Wednesday, November 28, 2007
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
UGH!
It's the xmas season. We at the USPS are carrying more mail than ever in the history of the Service. We are doing it with historically low numbers of employees.
I came home today and just fell straight to sleep. I was even too tired to work on my latest novel.
Ugh!
Actually looking forward to February when the mail rush dies down.
I came home today and just fell straight to sleep. I was even too tired to work on my latest novel.
Ugh!
Actually looking forward to February when the mail rush dies down.
Monday, November 26, 2007
My One Good Eye
This is what I did when I realized my eyes were really going.
I was born with amblyopia. Commonly known as “lazy eye”. My right eye just didn’t want to work in concert with my left eye and so the left eye became stronger to overcompensate, leaving my right eye to suffer from muscular degeneration and to, in effect, atrophy. The school system informed my parents of this fact after an eye exam when I was six years old, and corrective lenses were purchased by my parents. Soon after, I suspect my older brother; a demented and emotionally retarded sadist either hid or destroyed these same glasses. My father, to teach me a lesson for losing them, refused to buy me a second pair, and so I was left to live with one eye. That’s the way to show a six-year-old child!
Over the years, my “good” eye, the left one, began to degenerate of its own. Increasingly, from the age of about ten or so, I became more and more near-sighted in the good eye until I reached a point where I had to have a lens for that one, which my parents finally purchased for me when I was about fourteen. By this time, the right eye was so far gone that the ophthalmologists I’d visit would merely prescribe a plain glass for that side—blurry peripheral vision from that quarter would have to do. I wasn’t blind, per se, but I sure wouldn’t wish my eyes on anyone but a truly blind man.
And as anyone who suffers from near-sightedness will tell you, the condition progresses at a generally accelerated rate leaving you with having to find a stronger and stronger lens for the problem every couple of years.
By the time I was forty-two, I found myself having made the rank of “regular” at my job as letter carrier for the US Postal Service. This meant that I was no longer a “part-time flexible” and now had, at least in theory, certain privileges that had accrued after two and one half years of seniority. Among these new privileges was that I was placed onto a route no one else would take in a part of the city no one wanted to visit to deliver mail to people no one wished to encounter. Additionally, I discovered that such things as a regular’s schedule were privileges in theory only, since, as low man on the “regular” totem, I was to be treated pretty much as a “part-time flexible”. That is, like shit.
A few days before I was to report for work at my new station, I went there to scope it out and look over my route and the case (a metal cubicle containing numbered shelves for sorting the mail). The first thing I noticed was that every case on the row in which I’d be working were in a shadowed, unlit area of the building, and that the cases in that row, which were supposed to be wired and lit, were without power. Standing in that very dark space, I quickly realized that I would be unable to see properly there. In fact, trying the space out, I found myself unable to focus my vision on the address of a random piece of mail I had picked up.
I went to see my soon-to-be supervisor, a fellow named Bill B****.
“These cases are unlighted,” I told him. “Look,” I said. “I have really bad eyesight to begin with, and I won’t be able to work over there unless you guys get those cases lighted.”
“Oh, yeah,” he told me. “We’ll have them wired and lit by the time you start next week.”
“Okay,” I said, and left.
A few days later, I showed for work and reported to my case. It was, of course, unlit. I went to Bill B****, my now actual, bonafide supervisor.
“You said my case would be lit. It’s not. It’s going to be very hard for me to work over there.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot to get that done. Look, you can work at another route that’s lit up if you want to.”
“No,” I told him. “That’s my route and I need to learn it so I can get it cased as fast as possible. I’ll work there today the way it is, but you need to get it wired by tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he told me. “It’ll be done.”
I went back to my case, and found it almost impossible to read the addresses on the pieces of mail there. In point of fact, it was not only the fact that I was working in the dark, but I had reached a point where I needed a bifocal lens, but just didn’t realize it. I thought it was merely the darkness working against me. Like a good trooper, I struggled through the morning and got out onto the street in the war zone of a neighborhood to which I’d been assigned. Dogs roared, teenagers raged, and the pop of gunfire was a happy background tune.
Next morning, I got back to work to find my case still in deep shadow. I went to see Bill B**** and asked him what was wrong. “What’s the deal? You said the cases would be lit up.”
“Look,” he said. I could tell he was in a really foul mood. “A union guy has to wire those cases and our union maintenance man hasn’t been able to get around to doing it.”
“No,” I told him. “You look. I’m not going to strain my eyes working in the dark. You need to do your job and get the cases wired so we can all see back there. It’s not just me, but the other dozen carriers working in the dark.”
“You’re the only one complaining about it.”
“I’ll hook up the damned thing myself,” I told him.
“Don’t touch that stuff,” he said. “We’ll get someone to do it today.”
I went back to my case, stood there for a second, and walked over to one of the other letter carriers working in the dark. “Hey, man,” I said. “How long have you guys been working like this? In the dark, I mean.”
The guy stared for a second, thinking. “Well, they rearranged all of the cases four months ago, so I guess it’s been this way for sixteen weeks.”
“Sixteen weeks? You guys have been working in the dark for sixteen weeks?”
“Yeah.”
“You pussies,” I said, and stalked back over to Bill ****’s desk situated as it was in the center of the workroom floor (but very well lit).
“Hey, B****,” I said.
“What is it now?” he asked.
“I hear those cases have been dark for sixteen weeks.”
“So?”
“So, I’m going on break. If my case ain’t lit by the time I get back, I’m going to call OSHA. I’ve got the phone number and I’m going to call them right up,” I fibbed. And this was the Clinton-era OSHA, not the dickless Dubya Moron Bush OSHA.
Bill B**** looked as if he’d swallowed a turd. His eyes bugged and he stood, turned his back on me, and stomped off.
I went on break.
When I got back to my case, it was lit up like a freaking pro football night game.
The carrier I’d asked about the lights poked his head into my case. “How’d you do that? We’ve been trying to get these things lit for four months!”
“You’re a bunch of fucking pussies,” I told him. His face vanished from inside my case. I got back to work, and slowly realized I still couldn’t read the addresses on the letters clearly. And it was only then that I knew I needed bifocals. The word, long an abstract thought applying to others, was suddenly a reality for me. I’d deal with that later. In the meantime, I was going to have my hands full dealing with an antagonistic supervisor named Bill B****. Things were going to get really rough.
