Red Egg Journal

Roadtrip (Days 1-2): Tioga Pass—Bristlecones—Vegas

2013-06-04T04:46:10Z

When we were flying home on the last leg of a 10-month journey around the world, I gazed down from my window seat upon the vast canyonlands of the American west.

"Ah," I felt in my bones. "This is it. I'm coming home."

Debi and I are on a roadtrip into these canyonlands right now. We crossed the Sierra on Route 120 through Tioga Pass, a drive we had made a year ago, as well.

The next morning we were on Route 168 amid ancient bristlecone pines.

Then in Nevada, we hit Route 95 and first made a slight jag north to visit Goldfield, the boom-and-bust mine town where Debi's great grandfather once managed a gold mine.

But isn't mining by its very nature already boom-and-bust?

Then...what the hell...Route 95 takes you right through the phantasmagoria that is Las Vegas.

So we drove the Strip with all our car windows rolled down and Dylan's "Shelter from the Storm" blaring from the speakers. 45 minutes driving through Las Vegas was quite enough.

And we happily lit out for where we're really heading.

"Tenebrae"

2013-03-30T05:48:09Z

The story of Christ's passion — told in the poetry of sacred text and music — has the power to open our hearts at their most existential depths.

Tonight on Good Friday, Debi and I attended a beautiful "Tenebrae" service at the Carmel Mission. And so the poem "Tenebrae" by our friend Denise Levertov came back into our hearts as well.

Tenebrae

Heavy, heavy, heavy, hand and heart.
We are at war,
bitterly, bitterly at war.

And the buying and selling
buzzes at our heads, a swarm
of busy flies, a kind of innocence.

Gowns of gold sequins are fitted,
sharp-glinting. What harsh rustlings
of silver moiré there are,
to remind me of shrapnel splinters.

And weddings are held in full solemnity
not of desire but of etiquette,
the nuptial pomp of starched lace;
a grim innocence.

And picnic parties return from the beaches
burning with stored sun in the dusk;
children promised a TV show when they get home
fall asleep in the backs of a million station wagons,
sand in their hair, the sound of waves
quietly persistent at their ears.
They are not listening.

Their parents at night
dream and forget their dreams.
They wake in the dark
and make plans. Their sequin plans
glitter into tomorrow.
They buy, they sell.

They fill freezers with food.
Neon signs flash their intentions
into the years ahead.

And at their ears the sound
of the war. They are
not listening, not listening.

— Denise Levertov, Fall 1967

What being "pro-life" really means

2012-11-05T03:52:46Z

At the end of the vice-presidential debate, when Martha Raddatz asked Vice-President Biden and Mr. Ryan what role their Catholic faith has played in their views on abortion, Debi and I wanted to answer the question ourselves.

It was a golden opportunity to walk Ms. Raddatz (and the rest of us) back from the initial narrow framing of that question to the wider panorama of what being on the side of life really means in the context of the Gospel.

Had one of us been Biden, we’d have answered…

“Martha, here’s what ‘pro-life’ really means. Jesus didn’t say anything explicit about abortion, but I personally accept the Church’s teaching that its view is a logical extension of Jesus’ teaching on the sanctity of all life. But while not saying anything specific about abortion, Jesus unequivocally made clear that we, as a nation, will be judged on how we treat the poor, the homeless, the hungry, the naked, the ill, the imprisoned, the stranger. Not only that, but that how we treat ‘the least of my brothers’ will be how we have treated Christ himself. So to single out abortion as the one-and-only religious litmus-test, even though Jesus never talked about it, and then to systematically deny, warp, and ignore how close to Christ the poor are — in contrast to the absolute roadblock Christ says hoarding personal wealth is — to do that is, at best, rank hypocrisy. But what one is really doing then is perpetrating the gravest violence against the Gospel, and as a Christian-Catholic, I won’t stand here silently as that happens.”

Worst of all, by wrapping his politics in a pseudo-gospel that borrows more from Ayn Rand than it respects Christ’s teaching, Mr. Ryan is depriving those fooled by his mis-characterization of the very real benefit that Christ’s actual teachings could give us in these troubled days.

_____________________

Thomas Friedman also addressed this subject in his NY Times Op-Ed article "Why I Am Pro-Life."

