Travel Adventure

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The Biggest Asshole in the World

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Oklahoma Here I Come!

I've Had Enough, I'm Outta Here!

No, I'm not giving up blogging, I'm giving up BLOGGER! For those who don't know, that is the platform this blog runs on. Over the last month or two the back end has had a number of problems. It was down for several days. There are intermittent problems with creating posts and commenting on them. I've heard from a number of people who have tried to comment and couldn't, and a couple who have gotten so frustrated that they said they aren't going to bother to try anymore.

Well, I don't have enough people who comment here to afford to lose any, so I've pulled up stakes and moved to the Wordpress platform. Hopefully it's more stable. I was able to import everything from here over there, so it should be cool. So please, if you link to me, or follow me, here are two new links, either of which will get you where you want to go for all the quality and life altering information I provide on a daily (almost) basis:

http://www.chrislatray.com

http://chrislatray.wordpress.com

My first new post is up over there. Here's the direct link:

http://chrislatray.com/2011/05/30/long-weekend-movie-extravaganza/


Oh, and I've changed from the Stumbling the Walk title to a more awesome, and pulpier, one: Naked But For a Loincloth. At least for now.

I'll keep leaving updates here when I put something new over there, for a while anyway, but I hope everyone makes the move with me. I'm not sold on the theme, and there are still some cosmetic changes to make, but at least it's up and running.

Thanks for reading! I hope it's worth it to you. . . .

Of Interest to Early Adventure Story Readers

As I've mentioned, I've been part of a small group of people reading King Solomon's Mines by H. Rider Haggard. From Wikipedia:

The book was first published in September 1885 amid considerable fanfare, with billboards and posters around London announcing "The Most Amazing Book Ever Written". It became an immediate best seller. By the late 19th century, explorers were uncovering ancient civilisations around the world, such as Egypt's Valley of the Kings, and the empire of Assyria. Inner Africa remained largely unexplored and King Solomon's Mines, the first novel of African adventure published in English, captured the public's imagination.

One of the things we've discussed is the difficulty in overlooking the more racist remarks and references to the natives in Africa, as delivered by our protagonist/narrator, Allan Quatermain. Not to mention the wholesale slaughter that passes for "hunting."

So I found the following interesting, which I read in a magazine I subscribe to, Wend Magazine. This is in a section called "Now & Then" and this bit relates to a piece in the article adapted from another book I own but haven't read (though plan to start this week) called Crossing the Heart of Africa: An Odyssey of Love and Adventure by Julian Smith. I think this gives an idea of the kind of frightening stories that were coming back to England and America from Africa around the time Haggard, and the writers who followed him, were dreaming up their novels. . . .

Remarkable Discoveries by Explorer Grogan in Africa
Excerpted from: The New York Times, February 27, 1900

LONDON, Feb. 27 -- Some of the morning papers...publish a remarkable interview with Mr. E.S. Grogan, who has just returned to England after a two years' journey in Africa.

Mr. Grogan, who traveled over 6500 miles and represents himself to be the first European who has traveled through the continent from the Cape to Cairo, says that, after leaving Lake Tanganyika, with eight porters, he entered a region of active volcanoes, where he encountered "enormous lava streams, forming a veritable sea, forty miles by sixty, and a hundred feet deep." This whole region he found devastated, forests and herds of elephants being buried in liquid fire.

The neighboring country, he says, is occupied by some 5000 Balekas, ferocious cannibals from the Congo, who live by man hunting. His guides told him that the country, covering 3500 square miles, had been until recently densely populated, but that the people had virtually all been killed and eaten by the Balekas.

Everywhere he found evidences of cannibalistic practices. The very paths in the jungle were marked out by lines of human skeletons. The streams were full of decomposing remnants of humanity, half eaten and horribly mutilated.

These cannibals, according to Mr. Grogan's narrative, lived in grass cabins. He entered some of these habitations and witnessed horrible sights. He saw "cauldrons full of liquid with floating human skulls and the bodies of infants."

One one occasion the savages attacked Mr. Grogan's party, but he opened upon them with rifle fire. This staggered the cannibals, as they had never before seen a gun or a white man. Mr. Grogan shot two and the rest retreated. He says the Balekas are by no means repulsive to look upon. Although small, they are well built and have good features. Men and women go about stark naked. Their long hair gives them a peculiarly wild appearance.