But at least I knew I needed bifocals.
I was born with amblyopia. Commonly known as “lazy eye”. My right eye just didn’t want to work in concert with my left eye and so the left eye became stronger to overcompensate, leaving my right eye to suffer from muscular degeneration and to, in effect, atrophy. The school system informed my parents of this fact after an eye exam when I was six years old, and corrective lenses were purchased by my parents. Soon after, I suspect my older brother; a demented and emotionally retarded sadist either hid or destroyed these same glasses. My father, to teach me a lesson for losing them, refused to buy me a second pair, and so I was left to live with one eye. That’s the way to show a six-year-old child!
Over the years, my “good” eye, the left one, began to degenerate of its own. Increasingly, from the age of about ten or so, I became more and more near-sighted in the good eye until I reached a point where I had to have a lens for that one, which my parents finally purchased for me when I was about fourteen. By this time, the right eye was so far gone that the ophthalmologists I’d visit would merely prescribe a plain glass for that side—blurry peripheral vision from that quarter would have to do. I wasn’t blind, per se, but I sure wouldn’t wish my eyes on anyone but a truly blind man.
And as anyone who suffers from near-sightedness will tell you, the condition progresses at a generally accelerated rate leaving you with having to find a stronger and stronger lens for the problem every couple of years.
By the time I was forty-two, I found myself having made the rank of “regular” at my job as letter carrier for the US Postal Service. This meant that I was no longer a “part-time flexible” and now had, at least in theory, certain privileges that had accrued after two and one half years of seniority. Among these new privileges was that I was placed onto a route no one else would take in a part of the city no one wanted to visit to deliver mail to people no one wished to encounter. Additionally, I discovered that such things as a regular’s schedule were privileges in theory only, since, as low man on the “regular” totem, I was to be treated pretty much as a “part-time flexible”. That is, like shit.
A few days before I was to report for work at my new station, I went there to scope it out and look over my route and the case (a metal cubicle containing numbered shelves for sorting the mail). The first thing I noticed was that every case on the row in which I’d be working were in a shadowed, unlit area of the building, and that the cases in that row, which were supposed to be wired and lit, were without power. Standing in that very dark space, I quickly realized that I would be unable to see properly there. In fact, trying the space out, I found myself unable to focus my vision on the address of a random piece of mail I had picked up.
I went to see my soon-to-be supervisor, a fellow named Bill B****.
“These cases are unlighted,” I told him. “Look,” I said. “I have really bad eyesight to begin with, and I won’t be able to work over there unless you guys get those cases lighted.”
“Oh, yeah,” he told me. “We’ll have them wired and lit by the time you start next week.”
“Okay,” I said, and left.
A few days later, I showed for work and reported to my case. It was, of course, unlit. I went to Bill B****, my now actual, bonafide supervisor.
“You said my case would be lit. It’s not. It’s going to be very hard for me to work over there.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot to get that done. Look, you can work at another route that’s lit up if you want to.”
“No,” I told him. “That’s my route and I need to learn it so I can get it cased as fast as possible. I’ll work there today the way it is, but you need to get it wired by tomorrow.”
“Okay,” he told me. “It’ll be done.”
I went back to my case, and found it almost impossible to read the addresses on the pieces of mail there. In point of fact, it was not only the fact that I was working in the dark, but I had reached a point where I needed a bifocal lens, but just didn’t realize it. I thought it was merely the darkness working against me. Like a good trooper, I struggled through the morning and got out onto the street in the war zone of a neighborhood to which I’d been assigned. Dogs roared, teenagers raged, and the pop of gunfire was a happy background tune.
Next morning, I got back to work to find my case still in deep shadow. I went to see Bill B**** and asked him what was wrong. “What’s the deal? You said the cases would be lit up.”
“Look,” he said. I could tell he was in a really foul mood. “A union guy has to wire those cases and our union maintenance man hasn’t been able to get around to doing it.”
“No,” I told him. “You look. I’m not going to strain my eyes working in the dark. You need to do your job and get the cases wired so we can all see back there. It’s not just me, but the other dozen carriers working in the dark.”
“You’re the only one complaining about it.”
“I’ll hook up the damned thing myself,” I told him.
“Don’t touch that stuff,” he said. “We’ll get someone to do it today.”
I went back to my case, stood there for a second, and walked over to one of the other letter carriers working in the dark. “Hey, man,” I said. “How long have you guys been working like this? In the dark, I mean.”
The guy stared for a second, thinking. “Well, they rearranged all of the cases four months ago, so I guess it’s been this way for sixteen weeks.”
“Sixteen weeks? You guys have been working in the dark for sixteen weeks?”
“Yeah.”
“You pussies,” I said, and stalked back over to Bill ****’s desk situated as it was in the center of the workroom floor (but very well lit).
“Hey, B****,” I said.
“What is it now?” he asked.
“I hear those cases have been dark for sixteen weeks.”
“So?”
“So, I’m going on break. If my case ain’t lit by the time I get back, I’m going to call OSHA. I’ve got the phone number and I’m going to call them right up,” I fibbed. And this was the Clinton-era OSHA, not the dickless Dubya Moron Bush OSHA.
Bill B**** looked as if he’d swallowed a turd. His eyes bugged and he stood, turned his back on me, and stomped off.
I went on break.
When I got back to my case, it was lit up like a freaking pro football night game.
The carrier I’d asked about the lights poked his head into my case. “How’d you do that? We’ve been trying to get these things lit for four months!”
“You’re a bunch of fucking pussies,” I told him. His face vanished from inside my case. I got back to work, and slowly realized I still couldn’t read the addresses on the letters clearly. And it was only then that I knew I needed bifocals. The word, long an abstract thought applying to others, was suddenly a reality for me. I’d deal with that later. In the meantime, I was going to have my hands full dealing with an antagonistic supervisor named Bill B****. Things were going to get really rough.
But at least I knew I needed bifocals.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
Red Beard and Two Gun
Years and years ago, after I'd gotten my foot in the door and sold some comic scripts to Marvel and got DC Comics to open the way (just a crack, mind you), I was able to submit proposals at *******. One editor there was quite open and I was about to sell him a ***** *** proposal when ***** ****** suspected that he was in danger of pushing her out and taking her throne and she conspired to get rid of him. So I never sold the *** series (it would have kicked ass).
