars to compete with the underwhelming slate of Democratic candidates. I
say, have at it! Whatever it takes to beat Trump. </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-size: large;">“Bloomberg has the right stuff – a moderate progressive with a heart of gold but the toughness of a rattlesnake – for what is going to be an incredibly big, brutal task: making Donald Trump a one-term president.” – Thomas L. Friedman, <i>The New York Times</i>, Feb. 13, 2020</span></blockquote>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">~ ~ ~</span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-41682741333869753182020-01-22T13:32:00.001-08:002020-01-22T14:57:04.449-08:00TRUTH EMERGES<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Bravo! It was one of the
greatest stories I’ve ever heard told. Moments ago, Rep. Adam Schiff turned in
a brilliant performance, in his summary, impeachment indictment of Trump.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglp6qg9CyPH2Wk16fwuBOcezfUXYsAu31tY8hofzb_UyUI_YOYxsiiHVpTgEZAdzV9dD2zQxrCt6SWrSOOGFMEM88QwNeMXB3lPYmHLDWeNyNi5PIYk9jfSEXbMwfTU56CMnTds5cdkBcu/s1600/Adam_Schiff_official_portrait.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1277" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglp6qg9CyPH2Wk16fwuBOcezfUXYsAu31tY8hofzb_UyUI_YOYxsiiHVpTgEZAdzV9dD2zQxrCt6SWrSOOGFMEM88QwNeMXB3lPYmHLDWeNyNi5PIYk9jfSEXbMwfTU56CMnTds5cdkBcu/s200/Adam_Schiff_official_portrait.jpg" width="159" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Great crises demand great
leaders; in part, Trump made Schiff, who has risen to the challenge of the moment.
Along with Rep. Nancy Pelosi, we are in good hands. Democracy has its
champions.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">A practiced trial attorney,
Schiff’s training has made him the man of the hour. Endless TV appearances –
Maddow, Cooper, Colbert – have honed his storytelling skills to perfection. It’s
precisely what’s needed in this moment of national crisis.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Schiff’s script – short,
declarative sentences; spare use of adjectives and adverbs; selective use of
video excerpts – was brilliant. And his delivery matched – calm, never rushed, command of his materials, effective pauses, audience eye contact. Repetition at key moments:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-“The very next day!”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-“I guess we need to just get over it.”</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>-“The President got <u>caught</u>!"</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It was a master class in speechmaking.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Truth emerges. Reality
exists, not as a choice between Fox and MSNBC. It’s not the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Times</i> vs. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Breitbart</i>. Reality exists. No talking heads can change facts, at
least not in the long run. “Alternative facts” aren’t real. Schiff told the true
story of reality.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In yesterday’s marathon
impeachment session, each “side” gave a prelude to their arguments. As today,
the Democrats were prepared. It reflects uncountable hours of unseen staff
research, organization, and writing, in order to make the House Managers so
well prepared. And Trump’s lawyers revealed their arguments – no rebuttal of
facts, but contorted Constitutional arguments to justify undisputed corrupt
actions of their good king Trump.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">However this sad tale ends, I’m
proud of Congressional Democrats and their staffs for such outstanding work in
our moment of need</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"># # #</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-61910974230413786482019-10-01T09:06:00.000-07:002019-10-01T10:16:22.115-07:00THE END IS NEAR<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">He’ll be gone by Valentine’s
Day. That’s my prediction and I’m sticking to it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Betting against Trump, of
course, is dicey. I was sure that Stormy Daniels would do him in. And what
other politician could have survived the pussy tapes? Or the Russian collusion “witch
hunt”?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">This time, though, it’s
different. I knew he was a goner the minute I heard </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Pelosi was opening the
impeachment investigation. My FB post: “The beginning of the end has arrived” (Sept.
24). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Truth is emerging at a
staggering pace. Not “alternative facts” or “fake news.” But the truth of
Trump’s danger to this country. There will be more, much more, revealed in
coming months.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The Ukraine fiasco, wherein
Trump attempted to extort political dirt in exchange for military aid, will
prove but a piece of a broader pattern of venal, perfidious behavior by the
President. My years of working close to politics, politicians, and bureaucrats
taught me this: No matter how bad things look, they are <u>always</u> worse. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Democrats, however, are smart
to focus their attack on Trump’s Ukraine shakedown, even though it may prove a
relatively small part of this Administration’s wholesale corruption. In my
former career as an environmental activist, I was closely involved with getting
fired several agency heads in Michigan state government– mainly due to their incompetency.
I learned that what finally puts the nail in their coffin (so to speak) can be
an arguably minor scandal. Not big-picture corruption or broad ineptitude,
which anyone close to the situation may know to be true, but some untoward,
stinky incident that everyone can understand. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Until now, I’ve been
befuddled by Democrats’ hapless reaction to Trump’s lunacy. No more. They now are
rising to the moment with uncharacteristic focus and discipline, hardened by
ugly lessons of the past two-and-a-half years. Perhaps the nadir of
Republicans’ smug indecency was Lewandowsky’s smirking appearance before
Nadler’s House Judiciary Committee. No more.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Now Pelosi and Schiff are in
charge. They have elevated their leadership to meet this moment. They’ve recognized
the Ukraine/whistle-blower incident for what it is, seized it, and Trump is
done for. Politically-dead man walking.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">There is an irresistible
momentum to end this national nightmare (as Ford branded the Nixon downfall). As
investigations blossom, as more whistle blowers go public, as any remaining
internal checks are silenced, as public opinion swings in favor of impeachment,
as cracks grow in the Republican ramparts – Trump is going to lose it. I mean,
really lose it. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">His behavior isn’t normal –
not just for a president, but for anyone who isn’t bat-shit crazy. If you had a
family member obsessed with television news, reacting with blizzards of incoherent
tweets, talking endlessly about conspiracy and treason and hanging spies and a
new Civil War – you’d hide his car keys, lock up sharp instruments, and seek
medical help. But how are you going to hide the nuclear codes from this guy?
What’s to stop him from going over the cliff and dragging along the country?
(See my story, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><a href="http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2019/09/storm-clouds-gathering.html">Storm Clouds Gathering</a></i>.)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Trump’s pathology of
malignant narcissism makes him capable of <u>anything</u> in order to retain
his reign as the mad king of America. To preserve his delusions, he won’t
hesitate to sacrifice institutions, reputations, laws, even national security. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Will they have to carry him
out of office in a straightjacket? I wouldn’t rule it out. However it happens,
the end is near.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsD34Bh0EOtzBYkFNAmMe_EImVMEk6oiN46pKiaTyLCWy2S1hHzMCmnwO29_5XNicBN1P_FNGO1i5BDmL6GGpwtemaCL4QEPBQwjexU_lilEpgJzkhKrSTBsfvNzGBDNf8GaJXukYb7GgU/s1600/ENDisNEAR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="274" data-original-width="594" height="147" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhsD34Bh0EOtzBYkFNAmMe_EImVMEk6oiN46pKiaTyLCWy2S1hHzMCmnwO29_5XNicBN1P_FNGO1i5BDmL6GGpwtemaCL4QEPBQwjexU_lilEpgJzkhKrSTBsfvNzGBDNf8GaJXukYb7GgU/s320/ENDisNEAR.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"># # #</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-70582617170005688572019-09-03T07:48:00.000-07:002019-09-03T23:05:59.987-07:00STORM CLOUDS GATHERING<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCPrPs6vBWn3qo5h6Yo78QH4v4XgxbP_wAXenI-FHthfg7h3cqHjeevf9TRO_3zUkk8L4CBGLBNnAa58e1Hq1mmxgBF_qRJO5juuC0bH5G0v74IqtUzgSfz-dl2r7LSJdAIdRnAA-ncjA/s1600/0-StormClouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1090" data-original-width="1600" height="218" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyCPrPs6vBWn3qo5h6Yo78QH4v4XgxbP_wAXenI-FHthfg7h3cqHjeevf9TRO_3zUkk8L4CBGLBNnAa58e1Hq1mmxgBF_qRJO5juuC0bH5G0v74IqtUzgSfz-dl2r7LSJdAIdRnAA-ncjA/s320/0-StormClouds.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Are you afraid yet? I sure
am.</span><br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i>“At this time, we can see storm clouds
gathering.” -- Jim Mattis</i></span></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span>For the first time since our
country was torn apart fifty years ago by the Vietnam War, I’m afraid for the
future. Our President is a lunatic, unhinged from reality, and a danger to the
planet. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">His bizarre and disturbing
behavior is unconstrained by ethics, truth, reality, or, increasingly, by law.
It is, however, predictable. No matter what inexplicable thing he does or says, look
close enough and you’ll find what’s in it for our malignant narcissist
President:<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>money, votes, power, and fame.
Always, 100 percent of the time, it’s firstly about himself.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Our man in the White House will
say and do anything to get what he wants. There are no limits to his amoral
pathology. These are scary times.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I’ve always believed this
about politicians: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">No matter how bad
things look, they can always get worse.</i> Trump broke my rule. I
concede that even slimy Mike Pence would be better right now. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">That, however, is no option
since Trump’s not going anywhere until the end of next year. We’re stuck
watching The Leader of the Free World grow ever more detached from reality,
erratic in his megalomania, and incoherent in his blather.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">As bad as things look today
at the end of summer, they are going to get a whole lot worse between now and
the 2020 election. More Trump-fueled hate will inspire the spilling of more
blood of innocents, leading to more “thoughts and prayers” and little else.
More pollution laws will be gutted, more natural areas defiled. More farmers
will go broke. Our suicidal race to climate-change catastrophe will accelerate.
And all that could be the least of it.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">What’s going to happen during
the next fourteen months as reality crushes in, and Trump sees his reelection
slipping away? What crazy shit will he try in order to hold onto power? Slash
everybody’s taxes? Sue the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">New York Times</i>?
Launch the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Trump TV</i> network? Try to
buy Cuba? (Or sell Puerto Rico?) Put tariffs on tacos? Find Jesus? Drop some
bombs? Get Melania pregnant? Start a war?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And what, then, in November 2020
when, after all his madness sputters out, he still loses? Dispute the results? Cry
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">foul!</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fraud!</i>? Refuse to get out of bed? Blame it on the Deep State? Declare
a national emergency, delay a transition, and get the Supreme Court to find
some excuse to throw or nullify the election?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Trump is nuts. He’s capable
of anything.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I know, I know. “It can’t
happen here.” But I keep picturing newsreels of pre-WWII Germany. The Nazi
rallies; the slogans and chants; the charismatic strongman with his silly hair,
lies, and jingoism; the throngs of adoring, ordinary people; the nationalism
and racism; attacks on free press; violence against the “other”; and the cowardly
silence of enablers and opportunists. That all seemed like ancient, Nazi history
until Charlottesville, and those grainy, black-and-white images were replaced
by neo-Nazis in hi-def color, marching with Walmart Tiki torches and chanting,
“Jews will not replace us!” “Fine people,” declared our President.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Trump is “The Chosen One” to
his flock, proclaiming in the last days before the 2016 election that he would
bring “the change you’ve been waiting for your whole life.” As if he were sent by
the Almighty, he promised: “I alone can save you.”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">He’s embraced by God-loving
people as an answer to their prayers. Evangelical preachers fawn over him. This
guy! The most self-centered, venal, mendacious, amoral, incompetent President
of my lifetime. (And I lived through Nixon!)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">That’s one hell of a Faustian
bargain these Christians have made to get their judges appointed, and their freedom
restored to once again be able to say “Merry Christmas.” Is there no limit to
their fatuity? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Their faith in their MAGA
hero, however, is going to be stretched beyond imagining as his pace of
corruption accelerates: more lies, scandals, incompetence, lunacy, broken
promises, leaks, exposes, and worse.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Which is why Trump will lose
in 2020. Badly. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">That’s why I’m afraid. What
kind of damage can he and his inept and corrupt band of sycophants do in the
meantime in a futile attempt to deny reality? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">History will not be kind to
Trump. It will reveal him for his true, pathological self. It will collate his
abuses and crimes, and his damage to our institutions. Like other disgraced, self-serving
leaders who once were loved by their base (again, Nixon and Agnew come to mind), Trump
will be forever reviled as a tragic aberration.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">In the meantime, what can I
do but speak what I believe. For to remain silent is to be complicit in the
great crimes against our country and our ethos that now are underway.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">As if warnings from Jim
Mattis, Trump’s own Secretary of Defense for two years, aren’t scary enough,
now comes Sheryl Crow (“Story of Everything”): </span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“Sometimes I break down, these are
surely troubled times, oh yes they are.”</span></i></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">My friend, John, tells me to
chill out. That all this political mayhem is distant from our lives. That my
hens’ eggs will be as delicious tomorrow as they were yesterday. He makes a
very good point. It’s a reminder to savor the beauty all around us while it
lasts, even as the sky in the East grows steadily darker.</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"># # #</span></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-50500655760488502092019-06-05T21:39:00.000-07:002019-06-05T21:39:36.027-07:00CABELA'S UN-SCREWED ME
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioO3VTuNjxdMifFOJWoscnCF1lHe0axZ5kz7KJLXJZuO3PIhn3xgzkXJ_CckbJ-wrtDEaJs9HG0QWlFHPXJVkTZNud23d90RUBGAxo_K05zspT-lqGS2g0sa5Lb17hPRDiEzQ9CgIbY5Gd/s1600/CABs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1166" data-original-width="960" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEioO3VTuNjxdMifFOJWoscnCF1lHe0axZ5kz7KJLXJZuO3PIhn3xgzkXJ_CckbJ-wrtDEaJs9HG0QWlFHPXJVkTZNud23d90RUBGAxo_K05zspT-lqGS2g0sa5Lb17hPRDiEzQ9CgIbY5Gd/s200/CABs.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Cabela’s remarkable response to my story posted
yesterday (<a href="https://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2019/06/cabelas-screwed-me-today.html">Cabela’s
Screwed Me</a>) follows:</span><br />
<br />
<i><span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Wayne,</span><span style="color: #201f1e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" /></span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #201f1e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">
</span><span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: inherit; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">I truly apologize for the experience and the
demeanor of my front end staff which I will address accordingly... as I cannot
speak to the technical issues with the fly line as I’m more of a bass fisherman
myself it appears there is an inherit defect created by my team or the product
itself. So if you would provide me your address I would like to send you a $50
gift card for reimbursement of the fly line when I return back to the store on
Friday. </span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: inherit; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><br /></span></span></i>
<i><span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: inherit; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Additionally you are correct on the tippet being in lite stock for this
time of year as I was over there the other day assisting a customer and noticed
our in stock position is not where we should be and we have forwarded this up
to our merchant specialist for this area for review.</span></span></i><br />
<span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: inherit; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-style: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;"><i><span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Again my sincere regret and
apologies for your experience and we look forward to earning your business back.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: #201f1e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" /></span><span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: inherit; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">Mark Goldsmith</span></span><span style="color: #201f1e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
</span><span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: inherit; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">General Manager</span></span><span style="color: #201f1e; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;" />
</span><span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: inherit; float: none; font-size-adjust: none; font-size: inherit; font-stretch: inherit; font-variant: inherit; font-weight: inherit; line-height: inherit; orphans: 2; word-spacing: 0px;">BassPro/Cabela's ...Springfield,Or.</span></span></i><br />
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<span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>__________________</i></span></div>
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">And my reply:</span><br />
<span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>Mark, I am truly blown away
by your response. Thank you. What more could a customer ever expect?</i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>I feel so much better, with a
bad experience fixed. Again, thank you. I’ll be back.</i></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="background: white; font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><i>Wayne Schmidt</i></span><br />
</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-71572433106261854332019-06-04T00:15:00.000-07:002019-06-05T21:44:07.462-07:00CABELA'S SCREWED ME<i><span style="background-color: white; font-size: large;"></span></i><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDacU_JadOUmO8e5Ij3tSYoZnH79D82MAOWJzI6p410DBuaryEXfbEK5rl_wiK3T0Jwq5WlV_Ou46xqqPalyqDhX52ymq6Oy9CQTdihhTx-VuOhskIxf83uS1Opb1JzBnURcGH6DQrWre/s1600/CARD.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1250" data-original-width="1600" height="155" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjjDacU_JadOUmO8e5Ij3tSYoZnH79D82MAOWJzI6p410DBuaryEXfbEK5rl_wiK3T0Jwq5WlV_Ou46xqqPalyqDhX52ymq6Oy9CQTdihhTx-VuOhskIxf83uS1Opb1JzBnURcGH6DQrWre/s200/CARD.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Dear Cabela’s Customer Service Department:</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I’m 72 years old and have been your customer
as long as there’s been a Cabela’s. (And a credit card holder as long as that’s
been around.) Until yesterday, I’ve always been impressed with your customer
service. Monday, however, Cabela’s did me wrong at your Springfield, OR store (#0434),
and I’m not a happy camper.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">During your sale last winter, I bought a new
fly reel, line (Cabela’s Prestige Premium WF8F), etc. (total $366), in
anticipation of a summer trout fishing trip to Idaho. Your staff installed the
backing and line, and even swapped it out when I decided to exchange the reel
for a smaller version. All good. When I tried out the new setup, however, I
found that the fly line was twisted and would not lay straight on the water.