Proceeding along the west coast of Albert Lake, Mr. Grogan found the natives terrorized by raids of the Belgians. He declared that he thoroughly investigated this matter, and found that the Belgian troops were in the habit of crossing the frontier, and had shot large numbers of the inhabitants, and had carried off the young women and cattle, tying up and burning the old women while white Belgian officers were present.

He adds, "From the north of Albert Lake to Lake Mweru the whole country is in a state of chaos. It is administered by incompetent Belgians. Often the non-commissioned officers and troops are of the lowest type of native and they are almost invariably cannibals."

I find this fascinating. What a different world, and, really, it all happened not so long ago.

So I Read the Story

The excrement really isn't slowing it's assault on the oscillating device as it relates to my friend Benjamin Whitmer's review for Spinetingler Magazine of the James Reasoner story, "The Conversion of Carne Muerto," from the new anthology called On Dangerous Ground: Stories of Western Noir from Cemetary Dance Publications. If you recall, this whole bru-ha-ha inspired my recent post on what issues maybe fire you up as a reader, or movie watcher, or anything along those lines.

The debate around the story is that Whitmer calls it out as belonging to a certain type rooted in what he calls the "Indian hater" tradition. He then does a pretty thorough job of identifying the hallmarks of that tradition, and how they have perpetuated several myths as it relates to Whites vs. Indian interactions in American history. He does this as explanation for the reasons he doesn't like the story. There are strong political and cultural emotions at play here, and Ben doesn't pull any punches. It's generated a lot of heat and hot air, in many cases from people who haven't read the story, and probably haven't even thought that much about how Indians have been treated in literature or movies.

Happily I was able to acquire a copy of the story, and have the hardcover edition of the anthology headed my way. Having read the story now, if I must make a cold, emotionless evaluation, I'd say Whitmer is right, for all the reason's he's given. Whitmer's primary argument is that this is a story that's a pretty note-for-note take on the tradition as he outlines it, and really does nothing to bring anything new to the trope. Frankly, that assessment is spot on, if one chooses to view it in that light.

But that doesn't mean he hasn't earned a fair amount of the anger that's been thrown at him.

In a nutshell, the story is this (spoiler alert!): The tale is told from the point of view of a doctor working with soldiers out on the Southwestern frontier. Carne Muerto is a young Comanche who is taken captive by Texas Rangers, and they learn he is the son of the chief. Wounded, they bring him back in hopes of perhaps using him for information or to trade for white prisoners. When they are preparing to lock him up, a young white, Christian woman freaks out that they shouldn't be locking him up, and convinces the various officers that he should be turned over to her care while they decide what to do with him. She commences to try and convert him to Christianity. It seems to take. The doctor, who has been charged with guarding him while he's in the care of the woman, grows lax. Carne Muerto escapes, knocks the doctor unconscious, rapes the woman, and splits. He goes on to lead many successful raids on whites. The woman hangs herself. Her husband dies in a suicidal attack a couple years later. Unhappy stuff, but hey -- this is a Western Noir anthology.

I'm a big fan of James Reasoner, the writer of the story. It has many of the elements I like about his writing -- clear prose, solid dialogue, and a firm grasp of what people love about traditional Westerns. When I pick up a Reasoner yarn, I'm usually pretty aware of what I'm going to get, and the man delivers -- he's totally old school, and I love that about him. I have a ton of admiration for the guy.

Doesn't mean though that I don't have some beefs with this particular yarn, some of which come with my own hypersensitivity to how Indians are portrayed in popular culture. The capture and all that is fine. I don't mind the negative words the white soldiers use in regards to the Indians, because that is a reality of the world they lived in. Maybe it isn't 100% historically accurate, but whatever is? If I heard a guy down the street talking like that, I'd bust him in the face. But a period Western? I let it slide. To do otherwise tarnishes the realism the writer is trying to capture in the work.

However, these characters are people who were every bit as misogynist as they were anti-Indian. I could see our female character maybe convincing one guy that this "dangerous prisoner" could be given over to her care, but a group of three or four military officers? Even as the narrator is commenting on the hatred in the young warrior's eyes? Sorry, I'm not buying that. But it happens, and the story continues.

Our ill-fated Christian commences to try and show Carne Muerto the light. He seems to be buckling:

Carne Muerto tapped his chest with a fist. “God here,” he said. “Jesus here.”