When he left, my contact at that point was a truly hideous bitch named ***** *******, a lying whore of a woman. At any rate, I'd gotten her to actually read my submissions and she was returning letters and even phone calls and I was getting close to selling a pitch even to her. But I realized all was lost when I sent her this one for the comic book *** ********, for which I was told I had a very good chance of landing at least a single issue story. To sell there at that time, you either had to be a friend of **** ******'s, or have had your genitalia mutilated by a crazed physician so that you could pretend to be a woman, or both. So it was fortunate that I'd been able to have my proposals read without either of those credentials. In those days, a pitch had to be terse and to the point, and I'd gotten really good at writing one-page pitches. I sent this one, which she liked, but ultimately rejected.
"Karl"
By
James Robert Smith
A Story proposal for
*** ********
The protagonist of this story is "Karl", homage to the late Karl Edward Wagner. Red bearded stocky guy who carouses in the bar all day. A guy called Two Gun (Robert E. Howard) is always trying to get Karl to follow him to the top of "the mountain". Karl will never go since, for all his size, he will not fight through the crowds of zealots who guard the flanks of the mountain. But each month, Two Gun takes it upon himself to go to the heights and hack his way through the zealots and climb to the pinnacle and look down upon the world and experience the chill air and the amazing sunsets. And each time he descends the peak, he takes it upon himself to visit Karl in his tavern and try to talk him into coming along.
All the while, we are shown that Karl enjoys his wine. He also enjoys his smoke and he enjoys his snort and he enjoys his hash brownies. Then a certain woman introduces herself to Two Gun. He brings her into the tavern, and she gives Karl a hit of something new. Two Gun makes his monthly offer and this time Karl accepts, since he seems to be in the throes of some strange, new kind of high. Together, they hack their ways through the zealots and climb the heights and look down from the pinnacle and see the world from the chilly spire.
Karl comes down.
He has always been a peaceful sort. But now he has hacked his way through the zealots who guard the mountain. He has killed.
Pondering, growing more agitated as he goes; he makes his way toward the tavern. He is now in a frenzy.
At the tavern, all turn to see Karl, no longer his usual musing self. Now he is all fire and rage. He smashes down the door to the tavern, his face a mask to do Odin credit. The one who gave him the drug is there. She is his target. "You!" And, "You," he screams through foaming jaws. He grasps her and hauls her to him.
"Give me more," he says.
THE END
And what was her reason for rejecting the above proposal? It was specifically about Karl Wagner and Robert E. Howard, two of fantasy's greatest who were powerfully linked. She was aware of this and familiar with both. As she spoke to me over the phone one day, apparently very much interested in taking this plot, she said, "Why don't you change it to two writers people actually care about?"
I was, of course, struck dumb. I made a quick excuse and hung up the phone and never spoke to her again, although we did end up exchanging a few very nasty letters over a separate situation. Ah, my stillborn career in comics.
When he left, my contact at that point was a truly hideous bitch named ***** *******, a lying whore of a woman. At any rate, I'd gotten her to actually read my submissions and she was returning letters and even phone calls and I was getting close to selling a pitch even to her. But I realized all was lost when I sent her this one for the comic book *** ********, for which I was told I had a very good chance of landing at least a single issue story. To sell there at that time, you either had to be a friend of **** ******'s, or have had your genitalia mutilated by a crazed physician so that you could pretend to be a woman, or both. So it was fortunate that I'd been able to have my proposals read without either of those credentials. In those days, a pitch had to be terse and to the point, and I'd gotten really good at writing one-page pitches. I sent this one, which she liked, but ultimately rejected.
"Karl"
By
James Robert Smith
A Story proposal for
*** ********
The protagonist of this story is "Karl", homage to the late Karl Edward Wagner. Red bearded stocky guy who carouses in the bar all day. A guy called Two Gun (Robert E. Howard) is always trying to get Karl to follow him to the top of "the mountain". Karl will never go since, for all his size, he will not fight through the crowds of zealots who guard the flanks of the mountain. But each month, Two Gun takes it upon himself to go to the heights and hack his way through the zealots and climb to the pinnacle and look down upon the world and experience the chill air and the amazing sunsets. And each time he descends the peak, he takes it upon himself to visit Karl in his tavern and try to talk him into coming along.
All the while, we are shown that Karl enjoys his wine. He also enjoys his smoke and he enjoys his snort and he enjoys his hash brownies. Then a certain woman introduces herself to Two Gun. He brings her into the tavern, and she gives Karl a hit of something new. Two Gun makes his monthly offer and this time Karl accepts, since he seems to be in the throes of some strange, new kind of high. Together, they hack their ways through the zealots and climb the heights and look down from the pinnacle and see the world from the chilly spire.
Karl comes down.
He has always been a peaceful sort. But now he has hacked his way through the zealots who guard the mountain. He has killed.
Pondering, growing more agitated as he goes; he makes his way toward the tavern. He is now in a frenzy.
At the tavern, all turn to see Karl, no longer his usual musing self. Now he is all fire and rage. He smashes down the door to the tavern, his face a mask to do Odin credit. The one who gave him the drug is there. She is his target. "You!" And, "You," he screams through foaming jaws. He grasps her and hauls her to him.
"Give me more," he says.
THE END
And what was her reason for rejecting the above proposal? It was specifically about Karl Wagner and Robert E. Howard, two of fantasy's greatest who were powerfully linked. She was aware of this and familiar with both. As she spoke to me over the phone one day, apparently very much interested in taking this plot, she said, "Why don't you change it to two writers people actually care about?"
I was, of course, struck dumb. I made a quick excuse and hung up the phone and never spoke to her again, although we did end up exchanging a few very nasty letters over a separate situation. Ah, my stillborn career in comics.
Friday, November 23, 2007
My Kind of Town: An Abandoned One
The Great Smoky Mountains National Park is unique for many reasons. One thing that makes it stand out from so many other parks of similar size is that it was created from largely private lands during the Great Depression. Because of this, the Park Service felt the need to negotiate, along with cash payments, certain grants from which other National Parks are exempt. Among the privileges granted in this earlier time which have grown problematic are that no entrance fees be charged, that most of the park is accessible and open to horseback riders, and that a small section of the park contained private lodges and second homes for which leases were extended until well after the establishment of the park boundaries.