Obviously, hooking a trout when the line is full of ess’s is difficult. I tried
to untwist the line by trolling it behind my boat, but that didn’t help.
Returning to the store, I was told to try stretching the line. It was a pain,
but that’s what I did.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Last week, in anticipation of my Idaho trip
next month, I went out again for a dry run with my new setup. Yes, the line did
cast and lay straight on the water. But the line wasn’t smooth, with rough spots
throughout. I can only presume that my stretching the line cracked its coating
in places. I concluded I had to replace it. I didn’t want a crappy line ruining my upcoming, once-in-a-lifetime trip to the South Snake and Henry’s Fork rivers.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Yesterday, I went back to the store and asked to
speak with your customer service manager. She finally appeared, an impatient
scowl plastered on her face, and pretended to listen to my story. I told her
all I wanted to do was swap out my bad line for a new, more expensive line, and
would be happy with a store credit. Despite my explanation that the problem
with the line was due to a bad installation by the store’s staff, she insisted
that Cabela’s 90-day return policy was inflexible. (I’m about three weeks past
that magical number.) I detected no hint of empathy for my dilemma, nor
apology. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">At one point, she said there was no way to
tell if the line I showed her was the same one as on my receipt from February.
In other words, I could be lying and trying to scam Cabela’s out of $45. Can
you understand how insulting that is?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I suggested that she ask the fishing
department staff to verify that it was, indeed, the same line. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“We’d still have the 90-day problem,” she
replied.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So I’ll just have to eat the $45 on the bad
line. I went back to the fishing department and there was only one guy on duty –
at noon on a Monday, no less – and he confessed he knew little about fly lines
and was really too busy installing lines on spinning reels to help. I picked
out a new Scientific Anglers WF8F line ($100), paid, and left in a foul mood.
There is a good chance that may be my last purchase I ever make at Cabela’s.
That’s how pissed this has made me.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">(And as an aside, the store was completely out
of all brands of 5X tippet material. In June!)</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">It’s not just the wasted money. Fussing with
that Cabela’s-branded fly line, returning to the store to deal with it several
times – it’s been a pain. But I didn’t complain; I just wanted Cabela’s to
treat me fairly and respectfully and make right what wasn’t my fault in the
first place. Not hide behind an inflexible, arbitrary store policy. You see why
I feel like Cabela’s screwed me?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I know I’m just one customer among millions,
but it’s the principle. (My wife and I had a bad experience with a bogus $25 fee
from Target five years ago, and we returned their card and haven’t set foot in
their stores since. See <a href="https://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2014/03/why-well-never-again-shop-at-target.html">https://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2014/03/why-well-never-again-shop-at-target.html</a></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">.) </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">I haven't decided yet whether I'll cut up my Cabela's card. Next month when I’m in Idaho Falls, I had planned on
buying my license and a week’s worth of flies (and tippet) at your store there.
Unlike your inflexible policy, however, my shopping choices are quite flexible. I’m
pretty sure Idaho Falls has other fly fishing shops.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">So there you have it. That’s my story. And in
case it needs saying, all true.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Sincerely,</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Wayne Schmidt</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZI05OyrDZsHX10-Un_BqJ_hs_bbGa6jKDO_cAhKSw6Aubxf1jSuVdwIR5UpkYS_lb0MjmoUjz6ws8viSkO91IsqAu0I-I7CcKJ4n7lGsyWH9erqLRY9tJ-nLWG38Qv-liCt_1QypX5AK/s1600/RECEIPTS.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1318" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnZI05OyrDZsHX10-Un_BqJ_hs_bbGa6jKDO_cAhKSw6Aubxf1jSuVdwIR5UpkYS_lb0MjmoUjz6ws8viSkO91IsqAu0I-I7CcKJ4n7lGsyWH9erqLRY9tJ-nLWG38Qv-liCt_1QypX5AK/s200/RECEIPTS.jpg" width="164" /></a></div>
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[Snail-mailed to Sidney, NE, headquarters, June 4, 2019]</div>
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">UPDATE: Cabela’s responded to
this story of my bad experience immediately. Please see: </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><a href="https://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2019/06/cabelas-un-screwed-me.html">Cabela’s
Un-Screwed Me</a></span><br />
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></div>
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<br />WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-4510350654959605932019-05-15T23:22:00.000-07:002019-05-15T23:34:55.302-07:00WHY I DON'T BELIEVE IN GOD<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1_GFPhuOVcKy5ewy0TAI__3Epj61NYoxpH0bFelaSe_j75DrmcQMkE6EoM41zsWCvg2KR2yv43X4Y8CVDiYknR31i2nfaMMhA1OW7UcPphO37IcbbTZsSLQGSLHhaaWurXDp8hBCXwoX/s1600/Cima_da_Conegliano%252C_God_the_Father.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="544" data-original-width="700" height="248" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjb1_GFPhuOVcKy5ewy0TAI__3Epj61NYoxpH0bFelaSe_j75DrmcQMkE6EoM41zsWCvg2KR2yv43X4Y8CVDiYknR31i2nfaMMhA1OW7UcPphO37IcbbTZsSLQGSLHhaaWurXDp8hBCXwoX/s320/Cima_da_Conegliano%252C_God_the_Father.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">“How did you decide you don’t believe in God?”
My friend’s question came after reading my recent blog (</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><a href="https://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2019/03/cosmic-connections.html"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Cosmic Connections</span></i></a></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">),
where I mentioned, in passing, that I don’t believe in aliens, Bigfoot, the
Deep State, God, etc.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Bill’s a passionate Christian and, paradoxically,
a fan of my (not-infrequently irreligious) writing. So I wasn’t surprised to
get his message. As teenagers nearly 60 years ago, we shared an oppressive
religious upbringing, attending the same Evangelical church where my father was
pastor. Bill kept his faith; me, not so much.</span><br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiguuHf3iwA-fdeTf1Zxp_r9RxgGmIe4C-8zpI0R3rCPSE-wDNIG2EbZaCpftdfPCX1S7sUG3-Q7w17Z1IHaKojs56jhJrN5p5ib2v0T3kbaACmhcvsF7EDeewR-zWcLNJsimpFzhEREW5h/s1600/Church1961A.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="679" data-original-width="1335" height="161" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiguuHf3iwA-fdeTf1Zxp_r9RxgGmIe4C-8zpI0R3rCPSE-wDNIG2EbZaCpftdfPCX1S7sUG3-Q7w17Z1IHaKojs56jhJrN5p5ib2v0T3kbaACmhcvsF7EDeewR-zWcLNJsimpFzhEREW5h/s320/Church1961A.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Me & Bill -- First Missionary Church (Flint, MI) -- 1961</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Back then, it was natural to try my family’s
religion on for size, but it was never a good fit. I didn’t wake up one day and
decide I didn’t believe in God. It was more like how you give up on an old suit
or dress that once may have been your favorite. It’s hung in the back of your
closet for a few years, you’ve added a few pounds, and your taste in fashion
has changed. Now and then, you take it out and think about wearing it again,
maybe try it on in private, but it never looks right and doesn’t feel right,
and finally, it goes out to Goodwill, along with a box of old electronics and
kitchen gadgets. If someone else can be happy wearing it, good for them.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">One thing I do miss from my God-believing days:
the prospect of getting all my questions answered in Heaven. Wouldn’t that be
cool, finally having mysteries of the universe explained? Like Google on
steroids. Did Oswald act alone? Why is there something rather than nothing? Are
UFOs real? Does the world end with a bang or a whimper? </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">But the thing is, at that point you’re dead,
so would you care? Even if you finally got your wildest curiosities satisfied
in Heaven, then what would you do with yourself for all the rest of eternity?
Learn the harp? Play chess with Jesus?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Honestly, Heaven sounds dreadful (as in my
story, </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><a href="https://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2015/11/when-we-all-get-to-heaven.html"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">When We All Get to Heaven</span></i></a></span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">).
If you’ve been a proper Christian, after you die you end up in a place in the
sky where the streets are paved with gold, to spend forever singing God’s
praises. Lots of angels. Pearly gates. No more pain, no more sorrow. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Some believe Heaven is whatever you imagine it
to be. Gardens. Sunshine. Calorie-free ice cream. I heard one hard-scrabble
believer explain to a reporter her conception of Heaven: it will have really
nice appliances. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Mormons, if they’ve been good, get their own
planet after they die, where they will reunite with all their dear, departed kin.
Then there are the Muslims with their special reward of 72 virgins.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">You have your Rastafarians, Taoists,
Scientologists, Buddhists, Wiccans, Baha’i, Hindus, Hopi – 4,000 religions exist
on Earth. Before them, thousands more – the pyramid-building Egyptians and Inca,
the Mongols, Celts, Visigoths, Hellenists, Aborigines, Mycenaeans, Sumerians.
And before them? On it goes in infinite varieties of religious beliefs, back to
the beginnings of human consciousness, each culture with its own true image of
God (or gods). </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Pick a god. Or make up your own. Pick a Holy
Book. Or write your own. Believe that God talks to you. Who’s to prove you’re
wrong?</span><br />
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">*
* *</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Belief in deity goes hand-in-hand with belief that
every human has a soul. Look at the 30,000-year-old cave paintings made by
early <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Homo sapiens</i> in Europe. Their transcendent
art suggests that everything in their world, including themselves, had spirits.</span><br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLNXxnVSknYZSJlLZi5pg8fovTh72A_RAXx9MvMMRfW_JbVkcwmXt3r0UJLmXfLs_rX_0-xgFr4n5t65uBYZzYmyuy3CJEyPmhzHFL8t9OCr0Ucd1Y8_mXh8u3BQxg_d36BjX4nPU_364O/s1600/Cave.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1367" data-original-width="1600" height="170" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLNXxnVSknYZSJlLZi5pg8fovTh72A_RAXx9MvMMRfW_JbVkcwmXt3r0UJLmXfLs_rX_0-xgFr4n5t65uBYZzYmyuy3CJEyPmhzHFL8t9OCr0Ucd1Y8_mXh8u3BQxg_d36BjX4nPU_364O/s200/Cave.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Where did the idea of
the soul come from? The truthful answer is that we don’t know. What seems
clear, however, is that belief in the soul may be humanity’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">first</i> belief.” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">God, A Human History</i>, Reza Aslan, 2017)</blockquote>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Worship of multifarious gods is a common
humanity we share with the ancients. Something in our evolutionary journey, a
quirk in our genes, makes it natural for people to believe in the supernatural.
And particularly in Western religious belief, in a soul that lives on after
death. Today, nine in ten Americans believe in a monotheistic God or some
higher power. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">The popularity of a belief does not, of course,
make it true. People believe all sorts of nonsense. At least half of Americans believe
the Bible’s version of a paternalistic, all-knowing, all-powerful, personal God.