Shortly thereafter, vigilance ebbs, and he makes his escape.

Even if I had read the story ignorant of all the points Whitmer has made about it, I would have been very disappointed. Why would this Indian take the time to rape this woman when escape presented itself? A native Indian, young and full of fury, in a hostile environment? I just don't buy that. I could see him killing the doctor, even killing the woman if she tried to prevent his escape. But rape and leave her behind to sound an alarm if she chose? Doesn't ring true at all. As for the conversion, I don't buy that either in the short time the story encompasses. I thought Carne Muerte was faking it, and we really don't know . . . the characters in the story assume that when he was absolved of sin by becoming Christian, he misunderstood that that meant he could do whatever he wanted and would be forgiven. Again, I'm not buying that. In such a short span could he even come to understand all these concepts enough to really even make decisions based on them? I don't think so. I can't imagine a young guy in his position doing anything but haul ass when opportunity presents itself, striking down any who stand in his way. Killing in this instance is really an example of self defense, and who could really blame him. Rape? That is an act of a twisted individual, regardless of who is doing it and why.

The rape becomes a vehicle to drive the remaining characters to doom -- the woman's suicide, her husband's suicidal demise. Meanwhile the perpetrator gets away presumably unscathed, the villain.

Really, as a story, I suppose it works if you can overlook the cultural weight of it. But I couldn't have, and haven't, reviewed it favorably, based mainly on my own personal values and prejudices.

Back to Whitmer's review. His first mistake was probably not researching a little more who James Reasoner is. The guy is beloved in the community of people most likely to buy this book and read the review. That has brought a lot of the heat on. I suspect that if some no-name like me had written it, the response would be a fraction of what it's been, if there'd been any at all. James has a lot of respect and love in the community, and it's been earned.

If he knew Reasoner, or was more familiar with his work and community standing, Ben might have worded his position more carefully. You start dropping hate-bombs and people are gonna freak. Whitmer says he did not intend to call Reasoner an Indian-hater, and I believe him now, but reading the review the first time that is exactly what I took away from it. Even reading it again, I had to look for reasons not to take that away, and most people aren't going to do that. That's a tough accusation to overcome.

When Whitmer called out Reasoner for the name of his character (for which Ben has since apologized for), it was pointed out that this story was based on real people and events. Unsurprisingly, that oversight then called into question every point he'd made. In Whitmer's defense, though, pretty much only in character names alone is this story based on actual events. In this case the real events are the barest foundation of the plot, and can in no way be used as an argument along the lines of, "But this really happened!"

I suspect that what rubs people the wrong way is that the review reads kind of like Ben took the opportunity to get on a soapbox about a subject he's passionate about and has a lot of knowledge of. The story itself is little discussed, only that it falls into a pool a couple thousand words deep. Nowhere does he say the story shouldn't have been written, he just explains, in extreme detail, the hows and whys of his dislike for it. It could even be seen as coming off a little finger-waggingly. He doesn't really even discuss the story much, just leaves it propped against the wall of the paragraphs that precede the section of the review that actually addresses the story itself. A reader comes away a little overwhelmed thinking, "Okay, I guess James Reasoner wrote a story that proves he's an Indian-hater. Wait . . . what?"

That's unfair to both these writers.

"The Conversion of Carne Muerto" won't go down as one of my favorite examples of James Reasoner's work, but I didn't come away from it pissed at the lost time I'd spent reading it either. That's fine, the dude has probably written 50,000 words in the time it's taken me to babble on in this review, and I've got a pile of his stuff I'm eagerly looking forward to reading. I'm no less of a fan, and I trust he won't think I'm an asshole for saying what I think about this particular yarn.

As for Benjamin Whitmer, I'd never tell him to rein it in, even as I'd slide him a beer and remind him that he's kinda made the bed he's now going to sleep in until it all blows over. In a world where a lot of artists aren't willing to take stands on anything that might lose them readers (i.e. paying customers), I admire him for not backing down. The problem is the thing has snowballed, and it's probably time to just walk away. There are some absolutely ridiculous accusations being leveled at him, and at this point I don't think anything but harm can come from responding further. I suppose my review here is just adding to the absurdity too, but hey, hardly anyone reads my damn blog anyway.