(All that remains of the old Wonderland Hotel. My wife and I stayed here shortly before they lost their National Park lease. Our stay was pleasant, and in retrospect, it would have been nice if the Park Service had continued the lease/concession on that old-style hotel.)
|
This last agreement has proven, in recent years, to be a bit of a legal pain in the ass for the Park Service. When the park was formed, an area adjacent to Gatlinburg known as Elkmont contained a hotel, several private lodges, and dozens of vacation homes owned by wealthy landholders. With the added clout of these wealthy folk, they were able to negotiate lifetime leases that extended their ownership in most cases until the early 1970s, and in at least one case, the year 2001. The hotel, known as The Wonderland Hotel, was operated on a concession basis until 1992, much in the tradition of some of the lodges and hotels in our western National Parks.
(We wandered around empty ground where once we had stayed in a rustic hotel room.)
The lease/concession on The Wonderland was not renewed and the hotel was shut down. The many cabins, and the hotel, were then allowed to begin to slowly deteriorate while the Park decided how to best proceed to remove these structures and allow the remainder of Elkmont to revert to its natural state as a second growth forest.
All of this would have come to pass years ago were it not for a group of meddlesome troublemakers who decided that these rotting, worthless structures were “historical landmarks” and that they should be protected and renovated. Fortunately for those of us who wish to see the parklands restored to their natural state, the bulk of the Wonderland Hotel finally did collapse and was removed. However, this left several lodge buildings and dozens of cabins still standing in various parts of Elkmont. If left to their original plans, the Park Service would long ago have removed these unsightly shacks and allowed the forest to regenerate. But because of various legal challenges, these stacks of rotting wood, rusting tin, and tilting rock are still mucking up the scenery.
|
Here’s hoping that spontaneous combustion, Father Zeus, Thundering Thor, or some enterprising gremlin will destroy these disgusting monuments to minor wealth and privilege. There are, quite literally, thousands of similar disgusting developments ringing in The Great Smoky Mountains National Park in a virtual cancer of urban sprawl. It will be most welcome to see this horrid one gone from its place within one of our most beautiful and precious National Parks. May Elkmont soon begin to be allowed to revert to its natural state as a grand cove hardwood forest.
(All that remains of the old Wonderland Hotel. My wife and I stayed here shortly before they lost their National Park lease. Our stay was pleasant, and in retrospect, it would have been nice if the Park Service had continued the lease/concession on that old-style hotel.)|
This last agreement has proven, in recent years, to be a bit of a legal pain in the ass for the Park Service. When the park was formed, an area adjacent to Gatlinburg known as Elkmont contained a hotel, several private lodges, and dozens of vacation homes owned by wealthy landholders. With the added clout of these wealthy folk, they were able to negotiate lifetime leases that extended their ownership in most cases until the early 1970s, and in at least one case, the year 2001. The hotel, known as The Wonderland Hotel, was operated on a concession basis until 1992, much in the tradition of some of the lodges and hotels in our western National Parks.
(We wandered around empty ground where once we had stayed in a rustic hotel room.)The lease/concession on The Wonderland was not renewed and the hotel was shut down. The many cabins, and the hotel, were then allowed to begin to slowly deteriorate while the Park decided how to best proceed to remove these structures and allow the remainder of Elkmont to revert to its natural state as a second growth forest.
All of this would have come to pass years ago were it not for a group of meddlesome troublemakers who decided that these rotting, worthless structures were “historical landmarks” and that they should be protected and renovated. Fortunately for those of us who wish to see the parklands restored to their natural state, the bulk of the Wonderland Hotel finally did collapse and was removed. However, this left several lodge buildings and dozens of cabins still standing in various parts of Elkmont. If left to their original plans, the Park Service would long ago have removed these unsightly shacks and allowed the forest to regenerate. But because of various legal challenges, these stacks of rotting wood, rusting tin, and tilting rock are still mucking up the scenery.
|
Here’s hoping that spontaneous combustion, Father Zeus, Thundering Thor, or some enterprising gremlin will destroy these disgusting monuments to minor wealth and privilege. There are, quite literally, thousands of similar disgusting developments ringing in The Great Smoky Mountains National Park in a virtual cancer of urban sprawl. It will be most welcome to see this horrid one gone from its place within one of our most beautiful and precious National Parks. May Elkmont soon begin to be allowed to revert to its natural state as a grand cove hardwood forest.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Find a City, Find Myself a City.
I don’t like cities. I never have. I live in a city, but viewing the photos I’ve taken over the past few years, I realized that I took very damned few inside cities. This is largely because I tend to avoid cities when I travel, choosing to go to places as far away from urban areas as I can possibly go.
The fact that I don’t care for cities (of any size) came to me as I went through my catalog of photographs from my many vacations since I bought my first digital camera in early 2004.
The following are a few of the very limited number of photos that I’ve taken in cities since that time. Cities don’t inspire me. Most likely because I generally can’t tolerate crowds of lowing humans.
Bah, Humbug!
Helvetia, West Virginia. Yes, stretching the term "city", I know.
Part of the hideous shithole known as Hilton Head, South Carolina. I vow never to return to that overcrowded wasteland of sandy garbage.
Inside the Mellow Mushroom pizza restaurant in downtown Asheville, NC (a city I can tolerate).
Downtown Asheville, NC as a light rain changes over to light snow.
A small city we passed through in central Florida. I forget its name. It was okay and I didn't want to burn it down.
Saluda, North Carolina. A nice little town. It doesn't suck ass.
Nighttime at Reedy Creek Park in downtown Greenville, SC. Definitely a city that has a lot of charm.
In the Mast General Store in downtown Boone, NC. The city is far too crowded, but it doesn't completely suck.
Mystery city somewhere in the mountains of North Carolina. I can't recall where I was when I took this shot. Not that I give a rat's ass.
A place somewhere in Florida. Far too crowded, and it sucked, but I took this photo on the beach.
In downtown Key West, Florida. I liked Key West and will go back there.
Saint Augustine, Florida. It has streets where no cars are allowed. I like that.
Freeport, Maine. It's an okay place. The North Face outlet store is worth the trip.
Downtown Gatlinburg, Tennesse. A true human cesspool.
Once again, downtown Gatlinburg, Tenessee. I have no idea what this means.
The fact that I don’t care for cities (of any size) came to me as I went through my catalog of photographs from my many vacations since I bought my first digital camera in early 2004.