"Cézanne's Seclusion"

2012-09-20T03:34:29Z

Cézanne's atelier at Les Lauves

"I have begun to think," he wrote in a late letter,
"that one cannot help others at all." This
from a man who once called friendship the highest
virtue. And in another he wrote: "Will I ever
attain the end for which I have striven so long?"
His greatest aspiration was certainty
yet his doubts made him blame himself wrongly,
perceiving each painting a disaster. These swings
between boldness and mistrust, intimacy and isolation
led him to stay at home, keep himself concealed,
becoming a sort of hermit, whose passion for the world
directed every brushstroke, changed each creation
into an expression of tenderness, which he dismissed
writing: "a vague sense of apprehension persists."

by Stephen Dobyns

The gardener Vallier, Tate Museum

Anasazi

2012-06-01T08:31:25Z

As we flew home from our ten-month trip around the world, and I looked down upon the vast canyon lands of the American West, I thought...

"This is it. I am home."

Canyon de ChellyI thought that even though I don't know these canyon lands well. And even though I wasn't born here.

Trail to White House, Canyon de ChellyAt that moment of coming back home, I also made a spontaneous vow "to keep my pilgrim self alive."

I knew it wouldn't be easy. And it hasn't been.

Chaco CanyonSo you can imagine how good it felt to be on the road again, this time on a road trip through
Anasazi lands in the Four Corners.

Pueblo Bonito, Chaco CanyonAnaasází is a Navajo word that means "Ancient Ones" or "Ancient Enemy." Ancestral Pueblo peoples is the preferred term now because Anaasází suggests a sudden mysterious departure of the old ones and a radical discontinuity between them and the Pueblo people living in the Four Corners today.

Hubbell's Trading Post, GanadoI just heard Robert Harrison say that he writes for the dead. And I understand that.

But we don't only hear the dead through the texts that they have written. Although those texts more than help us.

Mesa VerdeMaybe, in fact, they are portals, shamans' caches, places, as the Celts would say, where the world is thin.

Artist Melissa LoftonAnd so places where we, too, can pass back and forth more readily between our familiar waking worlds

Mesa Verde...and that other realm that we don't quite know how to name.

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A full gallery of Debi's Southwest photographs appears here.

The revolution will be televised, after all...

2011-11-21T02:17:08Z

The actions at UC Berkeley and now at UC Davis these past days have been eye-opening. Around the country we are seeing civil disobedience being used effectively again.

Image by Pj Seleska.I've long thought that for real social change the following would be necessary:

1. The left would need to claim higher moral ground.

2. Good street theater would need to occur.

3. The above two points both de facto assume the need for civil disobedience.

4. An insistence upon the honest use of language would need to be successfully re-asserted.

I never had much hope of the above actually happening — but it's happening now. For one thing, I thought the eroded nature of public discourse — given corporate media control — was unlikely to be turned back. I assumed the left would need to keep groveling for crumbs of media attention. I listened with a certain agnosticism to reports of the role social media has played in places like Tahrir Square recently. ("Yes," I thought, "cell phones must be something like handy walkie-talkies in the streets now.")

But now that I see social media in effect near at hand in places like Berkeley and Davis, I'm changing my tune — even if only in this important arena of political action. The "people's mike" and "mike checks" are more than poignant metaphors. Cell phone cameras create "citizen journalists" everywhere.

The revolution will be televised, after all.

Peacewalk for a Nuclear Free World

2011-10-28T18:07:25Z

Here is a very good reason to have a nulcear free world. Visit the latest post on Red Egg's SARHENTARUC JOURNAL, Sacred Sites Peacewalk for a Nuclear Free World.

The Wild West - part 3

2011-06-30T06:03:01Z

This Sunday was the fourth day into our trip, and we felt the need for a little culture. Breakfast at the Custer County Art & Heritage Center was the best (and maybe only) option in town.

There we were treated to an exhibit of LA Huffman’s photography...

and paintings by Theodore Waddell.

Outside, the Yellowstone River was threatening to crest, and this flood warning was announced on the news: “The river will continue to rise & exceed flood stage Sun morn at Forsyth and will rise above flood stage by late morn at Miles City.”