Look, we all bring our political and cultural and crazy shit to everything we experience. I recently read somewhere a blog by someone reviewing two movies, Source Code and Battle: Los Angeles. This person hated Source Code, which has generally been viewed pretty damn favorably (and I happened to love it) because the villain was a clean-cut white dude. "How typical of those stupid libs in Hollywood, who hate America, to make the terrorist something other than an arab" or something along those lines. They were pissed. Battle: Los Angeles, however (a movie pretty much universally panned that I didn't see because I thought it looked like an absolute piece of shit), they loved, because "it showed exactly what our brave heroes in the military are really all about." So there we go. Everyone does it -- I'm sure we can all think of examples in our own lives. If the writers of those two films had done the opposite, an entirely separate batch of people would have been up in arms.

James Reasoner isn't an Indian hater who intentionally wrote a story to splatter his racist views all over everyone who read it. Ben Whitmer didn't intentionally call him such. But somehow, some of those lines have gotten blurred and that's unfortunate.

Photo Finish Friday

The Anniversary Self-Portrait Edition.

Five years ago today Julia and I got up, drove to Couer d'Alene, ID, and got a marriage license. Then we crossed the street to The Hitching Post and got . . . hitched. We didn't tell anyone we'd done it until about six months after. We're sneaky that way, and it was fun.

It's still fun.

Where's Your Line?

I recently read a story the other day that made me step back and think very hard about my own writing, and what it has to say about the person I am and the writer/artist I want to be. These reflections brought a lot of what I've been working on to a screeching halt too. The story is called "Folded Blue" and it's by a fine writer named John Rector, published on a new crime/noir flash fiction site called Shotgun Honey.

There's nothing wrong with the story. It's well-written, and packs a lot into a tight 700 words. Rector's an excellent author, and by all reports is a great guy too. So my discomfort with the story is no reflection on him or what he's about. It mostly just underscored a problem I've been having more and more with crime fiction in general: the content.

In this case, it's a theme very common in crime fiction, and that is violence against women. It could be girlfriends being killed, or prostitutes, it doesn't matter -- it's common as hell. Maybe it's leaned on so often because it's real; it's shit that happens in the real world that we can all recognize and relate to as horrible. But I wonder if the barrage doesn't somehow numb us to the realities of misogyny in our world, and violence against women. It's a horrible, real-world plague. And in participating in a storytelling sense, I question my motivations and whether or not I'm part of the problem as well. There's got to be more to write about than killing women, right? Oh, and torture scenes. Jesus, enough with the fucking torture scenes.

It reminded me of a time many years ago I was doing a little writing on a fiction site that was kind of horror-based; a guy wrote a story of a serial killer murdering a woman, and I went apeshit. Ripped it to shreds. It wasn't just that it was disturbing, it just stomped all over my budding-feminist values and just screamed misogyny to me. My reaction prompted a wave of online forum name calling and anger, and I bailed and never went back; I was troubled and embarrassed. Since then, I've had to kind of build a wall around my buttons just to read or watch anything, because just about any story, particularly a crime story, has elements that are going to be offensive to someone, and often me -- if I let them. But this Rect0r story, it was like the proverbial straw on a camel that collapsed a lot of issues that were building within me about crime fiction in general.

"I don't feel we did wrong in taking this great country away from them if that's what you're asking. Our so called stealing of this country was just a question of survival. There were great numbers of people who needed new land the Indians were selfishly trying to keep it for themselves." -- John Wayne

Today, a writer I admire and like, Benjamin Whitmer, delivered a review on behalf of Spinetingler Magazine of a story written by another writer I admire and like, James Reasoner. The story is part of a new anthology called On Dangerous Ground: Stories of Western Noir,which has just come out. I haven't read the story (but I will as soon as I can track down a copy of the book), so I can't comment on it specifically, but I think Ben's buttons were pushed in similar way to mine have been in the past; here's a paragraph from the review:

Then I read the story assigned me, “The Conversion of Carne Muerto,” by James Reasoner. And that excitement died real quick, as I realized it was a minor variation of one of the ugliest stories in American literary history: that of the Indian hater. And that I was gonna have to explain exactly why I disliked this story so thoroughly, and that it was gonna take me a lot of words.

Ben goes on to dismantle the trope he feels the story is built on, and he does so in epic fashion. It is long, but it is well worth reading. I felt my blood beginning to rise, as it is an issue near to my heart. Hell, I can't even go to powwows anymore because I can't stand to see American flags flying over them, or listen to Christian prayers being delivered. To me, and this is no exaggeration, that image is akin to Jewish people standing with hands-to-heart beneath a Nazi flag.