The following are a few of the very limited number of photos that I’ve taken in cities since that time. Cities don’t inspire me. Most likely because I generally can’t tolerate crowds of lowing humans.
Bah, Humbug!
Helvetia, West Virginia. Yes, stretching the term "city", I know.
Part of the hideous shithole known as Hilton Head, South Carolina. I vow never to return to that overcrowded wasteland of sandy garbage.
Inside the Mellow Mushroom pizza restaurant in downtown Asheville, NC (a city I can tolerate).
Downtown Asheville, NC as a light rain changes over to light snow.
A small city we passed through in central Florida. I forget its name. It was okay and I didn't want to burn it down.
Saluda, North Carolina. A nice little town. It doesn't suck ass.
Nighttime at Reedy Creek Park in downtown Greenville, SC. Definitely a city that has a lot of charm.
In the Mast General Store in downtown Boone, NC. The city is far too crowded, but it doesn't completely suck.
Mystery city somewhere in the mountains of North Carolina. I can't recall where I was when I took this shot. Not that I give a rat's ass.
A place somewhere in Florida. Far too crowded, and it sucked, but I took this photo on the beach.
In downtown Key West, Florida. I liked Key West and will go back there.
Saint Augustine, Florida. It has streets where no cars are allowed. I like that.
Freeport, Maine. It's an okay place. The North Face outlet store is worth the trip.
Downtown Gatlinburg, Tennesse. A true human cesspool.
Once again, downtown Gatlinburg, Tenessee. I have no idea what this means.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Mingus a Bust, Dripping Spring a Done Deal
When my family and I got ready for our last vacation of 2007, I thought that I would have the opportunity to bushwhack to the summit of Mount Mingus and finally bag that peak. However, the day we arrived in the park, November 15, we found ourselves in the midst of a major winter storm. I had not come prepared for hiking on ice, which was coating the ground, along with heavy snow. Driving up to Newfound Gap, from which I had hoped to hike to Mingus, we found ourselves in driving snow, high winds, icy surfaces, and very cold conditions. In addition, not long after we got to Newfound Gap, the Park Service chose to close 441 so that my family could not drive back up to get me even if I had been prepared for hiking on ice. So I made the decision to head back down to our campsite at Elkmont Campground. Near Newfound Gap in the snow Not long after leaving the gap, we found ourselves stuck in a line of traffic while the Park Service blocked the road so that they could turn back everyone who had been heading up the mountain from Gatlinburg. This took well over two hours, but we
didn’t complain, as it gave us time to sit and enjoy the snowstorm and the piling white. When the signal was given to proceed, we just put the truck into four-wheel drive and headed back to our travel trailer at Elkmont. With the day shot, (it was dark by the time we got back to Elkmont), I took out my topo map to figure out which peak I would bag for this last trip of the season. Since the trailheads to the higher peaks via 441 were off limits (the road was closed for the next 48 hours), I looked to see what I could bag from the Elkmont Campground. Soon, I realized the best mountain to hit would be Dripping Spring Mountain, a 4801-foot summit just to the west of the spine of the Great Smoky Mountains. It looked to me to be a good candidate for some nice views of the peaks in that section of the park, providing there was some open ground near the summit. The storm that had closed the road and covered the high country with ice and snow was relatively short-lived, and by morning the skies were clear, even if the roads were closed. I’d promised my wife to drive her to Pigeon Forge that day, so a long 
hike was out of the question. But I gathered my day-hiking gear and got it ready for a Saturday hike. In the meantime, we drove into Gatlinburg and Pigeon Forge and came back to the park for some easy hikes near Elkmont (including Laurel Falls). Early the following morning I was chomping at the bit to bag Dripping Spring Mountain. The route I chose was to take the Jakes Creek Trail to Jakes Gap and then the Lyn Camp Prong Trail toward the AT, but stopping short of the AT to bag Dripping Spring Mountain for a round trip of about ten miles and a total elevation gain of roughly 3,000 feet. At the start, the trail is a very wide and well-maintained roadbed. It appears that the Park Service must still use this as a road for jeeps from time to time. It remains a very wide, groomed gravel road until you reach a point where you have to ford Jakes Creek via a classic Smokies footbridge. Along the way, one passes a number of small waterfalls, including one that has a tremendously fine swimming hole that I have to be sure to use when the weather is warm. The trail tackles the mountain at a fairly steady but easy grade. One can glimpse both Blanket Mountain on the right and the back of Dripping Spring Mountain on the left as you ascend. The forest here are classic cove hardwoods, and the hemlocks are pretty much completely dead, so what few evergreens one encounters are mainly pines. Backcountry campsite #27 is along the trail and seems to be a good place to set up a tent. Wide and spacious with a big climbing rock, fire ring, and bear cables. At Jakes Gap I took the left-hand trail toward Dripping Spring Mountain and continued to head up, knowing that I had the lion’s share of the climb behind me. 
From here, I only had about eight hundred vertical feet to the summit, and less than two miles to go. The forest type changes a bit here and has a large hemlock component, although that’s moot at this point, as they’re all dead or breathing their last. The forest is going to be very open and sunny in the coming 
years as all of these grand old trees die off and fall over. It’s the chestnut blight all over again, it seems. By noon I found myself very near the summit of the mountain. The trail is obviously a popular one, linking up with the AT as it does, and shows the effects of heavy use by both hikers and horseback riders. Just as I was getting ready to take a look at my map and get a GPS reading, I came out of the forest onto a very open area of stunted trees and low-growing rhododendron. The views toward the spine of the park and Thunderhead were spectacular. I could also see the true summit and a manway leading in that direction, so I followed it up. Just about twenty or so vertical feet shy of the mountaintop, the 
manway vanishes and you have to bushwhack through some very thick rhododendron to get to the very top. If you choose to do this, it’s best to leave your pack and pick your way carefully through the hell to the true summit, from which there really aren’t any views. After bagging the summit, I sat down in a small grassy area to enjoy the views and 
eat a small lunch of crackers and water. I just took it easy, snapped a lot of photos, and relaxed as I took in the scenery from a true grandstand of the Great Smoky Mountains. By 12:30 or so I was ready to head back down to my family, backtracking along the same route I’d taken to the top and making it back to Elkmont at around 2:15.Add to My Profile | More Videos
Monday, November 19, 2007
Watch, repeat as necessary.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
Back to the Smokies.