But that didn't stop us—and it didn't stop the Cowboy Mardi Gras either. Once again we trudged through the mud for another afternoon at the Bucking Horse Sale.

Not every princess can get away with wearing a shower cap under her tiara.

Is this young stud the next Blake Shelton?

Or the next JJ Elshere?

And hopefully this young cowboy sticks with gum...

and doesn’t pick up this nasty habit.

Say "hi" to Scott, Betty, Annette, Suzanne, Sarah and Juliette. The Western Muck Dusters.

Well, alligators live in swamps, right?

“He’s one of our youngest cowboys, but don’t let his age fool you. Do I hear $1200 for this talented young buck?”

Calm down, girls, it’s not what you think. These cowboys are being auctioned off for the bronc riding competition.

“My baby and my Bud!”

As a photographer sometimes you have to put yourself in the line of fire to get the shot.

The shotgun chaps are pretty dang cool!

Especially from this angle. Now I was getting up close and personal with the riders...

and with the horses.

This is the Calcutta event where some the top bronc riders in the world come to compete.

Keeping your chaps clean is an added incentive for staying on that bucking horse.

Many think that the "flank strap" causes the horse pain, but it actually tickles the horse's abdomen which makes him kick out higher and straighter. Once the ride is over, the strap is taken off the horse...

and removed from the ring.

OK, I'm really not obsessed, I just couldn't resist.

Yep, that's yet another Bud can.

Getting the saddle on the horse is likely just as difficult as staying on the saddle for eight long seconds.

Can't wait for those pick-up guys, right?

The Old Yellow Slicker

No matter how sloppy or muddy or lowery;
No matter how cold or unpleasant the storm,
No matter how blusterin', gusty or showery.
That old yellow slicker I wore kept me warm...(read the whole poem here)

It looks really awkward, but laying back on your horse is the correct way to come out of the chute.

The flank-strap is being taken away, while the horse is being picked up.

Though a good cowboy should be tough, he should also have "soft hands," much like a good pianist.

This thrown rider was a pretty good sport. After hurling mud at the hecklers...

he strutted back across the field with a big smile on his face,

and the announcer politely ponted out that he had missed a spot on his right shoulder.

Is this a Crest White Strip ad if you've ever seen one?

I returned to the stands to meet my friends...

and we watched the final event where the horses were auctioned off.

And then after all the bucking and mucking in Miles City, we headed back to Runamuck Ranch.

And on that wet drive back, we watched the dark clouds and the rising river and pondered the risk of staying in that area with road closures and unsafe riding conditions. But far more serious was the threat to crops and homes from the bulging rivers and the imminent snow melts as the Yellowstone swells and pours into the Missouri River.

The Wild West - part 2

2011-06-22T05:58:24Z

As you may remember, we left off after a full day of mud and broncs at the Bucking Horse Sale. The next morning we joined the locals for a pancake breakfast at the Memorial Hall of the Range Riders Museum.

And yes, we had pancakes.

Biscuits and gravy.

And of course, Tang. I’m moving to Miles City to relive my childhood.

This napkin is loaded with local brands. SuzAnne and the Longs added their brands. East meets West.

We heard a little local history. 800 pioneer plaques and biographies are displayed on these walls. About 788 of those plaques are men—sheriffs, wranglers, ranch hands, homesteaders.

For example here's a close up of Louie Pelissier, Cowboy-Rancher. If you ever find yourself at the museum, you can open any of the black tubes below the plaque and read about a particular life in the scroll inside.

Off to the parade. It rained on the Miles City’s parade.

One truck,

two truck,

red truck,

blue truck.

Old truck,

new truck.

Shower caps for your cowboy hats is a great idea for the rain.

It hadn't rained at the Bucking Horse Sale since 1977.

But everyone came prepared.

We dropped into a coffee house and had a brief respite from the storm.

Coffee, like beer, bridges all cultural divides.

We dropped in Murdoch's Ranch & Home Supply...

thinking they would likely have muck boots.

Juliette got new muck boots and cut the label off with her new buck knife.

Time for a little lunch at the Hole in the Wall Cafe.

In Miles City you don’t need a cast or a jr. high graduation to get people to write on your body.

