1978

In what would mark the end of my five year football career, a trip to Tennessee in 1978 remains one of my more cherished memories.  Aboard a bus with my teammates, coaches and cheerleaders, we headed from the nation’s capital to a quaint little town that had not yet been over-commercialized.  Gatlinburg made quite an impression upon a young suburbanite like me.  I was in awe of the Smoky Mountains, and over a three day period, I was immersed for the first time in deep southern culture.

We came for a three game tournament and our team easily won the first two.  Then in the championship, we were matched against a team from DeKalb, Georgia whose players were age-restricted, not weight-restricted like us.  We held off their significant size advantage into double overtime.  It was a grueling match, draining every ounce of energy from both teams.

Thirty three years later, when reflecting upon this experience, it’s just these memories that remain clear…

Eating chocolate chip pancakes and being called ‘honey’ by a waitress for the first time.


Cozying up to a cheerleader on the way home, then asking her to prom.


Standing exhausted in the end zone watching a team from Georgia celebrate a championship that was in our grasp.

Time is the enemy of our memories.  But it also weeds the garden - leaving just the essentials.  I cannot remember what I had to drink with my pancakes or what the cheerleader was wearing on our bus ride home.  I cannot even remember the names of half of my teammates when looking back at pictures.  Nonetheless, the memory of my trip to Tennessee in 1978 remains a treasured one, despite the lack of clarity.

Surviving Nate Harrison

At the car rental counter yesterday, I was thinking I pity the young guy in tie that’s about to rent me an SUV.  Little does he know I’m taking it up one of the more challenging roads in southern California: Nate Harrison Grade.  It’s a seven mile switch-backing, unpaved and rutted driving challenge that draws odd thrill seekers like me.  A local writer referred to a trip up The Grade as a “poor man’s National Geographic expedition”.

I concocted this little adventure after viewing some interesting YouTubes.  Though it’s not for the faint of heart, I found evidence that a non-SUV can possibly make the climb under good conditions.  Unfortunately, I wasn’t blessed with good conditions.  On the day before my ascent, eight inches of snow fell at elevations above 4,000 feet; and Nate Harrison Grade doesn’t end for another 1,500 feet above the snow line.

I began my ascent knowing full-well I may not make it.  But I also knew experiencing part of The Grade was better than none at all, especially since I’d flown across country to get here.  For the first five miles, below the snow line, the conditions cooperated.  I made slow and steady progress up the mountain, stopping frequently to take in the stunning and ever-improving views.  The switchbacks were unrelenting and even comical in tightness at times, but the rented SUV performed flawlessly.  At the first hint of snow though, bedazzlement was replaced by caution.  Snow, mud, rapidly deteriorating traction, and visions of roll-overs infiltrated the adventure.  A bit further on, I made the tough decision.  Enough was enough even though the top was in sight.

On my way back down, my decision was affirmed.  A guy in a more substantial SUV had also turned around where I did.  Though I struggled with the decision, I’m certain it was the right one.

Incomplete as it was, my time on Nate Harrison Grade was spectacular.   The uniqueness of the adventure, the phenomenal views, and the success of not having rolled to my death off a cliff were quite rewarding.

CLICK HERE TO RIDE ALONG

Yin-Yang

Underneath the nation’s capital’s busiest airport, I’m all alone as I stride through the tunnel.  One hundred yards of moving walkway all to myself; a rarity at any metropolitan airport, let alone Dulles International.  I’ve breezed through security and will reach my gate well ahead of time.  Dulles is eerily empty today.

The lack of crowds is the yang to the yin; the positive to the negative.

Last night, I was struggling mightily to assemble a new lawn mower; worried that I wouldn’t get the mowing done in time.  I thought I’d have to hire a farmer to bush hog my lawn if I couldn’t get the contraption together in time before leaving on a 4-day trip.  But the yin and the yang have balanced out.  The bad luck of a broken lawnmower has been balanced out by a lack of airport crowds.

Eight hours later, the yang is back.  I’m driving north on historic California Highway 101.  It’s a beautiful moment.  Cruising north up the Pacific Coast as the sun sets to the west.  Actually, it’s not just a beautiful moment; it’s a bucket list moment.  What good fortune to fall into such a cool moment.

Tomorrow I have a risky adventure planned dependent upon things beyond my control.  Hope I haven’t used up all my yang…

One Hundred Minutes

I pull off Main Street at the neighborhood pharmacy and grab the last bottle of acetaminophen from the shelf.  My head is pounding to the point of nauseation.  I’m hoping to drug the head pains so I can squeeze a little enjoyment out of the next two hours before meeting my daughter for dinner.  I’m in Verona – smack dab in the middle of Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley – and it’s an exceptionally beautiful spring day.  I don’t want a throbbing noggin to spoil the opportunity.

With drugs, I usually hold out when in pain so that when I really, really need them to work, they really, really work.   Today is a day I’ve held out for.  And the drugs really work.  Twenty minutes later, the throbbing has ended leaving me one hundred minutes to enjoy this beautiful opportunity.

Grabbing the camera from my suitcase, I begin pursuing a favorite pastime: G-Spotting.  It’s a little endeavor I embark upon to fill the blank spots in Google Maps’ photo overlay.  The challenge is finding the blank spots, which are vanishing quickly in these digital days.  Who doesn’t have an image capturing device with them at all times anymore?  And the ability to upload?  The overlay is filling in quickly.

I have standards, so not just any blank spot is my target.  The images I upload are intended to orient viewers; to give them a sense of the surroundings - and hopefully to reflect a touch of artistry.  Today’s lighting and color conditions certainly helped in that regard.