We returned to the Smokies for a four-day vacation, staying at Elkmont Campground. Details later. For now, just a couple of shots:
Me and my son at Laurel Falls.
I'd suspected that the views from the summit of Dripping Springs Mountain were impressive. I wasn't disappointed.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
William F. Nolan!
When I was in my twenties, I met a young man named Jason Brock who went on to work for me in the comic shop that I owned in Charlotte, NC. Jason was extremely intelligent and quite talented, and when we lost touch I used to wonder how he was doing, what employment he found as he got older, and, later, why he wasn't famous yet.
Jason in the midst of imitating a certain sf author.
Years passed and Jason got in touch with me via the internet. He was living between Oregon and California, owned two houses, was married, had a great consulting job in computer technology, and made documentary films. I wasn't surprised.
William F. Nolan is in da house! YOW!
This week, he drove into town along with one of the all-time great fantasists of the past century, William F. Nolan, a great friend of Jason and his wife, Sunni. We spent this past evening (November 13, 2007) talking and enjoying a meal and talking some more. Nolan, in addition to being one of our great writers of fantastic fiction, is also a phenomenal mimic, and he had me rolling with his imitations of Burl Ives, Humphrey Bogart, Sidney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, Walter Brennan, Ray Bradbury, etc. I was laughing so much that I plumb forgot to ask him much about the nuts and bolts of writing. Alas!
He let me call him "Bill"!
I was sad to see them head on, but I hope to see them all again someday soon. Jason and Sunni have some new projects coming together that I'm waiting to see completed. And the next time I sit down with "Bill" Nolan, I'll remember to ask him about his writing techniques. (If I'm not laughing too hard.)
Nolan, Jason & Sunni Brock take their leave of the Smith House on their way to the Big Apple.
Jason in the midst of imitating a certain sf author.Years passed and Jason got in touch with me via the internet. He was living between Oregon and California, owned two houses, was married, had a great consulting job in computer technology, and made documentary films. I wasn't surprised.
William F. Nolan is in da house! YOW!This week, he drove into town along with one of the all-time great fantasists of the past century, William F. Nolan, a great friend of Jason and his wife, Sunni. We spent this past evening (November 13, 2007) talking and enjoying a meal and talking some more. Nolan, in addition to being one of our great writers of fantastic fiction, is also a phenomenal mimic, and he had me rolling with his imitations of Burl Ives, Humphrey Bogart, Sidney Greenstreet, Peter Lorre, Walter Brennan, Ray Bradbury, etc. I was laughing so much that I plumb forgot to ask him much about the nuts and bolts of writing. Alas!
He let me call him "Bill"!I was sad to see them head on, but I hope to see them all again someday soon. Jason and Sunni have some new projects coming together that I'm waiting to see completed. And the next time I sit down with "Bill" Nolan, I'll remember to ask him about his writing techniques. (If I'm not laughing too hard.)
Nolan, Jason & Sunni Brock take their leave of the Smith House on their way to the Big Apple.
Monday, November 12, 2007
The Great Smoky Mountains National Park
I made my first visit to the Great Smoky Mountains National Park at the age of 15. In fact, I entered it at the age of 15, and two days later had my sixteenth birthday at the Laurel Gap Shelter deep in the Smokies backcountry. It was June 28, 1973, and ice had formed in my water bottles overnight.
The Great Smoky Mountains National Park was formed when this nation was in the grips of the horrible Great Depression. I doubt that the will to create such a national park out of forest lands and developed communities could be done today. Perhaps we need another Great Depression to spur us to preserve that which should be preserved and do away with that which need not be saved.
In the 34 years since my first visit there, I have returned many times. Not as many times as I would wish, but quite a few. I've hiked into almost every quadrant of the Park and seen things that I wish everyone could see at least once. Just five years ago I embarked on a personal mission to view the old growth hemlock groves before they became extinct. This I did, and now most of those groves are standing as dead and soon-to-be-weathered husks where once all was green. Another crime to add to the list of offenses by Mankind.
Following are just some of the things I have seen in my many hikes into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
Fifteen-year-old me on my first visit, swimming at Midnight Hole on Big Creek.
Midnight Hole, 2006, with a kayaker going over the falls.
Laurel Gap Shelter. That's me inside, the morning of my sixteenth birthday, June 28, 1973.
The backcountry where Laurel Gap Shelter stands, just below the summit of Big Cataloochee Mountain.
In an old growth hemlock grove, 2004. Those hemlocks are all dead, now. I had to see them before they died.
Inside an old poplar, 2004. Mother Nature.
Alone on Charlies Bunion, 2004.
In the overwhelming green of the Albright Grove, 2004.
In Cades Cove, 2004.
The definitive peak of the Smokies, Mount LeConte.
The Chimney Tops.
The Chimney Tops, up close and personal.
(More Smokies tomorrow.)
The Great Smoky Mountains National Park was formed when this nation was in the grips of the horrible Great Depression. I doubt that the will to create such a national park out of forest lands and developed communities could be done today. Perhaps we need another Great Depression to spur us to preserve that which should be preserved and do away with that which need not be saved.
In the 34 years since my first visit there, I have returned many times. Not as many times as I would wish, but quite a few. I've hiked into almost every quadrant of the Park and seen things that I wish everyone could see at least once. Just five years ago I embarked on a personal mission to view the old growth hemlock groves before they became extinct. This I did, and now most of those groves are standing as dead and soon-to-be-weathered husks where once all was green. Another crime to add to the list of offenses by Mankind.
Following are just some of the things I have seen in my many hikes into the Great Smoky Mountains National Park.
Fifteen-year-old me on my first visit, swimming at Midnight Hole on Big Creek.
Midnight Hole, 2006, with a kayaker going over the falls.
Laurel Gap Shelter. That's me inside, the morning of my sixteenth birthday, June 28, 1973.
The backcountry where Laurel Gap Shelter stands, just below the summit of Big Cataloochee Mountain.
In an old growth hemlock grove, 2004. Those hemlocks are all dead, now. I had to see them before they died.
Inside an old poplar, 2004. Mother Nature.
Alone on Charlies Bunion, 2004.
In the overwhelming green of the Albright Grove, 2004.
In Cades Cove, 2004.
The definitive peak of the Smokies, Mount LeConte.