(Presumably, the loving New Testament God, not the spiteful Old Testament God
who once had 42 children mauled to death by bears simply because they had
teased one of His prophets for being bald. (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">2
Kings 2:24</i>)) That’s about the same proportion who are convinced that ghosts
are real (45%).</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">One in four Americans thinks the Sun revolves
around the Earth. Three in four say that Jesus was born of a virgin. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">There are otherwise-normal-appearing Americans
alive at this very moment who believe with all their heart that the Earth is
flat. They’re oblivious to the lunacy of their contorted explanations and
futile attempts to make the irrational sound rational. They have faith that
everything they can’t see with their own eyes or read about in the Bible is
fake. The Earth looks flat and nothing in the Bible says it’s not. Their
conviction is based on <u>faith</u>, the ultimate defense against skeptics.</span><br />
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Now faith is the assurance of
things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hebrews</i> <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">11:1</i>)<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span></blockquote>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">At least half of us believe the story of
Noah’s ark and a global flood. Never mind that the Bible’s version is adapted
from a 4,000-year-old Babylonian myth, invented on the fertile, flood-prone
lowlands of the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers, a fable the Jews learned of during
their exile in Babylon, 2,700 years ago. Today in Kentucky you can visit a “life-sized”
version of the phantasmal Biblical ark just off I-75 (Exit 154). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Some true believers take raft trips through
the Grand Canyon to confirm their fantasy of a young Earth. In their figment,
they condense a geologic tableau spanning billions of years of Earth history
into a few thousand years of Biblical mythology. That’s the kind of thing that
religious faith can get you: certainty that Noah’s flood created the Grand
Canyon.</span> </div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1szckLFJ0UrXVR0b7V97Gjd9k7y03Jo5FDnX23thdf6MiBP6rkYRhv2LFveFQFwjoRypFNos3EbqI4b9E9vYT_fNaFvfBe0J-q2yGDvaaFkXL85OHI4VsYdtWOHN7Cvx_XK0CNGday2bs/s1600/GC.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1szckLFJ0UrXVR0b7V97Gjd9k7y03Jo5FDnX23thdf6MiBP6rkYRhv2LFveFQFwjoRypFNos3EbqI4b9E9vYT_fNaFvfBe0J-q2yGDvaaFkXL85OHI4VsYdtWOHN7Cvx_XK0CNGday2bs/s320/GC.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><span style="font-size: small;"></span>Of course, the Grand Canyon was carved over
the last six million years, not a few thousand years ago. And the Earth isn’t
flat, no matter how much faith the nutty Flat Earthers have.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Now, it may be an awkward question, but where
on the crazy scale do you rank Flat Earthers compared to faith-filled,
young-Earth-believing, Bible literalists? Sure, these Christians know the Earth
isn’t flat. Since Galileo’s time, they’ve even conceded that the Earth isn’t
the center of the Solar System. But because of what they read in the Bible,
they’re stuck with believing that the universe was created in seven days, 6,000
years ago, and that Adam & Eve and a talking snake started all this.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Two out of every five people you see driving
down the highway believe the Garden of Eden story is true. Millions of years of
evolution? People descended from apes? Phooey! It’s all lies. Like the fake
news.</span><br />
<br />
<div style="line-height: 15.0pt;">
<span style="color: #333333; font-size: 14.0pt;">I understand some kinds of
faith. I have faith that the sun will come up tomorrow. Faith that it’s just a
matter of time before the Big One hits the Pacific Northwest. Faith in my
family. Faith that the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">beep</i> means my
car door is locked. But faith in God? Nope.</span></div>
<div style="line-height: 15.0pt;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">*
* *</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Our universe had a beginning, 13.8 billion
years ago, and it is expanding. That means some parts of the universe are so
far away that they can never be seen from Earth because light hasn’t had time
to reach us during the finite age of the universe. Beyond that impenetrable
cosmic horizon,</span><br />
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“...lies a region containing at
least 23 orders of magnitude as many galaxies as those inside... It is likely
to be many orders of magnitude greater. Our visible universe can be likened to
a grain of sand in the Sahara Desert.” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">God
and the Multiverse, Humanity’s Expanding View of the Cosmos,</i> Victor J.
Stenger, 2014)</blockquote>
</div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Our existence is a mystery. Consider that the
atoms making up our bodies were created from nuclear fusion in the hot cores of
stars that died and scattered their elements across space, billions of years
ago. That’s what we’re made of. Star dust.</span><br />
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Again and again across the
centuries, cosmic discoveries have demoted our self-image. Earth was once
assumed to be astronomically unique, until astronomers learned that Earth is
just another planet orbiting the Sun. Then we presumed the Sun was unique,
until we learned that the countless stars of the night sky are suns themselves.
Then we presumed that our galaxy, the Milky Way, was the entire known universe,
until we established that the countless fuzzy things in the sky are other
galaxies, dotting the landscape of our known universe.” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Astrophysics for People in a Hurry, </i>Neil deGrasse Tyson, 2017) </blockquote>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Numbers describing our known universe are so
immense as to be essentially meaningless to a human mind. An estimated 150
billion galaxies are within sight of Earth, each with some 100 billion stars.
Scientists estimate that there exist sextillions (with 21 zeroes) of planets
capable of supporting some form of life.</span></div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Who knows how many and which other
extraordinary complexities exist, in forms perhaps impossible for us to
imagine, in the endless spaces of the cosmos? There is so much space up there
that it is childish to think that in a peripheral corner of an ordinary galaxy
there should be something uniquely special. Life on Earth gives only a small
taste of what can happen in the universe.” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seven
Brief Lessons on Physics,</i> Carol Rovelli, 2016)</blockquote>
</div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Pick up any random rock, and think of how many
lives it has lived. Its elements came from space, after eons of travel through
the universe, to form the earth and be cycled and recycled through the building
and breaking of continents and oceans, to survive and end up in your hand. That
rock, like every atom in our bodies, has a mind-boggling history, and will be
recycled in unimaginable ways throughout a future stretching beyond time.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">There are questions with answers transcending
human comprehension. At least for now. What came before the Big Bang? Is
“before” even a valid concept? What’s inside a black hole? Does “inside” even
make sense where time, itself, ceases to exist? What is dark matter? Is it
possible that our known universe is but a speck in a multiverse? What is human
consciousness?</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Could it be that the existence of such unanswerable
cosmological and metaphysical questions, the staggering scale and complexities
of the universe, is the very proof that God exists? The ultimate demonstration
that all of this never could have happened by chance? Since we can’t explain
the universe and where it came from, does that mean there must be a God who set
it all in motion? A micro-manager who decreed the laws of physics, but who also
appreciates being thanked for all things good, has his eye on the sparrow, and
picks which team should win, based, presumably, on who has prayed to Him the
hardest? If you ask God to “bless this food,” but then choke on a fishbone, did
He just get distracted for a moment?</span><br />
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“To accept the substantial
uncertainty of our knowledge is to accept living immersed in ignorance, and
therefore in mystery. To live with questions to which we do not know the
answers. Perhaps we don’t know them yet or, who knows, we never will. </blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“To live with uncertainty may be
difficult. There are those who prefer any certainty, even if unfounded, to the
uncertainty that comes from recognizing our own limits. There are some who
prefer to believe in a story just because it was believed by the tribe’s
ancestors, rather than bravely accept uncertainty.</blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Ignorance can be scary.
Out of fear, we can tell ourselves calming stories: up there beyond the stars
there is an enchanted garden, with a gentle father who will welcome us into his
arms. It doesn’t matter if this is true – it is reassuring.</blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“There is always, in this
world, someone who pretends to tell us the ultimate answers. The world is full
of people who say that they have The Truth. Because they have got it from the
fathers; they have read it in a Great Book; they have received it directly from
a god; they have found it in the depths of themselves... There is always some
prophet dressed in white, uttering the words: ‘Follow me, I am the true way.’”
(<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Reality Is Not What It Seems: The Journey
to Quantum Gravity</i>, Carlo Rovelli, 2017)</blockquote>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqVlaoWDBfNF5rehh9uqkdId6FOmV2pRu_DgRuRH73Eaz9b9fVpFY7bV7USjie4f61csSAPfk_j6Dghsyu6qWdSLx6ny4LG_iAvdIoSZvNhPSBx8JjiEiX0VzZrXc9Z7PjHOSi3itjT3C/s1600/Jesus00.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="98" data-original-width="100" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjhqVlaoWDBfNF5rehh9uqkdId6FOmV2pRu_DgRuRH73Eaz9b9fVpFY7bV7USjie4f61csSAPfk_j6Dghsyu6qWdSLx6ny4LG_iAvdIoSZvNhPSBx8JjiEiX0VzZrXc9Z7PjHOSi3itjT3C/s1600/Jesus00.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">*
* *</span></div>
</div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">As I approach what is definitely starting to
look like old age, questions of mortality, God, and the afterlife become more
poignant.</span><br />
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Is God the animating force
that connects all living things, as our prehistoric ancestors seemed to
believe? Or nature deified, as the early Mesopotamians thought? Or an abstract
force that permeates the universe, the way some Greek philosophers described it?
Or a personalized deity who looks and acts just like a human being? Or is God
literally a human being?</blockquote>
</div>
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Creation may very well have
originated purely through physical processes that reflect nothing more than the
articulation of the most basic properties of matter and energy – without cause,
value, or purpose. That is a perfectly plausible explanation for the existence
of the universe and everything in it. It is, in fact, just as plausible – and
just as impossible to prove – as the existence of an animating spirit that
underlies the universe, that binds together the souls of you and me and
everyone else – perhaps every<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thing</i>
else – that is or was or has ever been.” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">God,
A Human History</i>, Reza Aslan, 2017)</blockquote>
</div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Brilliant minds have found creative ways to
explain their belief in God, like Medieval scholars debating how many angels
could dance on the head of a pin. Their books could fill a Costco warehouse. Is
it, in the end, arbitrary what a person believes about a creator-god?</span><br />
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“A godless world is as mysterious as
one suffused with divinity, and the difference between the two may be less than
you think.” (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Seven Types of Atheism</i>,
John Gray, 2018)</blockquote>
</div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">Do I really believe in a godless, indifferent
universe? Believe that life ends in a soulless nothingness? Do I think I’m
right and the vast majority of humans, including all manner of geniuses and
morons who believe in a Supreme Being, are wrong? After all, even Albert
Einstein had his religious side:</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"> </span><br />
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Try and penetrate with our limited
means the secrets of nature and you will find that, behind all the discernible
concatenations, there remains something subtle, intangible and inexplicable.
Veneration for this force beyond anything that we can comprehend is my
religion”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Einstein, quoted in <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pantheologies: Gods, Worlds, Monsters</i>,
Mary-Jane Rubenstein, 2018.</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQs8Ow7oPG2s0_ARcSEsQVA97nSBIktk-t4sdOgoaYlSzxoUhsnYoHHXWzNnh5r3UIsVVhdjEzecrpKD89FgiK8c3fRLAWiXGh8smZ_BuMeVXthhTFNWvEyZvI6XgNBclB1CmbvozJJV-i/s1600/Sky.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="-webkit-text-stroke-width: 0px; color: #0066cc; font-family: Times New Roman; font-size: 16px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; orphans: 2; text-align: center; text-decoration: underline; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;"><img border="0" data-original-height="846" data-original-width="1600" height="168" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQs8Ow7oPG2s0_ARcSEsQVA97nSBIktk-t4sdOgoaYlSzxoUhsnYoHHXWzNnh5r3UIsVVhdjEzecrpKD89FgiK8c3fRLAWiXGh8smZ_BuMeVXthhTFNWvEyZvI6XgNBclB1CmbvozJJV-i/s320/Sky.jpg" width="320" /></a></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt; mso-bidi-font-family: Calibri; mso-bidi-theme-font: minor-latin;">And so, back to my friend’s question about why
I don’t believe in God. My short answer: I can’t see any reason why I should. As
for an afterlife:</span><br />
<div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
“Being dead is like being stupid.
It’s only painful for others.” (Ricky Gervais)</blockquote>
</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
#
# #</div>
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</span><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-41276830598905329992019-03-20T21:44:00.000-07:002019-03-20T22:15:34.473-07:00COSMIC CONNECTIONS<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Some things have happened to
me that I can’t explain. Things that make me wonder if unexplainable cosmic
connections can exist between people. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It’s about my friend, Adam, a
Colorado River boatman. I met him guiding our raft through the Grand Canyon a
few years back. We bonded, despite the fact that I am a tad bit older (27
years, in fact). Last June, I worked as his crew (called a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">swamper</i>) on a similar raft trip (see </span><a href="https://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2018/07/swamping-grand-canyon.html"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Swamping the Grand Canyon</span></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">). </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Today, I drove in to the
riverwalk in Eugene, where one of those cosmic things happened to me. It was a lovely
day of March sunshine for my walk, but I wasn’t feeling it. My funk had to do
with having just left a maddening encounter with our cell phone company.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">So I was a bit mopey. Sitting
in my car in the parking lot, I discovered a chocolate Tootsie Pop buried in the
console. A common trail treat for rafters while hiking in the Grand Canyon,
this was the last holdout from a handful I’d absconded with, after my swamper
adventure with Adam eight months ago. I stuffed the sucker in my jacket,
figuring I could take a selfie with it, somewhere along the river, and send it
to him.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I found a nice overlook with
snow-blanketed mountains in the background. I waited for breaks, as other
walkers passed, since I always feel stupid taking a selfie with people watching.