Now it's hard for me to imagine a guy like James Reasoner knowingly perpetuating the "Indian hater" archetype as described so thoroughly by Whitmer. Nor do I imagine John Rector to be a misogynist bent on perpetuating, or belittling, the horror of violence against women. I also know that I'm a total hypocrite, because there is much that I read and enjoy, or movies I like, that could be dismantled by an expert in similar fashion for any number of reasons. Hell, I'm participating in a little book group with David Cranmer and several other folks reading Haggard's King Solomon's Mines, and every day I'm ignoring jibes against my sensibilities about every other page. So who am I to get in a tizzy about this stuff?

I don't particularly view myself as one of those sticklers for political correctness either, even though there are many words and ideas thrown around all the time that make me grind my teeth and, depending on the source, just let it pass. Talk of whores and sluts. References to dead prostitutes. Calling people "rednecks" or "white trash." Racism, particularly as it relates to our current POTUS. And now and then I hear a word exit my mouth and I'm shocked to hear it delivered with my voice. And that is when I worry that maybe I'm letting too much of this stuff slide.

So I guess what I'm asking is this: what pushes your buttons? Does it happen often? And how the hell do you deal with it without going into a coccoon? Or are guys like me just would too tight?

Saturday Night Excitement

After two weeks in a row of being gone most of the time, I got home in time to basically put Julia on a plane to Tucson for a few days. I wish I could have gone with her! And with Sid essentially gone all the time (either flipping burgers at Wendy's or hanging out with his degenerate friends), I found myself alone on Saturday night. So I watched a couple movies and endured my other companions. This is what passes for excitement up in here with La Sirena absent. . . .



My life is an adventure.

I've been experimenting with uploading files direct from my cell phone to Tumblr, another blogging site. It's cool because it automatically updates Twitter and Facebook simultaneously as well (like that really matters). You can check out what I've been doing if you want, to see stuff like this:

It's something I'm experimenting with, more as a place to post one-offs when I'm on the go, then use this page for longer stuff. Who knows. At the same time, I've been considering just up and stopping doing ANY of this stuff.

Have one more batch of photos from the last Chicago trip; don't know if I'll do that here or maybe just throw them up on Flickr. Also have some shots I took hiking over the last few days.

So much action, so little time. . . .

A Fox? Sweet!

This is dedicated to my friend David Cranmer, in light of his post today:



In local news in the same vein, this is worth a look too.

The Adventure Where Kent Gowran Tries to Get Me Killed or Arrested

I wrapped up my work responsibilities early in Chicago, but still had a late flight out. I emailed my friend Kent Gowran and asked him about some places worth checking out. He responded with a good breakfast restaurant to check out in the Wicker Park neighborhood of the city. Close by he named a couple bookstores and a record store I would probably dig as well. So I figured I'd give it a whirl.

Around 11:00 or so I heard a ton of police sirens going off, but didn't think much of it. A few blocks down the street I encountered a couple cops in plainclothes standing out in front of a pawn shop, only they were sporting some artillery and had body armor on. I just shrugged, and kept walking. About this time I noticed a helicopter hovering overhead as well, just kind of swooping a narrow arc back and forth. A couple more blocks and I noticed about six or eight cop cars in front of this bank, with a bunch of cops milling about. The helicopter was directly overhead.

I walked around back, started walking up the alley where a few more cop cars were parked, and lo and behold laying right there was A BACKPACK FULL OF MONEY!

I was literally standing right behind that parked car. Then some cops came and chased me away. They were all pretty fat (no surprise there) and old so I figured I could outrun them . . . but the empty canine police unit told me there might have been a four-legged challenge in the vicinity, so I passed on my get-rich-quick scheme.

I went back out around front, and people on the street were speculating that either the pawn shop had been robbed and the dudes chased this way, or it was the bank that had been robbed, or both.

The news crew arrived. The camera man was setting up in front of the bank and I told him about the bag of money in the alley, and that that might make a good shot. He quickly bolted back there. The on-camera dude started to follow him, then asked me what I knew, and if I'd talk on camera. I said sure, and headed back there with them.

When the cops saw the news guys, they repositioned their vehicles so that the money bag couldn't be seen. Assholes. The camera guy said they do shit like that all the time.