The Chimney Tops.
The Chimney Tops, up close and personal.(More Smokies tomorrow.)
Saturday, November 10, 2007
I Learn about Minerals
I blame Kerouac.
Mid-life crisis? I don't know. All I can tell you is that in my late 40s I finally discovered the work of Jack Kerouac and The Beats. It wasn't that I hadn't been exposed to them, but whenever I'd start to read ON THE ROAD or any of the other major Kerouac novels, the work would leave me cold and I'd quickly lose interest. Why? Hell if I know! Most people discover his fiction when they're in their teens or early 20s and it all clicks and they get a big dose of his wandering spirit and then they move on. But not me. It took decades before I knew enough to appreciate the poetry of his work.
So.
I have to blame Kerouac for getting me back into the life of wandering the hills as I had when I was a kid. Decades passed while I was married and worked various drudge jobs and raised a son and wrote short stories (that sold) and novels (that did not) and managed to avoid going backpacking. Soon after my son hit his mid-teens I gave ON THE ROAD another shot, and everything fell into place. And then it was THE DHARMA BUMS and I recalled just why it was I used to live so many nights a year sleeping under the stars.
The woods called me back.
It had been some months since my return to the hiking/backpacking scene when I decided to bag some of our highest peaks here in North Carolina. The best place to hit a number of peaks in excess of 6,000 feet (what we call our "sixers") was along the Black Mountain Crest Trail that leads from Mount Mitchell down to Bolens Creek. At about twelve miles, it was more than I had time for since I'd have to do it round-trip style and that was a grand total of 24 miles. Too many miles to pack into what I knew would be a relatively short hiking day. So I scheduled to leave from the summit of Mitchell and hike half the trail to Winter Star, making for a twelve-mile round trip hike. Well within my schedule and abilities.
The day I'd chosen, November 11, 2004, was a spectacular one for day-hiking. It was unseasonably warm and the skies were clear and almost cloudless. I'd gotten a later start that I wanted, but I managed to get to the peak of the Mitchell by 10:00 am rather than the 9:00 am I was hoping for. In quick order I parked my truck, shouldered my daypack, and started down the trail.
I knew that the Black Mountain Crest Trail had a reputation for being one of the toughest in the Southeastern USA. So I was mentally prepared for a long day of physical exertion. I was not prepared for the sheer beauty of the trail, though. It far exceeded my expectations and I kept coming to one vast scene of beauty after another as I hiked over rocky summits and passed along cliffs and walked down into deep gaps dark with balsam trees. Very early into the hike as I walked briskly along, I startled a black bear that plunged off the trail before me and ran at great speed into the forests to escape our encounter. I'd obviously startled him far more than he'd surprised me, and I was disappointed that I hadn't had time to get a photo of him.
Stopping repeatedly to set up my tripod, I took well over 100 photographs as I hiked over Mount Craig, and Big Tom, and Cattail Peak, and Potato Hill, Balsam Cone, and Winter Star. Each of these peaks is separated from the next by a deep gap into which the trail plunges and one must climb steeply to the next to achieve the summit. I was having so much fun and was so impressed by the beauty of the trail (which I had all to myself, as I encountered not a single other hiker), I didn't have time to wonder about being tired.
In a few hours I was standing in Deep Gap and looking up at the romantically named mountain, Winter Star, which I soon climbed, standing on the summit and looking north toward the half of the trail I didn't have time to hike. After taking a few photos, I headed back toward Mount Mitchell and my waiting truck.
My wife insists that I always take everything with me when I go off hiking on my own. Everything that I might need in case of an emergency. A whistle. Warm clothing. Waterproof matches. Extra water. Compass. Map. And on and on. As I was heading out of Deep Gap and back up the mysteriously named Potato Hill (it's one of the biggest and baddest mountains in the eastern USA, so why it would be called "Hill" is beyond me), I realized that I hadn't brought enough water. As I topped the mountain I finished off the last swig in my last water bottle. I pushed on.
It was soon after this that the cramps hit me.
The pain in my thighs was almost heart-stopping. The tendons from my knees to my groin seemed to freeze up and I was stopped in my tracks. As I stood there grimacing in pain and unable to move or take a single step, I was wondering if I was suffering from the altitude, for the entire trail lies well over a mile above sea level, and most of that being at, or above, 6,000 feet. It was only later, after talking to a physician, that I found that what had happened was that I had sweated out a lot of minerals and my body was punishing me for that. What I needed was some salt and some potassium, but at the time I didn't know that, and didn't have either at any rate.
So I rested there in the dark, balsam woods waiting for the pain to abate enough so that I could continue. The sun was beginning to set and I still had several miles to go to get back to my truck. The thought of being stuck on this tough trail in the dark was most unappealing.
As soon as the pain subsided, I began to hike again. Within a few yards the cramps came back, with a vengeance, and I was stopped yet again on the steep, rocky slopes of Big Tom Mountain. The Black Mountain Crest Trail was not going to let me get back to my truck without a struggle, it seemed. All I could do was stand there and let the cramps fade and try again.
This went on, time and again, as I hiked the extremely steep slopes (sometimes needing all four limbs to continue onward), achieving peaks and then dropping down again into plunging gaps before tackling the following mountain. I was worried that I wouldn't make it back to my truck before nightfall. In addition to the idea of hiking in the dark (I had a headlamp in my pack, which allieved some of that worry), I knew that the Park Service closed and locked the gates at nightfall, so I'd be locked in if I didn't get out in time.
By the time I reached Mount Craig, with its exposed summit and looming cliff faces, I could see Mount Mitchell. The skies were ruddy with the fading sun and I knew that I still had more than a mile to hike and the cramps kept attacking my legs at frustrating intervals. The thought of the full water bottles that awaited me at my truck kept me pushing on. In the hollow between Mount Craig and Mount Mitchell, the sun was having a hard time reaching into the dark balsam woods. It was easy to realize why this range is called The Black Mountains. But I knew that I was almost home free.
In the last of the fading light, I finally came out of the forest and reached the parking lot below the summit of Mount Mitchell. I opened the door and grabbed first one, and then a second bottle of water and guzzled them. The cramps begant o subside as I got some moisture back into my body. Going to the bathhouse at the mountaintop, I changed into some clean clothes, then went back to my truck and headed down into Asheville for a meal and the long drive back home.