Especially when I’m alone and holding up a chocolate Tootsie Pop while grinning
in the sunshine. But I got my shot and stuck it in an email to Adam, typing the
subject, “Look what I found.” As my finger rested over the Send button, the
phone dinged with an arriving email. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">A few days back, I had sent
Adam an email, asking a question about our upcoming trip, but hadn’t heard back. The instant my phone dinged, I said to myself, “It’s from Adam.” I cancelled
the email I was about to send him and opened my inbox. Sure enough. There it
was, Adam’s reply to my question from a few days earlier. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I replied and sent him my
selfie with the chocolate Tootsie Pop, but spared him these details about the
timing, since it had left me scratching my head with questions. Like, WTF?</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2uQWSGkq3u5NV5KPbs7_7aU-YtOzB8xl7Ny0u17oQONKjIKeH3DDFd-81NsSZQx6aiZ6ZWA6YTkoMRIMORnNlTRv-H6j0INWaO3n0zBe80EiJS7p1HavR7ZChdMkunwyw3H_1_sblQTjB/s1600/01a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1262" data-original-width="960" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2uQWSGkq3u5NV5KPbs7_7aU-YtOzB8xl7Ny0u17oQONKjIKeH3DDFd-81NsSZQx6aiZ6ZWA6YTkoMRIMORnNlTRv-H6j0INWaO3n0zBe80EiJS7p1HavR7ZChdMkunwyw3H_1_sblQTjB/s320/01a.jpg" width="241" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">A coincidence? Here’s what
makes me wonder: Once before, almost the same thing happened at exactly the
same spot. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">It was a year ago from last
December. I had arrived at that same riverwalk parking lot in Eugene. The
endless winter rains had let up for my walk, but I wasn’t feeling it that day,
either. I sat in my car, staring at the gray river and landscape. My phone
dinged. It was a text from Adam, which surprised me since he’s not a fan of texting.
The message asked, “Where were you 6 months ago?”</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">His accompanying picture
answered his question. There I was, six months ago to the day; communing with
Nature in the Grand Canyon; high (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">yes</i>)
above the Colorado River; ankle-deep in crystal-clear, ice-cold water; sun in
my face; mesmerized by a waterfall in Deer Creek Canyon. It’s a scary hike along
cliffs to reach an Eden of gurgling water, cooling shade, and Native American
petroglyphs. Alone and just upstream from that desert oasis, I found this small
waterfall, bordered by deep-green plants with blood-red roots dangling in the
current. Dragonflies, golden as if touched by Midas, buzzed about in the mist.
I traced their flights with an outstretched finger, trying to entice one to
land. </span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghntV0hvkIiN1TfgMvd0ae7aoWQ-SorjSZC_FhRdUSOTop7KMm3xnZVD2gGpeXs5TTIaAg8rE4tEk4t5O14fGz9FbSCWUar6vHlBEJvz87r5uiLhk6_1eWCaqlWThf4tZu08Vgnwe3yAn4/s1600/02a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1211" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghntV0hvkIiN1TfgMvd0ae7aoWQ-SorjSZC_FhRdUSOTop7KMm3xnZVD2gGpeXs5TTIaAg8rE4tEk4t5O14fGz9FbSCWUar6vHlBEJvz87r5uiLhk6_1eWCaqlWThf4tZu08Vgnwe3yAn4/s320/02a.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The thought crossed my mind at
the time that I must look like a deranged orchestra conductor, waving an
invisible baton to the music of my private symphony. Which I guess I was. But thankfully,
for a few precious minutes I’d been able to have this transcendent experience alone,
out of sight of the other rafters. Or so I thought. Apparently, Adam had
climbed overlooking rocks to memorialize my transcendent moment. </span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I need to tell you one other
thing about my connection to Deer Creek. Since my first hike up its slot canyon,
several years and rafting trips ago (see </span><a href="https://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2014/10/7-death-march-grand-canyon-rafting.html"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">The Death
March</span></i></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">), I’ve associated this special
place with a particular song – “Arizona,” by Benjie Howard. Like Adam, he’s a
Grand Canyon river guide. He sings of the visage of the world of a Native
American elder, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“not the last freedom
fighter, not the last of the resisters.”</i> I’ve listened to his song on headphones
while hiking up the cliffs to Deer Creek: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Whose
country is this, anyway, now?”</i> (</span><a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FYft3O4RLmo"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">You
can watch a video here</span></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> of Benjie
playing his song, deep in another Grand Canyon side canyon.)</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Back in Eugene on the
riverwalk that day, I stared at Adam’s picture of me at Deer Creek for long
minutes. When I got out of the car for my walk, thinking about that blissful
moment a half-year ago, my spirits lifted. For my headphone-walking music, I picked
my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Grand Canyon Playlist</i> – sixty or
so songs I’d listened to while rafting through the Grand Canyon.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I hit “shuffle” and stepped
onto the sidewalk. The first random tune started – guitar strings. It was Benjie
Howard’s “Arizona.” My Deer Creek song.</span></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">“Oh, Arizona, de Maria, queen of hidden
little springs;</span></i></span></div>
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">from the Catalina Range up to Sedona;</span></i></span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">yeah, Nankoweap, you make my heart sing.”</span></i></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">
<br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Again, like, WTF? More coincidence? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">Do these kind of things
happen to everyone? Do people sometimes really have unexplainable cosmic connections? </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ636pBstDtF1RVd3fuR5EU9wU1-nDH3YenO8cUbjsAbqOPywdzDiNmEwUgi4wTJjQt66kk8wt5qfv75Rvia1YJ58XgzBsLGfsAXVUsXTLYA-5DNER69EygfyAC9Y6_s3laP9-mpAtovO7/s1600/04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1215" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQ636pBstDtF1RVd3fuR5EU9wU1-nDH3YenO8cUbjsAbqOPywdzDiNmEwUgi4wTJjQt66kk8wt5qfv75Rvia1YJ58XgzBsLGfsAXVUsXTLYA-5DNER69EygfyAC9Y6_s3laP9-mpAtovO7/s320/04.jpg" width="243" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>"Here, hold my beer."</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><i></i><br /></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeEE2opkDWAAJoyWLYEdIrKWvqqAmJHpBaEWCNx2LdKo8GXtrh-Rwnwu6mDgPVOgjFtd-wJaWfG7IrCAaubHYHTZE7WQon28hGZMrTRLF8Dv5oVU0hDu2SK1LLYh9iA9ulUqsf5xslQEQw/s1600/03a.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1284" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeEE2opkDWAAJoyWLYEdIrKWvqqAmJHpBaEWCNx2LdKo8GXtrh-Rwnwu6mDgPVOgjFtd-wJaWfG7IrCAaubHYHTZE7WQon28hGZMrTRLF8Dv5oVU0hDu2SK1LLYh9iA9ulUqsf5xslQEQw/s320/03a.jpg" width="256" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swamper & Boatman<br />
Grand Canyon - June 2018</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I’m a skeptic. I don’t believe
in the paranormal. Or visiting aliens, or the Deep State, or Bigfoot, or God. Still,
coincidences can feel spooky. And besides, I know that we don’t know what we
don’t know. Such a paradox!</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">I also know that there is no
better place to contemplate such cosmic braintwisters <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>than inside the Grand Canyon. Eva and I will be
back there on another eight-day raft trip with Adam this summer. If we find any
answers, I’ll let you know.</span><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;">~ ~ ~</span></div>
<br />
<div align="center" style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/"><i><span style="color: #0066cc; font-size: 14.0pt;">Wayne's Blog -- Home Page &
Index</span></i></a><span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"></span></div>
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></span>
<span style="font-size: 14.0pt;"><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></span>
WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-85974495651050095372019-03-19T23:56:00.000-07:002019-03-20T00:27:57.575-07:00THE LICK OF DEATH<span style="color: black; font-size: 14.0pt;">The old man looked up from his black cane, scowled, and resumed
his shuffle, failing to return my cheery “Good morning!” A depressing start to
my morning walk. Oregon’s damp, gray winter – I don’t mind so much. Grumpiness
is another matter. </span><br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<span style="color: black; font-size: 14.0pt;">I shook off my funk just in time to confront another walker coming
my way, this time with two free-roaming, pit-bull-type dogs. I eyed their
formidable necks, bedecked in matching bandanas, as they surrounded me, and
raised my arms out of easy-to-taste range.</span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 14.0pt;">“They’ll just lick you to death,” the old coot in a
red-and-black-checkered jacket announced. The thought crossed my mind, “In what
universe do you think I would want these gross animals to lick me to death?”
But I kept my mouth shut and didn’t even glance at the guy as we passed. “Have a
nice day,” he sneered after me. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 14.0pt;">Dog people assume, mistakenly in my case, that everyone loves
dogs. Especially <u>their</u> dogs. “Oh, he won’t bite.” Or, “She just wants to
say hello.” Or, perhaps my favorite, “Trust me, they’re friendly.” These are
the kind of lame excuses I hear as their precious Rottweiler sniffs my leg and
decides whether to pee on it or nip a sample from my crotch.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black; font-size: 14.0pt;">Sometimes their little darlings will trot along obediently until I
pass, then, their human’s attention elsewhere, tear off towards me. Or simply
turn back and give me a look that says, “I could tear your throat out, you know.”</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinv5QzkCPumv9mHukzyYlHAeUn-ZUhqkVpde9VpwhOtIQjdYlb05lfKQE7lSU4q3f6ov3diCisNT4XTz2kqnlkly5pEspDgAD6wKBoXjkAmrK2CAoLNphJbif1rTWCKIWzI7GWLeNLAZjO/s1600/125.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinv5QzkCPumv9mHukzyYlHAeUn-ZUhqkVpde9VpwhOtIQjdYlb05lfKQE7lSU4q3f6ov3diCisNT4XTz2kqnlkly5pEspDgAD6wKBoXjkAmrK2CAoLNphJbif1rTWCKIWzI7GWLeNLAZjO/s320/125.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: black; font-size: 14.0pt;">There really is a thing called the Lick of Death. A nasty
bacteria, </span><i><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;">Capnocytophaga</span></i><span style="color: #333333; font-size: 14.0pt;"> </span><i><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;">canimorsus</span></i><span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;">,
can live in dogs’ mouths. It’s an infection that, for the human lickee, can
result in amputations and death. Yours, not the dog’s.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;">You can be cruising along in life, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dum-de-dum</i>, everything seeming fine, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">BAM!</i> Out-of-the-blue, a dog licks you on the mouth and before you
know it you’re dead. </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;">I’ll admit it’s a long shot, but why take chances? There are
enough risks without dog spit. A metaphorical “lick of death” can come from
anywhere, not just from a dog. Car accident. Cancer. Parkinson’s. Heart attack.
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">BAM!</i> And your world turns upside
down. It happens to everyone, sooner or later, and you don't get to pick the
time or place. On the other hand, if you could pick the time and place, how
would you choose? </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;">The writer, David Sedaris, in his essay, “Father Time,” bemoans
the fate of growing old: “I can’t predict what’s waiting for us, lurking on the
other side of our late middle age, but I know it can’t be good.” </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;">No doubt, there are downsides to growing old. Death, for example. And AARP
solicitations. I am, however, fond of the old saw, “Any day upright is a good
day.” Everything is relative and there are always worse alternatives, people
who give you perspective, who make your own station in life look blessed.</span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;">When I got back from my walk to my car in the Walmart parking
lot, a truck driver pushing a shopping cart back to his big-rig stopped next to
my open window. “Do you know of a dog park around here?” </span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-size: 14.0pt;">His cart was filled with bags of dog food, cat food, and kitty
litter. He said he had two big dogs and three cats living in his truck cab with
him. He’d had a beaver, too, but had to get rid of it because “it got really
mean.” He was hauling stage equipment to San Francisco for a Grateful Dead
concert. Him and his menagerie, traveling together because his California house
had burned down in the Paradise wildfire, and he had two more weeks before he
could get into another place. I was going to warn him about his dogs and what I’d
learned about the Lick of Death, but figured he had enough to worry about. I
felt bad that I couldn’t at least direct him to a dog park.</span><span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-65254537732184164332018-12-16T13:38:00.000-08:002018-12-16T13:38:50.843-08:00THE 1 MPH HIKING CLUB<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyHCec2KMAoSEFCUVzm4xsQYg7AjADfIPXLJn29sWmjWztULowlnImKxw5VMl-vFNo835BRVKdmZHwcvYeI03CYoiZQ5uU-eeLN8hlufcN5Fc_HOUet57F-hKi8t0xyr5YxVh9KxGTkKy9/s1600/IMG_5317AA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="859" data-original-width="1600" height="171" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjyHCec2KMAoSEFCUVzm4xsQYg7AjADfIPXLJn29sWmjWztULowlnImKxw5VMl-vFNo835BRVKdmZHwcvYeI03CYoiZQ5uU-eeLN8hlufcN5Fc_HOUet57F-hKi8t0xyr5YxVh9KxGTkKy9/s320/IMG_5317AA.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Have you ever been somewhere outdoors so
captivating that you forgot, however briefly, about everything else? When you
were truly in the moment? Wilderness can do that to you. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">This year, I spent a lot of time in the
wilderness forests of Oregon, with my friend, Neil, who has a personal
connection to these places. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">We call ourselves <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The 1 mph Hiking Club</i>, though our pace can barely be called <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hiking</i>. More like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sauntering</i>, allowing time for swapping questions, taking photos,
telling stories, and being surprised. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 48px;">
<span style="color: #181818; font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">“I
don't like either the word or the thing. People ought to saunter in the
mountains - not 'hike!' Do you know the origin of that word saunter? It's a
beautiful word. Away back in the Middle Ages people used to go on pilgrimages
to the Holy Land, and when people in the villages through which they passed
asked where they were going they would reply, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">'A la sainte terre,'</i> 'To the Holy Land.' And so they became known as
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sainte-terre-ers</i> or saunterers. Now
these mountains are our Holy Land, and we ought to saunter through them
reverently, not 'hike' through them.” – John Muir</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">A flock of gray jays bombs me and Neil,
raucous as a band of bored teenagers. A brilliant flame on the forest floor,
appropriately called Orange Peel Fungus, catches our eye. There, fresh elk
tracks!</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">But it’s the big trees that entrance us. Like
the ents of Tolkien’s Middle-earth, these elders of the wilderness forest speak
to us of a world unmarked by civilization. We marvel at their beauty, their
tenacity to survive centuries of change to their homes. What have they seen? What
secrets do they know?</span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8O6w4skgxP9el5RZ2YiURXzHprfDsUjHiRqTumnQ0z1jO-lTG-GORUBHcpq58LCmqQMpVO2gUrF0vfign2Su-DXwWHhpwehFkWIUTEBN2cpGAh0lIsDnVu6REvYqMHfpE21Za9KdOC1Lu/s1600/07AA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1083" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8O6w4skgxP9el5RZ2YiURXzHprfDsUjHiRqTumnQ0z1jO-lTG-GORUBHcpq58LCmqQMpVO2gUrF0vfign2Su-DXwWHhpwehFkWIUTEBN2cpGAh0lIsDnVu6REvYqMHfpE21Za9KdOC1Lu/s320/07AA.jpg" width="216" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Mature forests that escaped logging and fire
are dominated by these behemoths, here in the mountains of western Oregon,
where we live. Over and over, Neil and I stop to touch trees that are, as he
describes, “a whole nother class of ancient.” As each new giant stops us, we
gawk upward, make wild guesses of its height, its age, rub its bark, try to
grasp its silent essence, shake our heads, and move on. Some trees are so huge
that we quickly run out of adjectives, reverting, simply, to pointing: “That’s
a <u>big</u> tree.” </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">The more big trees, the more our questions,
and the slower our pace. When did fire last burn here? From our guide books, we
learn that the oldest trees – wider than we are tall – are probably “only” 700
years old, since most every forest in Oregon burned at least once since then.