Then we went back around the back street and up the alley from the other side. This shot is coming down the alley from the other direction, which as we learned is where all the action really went down.

This girl lives in the neighborhood, and the news guy started asking her questions. She knew less than me, and didn't even know about the money . . . but he chose to interview her instead. I think it's because she's from England and had a fancypants accent.

Then a guy watching all the goings-on went and got this girl, because she actually about got run over by the perps of the whole thing! She was walking her dog when the guys with the money (and a gun!) ran by her, then cops screeched into the alley at the opposite end. It's funny, because she said that she thought for a second about sticking her leg out to trip them, but didn't want them to get up and hurt her. She was pretty funny.

While the news team was interviewing these women, I filmed them filming the interviews, though my audio sucks. Here are screen grabs of my videos, though.

During the interview with the second girl, the camera man kept turning around and doing the thumbs-up and mouthing "awesome!" to me. It was pretty funny. It was also funny watching her fluffing her hair and pulling it back into a ponytail and stuff before she went on camera.

Anyway, here is all the info from the news outfit. I'm surprised they didn't use more testimony from the second girl, because it was great. Regardless, pretty exciting stuff!



If only I'd know for sure where that dog was, I'm sure I could have disappeared with all that cash, helicopter or not. . . .

Photo Finish Friday

"One wrong move, and the dog gets it." -- Puny the Cat

I'd forgotten I'd taken this; I noticed it on my camera when I was shooting pictures in Chicago yesterday. Julia had come into my office a week or so ago and said, "Ah, cute!" and pointed out Puny and Orly sharing the chair together (more like, Puny was there and El Rey decided to join her, intending to squeeze her off his chair in my office). Anyway, this morning when I pulled the images off my camera, I showed it to Julia. After the "Ah" moment of its cutenss, she looked puzzled and said, "Orly looks so nervous though!" Then a pause. "But look where Puny's paw is!"

One flex of her claws, and life could get ugly for the little warrior.

This led to Julia laughing. Then me. Then Julia laughing harder. Then me laughing hard because of Julia laughing. Julia has this different laugh that makes an appearance when the animals are doing something silly. It started there, and quickly devolved until both of us were in tears, snorts, and probably a little drooling even (on Julia's part, that is, certainly not mine).

This went on for a lot longer than it really should have between sane adults, which of course forced me to use this picture for PFF this week. I hope you don't mind. Somehow Orly has maintained his dignity throughout, but I'm sure if he catches wind of this getting out on the internet, he's likely to tear me a new one.



Photo Finish Friday is the brainchild of writer/blogger/world traveler Leah J. Utas.

Another Trip to Chicago

Back in the Chicago area for the second week in a row. Don't know that that's never happened before. Here are a few images all taken with the cell phone camera.

My chariot awaits at the Missoula airport. I shared the flight with the lovely Rose McGowan. She was rumored to star in THIS movie, but is actually in THIS ONE!

Up above the Wasatch Range, Utah

Gen Con -- my youthful D&D fan heart would happily follow you there!

The blurry type of cell phone picture I hate, but had to take this crowd shot while waiting for a chance to feast at Kuma's Corner, with my buddy Kent Gowran. I ate the Black Oak Arkansas burger.

Morning came all too early.

Glad I don't deal with this kind of traffic every day.

Where I was working this week.

Had dinner and a couple beers at a sports bar, watching the Chicago Bulls in the Eastern Conference Finals.

This is a guerrilla picture of the dude next to me. He was living and dying with every play.

Wandered back to the hotel at half time, and here I am....

This is a Picture of the Kind of Weekend It's Been

So no workouts, a couple meals out, and just came from here.

Big Dipper Ice Cream, so tasty. Best ice cream I've ever had. As for the nudge that pushed me over the edge from longing for it to just going for it, I blame David Cranmer.

My Illinois Adventure

Last Tuesday morning I had to get up at oh-dark-early and catch a flight to Chicago. By the time I boarded the plane, it was looking like a beautiful day in Missoula. Figures I'd be leaving just as the sun was finally arriving.