Since that trip, I've added a few things to the kit that I take with me when I hike:
aspirin and vitamin tablets.
Mid-life crisis? I don't know. All I can tell you is that in my late 40s I finally discovered the work of Jack Kerouac and The Beats. It wasn't that I hadn't been exposed to them, but whenever I'd start to read ON THE ROAD or any of the other major Kerouac novels, the work would leave me cold and I'd quickly lose interest. Why? Hell if I know! Most people discover his fiction when they're in their teens or early 20s and it all clicks and they get a big dose of his wandering spirit and then they move on. But not me. It took decades before I knew enough to appreciate the poetry of his work.
So.
I have to blame Kerouac for getting me back into the life of wandering the hills as I had when I was a kid. Decades passed while I was married and worked various drudge jobs and raised a son and wrote short stories (that sold) and novels (that did not) and managed to avoid going backpacking. Soon after my son hit his mid-teens I gave ON THE ROAD another shot, and everything fell into place. And then it was THE DHARMA BUMS and I recalled just why it was I used to live so many nights a year sleeping under the stars.
The woods called me back.
It had been some months since my return to the hiking/backpacking scene when I decided to bag some of our highest peaks here in North Carolina. The best place to hit a number of peaks in excess of 6,000 feet (what we call our "sixers") was along the Black Mountain Crest Trail that leads from Mount Mitchell down to Bolens Creek. At about twelve miles, it was more than I had time for since I'd have to do it round-trip style and that was a grand total of 24 miles. Too many miles to pack into what I knew would be a relatively short hiking day. So I scheduled to leave from the summit of Mitchell and hike half the trail to Winter Star, making for a twelve-mile round trip hike. Well within my schedule and abilities.
The day I'd chosen, November 11, 2004, was a spectacular one for day-hiking. It was unseasonably warm and the skies were clear and almost cloudless. I'd gotten a later start that I wanted, but I managed to get to the peak of the Mitchell by 10:00 am rather than the 9:00 am I was hoping for. In quick order I parked my truck, shouldered my daypack, and started down the trail.
I knew that the Black Mountain Crest Trail had a reputation for being one of the toughest in the Southeastern USA. So I was mentally prepared for a long day of physical exertion. I was not prepared for the sheer beauty of the trail, though. It far exceeded my expectations and I kept coming to one vast scene of beauty after another as I hiked over rocky summits and passed along cliffs and walked down into deep gaps dark with balsam trees. Very early into the hike as I walked briskly along, I startled a black bear that plunged off the trail before me and ran at great speed into the forests to escape our encounter. I'd obviously startled him far more than he'd surprised me, and I was disappointed that I hadn't had time to get a photo of him.
Stopping repeatedly to set up my tripod, I took well over 100 photographs as I hiked over Mount Craig, and Big Tom, and Cattail Peak, and Potato Hill, Balsam Cone, and Winter Star. Each of these peaks is separated from the next by a deep gap into which the trail plunges and one must climb steeply to the next to achieve the summit. I was having so much fun and was so impressed by the beauty of the trail (which I had all to myself, as I encountered not a single other hiker), I didn't have time to wonder about being tired.
In a few hours I was standing in Deep Gap and looking up at the romantically named mountain, Winter Star, which I soon climbed, standing on the summit and looking north toward the half of the trail I didn't have time to hike. After taking a few photos, I headed back toward Mount Mitchell and my waiting truck.
My wife insists that I always take everything with me when I go off hiking on my own. Everything that I might need in case of an emergency. A whistle. Warm clothing. Waterproof matches. Extra water. Compass. Map. And on and on. As I was heading out of Deep Gap and back up the mysteriously named Potato Hill (it's one of the biggest and baddest mountains in the eastern USA, so why it would be called "Hill" is beyond me), I realized that I hadn't brought enough water. As I topped the mountain I finished off the last swig in my last water bottle. I pushed on.
It was soon after this that the cramps hit me.
The pain in my thighs was almost heart-stopping. The tendons from my knees to my groin seemed to freeze up and I was stopped in my tracks. As I stood there grimacing in pain and unable to move or take a single step, I was wondering if I was suffering from the altitude, for the entire trail lies well over a mile above sea level, and most of that being at, or above, 6,000 feet. It was only later, after talking to a physician, that I found that what had happened was that I had sweated out a lot of minerals and my body was punishing me for that. What I needed was some salt and some potassium, but at the time I didn't know that, and didn't have either at any rate.
So I rested there in the dark, balsam woods waiting for the pain to abate enough so that I could continue. The sun was beginning to set and I still had several miles to go to get back to my truck. The thought of being stuck on this tough trail in the dark was most unappealing.
As soon as the pain subsided, I began to hike again. Within a few yards the cramps came back, with a vengeance, and I was stopped yet again on the steep, rocky slopes of Big Tom Mountain. The Black Mountain Crest Trail was not going to let me get back to my truck without a struggle, it seemed. All I could do was stand there and let the cramps fade and try again.
This went on, time and again, as I hiked the extremely steep slopes (sometimes needing all four limbs to continue onward), achieving peaks and then dropping down again into plunging gaps before tackling the following mountain. I was worried that I wouldn't make it back to my truck before nightfall. In addition to the idea of hiking in the dark (I had a headlamp in my pack, which allieved some of that worry), I knew that the Park Service closed and locked the gates at nightfall, so I'd be locked in if I didn't get out in time.
By the time I reached Mount Craig, with its exposed summit and looming cliff faces, I could see Mount Mitchell. The skies were ruddy with the fading sun and I knew that I still had more than a mile to hike and the cramps kept attacking my legs at frustrating intervals. The thought of the full water bottles that awaited me at my truck kept me pushing on. In the hollow between Mount Craig and Mount Mitchell, the sun was having a hard time reaching into the dark balsam woods. It was easy to realize why this range is called The Black Mountains. But I knew that I was almost home free.
In the last of the fading light, I finally came out of the forest and reached the parking lot below the summit of Mount Mitchell. I opened the door and grabbed first one, and then a second bottle of water and guzzled them. The cramps begant o subside as I got some moisture back into my body. Going to the bathhouse at the mountaintop, I changed into some clean clothes, then went back to my truck and headed down into Asheville for a meal and the long drive back home.
Since that trip, I've added a few things to the kit that I take with me when I hike:
aspirin and vitamin tablets.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)