Neil and I speculate, argue about forest secrets, like why various kinds of
trees are common here, but not there. Is it from differences in elevation,
moisture, past fires? </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKC2A8bUa0mGlfc6zzWYFkjNObFKw0oZC3IlVAMVCGo-YgLZuvCkGAXqxIXcxIyvlgYMXdxB6x6L0Cuum35EfIkgBiPCkh8Z3CEGJ39gOVcfEZD2XV1yklX-eCtCnfJ4IIbucS4mfa4Fjg/s1600/03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKC2A8bUa0mGlfc6zzWYFkjNObFKw0oZC3IlVAMVCGo-YgLZuvCkGAXqxIXcxIyvlgYMXdxB6x6L0Cuum35EfIkgBiPCkh8Z3CEGJ39gOVcfEZD2XV1yklX-eCtCnfJ4IIbucS4mfa4Fjg/s320/03.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">And why did a cougar poop on this particular
spot on the trail? That monotonous hooting high in the hemlocks – is it a Northern
Saw-whet Owl or Northern Pygmy-Owl? Always, we’re left struggling to understand
how things got to be the way they are. The closer we peer into the wilderness, and
for each question we answer, the more questions we have. And the more
surprises.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVof-uOJ52ZVsF4-SE5uiEW6x-hyXMQcjFokibVO6MNsSnyrFsB7Ij5WuqxTvKCUWiK2zAgiN3oMdKk_vDOTIz95vHh02ms9BFXrpSB8KfN8V01bpU8V0hwu-ci4XsfYSXUqIFN6KXiX5t/s1600/25.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1080" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVof-uOJ52ZVsF4-SE5uiEW6x-hyXMQcjFokibVO6MNsSnyrFsB7Ij5WuqxTvKCUWiK2zAgiN3oMdKk_vDOTIz95vHh02ms9BFXrpSB8KfN8V01bpU8V0hwu-ci4XsfYSXUqIFN6KXiX5t/s320/25.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">One morning, a dozen miles inland from the
ocean, the forest was cloaked in fog. Sunbeams cut through the thick canopy of
branches, reaching 200 feet over us. Each of the trees’ countless,
needle-covered boughs was tipped with a drop of water. Then, at just the right
angle, a single drop high above caught the sun like a crystal, and burned as a rainbow-colored
diamond.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">“You’re hallucinating,” Neil scoffed, when I
tried to describe the apparition. I wanted to show him, but apparently, it
required a unique set of angles – eyeball to droplet to sun. You had to have
your head in exactly the right place to experience the miracle. Move a few
inches one way or the other, and the fiery visage vanished. Fortunately, a ways
down the trail, we both hit that magical geometry again, and an otherwise
indistinguishable drop of dew on a hemlock boughlet high in the forest, caught
a sunbeam from 93 million miles away, and froze us in our tracks. When you find
yourself in exactly the right place at exactly the right time, is that merely luck?</span></div>
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</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">These wild, virgin paradises are now protected
from logging, in no small measure, because of Neil. He was the attorney who
took on the U.S. government, 35 years ago, filing lawsuits to save the last
uncut, old-growth forests in Oregon. Long story, short, his success helped lead
to passage of the 1984 Wilderness Acts. Those federal laws set aside or
expanded 31 wilderness areas in Oregon (175 new wilderness areas, nationally). </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Neil wrote a moving, intensely personal
account of that history, which might make you cry. It did me. (</span><a href="https://repository.law.umich.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1077&context=mjeal"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">Wilderness, Luck & Love: A Memoir
and a Tribute</span></span></i></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> – </span><a href="https://repository.law.umich.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1077&context=mjeal"><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="color: blue; font-family: Calibri;">https://repository.law.umich.edu/cgi/viewcontent.cgi?article=1077&context=mjeal</span></span></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">)
</span></div>
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</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">He and I count ourselves fortunate to have
crossed paths again. We worked together as environmentalists back East in the
‘90s. Last summer, I discovered he had retired and moved to Eugene, near my
home. Now, we hike together.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Which brings me to Neil’s bucket list, and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">The 1 mph Hiking Club</i>. Neil wants to
hike in all 31 of the Oregon wildernesses that he helped preserve. That is a
grand goal.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I’m just tagging along on the easier hikes,
happy for the chance to see, up close, supremely beautiful places. So far,
we’ve made it together to six on his list (Drift Creek, Waldo Lake, Diamond
Peak, Boulder Creek, Cummins Creek, and Menagerie Wilderness Areas), plus
another three wildernesses lacking that official designation (Gate Creek, Gwynn
Creek, and China Loop Trails).</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Typically, we’ll hike seven or eight miles,
round-trip, which at our 1 mph pace, means we can be far from the car when
shadows deepen and the sun drops behind the mountains. That’s when we pick up
our speed, our gliding footfalls muffled by damp conifer needles that blanket
the trail. It’s the spooky time of day, when we hope to see a mountain lion.<span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>So far, no luck.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Each wilderness is different. Low-elevation
coastal rain forests drip with lichens and moss. The biggest Douglas-firs take
your breath away. Their bark is deeply furrowed with age, the ground littered
with their cones. Its Latin name, which I learned in college nearly a
half-century ago, still rolls off my tongue like a melody: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Pseudotsuga menziesii</i>. The biggest are the tallest trees in the
world, once reaching over 400 feet, taller even than the biggest redwoods. One
in Washington lived for 1,385 years.</span></div>
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</div>
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<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tC7At3mVD0qjlmuuyiyW4LuJtz1OL8L9tj4QkJYuBZNaRjmOdFhh7tztGApFKgwsRZI2dmw5IjwRzDx0td67m0evFsnOwYbatA1bz2erNMG3uPq2OKDNeuzAOk-6k_qrMmunazofDkDL/s1600/Neil_DougFir.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1036" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7tC7At3mVD0qjlmuuyiyW4LuJtz1OL8L9tj4QkJYuBZNaRjmOdFhh7tztGApFKgwsRZI2dmw5IjwRzDx0td67m0evFsnOwYbatA1bz2erNMG3uPq2OKDNeuzAOk-6k_qrMmunazofDkDL/s320/Neil_DougFir.jpg" width="207" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">East of the Coast Range, the Cascade Mountain
wildernesses that we visited are higher in elevation and not quite as soggy. In
Boulder Creek Wilderness, there is an expansive area called Pine Bench. It’s a
grove of centuries-old Ponderosa Pines, which grow ramrod straight, their bark
covered with golden-orange flakes of bark that look like pieces from a jigsaw
puzzle. Frequent fires have kept understory cleared, sculpting a landscape from
Hansel and Gretel. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiae2nqUuhkKK0tLVF5D1VQA9KM55BVEX3WjCDzlTMNyd6GVRyCKsYJYPtoVsNYTnt_UuO-eaVR6poBgPUFNIIxH9TQJMKoBqyQzC-Ken4PBGBV5Z8mBxDMDGiy1Y9v4YeH31YBSDovUWNB/s1600/SS081718dd2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1214" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiae2nqUuhkKK0tLVF5D1VQA9KM55BVEX3WjCDzlTMNyd6GVRyCKsYJYPtoVsNYTnt_UuO-eaVR6poBgPUFNIIxH9TQJMKoBqyQzC-Ken4PBGBV5Z8mBxDMDGiy1Y9v4YeH31YBSDovUWNB/s320/SS081718dd2.jpg" width="242" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Vistas open from meadows and fire-cleared
areas of these trails, to the volcanic peaks of the high Cascades: Mt.
Jefferson, Mt. Washington, Three-Fingered Jack, Diamond Peak, the Sisters – the
highest topping 12,000 feet, most capped by glacial ice. How much time until
they erupt again?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">“It’s humbling, being in an area like this
that has endured so long,” says Neil. “We’re a blink of the eye.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
</div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Like those Middle Ages saunterers, we are
pilgrims in Holy Lands, where wilderness quiets our minds, sharpens our
attention, puts us in the moment, and connects us with the Universe. We marvel,
in reverence, at our blessings.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iZ0DVkWtx7NJX7GzAlKn7j2ByMdOShOhIhDEFkN1dkgIRIQQjb-riK4u7ax2fzdEWwdmmYDIJQEJKWCimEunirVAuOPdSr0KCzWw3oVeGNXCLOXjbX6nLZRFrQxeObu1hqOSIKywcYKW/s1600/IMG_5875AA.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="639" data-original-width="916" height="223" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8iZ0DVkWtx7NJX7GzAlKn7j2ByMdOShOhIhDEFkN1dkgIRIQQjb-riK4u7ax2fzdEWwdmmYDIJQEJKWCimEunirVAuOPdSr0KCzWw3oVeGNXCLOXjbX6nLZRFrQxeObu1hqOSIKywcYKW/s320/IMG_5875AA.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
# # #</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><span style="font-size: small;"></span><br /></div>
</span><div style="margin: 0px;">
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<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-56830942071013554232018-07-10T17:02:00.001-07:002018-07-24T13:20:39.899-07:00SWAMPING THE GRAND CANYON<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixeZteeclyhVJxKHxhlJUYrS_2SBBjdSa-lTJkanEzJfEvvqA60DTmyDFKjdQgtrhi6_iLnig6Noa0OPuvoMETa7xa6Ol1_BnP0BHgfZmj6seVo37Cvd57RstG2UBe5W4ZMXKT1-JSeTL9/s1600/01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1265" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixeZteeclyhVJxKHxhlJUYrS_2SBBjdSa-lTJkanEzJfEvvqA60DTmyDFKjdQgtrhi6_iLnig6Noa0OPuvoMETa7xa6Ol1_BnP0BHgfZmj6seVo37Cvd57RstG2UBe5W4ZMXKT1-JSeTL9/s320/01.jpg" width="253" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Swamper Wayne & Boatman Adam - Mile 124</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I slid face-first off the
raft and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ker-splashed</i> into the frigid
Colorado River. My plunge surprised me as much as the thirteen watching passengers.
We were in the bottom of the Grand Canyon, where it’s not a great idea to go
for an unplanned swim. Too late, Boatman Adam had yelled, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Grab his feet!”</i> </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">As a volunteer “swamper” (crew), I
found myself in over my head – in more ways than one. We were barely half-way
through our eight-day trip. An old-hand boatman had told me three rules for
swampers: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Don’t get hurt,” “Wash your
hands,”</i> and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Drink water.”</i> Unspoken
was a fourth: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Don’t fall in.”</i></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I fell in while trying to retrieve
a lost water bottle floating along the cliffs. Just two days earlier, with
brilliant form, I’d snagged an errant red bag that had fallen off our boat, while
lying on my belly on the front of the giant, gray-and-aqua-colored raft as it
chased downstream, my outstretched arm directing Adam at the Honda outboard, then
leaning down to the water at the last second to swoop up the bag. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Voila! </i>Just like I’d watched Swamper
Shaun do on our rafting trip a year earlier (that time, me riding as a passenger). I was pretty proud of myself, and the onlookers clapped. But as Proverbs
says, “Pride goeth before a dunking.” Or something like that. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Fortunately, I’d executed my dive
in relatively calm water and out of the river’s vicious currents and rapids. After
assuring all the downturned faces on the raft, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“No damage done,”</i> I swam to the water bottle, handed it up, and
started to crawl back on board. Then came a chorus of, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“ChapStick! There’s a ChapStick floating behind you.”</i> Oh, shit, it
had come out of my pants pocket, which meant an ignominious swim back to capture
my fucking lip balm. As if my predicament wasn’t mortifying enough already.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Finally, I dragged myself
back onto the raft, to discover that our second raft, with another thirteen
passengers, Boatman Trevin, and Swamper Shaun, also had watched my performance.
All gave me a well-earned round of applause. I slunk back to my seat next to
Adam in the motor well, where he brushed off my apologies. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I’ll say this,”</i> I added. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“That’s
a damned good pfd (life jacket).”</i> </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Later, I learned that one of
the passengers had christened my dive a “Half-Wayner.”</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">CANYON SWAMPER</span></u></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Your biggest job as a swamper
on a raft filled with more than a dozen paying clients/passengers, is to learn
really fast what the hell you’re supposed to be doing. I know that every job has
its own arcane details – truck driver, Walmart cashier, bank manager – but you
get eased into those jobs. Swamping has a steep learning curve. Like, go, now!</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">The only thing I insisted on being
shown by Boatman Adam ahead of time was how to tie bowline knots. He did, and I
practiced in the warehouse, where the rafts are loaded over two days, with
supplies and ice, before getting trailered to the river to meet the passengers.