Me and my camera, G-Spotting under the influence of acetaminophen…  Interesting to ponder how a lifetime of being me has led to finding enjoyment out of such an endeavor.

(PS - My Google contributions can be found here.)

Improving the Craft

Long ago, I saw a commercial on TV implying that the best artists use only the best brushes.  The ad, obviously, was attempting to pitch the quality of some product.  My reaction to the quote then was this counterpoint: a true artist can create regardless of brush quality.  Give Picasso a tree branch dipped in mud and he’d still create a masterpiece.  After this weekend however, I’m having to re-think that counterpoint…

About three years ago I bought a guitar.  Just a cheap, mass-produced one from a place where people “Save Money, Live Better” and yellow smileys abound.  It was just an experimental whim so I didn’t want to invest much.  It turned out to be the best $99 I ever spent.  For the past three years, that guitar has been my therapy.  Slipping to the basement to strum for twenty minutes cures a lot of ills.

After all that strumming though, I’m still not very good.  I consider myself – at best – a hack that needs to keep his strumming confined to basements.  I continue to struggle with certain chords, and more-than-occasionally I can’t get the right pressure on a fret which leads to bothersome buzzing sounds.

However, with the windfall of a 25 year service award from my employer in my back pocket, I decided to use a bit to purchase a new guitar this past Saturday morning.  It went quick.  I walked in; test drove three guitars and was walking out with my new Fender California Series acoustic fifteen minutes later.

Upon first strum of this new beauty, I called into question my aforementioned counterpoint.  The sweet emanating tone and the smooth action on the fret board were remarkable.  The chords I’d been struggling with had just gotten easier, and that bothersome buzzing sound nearly vanished.  I’m definitely still just a hack that needs to stay in my basement, but I now have a little more confidence and may someday soon bring the new ax upstairs.

Though I still believe that old Picasso doesn’t need the best brushes to produce great art, I can’t deny that quality tools can have a positive impact on improving the craft.

Sacrifices

My brother, the civil engineer, is working in Afghanistan reconstructing the devastation.  Years of bombing runs and IEDs have taken their toll on the infrastructure - things he’s particularly adept at building.  Koran burnings and soldiers on shooting sprees haven’t done much for the peace process.  The destruction will likely continue which means job security for my brother, I suppose.  I admire his courage and willingness to go, but I sure don’t envy his sacrifices.

The other day I was digging through some old pictures to post on Facebook - memory jarring images to give him a chuckle.  It brought back memories of some of the adventures we got into that surprisingly seemed like an episode of MTV’s Jackass.

Under the cover of darkness, we’d drive around the city in an old Plymouth looking for bushes to dive into.

We built go-carts out of scrap lumber and old lawn mower wheels, hoping they’d hold together on their maiden downhill voyages.

We played murder-ball for hours with our neighborhoodlums, usually ending when a bone snapped or a fight broke out.

We built bike ramps, higher and higher as peer pressure mounted.  You can only imagine what we attempted to jump over… and crash into.

We stole golf balls from the driving range at night and then hit them toward targets in the park during the day.

And my favorite…a friend’s dad gave us his collection of 45 old vinyls.  Putting them to the best use energetic teenagers could think of, we threw them skyward as hard as we could and watched their erratic descent until they shattered explosively on neighboring roofs or the asphalt street.

Idiotic things for sure, but probably no different from what most young kids growing up during the ‘70’s in America got into.  Roaming around with time and energy to waste led to some jackass antics.  But we did them because we had the freedom to do so.  In the United States, it’s easy to take our freedom for granted.  In Afghanistan, my brother has temporarily traded in that freedom for income and the opportunity to put his skills to work.  I hope it works out for him and he’s home safe soon.

Timeless Enticements

I make a wrong turn and don’t realize it.  The sun is nowhere close to showing itself, so nature’s compass is unavailable.  When I enter barren Gila Indian reservation lands, my wrong turn becomes obvious.  I plug in my GPS and it keeps re-calculating me toward dark thin roads that just don’t feel right.  After several miles ignoring it, my GPS and I finally get in sync and we’re off toward the San Tan Mountains near Queen Creek.

I’m hoping the park doesn’t have gates that only open at designated times.  If so, I’ll be forced to sit and waste precious time.  But this is the wild (and open) west.  No closed gates out here.   I’m the first one in at about the time the first touches of light are beginning to temp hikers.  In a land of diamondbacks, scorpions, coyotes, and jumping cactus needles, light is especially important when hiking this unknown territory.  Back east, I’d feel comfortable hiking blind-folded, but in Arizona, I’m a fish out of water, and less brazen than normal.

With only a handful of hours to explore, my plan is to get just a taste of the foothills; to meander the trail’s lower elevations up close with the Saguaros, Chollas, Creosote, and the undulations of the mountains.  But a reachable shoulder was calling.  With a little heart pumping effort, I quickly switch-backed my way up the Goldmine Trail to a gap in the mountain affording an open view north toward Chandler.  Here I sat for a while catching my breath and enjoying the cradled feeling of this mountain.  It was a view that brought home my impression of the Phoenix metropolis.  The sprawl here is overwhelming; a seemingly unending grid of walled-in, planned communities and chain franchises.  But very nearby and in all directions are escapes like the San Tan Mountains with open gates and easy access.  Phoenix is a fine mix of congestion and solitude, all amid the backdrop of spectacular scenery.

For years I half-jokingly said I’d love to move to Arizona for my mid-life crisis.  Having spent the last several days wandering this spectacular state, my feelings have only grown stronger.  A state with iconic and timeless enticements like The Grand Canyon, Sedona, Monument Valley, and Canyon de Chelly, in addition to countless other surprising geographic and cultural amenities would be a fine place to cause and have a mid-life crisis.  Don’t you think?