The 7th Calgary Drum & Bugle Corps from Sheridan, Wyoming, went from bar to bar...

and played for their Bud.

In Miles City Budweiser is considered the finest brewery in America. "For all you do, this Bud's for you." This would not be a suitable place for my designer beer husband.

Back to the fairgrounds for more mud and broncs.

The rain and mud didn’t make it easy on the horses...

or the riders.

A few managed to stay on for the 8 seconds.

Amazing as that was at times.

Here are a few rides that were photo worthy.

It was hard watching the horses snort mud like this.

But this rider still scored big points for...

keeping his toes pointed out and...

for his smooth...

and controlled ride.

And there were some equally impressive falls.

The horses weren't the only ones eating mud.

Belly flop!!

Even she is probably wondering why anyone would want to do this.

For the few riders that managed to stay on, the pickup riders...

pulled up and gave them a hand.

We thought that the pickup riders were the most impressive of all!

Check out the boot in the stirrup.

This rider didn’t fare so well. This is the real “true grit”!

I'd hate to have his chiropractic bills.

Chris DeLoux can tell you why the The Cowboy's Hat is important.

The cowboy's hat won't stay on the ground for long.

Everything is OK in the world if a rider walks off with his hat on.

In the immortal words of Dr. Seuss, "From there to here, from here to there, funny things are everywhere."

The Wild West—part 1

2011-06-09T05:46:00Z

My friend SuzAnne invited me to photograph a horseback trip in eastern Montana, complete with a cattle herding clinic and a side trip to the world famous Bucking Horse Sale in Miles City. How could I resist? Here was my chance to redeem myself after falling off my horse twice the last trip I photographed for her. Time to get back in the saddle. I dusted off my boots and got my camera holster ready.

When I arrived at Dunrovin Ranch in Lolo, Montana, the weather was ideal. A few puffy white clouds in the big sapphire blue sky.

Despite skies like these, weather forecasts were predicting nearly a 100% likelihood of heavy rains in coming days.

Adjacent to the ranch the riparian corridor of the Bitterroot River looked like the Louisiana Bayou.

The day after I arrived, SuzAnne took me on a beautiful trail ride. Of course, I thought the weather gods were on our side. Looking at a sky like this who could imagine what was ahead of us?

Later that afternoon kids had come for the Pony Club. The three year olds in the club have much better balance on their horses than I do.

And much cooler boots.

Early the next morning I met the women going on the trip, and we loaded the horses and gear in the trailer. SuzAnne revved up Ms. Dixie and turned her wheels east.

With a six foot horse trailer in tow you hang with the big boys at the truck stops. But that doesn't mean you have to eat there. I'm sure this glove would have some great big rig stories to tell if it could.

Our first “rest” stop was a walk at Arrow Stone Park,

adjacent to one of the five largest Montana timber mills still in operation.

That evening we stopped in Roundup and took our first ride. Annette rode side saddle.

I didn't even fall off of this horse.

SuzAnne just couldn't wait to get her pony going.

The horses were fed...

and the humans. Nice homemade pies at the Busy Bee Cafe.

Just to give you a peek at what’s to come, here’s the Busy Bee Cafe five days later.

It was about 8pm that evening when we arrived at our final destination that day, Runamuk Ranch.

By now the rain had arrived and mucky it was.

We were scheduled to ride the next morning, but by then it was a downpour and we decided not to take the horses on a slip and slide. So instead we headed out early for the Miles City Bucking Horse Sale.

And when we arrived it was WET.

And just a little WILD.

Even the young mutton busters riding the sheep

came face to face with the mud.

Some of the viewers grabbed front row seats.

And if you're a boy, six years old, and live in Miles City, you better wear a cowboy hat.

Ditto, if you're a girl!!

Some were clownin' around—but all the mud was no joke.

And some are seriously cool—mud and all.

The last event of the evening was the wild horse race where teams of three have to capture...

and saddle their designated horse...

and then attempt to ride it around the track once.

Miles City nearly doubles its population the weekend of the Bucking Horse Sale. This year, due to the rain, there were only a few dancing in the street at this typically packed event. After a very wet day we hung our dusters up to dry and hit the hay. I'll meet you in the mornin' at the Range Rider’s Museum for a pancake breakfast!