One of the coolest things about the swamper job, as I’d watched other (far, far
younger) swampers do on prior raft trips, was hopping out first at stops to tie
up the raft. You jump off onto sand or rocks or scramble up cliffs to find a
secure hold for the bowline. It’s not something you want to screw up in front
of an audience of rafters waiting to pee. Plus, your knot actually has to hold,
for obvious reasons.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Then there’s this complicated
looping of the bowline when you depart, keeping it compact and ready for the
next stop. It is a lovely routine, sliding the rope through your fingers,
giving the coils an awkward twist with your left hand, and finishing it all
with some wraps and winds and pulls and a clip to the bow strap, and you hop
aboard as the current sweeps you and the raft away.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">There’s a right way and a
whole lot of wrong ways to do a thousand things, and as many questions:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>-How to tighten your pfd.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>-What’s a pfd? (personal flotation device)</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>-How much bleach to put in the hand-wash bucket. And in
the fourth in-line, dish-wash bucket.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>-Precisely how to load and strap down, then unload, once
a day, 50 bags, 13 folding chairs, 13 ammo cans, bags of cots, a full cook
kitchen with tables, etc.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>-Do you wash this greasy pot first in the river? Where’s
the scrubby?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>-How to store eight days of ice, food, soft drinks, and a
whole lot of booze.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>-Where do I sleep?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>-How do you steer this thing?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>-Should I wash my hands again before chipping ice for
drinks? (yes)</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span>-How to filter river water into 20-liter cans, then heft
them around to refill water containers on a bouncing raft, and in camp.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5nbn_UkIYJRWMjVcrV1rFziPh2Z04doTBchpMuk-RS0dFqa5i9E-AKz0KKnIQZSGhcmRr6y90_QZPawaCi2SVMaj-tykcmO6jCmtJJ_HEohwwpzeSytt2opx3P0EyrbR6btxRe8fZnbKN/s1600/02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="979" data-original-width="1600" height="195" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5nbn_UkIYJRWMjVcrV1rFziPh2Z04doTBchpMuk-RS0dFqa5i9E-AKz0KKnIQZSGhcmRr6y90_QZPawaCi2SVMaj-tykcmO6jCmtJJ_HEohwwpzeSytt2opx3P0EyrbR6btxRe8fZnbKN/s320/02.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">While learning the routine,
you’re fetching drinks from three drag bags (juice, soda, booze), for
passengers throughout the day, refilling the bags morning and night. Watching
out for the safety of the passengers, ensuring their pfd’s are buckled. And
answering questions. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Wayne!”</i> More
questions. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Wayne!”</i> Endless
questions. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Wayne!”</i> I loved it.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">And fortunately for me, my dear friend, Adam, was a boatman of infinite patience with my amateur swamping. Shaun, swamper on our other raft, checked my knots when I asked, and helped me figure out which end was up(stream). </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Swamping is exhausting, but
here’s the thing. The boatmen have longer lists, way bigger responsibilities, do
the cooking, and safely drive the boats through some of the gnarliest rapids
anywhere. Even after having been on four previous trips, I was surprised to see,
close-up, how hard the boatmen work. Then turn around and do it again,
sometimes more than a dozen trips in a season.</span></div>
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<u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">CANYON THRILLS</span></u></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">As Adam lined up for our
first really big rapid, I couldn’t convince anyone to sit up front. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“I guess I have to set an example. Okay for
me to go up front?”</i> I asked Adam? He grinned.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">There’s nothing like it,
except maybe surfing, which I’ve never done. The 37-foot raft nose-dives down
the back side of a modest wave, into a massive hole, then folds back on itself
as it climbs the curl of a gigantic standing wave that crashes over the front
of the raft, threatening to sweep you away in its power. You sit on the raft’s
floor and hold on for dear life to straps and ropes, with both hands, as a good share of the Colorado River crashes on your head. Perhaps
there’s a second wave waiting, then a series of smaller splashes, as you take
stock, completely drenched in the triple-digit desert sunshine, your
adrenaline high and laughter slowly subsiding. </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Grand Canyon rapids are
legendary, such as House Rock, Sockdolager (one-two punch), Granite, Hermit, Crystal,
and Lava Falls Rapid with its infamous Ledge Hole, to be avoided at all costs.
The boatmen make it look so easy, but my view from the back of the boat showed me
first-hand the complexities of threading the right line through hundreds of
rapids, avoiding rocks almost all the time. Flying by, sometimes you see,
lurking just below the surface, boulders carved into jagged saw blades. Or,
backed by dark, unforgiving whirlpools.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">It’s not enough to know one
way to navigate through each of these rapids. Water levels significantly change
daily, due to changing water releases upstream from Lake Powell and the Glen
Canyon Dam’s power generating plant. Rainstorms, and resulting flash floods in
side canyons, also affect water levels (and sometimes flush boulders into a rapid
and change it). So, for every rapid in the 277-mile trip, a boatman has to know
how to run each in low water, high water, and everything in between. And
whether anything has changed since last time. It’s awesome!</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Eventually, our passengers
ventured to the best seats up front on the raft, and whooped it up. I shared
with them advice I’d gotten on another trip: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“If you feel like you’re underwater, just don’t let go.”</i> </span></div>
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<u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">CANYON ALCHEMY</span></u></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">It was a magical start to our
trip. Even Adam, with 130 trips down the Canyon, had never experienced it,
though he knew it happened once every year. We were in the right place at the
right time. So affected were we by our happenstance, that days later, sharing
the memory with merely a mention, was enough to well up tears.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">After the first night of
group camping on the river, a hike up North Canyon is typical. It’s a
good walk into one of Grand Canyon’s famous side canyons, mostly in morning
shade, up some rocks and not-too-steep cliffs for about 50 minutes. The trail is
bordered by hallucinogenic jimsonweed; canyon cliffs glow red in the early
sunshine. At the end of the trail is a series of slick, rock water slides,
dropping into a chest-deep pool. Because of the drought, however, no water was
flowing down the rocks, and the pool at the base was muddy and unappealing. (I
jumped in anyways.)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">None of that mattered, since at
that point we all were still mesmerized by what we’d just experienced. As we
had approached the end of the narrowing canyon, we’d heard hints of music drifting
down. Adam hushed our group, and we crept closer in silence. We heard a bit of
chatter, as if an introduction was being made, then the music of strings. Ethereal
melodies emanating from the depths of the Grand Canyon.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Still out of sight of the
musicians, our group stopped, each of us sprawled on rocks or sand, as the
notes of a live, string quartet filled the canyon with Beethoven and other
composers unknown to me. The profound beauty of the moment was beyond
description, and many of us wept openly in our great fortune.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">(The musicians and their
instruments were accompanying a special, annual raft trip, wherein they played
at various Canyon locations for their passengers.)</span></div>
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<u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">CANYON CONNECTIONS</span></u></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Sharing the music of North
Canyon brought an emotional cohesion to our group of strangers. How could it
have not? </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Connections are made in the Grand
Canyon. Connections to the Earth. Connections to history. Connections to other passengers. Connections to
our true selves.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Something about the encompassing
whole of the Grand Canyon rafting experience reveals people’s essence. Whether
we want it to or not. Meeting that person in the Canyon can be life changing.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I discovered that our rafting
group was a good one, not an asshole in the bunch, with all seeming to possess
a basic goodness. In eight days of travel and camping together, I heard only
two complaints: (1) The full moon was too bright to see the Milky Way, and (2)
The beer drag bag was too small.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Our passengers included a
group of badass women from a hiking club in Lake Havasu City. It was a place
I’d lived years ago, so we made an easy connection. The women, most in their
50s and 60s, were single or had left husbands at home. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">“That doesn’t worry you?”</span></i><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> I asked one.</span></div>
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<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">“He’s had three wives. He’s 71. He ain’t got time for
another one.”</span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I remembered the feeling of
empowerment that my wife had felt on an earlier raft trip, when a spectacular hike
up a thin, slot canyon pushed her beyond her comfort zone. But she did it, and
never forgot the lesson. And then there was something another boatman had told
me while on another hike, which I thought had verged on overly dangerous: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“It’s good for passengers to push themselves,
to do something they never thought possible.”</i></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><br /></i></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQPv7WQNlY7WIv4gE3TF5GsjhAD56U-JP97nIQjEIQKJHGjsu8mcYBn3lGm5BuiC5hJudp95H4pVjin5zVGG3fqDuMXaxl0IMizorttsRXqypsLlyygJGCjyxRAlJSu3hXIGXLyfA0q_x/s1600/03.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPQPv7WQNlY7WIv4gE3TF5GsjhAD56U-JP97nIQjEIQKJHGjsu8mcYBn3lGm5BuiC5hJudp95H4pVjin5zVGG3fqDuMXaxl0IMizorttsRXqypsLlyygJGCjyxRAlJSu3hXIGXLyfA0q_x/s320/03.jpg" width="240" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">That’s why I was a
cheerleader for some of the women doing things they might not have done,
otherwise. Hiking to unbelievably beautiful places, jumping off cliffs, taking
chances. As reward for my chivalrous behavior, in one week I got more hugs from
strange women than in my entire life.</span></div>
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<u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">CANYON HISTORY</span></u></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">In Redwall Cavern, an icon of
any Grand Canyon rafting trip, I touched history, and it moved me. It was an
artifact no more impressive than a one-inch X, whacked into the top of the
boulder with a cold chisel. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">We’d heard about the mark
from another boatman, back at the raft company’s bunkhouse in Kanab. Adam knew
just the place she was describing, and he found it. We put our fingers on the
spot that Robert Brewster Stanton in 1890 set his tripod to take a photograph
of where the railroad he wanted to build would blast a tunnel through the
cliffs above Redwall Cavern. Stanton chiseled that X.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">One evening after dinner,
I told the story of Stanton’s failed scheme to our passengers – gathered with their folding chairs, like a classroom on the beach <span style="background-color: transparent; color: black; display: inline; float: none; font-family: "times new roman"; font-size: 18.66px; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; letter-spacing: normal; text-align: left; text-decoration: none; text-indent: 0px; text-transform: none; white-space: normal; word-spacing: 0px;">– </span>of how we almost
built a railroad right through the Grand Canyon, but for the fortuitous
drowning of its visionary, Frank Mason Brown. We had earlier seen the dark
whirlpools where Brown met his watery fate, and the bend in the river where his
body last was seen floating away. (My ebook, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Hubris, A Railroad Through the Grand Canyon,
and the Death of Frank Mason Brown: A Parable for Our Time</i>, can be
downloaded, free, from iBooks and <a href="http://barnesandnoble.com/">BarnesandNoble.com</a>, or read online at: <a href="http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2017/02/hubris-railroad-through-grand-canyon.html">wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2017/02/hubris-railroad-through-grand-canyon.html</a>.)</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Another fatality of Brown’s venture was the drowning of crew member, Peter
Hansbrough. We camped on the beach below a spot edging the cliffs where his
skeleton (identified by his boots, still attached) was buried. Marked in black on
the wall above his grave: “PMH 1889” Not that he cares now, but Hansbrough got
a great view, looking over the Colorado River to Point Hansbrough (named by
Stanton), a spectacular headland of sheer cliffs that forces the river in a great
oxbow around its base.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px 54px 0px 48px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">From Stanton’s journal: “Jan.17, 1890. 7:30 am. After
breakfast this morning we took the remains of P.M. Hansbrough and buried them
in a mesquite grove under the marble cliff on the left side of Canon... I
offered a short prayer, not for poor Peter but a petition that we might be
spared his fate, but if called upon to meet the same death, that we might each
be prepared to go. We covered his grave with marble slabs, and Gibson cut on
the cliff beside it ‘PMH 1889.’ Standing over the grave is a marble wall 700 ft
high.”</span></i></div>
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<u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">CANYON TRUTHS</span></u></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">In Blacktail Canyon, I pondered
a geologic mystery. This side canyon doesn’t appear all that special, until you
learn that it’s a spot where your hand can span one billion years of Earth
history. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">You press a hand against the rocks
at eye level, where two dissimilar, horizontal layers meet. Your palm is
touching ancient roots of a once-mighty mountain range, worn down over inconceivable
eons, to a relatively flat landscape of archaic rock – Vishnu Schist and
Zoroaster Granite. Starting about a half-billion years ago, this weathered landscape
sank below sea level, and the ocean advanced across it from the (now) west.
Over millions of years, first came beach sand being deposited, then as the
ocean advanced landward and the seawater got deeper, muds swept from the
continent off to the (now) east, and covered the sea floor. Finally, as the ocean
became even deeper, limestone formed on the bottom of the sea from the remains
of trillions of tiny shells. Finally, the whole mélange was elevated thousands of feet above sea level, as the Earth's continents jostled about.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">That steady progression of
ocean deposits in the Grand Canyon, due to seas submerging the edge of the
continent over a 20-million-year span, is world famous. At the bottom is Tapeats
Sandstone (shallow-water beach sand turned into sandstone), sitting "unconformably" atop the much older rocks. Then, on top of the sandstone, Bright Angel
Shale (ocean-bottom mud turned into shale), then Muav Limestone above the shale.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Your palm rests on 1.7 billion-year-old
igneous and metamorphic rock, while your fingers touch the half-billion-year-old sandstone.
Everything in between – a quarter of Earth’s history – has been eroded and
washed away. Volcanoes, mountain chains, plains, ocean deposits, and islands all are gone,
transformed into new pieces of the Earth. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">As for my geologic mystery, it had to
do with lenses of broken rocks in the otherwise uniform sandstone. Sometimes
they were right atop the unconformity. I tried to picture how they got there.
Certainly, rivers flowing off the continent could have carried a hodge-podge of
rocks and pebbles, just like you see today where fast-flowing rivers reach the
ocean. The problem with that, however, is that none of the rocks in these
ancient lenses were rounded, like you’d expect from river-tumbled cobbles.