Thankfully it was sunny in the Chicago area -- they'd just had their first hot day. Of course it was humid too, but I didn't mind. During my first day on the job I discovered there was a little hiking area very near to where I was working and staying called Waterfall Glen. The hiking/biking/horseback trail comprised a big loop, 9.5 miles. I thought it would be a great way to spend a couple hours on a nice day going all the way around it. So after work on Wednesday I went back to my hotel, changed, and headed back to the main trailhead. I stuffed my keys and my camera in one pocket, my wallet and cell phone in the other, and headed out.

The trail was more groomed than I would prefer, but it was a beautiful evening. It felt great to be out in the fresh air and moving around, sweating, getting the heart and legs pumping. There were lots of trees, layers of birdsong, and many patches of wetlands. Even though there was a constant rumble of traffic from busy roads and a nearby highway, it was still a nice little outing in the midst of suburban hell.

I was a bit camera-challenged. All I had was my cell phone and my little Olympus point and shoot (works great on close-up shots, but not so great at any distance beyond about 20 feet). I didn't have my better camera, or my fancy little video camera I bought over Christmas. I was immediately disappointed when a flash of red caught my eye and landed in a branch. It was a Cardinal, a beautiful bird we don't have in Montana. He started singing his little heart out, so I grabbed some video just to get his song on audio. The first video you can't see him, but in the second I managed to zoom it in. Yeah, the video sucks, but it's all about the song anyway.





I continued on past the 2 mile marker, then the 3 mile marker. There was another trailhead here, which was literally about 4 blocks from where I was working for the week, right at the end of the street. I wondered how many of the people working there were even aware of it? Given that the two people I was working with most had long commutes -- one had an hour drive one-way every day, the other had 45 minutes -- I doubted they ever really even saw the signs.

Just beyond that trailhead I turned a corner and the path intersected a set of train tracks.

I got a little crazy taking pictures with different settings. First with my Olympus, then a couple different looks using the RetroCamera ap on my cell phone. I really like how they turned out.

A couple hundred yards beyond this spot was a large marshland, teeming with birds and frogs (invisible, but loud).

I grabbed some bad video of this spot as well, just for the music.



I continued on. I had encountered people along the way, but as the evening progressed I was seeing fewer and fewer. Not far from here I met a young Asian woman jogging, then farther along, just past the 4 mile marker, another woman jogging. The wind was rising, and the ominous rumble of thunder was off in the distance, and getting closer. Getting much closer, and fast. Somewhere between the 4 and 5 mile markers, I was about as far from the trailhead I'd left my car as I could possibly be. The thunder boomed suddenly so close and loud that I actually jumped. Ahead I could see the trail appeared to reenter the trees, so I figured I could take cover when the storm caught me, as I was sure it would. I didn't really care -- I was hot and sweated up, and didn't expect the heavy weather would last long. I turned around and took a picture of the approaching skies.

I put my camera back in my pocket, checked their contents, and realized with horror that my wallet was gone.

"The word adventure has just gotten overused. For me, adventure is when everything goes wrong. That's when the adventure starts." -- Yvon Chouinard (surfer, kayaker, falconer and fly fisherman; founder of Patagonia), quoted from the movie 180° South - Conquerors of the Useless

I just stood there, dumbfounded. I'd been checking it regularly, because I was making sure to keep my wallet between my sweaty leg and my cell phone. I thought back to the last time I was certain I'd had it, and it was when I came off the train tracks where I'd taken all those pictures. So I knew it was somewhere in the mile-and-a-half or so of ground I'd covered since then, probably near that marsh. Or not. I started heading back, eyes to the ground, looking for it.

Then the storm hit.

It was a total freakin' gully washer. I was soaked instantly. I quickly took my camera out of its little pouch and put my cell phone in it instead, since I knew I was going to need it and didn't want to risk it getting ruined by weather. Before long water was literally running over the ground, in spots almost ankle deep. Lightning was cracking overhead, and I was nervous about that because there wasn't much cover. It got fairly dark too, and I was worried I'd miss my wallet even if I did pass it. Meanwhile, I was going over all the problems I would have to overcome if I didn't find it. I was supposed to move to a hotel closer to the airport the next night; without a credit card I wouldn't be able to pull that off. I also needed to board a flight in two days, and without any ID that would be pretty damn difficult. I was kicking myself for being so careless and stupid. I don't usually even carry that stuff with me when I'm out and about on my trips, for this very reason. Why I hadn't followed my usual protocol, I don't know, but I was afraid I'd pay the price.