Instead, they were sharp and angular, like having just been broken from cliffs
of granite. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">In camp, we consulted a
tattered Grand Canyon geology text I’d brought along. Reading aloud to Shaun and Trevin (who knew more geology than the rest of us put together), as they cooked supper, I learned that when the
sea invaded the land, 525 million years ago, the landscape wasn’t entirely flat. Hills of the ancient granite hadn’t been completely eroded. Those hills became
islands, and were battered by tides and storms. Broken rocks washed into the
sea, and settled on the otherwise sandy bottom. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">So that was it. Science had
an answer to my mystery. Ancient islands of even more-ancient rock got battered
by the rising seas and storms and sluffed off chunks of rocks that got buried
in lenses in the sands of the rising ocean. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">One of those rocks was a
one-inch fragment of purple-shaded quartz that I plucked from the very earliest
layers of the Tapeats Sandstone. It’s had an inconceivably-long history, most recently being exposed to the light of day by the sculpting open
of Blacktail Canyon, at some time in the last six million years. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">My little rock will, like the Grand Canyon itself, outlast us
all. Six million years from now, that rock will still exist somewhere. What about
a billion years from now? Will it simply be buried somewhere in dirt? Or will
its resting place have been subsumed by earthquakes and shifting continental
plates, to return it to its molten birthplace, miles deep in the Earth? A lot
can happen – has happened – in a billion years.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Though we can’t know the
future of the Grand Canyon, its past is laid out for anyone to read. Truth is
revealed; the story of the staggering length of geologic time is told in the
Canyon’s bare walls. Much of two billion years of Earth history is on full
display – oceans have come and oceans have gone, the Canyon’s ancient landscape
has ridden on shifting and colliding continents, a sequence of fossils records
life’s early evolution. </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Despite 150 years of
scientific study of the Grand Canyon, however, its truths are not universally
accepted. For example, a Sahara-like desert covered the Grand Canyon region 275 million
years ago. Tracks from critters scurrying on the sere dunes have been frozen in
the rock (Coconino Sandstone). “The tracks all move in the same direction,
proving they were fleeing Noah’s flood,” is the conclusion of Young Earthers, those loony Biblical literalists who believe the earth is only 6,000 years
old, that Noah’s flood created the Grand Canyon, and that all the so-called science about
geologic time is a bunch of hooey.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">As long as I’m on the subject
of Noah, science now understands that birds are descended from dinosaurs.
That’s not hard to fathom when you watch a great blue heron, flying down the river and squawking
like a pterodactyl. There are more than 10,000 species of birds in the world. I
understand that Noah took only <u>baby</u> dinosaurs on the ark, but what about
all those different kinds of birds? </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">That a good portion
of Americans believe such Bronze Age myths, explains a whole lot about why
we’ve got Trump. Anyone who buys the Creationists’ story will believe anything.
Remember Wayne’s Rule No. 1 (useful for explaining irrational human behavior and beliefs):
“People are fucking morons.”</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">CANYON FRIENDS</span></u></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Elves Chasm is a magical
place, a side canyon aptly named. Across a pool of water and behind a
waterfall, you enter an open cave dripping with water, moss, and maidenhair
ferns. You half expect a hobbit to scurry away. Climbing over slippery boulders
brings you up and out on a rock platform where the waterfall drops. You gather
your nerve (the first time, that can take a while) and jump into the pool below
– maybe a twelve-foot drop. Your feet barely touch bottom, and you pop up to
the cheers of the audience, feeling as if you just accomplished something
important.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Adam brought his mask and
snorkel and went diving in the pool for bounty. He came up with a bracelet made
of thin, black elastic cord, braided nicely. I put it on my wrist and told him,
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“This means we’re going steady.”</i></span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">It’s the damnedest thing.
Adam is 45. I’m 27 years older. Do the math. Our friendship is not normal. But
it seems to work. Adam says the Canyon is the place he’s always felt most
“himself.” Same for me. I think that’s enough.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">CANYON PERFECTION</span></u></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">“The passengers can’t possibly know what a rare, perfect
day we just had,” </span></i><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Adam said to me, as
he worked on making dinner, on the beach. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“They
probably think it’s like this on every trip – nobody there when we hike up Deer
Creek, drifting in the current eating our sack lunches, not too hot, finding no one else at
Havasu Creek, getting this spot to camp, one of the best.”</i> </span></div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I hadn’t thought about the
day in those terms, but he was right. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“You’re
right,” </i>I said. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“How could they
know?”</i></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">“You go tell them.”</span></i></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">So I did. And we all reminisced
about the scary, cliff-side trail to reach the oasis up in the Deer Creek slot
canyon. About parking our rafts right in the mouth of the travertine-coated Havasu
Creek, walking upstream in the tropical-sea-colored water to play and look for
fossils. The starting point was a narrow opening in the water between cliffs,
the current too fast and deep for most to wade or swim, so Adam used a rope and
float to haul each passenger through, one-by-one. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">As I’d done so many times
throughout the week, I marveled out loud: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“Who
does this?!”</i></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">By nightfall of the perfect
day, everyone had gone to bed, and I was alone on the beach. The full moon was
blocked by immense cliffs across the river, but it lit up the tops of other
cliffs farther back and downstream. A brilliant shooting star scorched across
Scorpio’s heart. The raft where I slept, for a change was tied in a slack
back-water, instead of run up on the sand. It rocked and shifted and sighed all
night like a lullaby. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Day 6 had been perfect, but my
body was not. My legs were sunburned, my fingernails destroyed, my
hands covered with nicks and abrasions. I’d lost some of the spring in my step,
with knees sending tiny warning signals that there better be an end to this
nonsense pretty damned soon.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-2sTNzTy-Z21qMX2_Wq_q0P5AX5WRnm-ri8x4S65U4iusOf50Fw1DJTqC738VpA44AFtBaCSGLtm_aUOufTBqgDVOrNB2QNduTtleklKAC-1ke3EM10SnL-mZy44x3NBbC5EnjaUfdti/s1600/04.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhX-2sTNzTy-Z21qMX2_Wq_q0P5AX5WRnm-ri8x4S65U4iusOf50Fw1DJTqC738VpA44AFtBaCSGLtm_aUOufTBqgDVOrNB2QNduTtleklKAC-1ke3EM10SnL-mZy44x3NBbC5EnjaUfdti/s320/04.jpg" width="240" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">CANYON SURVIVAL</span></u></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">It was our last stop, right
after our rafts hit the flat water of Lake Mead. It’s where the brawling Colorado
River dies in a flaccid reservoir. It’s where the rafts’ 26 passengers, after a hurried last round of hugs, transfer mid-river to a big jet boat, that swoops them across the river’s muddy shallows in forty
minutes to their waiting bus at the boat landing, ready to carry them from
Eden, back to the jarring anti-Eden of Las Vegas. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Our own trip on the now-vacated
rafts, however, would take more than four hours. But first, the rafts’ two, immense
side-tubes had to be unstrapped, deflated, rolled up, and hefted onto the deck.
For that final feat of strength, Adam diplomatically motioned Shaun to help
him, allowing me to preserve what little was left of my back. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Ready to push off, Adam put
the outboard in reverse. I dug my heels in the sand, my whole body pushing
into the beached behemoth’s bow. After some side-to-side revving of the engine,
we slid riverward. At that point, it dawned on me that my usual straps on the
side tubes for hopping onto the chest-high raft, now were gone. There I hung
off the bow, dragged along, feet trailing in the water, without enough strength
left to pull myself up with the raft’s ropes. When Adam realized my plight, he
rushed forward, grabbed me under my armpits, and hoisted my sorry carcass onto
the deck. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">“You guys used me up,”</span></i><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> I explained, meekly. I had survived swamping the Grand Canyon, but barely. I had loved every minute, but once was enough.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">CANYON EPILOG</span></u></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">After winching the rafts up
on trailers and tying them down, we settled in for the seven-hour ride back to Grand
Canyon Expedition’s warehouse in Kanab. Adam
sat up front in the big pickup with the driver; me in back. We crossed miles of bumpy, dusty road, the
landscape accented by Joshua trees, seemingly praying for rain. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I took my iPhone out of
airplane mode and waited for a signal. We had been completely cut off for eight
days. I checked the news only enough to determine that Trump hadn't blown anything up, then opened email. </span></div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">A strange one from our
insurance agent back in Oregon caught my attention. Subject:<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"> “ID CARD FOR MERCEDES.”</i> It read: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“We are processing the change to take off
the Altima and add the Mercedes. Here is a temporary ID Card for you. Have fun
in your new car! Chris”</i></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Adam heard my laughing and
turned. I fairly spouted: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“My wife just
bought a fucking Mercedes! Eva traded her Nissan for a fucking Mercedes while I
was gone!”</i></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Replies: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">“No shit.” “Cool.”</i></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">“That makes me very happy,”</span></i><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> I concluded.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCsPAUUM0FAUnCmjqiFxOMKwQLxa3edQDo6Af-e6iY2QVzAxqq4b5mO8DMve1llxS3o5yjJuYTB3BVsl0Z0MQ_TG2eRKh6aNjRaTbS9arUX6PzgNmghpWV7RGy9CJ9hc1HIjrifegiJrLL/s1600/05.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCsPAUUM0FAUnCmjqiFxOMKwQLxa3edQDo6Af-e6iY2QVzAxqq4b5mO8DMve1llxS3o5yjJuYTB3BVsl0Z0MQ_TG2eRKh6aNjRaTbS9arUX6PzgNmghpWV7RGy9CJ9hc1HIjrifegiJrLL/s320/05.JPG" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br style="mso-special-character: line-break;" /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">
</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">As if I needed more reason to
be happy. Though a hard, half-day job of unloading the rafts awaited in Kanab, I’d
done it. Made it through my swamper adventure with Adam, in one piece. A
worn-out piece, to be sure, but at least intact. And I did it a week before my
72<sup>nd</sup> birthday. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I’d just spent eight days
with a great friend in our favorite place on earth, sharing my passion with a
bunch of strangers who turned out to be really good people. My fifth rafting
trip through the Grand Canyon, with a sixth already chartered for next year
(Adam as boatman, me as passenger). And on top of all that, I was going home to my amazing wife and a new fucking Mercedes. I’ve never even ridden in a Mercedes before.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<div align="center" style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"># # #</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Prior Blog: <a href="http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2018/06/oldest-grand-canyon-swamper.html"><span style="color: blue; font-family: "calibri";">Oldest
Grand Canyon Swamper?</span></a></span></div>
<span style="color: blue;"></span><span style="font-family: "calibri";"></span><br />WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-19754029680495848452018-06-17T20:31:00.001-07:002018-06-17T20:32:05.920-07:00OLDEST GRAND CANYON SWAMPER?<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">It’s the title I’m shooting
for: <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Oldest Grand Canyon Swamper</i>. I’m
meeting Boatman Adam in Kanab, Utah, leaving in the morning to drive there to
load up a giant, motorized raft before heading to the Grand Canyon for an
eight-day trip down the Colorado River. I’ll be his swamper – basically, volunteer
gopher for a commercial rafting expedition. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JvV18AdRWjJT1O7_-QfUmo1pt0pcSec72A4guXZmfdOyk1MIvVGM-lgQSNf9Jo05HuNZFUNFtr8geEfWfFzlg0g9xgRJcgnX71FRiF0RYmo1cC-Zn3a3Gq4kBAEIhAo0tyBJ7MFb9O0J/s1600/00-A-Landscape-small.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1JvV18AdRWjJT1O7_-QfUmo1pt0pcSec72A4guXZmfdOyk1MIvVGM-lgQSNf9Jo05HuNZFUNFtr8geEfWfFzlg0g9xgRJcgnX71FRiF0RYmo1cC-Zn3a3Gq4kBAEIhAo0tyBJ7MFb9O0J/s320/00-A-Landscape-small.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">The work involves lots of
hauling and packing, tying up and pushing off the raft, cooking and cleanup,
catering to guests, and too-little sleep. I’ve watched swampers at work –
having done the trip (as a paying passenger) four times – and the swampers all
were young. </span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I’m old. (I turn 72 in a few
weeks.) What the hell am I doing?</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">My previous trips with Grand
Canyon Expeditions were how I became friends with Adam. He gets how much I love
the Canyon. Plus, he seems to think I’m good company, so invited me to swamp
with him, despite my creeping decrepitude and protestations that I wasn’t sure
my back could handle hauling the communal toilet back and forth to the raft.