I finally reached a little trailside shelter I'd passed, and the lightning was making me nervous enough that I needed to wait it out. The second woman I'd passed was sheltering there as well. She laughed when she saw me. "When I passed you I knew you were going to get wet!" she said in a heavy German accent. She told me she lived in the development just yonder. I asked if she'd seen my wallet; she hadn't. I asked her if she would keep an eye out for it. I have my personal business cards in it, and they have my cell phone number on it (my work business cards, strategically, do not). I asked her that if she found it to please call me and I would meet up with her to retrieve it. That was my big hope, that someone would indeed do that and not, instead, swipe the meager cash inside and throw the rest in the swamp.

As soon as the lightning was distant enough I set out again. The rain had mellowed out quite a bit too. Then my phone rang. It was a 630 area code. I answered -- it was the jogging Asian girl I'd passed. She had my wallet.

I realized I was one lucky bastard.

I had her text me her address, and I told her when I got back to my rental car I would use my GPS to find her apartment. She said cool, and I proceeded to haul ass the 4 miles back to the trailhead.

It would have been great to take my time, because as darkness settled the forest noises only increased. Lots of frogs of all sizes hopped through the puddles on the trail. Deer were out in threes and fours, and usually weren't too startled by my passage. In an hour I was still soaked and a little tired -- I hadn't done the full loop, but still covered probably 8.5 - 9 miles round trip -- but I was also vastly relieved because I had my wallet back. I offered my savior a reward, but she wouldn't take it. I told her it was good to know that there are still some damn good people in the world.

The next day, after work, I was determined to attack the trail again and do the full loop. I drove straight to the closest trailhead, at the 3 mile marker, and changed in the parking lot. Then I hit the trail. Here's the swamp, where I'd filmed the sounds the night before, near where I'm sure I lost my wallet.

Next I passed the spot I'd passed the girl who found my wallet.

She must have found it shortly after that. In fact, if she'd pulled my driver's license and looked at my picture, I'm sure she'd have recognized me and probably could have flagged me down then and there. But she had told me all she'd looked at was my business card.

Here's where I'd taken shelter with the German woman.

What follows are a few more pictures from the rest of the trail. It was hot. I sweated. I got a big blister on my foot, mainly from the night before when I'd had to hike with wet feet. But I didn't care.

I made the full loop, 9.5 miles. I was more tired than I expected to be, but it was pretty steamy out. Plus I'd done almost that many miles the night before. But I did it, despite my best efforts to screw myself. Believe me, I learned my lesson.

"Taking a trip for six months, you get into the rhythm of it, it feels like you could just go on forever doing that. Climbing Everest is the ultimate in the opposite of that, because you get all these high-powered plastic surgeons and CEOs . . . y'know they pay $80,000 and they have sherpas who put all the ladders in place and 8000 feet of fixed ropes. And you get to camp and you don't have to lay out your sleeping bag. It's already laid out with a little chocolate mint on top. The whole purpose of something like climbing Everest is to effect some sort of physical and spiritual gain . . . but if you compromise the process you're an asshole when you start out and you're an asshole when you get back." -- Yvon Chouinard (surfer, kayaker, falconer and fly fisherman; founder of Patagonia), quoted from the movie 180° South - Conquerors of the Useless

Photo Finish Friday

The Breakfast of Champions Edition.

I actually took this picture back in 2009 during a work trip to Houston. Why is it relevant now, you ask? Well, last night, when I meant to upload this post (but couldn't due to Blogger being down), I was at a Hampton Inn in Schiller Park, Illinois, which is very near to O'Hare Airport. Schiller Park happens to be the birthplace of the mighty Twinkie, back in the day.

Twinkies were invented in Schiller Park, Illinois in about 1930 by James Alexander Dewar, a baker for the Continental Baking Company. Realizing that several machines used to make cream-filled strawberry shortcake sat idle when strawberries were out of season, Dewar conceived a snack cake filled with banana cream, which he dubbed the Twinkie. During World War II, bananas were rationed and the company was forced to switch to vanilla cream. This change proved popular, and banana-cream Twinkies became a part of history.

I don't have twinkies very often, but every time I do it is a wonderful experience.

It's Like This Movie Poster Was Made For This Blog

A guy I know asked if I was worried about whether or not this movie will suck as a Conan movie. I don't know, it could. But then again, at its worst it will be a movie about a dude fighting other dudes with swords and axes . . . how bad could it be?