(Nothing gets left behind.) We’ll see how that goes.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">There’s also a second raft,
with a boatman and swamper, so I hope they can tolerate my inexperience and,
shall we say, maturity. To say nothing of the 28 passengers. Again, we’ll see.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXyKR8JFHRjqrG1jmdbfJU87F7QRQ8fRD_XAYPRxcMUOieJcc-zH7uG7e1DlcncdiDN05PyII0nIH4-Gay6UeH6jEsZ-TWd9hKVd041OtnIL4935uEzW9-eZPaw9k9qWYkcqGWen814WT/s1600/Adam01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1176" data-original-width="1600" height="235" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoXyKR8JFHRjqrG1jmdbfJU87F7QRQ8fRD_XAYPRxcMUOieJcc-zH7uG7e1DlcncdiDN05PyII0nIH4-Gay6UeH6jEsZ-TWd9hKVd041OtnIL4935uEzW9-eZPaw9k9qWYkcqGWen814WT/s320/Adam01.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Boatman Adam at work</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I am, like so many others over
the past 150 years, captivated by the Grand Canyon, agreeing that it’s the
“most sublime spectacle on earth.” No picture or memory can do justice to the
experience of being there. The chance to visit again its whitewater, side canyons, and waterfalls is an honor. Even if I
have to work for the privilege.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">As is the chance to
experience first-hand, if only for a few days, the Grand Canyon river-guiding culture
– a remarkable collection of river lovers bound by a multi-generation history
and passion for the Canyon.</span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">When I get back home, I’ll
tell here the story of my adventure. Regarding that title I’m shooting for, however,
I doubt I’ll be in the running. I’m not really all <u>that</u> old. Am I?</span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-78871940728995459732018-04-09T20:49:00.000-07:002018-04-09T20:53:17.206-07:00HOME<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">It’s one of the greatest
pleasures in life -- arriving home after a long trip. Your own bed, favorite
chair, pets, flowers, and best of all, the people you love most -- in my case,
Eva. How I missed that smile!</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Two travels bookend my life. The
last time I was gone from home for four weeks, it was the Summer of Love, 1967,
and I was 21, hitchhiking, and seeing the West for the first time. Michigan to
Seattle to Big Sur and back. My future was a confused muddle, and I was trying
to figure out what in the hell to <u>do</u> with myself. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Now I’m 71, and this time, I traveled
the opposite direction. Oregon to Florida to Michigan, and back -- 22 states
and 8,300 miles. Unlike that hitchhiking trek, however, every one of
my 28 days on the road was a joy. Visiting dozens of friends from every corner
of the last half-century of my life, it was unavoidable to take stock of what I
actually <u>did</u> do with myself. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Those visits were filled with
laughter, as friends recounted nearly-forgotten events we had shared. As we
filled in missing years of successes and failures, I was struck by how much
we’re all alike. It seems that every family has its
tragedies; we find our happiness in spite of them. It's hard to regret the bad times, because they got us from there to here, and here is where we are responsible for finding happiness. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I am so grateful to old
friends who opened their homes and lives to me. Universally generous, they
shared their favorite stories, listened to mine, and took me to their favorite
places -- backyards and parks and rivers and restaurants and museums. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I wasn’t able to see everyone
I hoped to (Kathy), to stop every place I wanted to (Noah’s Ark), to stay as
long as I’d wished (sisters), or to spot every bird along the way (total, a
modest 163 species). Nevertheless, as with life, I’m pretty happy about
how my trip turned out.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">A highlight was making
friends in Florida. And returning to the Diego Rivera murals in Detroit. A
lowlight was losing friends in Texas. As with life, win some, lose some.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I can’t imagine ever again
taking such a road trip. It was kind of like Elton John’s “Last Tour.” I’ll be
sticking closer to home from now on (my travels still extending to the Grand
Canyon, of course). </span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I can’t sing, but I can write,
and I’m glad a few people have enjoyed my tales from the road. Thank you.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirU4SXWe_d5fY6VTj1P4mkVOyF7u1Afbr6ycmAhTmjZqzHNoqXjy85_mneSOjFrR_ZBifKCT-rrn2CxoDqjIvi3iKikx38x1AwD6nAF51T4Y1_H1sQGZncUc2mprdN-K7_ISsGRs2bayXD/s1600/HOME1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1600" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirU4SXWe_d5fY6VTj1P4mkVOyF7u1Afbr6ycmAhTmjZqzHNoqXjy85_mneSOjFrR_ZBifKCT-rrn2CxoDqjIvi3iKikx38x1AwD6nAF51T4Y1_H1sQGZncUc2mprdN-K7_ISsGRs2bayXD/s320/HOME1.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Last story from the road: <a href="http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2018/04/how-will-it-all-turn-out.html">HOW WILL IT ALL TURN OUT?</a></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><span style="margin: 0px;"> </span></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-60748646615345449122018-04-07T16:24:00.000-07:002018-04-07T16:24:09.830-07:00HOW WILL IT ALL TURN OUT?
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGLICSylYhfiWn_hURCRBhzyL3TgwglO1uK5keyeyg69cy2tDH9IFweBNsi1zOI_O2PaeJiZx3q3Gi6En-HRIJ1aBz8S0m_SNHqPQM6egiMjqnSnALXbwK4-nPm3iEkn1oeklHM8rL36zw/s1600/Oregon3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1071" data-original-width="1600" height="214" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGLICSylYhfiWn_hURCRBhzyL3TgwglO1uK5keyeyg69cy2tDH9IFweBNsi1zOI_O2PaeJiZx3q3Gi6En-HRIJ1aBz8S0m_SNHqPQM6egiMjqnSnALXbwK4-nPm3iEkn1oeklHM8rL36zw/s320/Oregon3.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">It's the question I asked
everyone I met on my road trip across America: How will it all turn out? You
know, the Trump thing.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">The range of predictions
surprised me. From, Trump is a man of "heinous" character, to
"it's all a bunch of noise."</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I found cynicism:
"Muller will find collusion, but nobody's going to care." And
head-up-butt wishful thinking: "Nothing he's done is Constitutionally
wrong."</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Lots of fear: "He'll
start a war and ride out four years." And, "He could lose the 2020
election, but refuse to concede."</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">My friends with the most
dogmatic opinions were those who were the <u>most</u> informed ("I can almost 100%
guarantee you, he won't make it through all four years."), and, to a
shocking extent, those who were <u>least</u> informed "What's the pee-pee
tape?"). Everyone else expressed sensible uncertainty about the fate of
Trump, et al., and all the unpredictable political events in our immediate future.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Will the Democrats control
the House after this fall's elections? Answers were "yes," "no,"
and "they have a 52% chance." Few thought Trump will actually be
impeached, even some of my most liberal friends.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Will Trump last four years?
Get re-elected? I heard every conceivable answer.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I asked the big question about
how it's all going to turn out because, like everyone else held captive by the
drama, I wish I knew. And there's no way to tell. Anything is possible. Any one
of us, or none of us, could guess correctly.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">* * *</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Having broached the question,
it's only fair that I put out there my own prediction. As a wise friend reminds
me, everyone's entitled to their own stupid opinion.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Character is destiny.</span></u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> This truth comes, not from a fortune cookie, but from
a Greek philosopher 2,500 years ago. Trump's character is thoroughly and
absolutely foul. He's a psychopathic narcissist, and the most corrupt
politician ever. There will be no good ending for Trump, and history will not
be kind.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Absolutes can be dangerous. The
worst character ever? You might ask in response, as did one friend, "Yeah,
well what about Hitler?" To that, I say, if that's the bar, you got me.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Next up for defense by the
Trumpettes, always, is Hillary. "Well, yeah, but what about Benghazi,"
etc., <i>ad nauseam</i>. They proclaim that no matter what Trump may have done, or is doing
now, he's still way better than that lying, stood-by-her-man, evil woman. We'll
soon see how that works out.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">No matter how bad things
look, they are always worse.</span></u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> That's
my second political principle. Trump never really wanted to be President. He
just wanted to build his brand, get richer, and feed his insatiable ego. He
never counted on savage, investigative beasts clawing through his sordid garbage.
What we know now will be just the start of revelations about the Trump/Kushner
shenanigans with Russian criminals and their booty.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Trump and his court of
jesters are in way over their heads.</span></u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">
The talent and brilliance of those determined to learn the whole truth --
journalists, Muller and crew, honest bureaucrats -- will persevere. For all his
instinctive gifts as hustler and con man, Trump's not very bright. Nor are his
kids, and certainly not his coterie of buffoons, whom he considers "the
best people." Journalists have risen to the challenge, and they are rock
stars of the day.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">People are fucking morons.</span></u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> This is actually "Wayne Rule No. 1," but I
stuck it in here at the end, since it's sure to offend. Nevertheless, it's a
failsafe rule for explaining any inexplicable behavior, such as "how can
40% of voters still support the greatest con man that America has ever seen?"</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">The upshot.</span></u><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"> I think the Muller team, as well as the Senate
investigating committee, have grounds for impeachment right now. Trump's efforts
to keep his own hands clean of his Russian money-laundering scams, campaign
collusions, and personal foibles (e.g, Stormy Daniels), will prove amateurish.
He's going down.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">The Democrats will take the
House in the mid-terms, but probably not the Senate. That will leave an
impeachment process uncertain, since the House impeaches, but the Senate
convicts. In any event, I think the House will initiate impeachment before the
2020 election. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">At that point, the walls of
reality will be closing in on Trump. With Jared facing jail time, his own scandalous
misdeeds further revealed, and public support dropping back into the 30's, what
will he do?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">For one thing, he will find
some way to fire Muller. It may be a suicidal act, but there will come a point
when he has nothing to lose. It will be too late. When he realizes that, then
what?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">The <u>rosy scenario</u> is
that he will resign. Declare his MAGA mission complete and go home. I can't see
that happening. When has he ever backed down? Okay, maybe once, when he let that
porn star spank his flabby ass with the magazine with his own face on it. WWJD? Let's
give him a mulligan on that one, like the Christians are doing.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">The <u>nightmare scenario</u>
is that he starts a war to rally public support behind him. That could work. I
could absolutely see him capable of doing that. It would not surprise me. Pick a country. Syria? How about Mexico?</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">The <u>most-likely scenario</u>
is that he continues along in his bubble, until it bursts when he loses the
2020 election in a landslide. He will declare himself the victim of fake news
and illegal votes, find some way to blame Obama, and retreat to whatever ignominious
future awaits him alone. Melania will be on the first jet out of town. Trump
will be endlessly featured on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">National
Enquirer</i> covers, as she declares that her prenup was negated by his
affairs and cover-ups. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Attorney Michael Cohen will
write a tell-all from jail, in order to pay his own legal costs. Fox News
viewership, and NRA membership, will sky-rocket as they declare the imminent
end-of-the world, with a Democrat woman as President. Fox will reveal she is
related to Hillary, with intimate ties to the Deep State. Evangelical leaders
will declare her to be the new she-devil and the Anti-Christ.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Anyhow, that's what I'm
predicting.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">* * *</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">As for how this road trip of
mine turns out, it ends where it began -- at home, which is now less than three
hours away. I'll wrap up this little travelogue, "Travels with
Wayne," later, with one more story.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Yesterday: <a href="http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2018/04/paradise.html">PARADISE</a></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><a href="http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2018/04/paradise.html">http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2018/04/paradise.html</a>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7990357401244436470.post-78737639332258802962018-04-06T19:25:00.000-07:002018-04-06T19:25:28.363-07:00PARADISE
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">It was a white-knuckle drive
across the high plains of Wyoming this morning. Fog, snow blowing sideways,
drifts, low-teen temps, near white-outs when passing trucks, actual white-outs
behind snow plows.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Crossing the Red Desert, I
couldn't see much due to the weather. It's a little-known and poorly-protected
expanse of grasslands, sagebrush, remote canyons, archeological sites, and
antelope. I got up close and personal with the Red Desert on a visit fifteen years
ago with leaders of the environmental group where I worked. The threats are in
plain sight -- a terrain already pocked with drill rigs, pipelines, service roads,
and oil storage facilities.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Wyoming has this backwards
attitude that they don't want any more land protected by the government.
Period. So I doubt much has been done to guard the Red Desert. Parts of it should
be a National Monument.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Despite the lousy weather, I
watched through swirling snow the great, dark silhouette of a golden eagle, wings
outstretched, flap low over the hills. It was one of several I would see this
day.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I had looked for one
yesterday during my tour around Fort Collins. Becky took me to the prettiest
places, especially the canyon of the Cache la Poudre River, where I watched a
fly fisher land and release a small brown trout. It would prove quite a
contrast to weather a day later.</span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIWlZwDi0xgMSSQPT206-NJ8hAJwhfGfZj0zrxHNdaT1AuZsr8SbWtgjty47WYb5e84UuXVTiptoGk9RUpTTlO3iJXQWgMNU8x-0PgYHmkKGx109xpp_TXkPzL5FLnea-VPw1GoiXyOJk/s1600/Becky.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="1280" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpIWlZwDi0xgMSSQPT206-NJ8hAJwhfGfZj0zrxHNdaT1AuZsr8SbWtgjty47WYb5e84UuXVTiptoGk9RUpTTlO3iJXQWgMNU8x-0PgYHmkKGx109xpp_TXkPzL5FLnea-VPw1GoiXyOJk/s320/Becky.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Becky and her husband, John,
moved to Colorado from Ann Arbor two years ago. They seem transformed with
happiness in their new lives. It's quite a wondrous thing. Their enthusiasm for
their new geography is understandable -- spectacular mountain scenery and none
of the dreariness of Michigan winter. Plus, a nice town, from what I saw.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Everywhere I've gone, people
have proudly shown me their own paradises. A wooded subdivision in central
Florida, the backyard of an East Lansing home, the lake-studded glacial hills
of southeast Michigan. Even downtown Houston, of all things. And Fort Collins. Paradise
is where you find it. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I found a break in the nasty Wyoming
weather about the time I hit Green River, so I pulled off to have lunch on
Expedition Island. This is the spot that many famous expeditions have launched
to float the Green River down to the Colorado River and on through the Grand
Canyon. Most famous was the Powell Expedition of 1869, which was the first-ever
such trip. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">On the third day of our last
raft trip on the Colorado River through the Grand Canyon, we bobbed in the
surreal-turquoise-colored water of the tributary Little Colorado River. One of our
friends sighed, and declared, "Except for the fact that we're surrounded
by atheists, you might'a thought we'd died and went to heaven." Paradise.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">I dipped the toe of my
sneaker into the Green River. The backdrop of sandstone mesas and cliffs, and the
namesake color of the river, would have been the same in Powell's day. </span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;"></span><span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">On this last night of my four-week
road trip (I'll be home tomorrow night), I'm camped alongside another river,
the Snake River in Idaho, in a deserted BLM campground. White pelicans are
spending the night on rocks across the river.</span></div>
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<br /></div>
<br />
<div style="margin: 0px;">
<span style="font-size: 14pt; margin: 0px;">Day-before-yesterday: <a href="http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2018/04/east-west.html">EAST-WEST</a></span></div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><a href="http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2018/04/east-west.html">http://wayneaschmidt.blogspot.com/2018/04/east-west.html</a>WAYNE SCHMIDThttp://www.blogger.com/profile/16370951835407315106noreply@blogger.com0