The word 'flow' in the title of the last post and a comment by uber-commenter, George, reminded me of something. Gee, if only the search box in blogger worked right. After some brute-force-searching I finally found that other post.
This blog isn't a travelogue of Breaking News of the day. There is too much of that approach on the internet. The more minute-by-minute writing becomes, the more trivial it gets. So I rewrote this other experience, hoping that a couple "moments of truth" will come across more clearly to the reader.
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The Little Poodle and I "paddled" upstream -- on the mountain bike -- along the popular Arkansas River, near "Byoona" Vista, CO. We saw one river rafting company after another. As luck would have it, we made it in time for their mass "descension" of the Arkansas River. (If balloonists at the Albuquerque festival can have a mass ascension, then rafters in Colorado can have a mass descension.)
It seemed like a documentary about the D-Day invasion of World War II. Actually it all happened quickly and smoothly.
It has always been a poignant experience to watch people enjoying any water sport. I have tried to connect with the water over the years, and nothing really worked. So I surrendered to my fate as a land mammal.
The little poodle, not being a Labrador retriever, felt the same way. So we turned away from the river and biked into an area dominated by foothills of spheroidally-weathered granite. The road was actually just a dry wash of decomposed granite: small, clean, bright, and loose. It is tiring to bike uphill through loose gravel. A rocky path is actually easier.
We plodded onward, uphill -- or rather, upstream--and into the hot morning sun. Along one section there was a rivulet of clean water that the parched poodle desperately wanted a drink from. He needed some help because the rivulet was only a half inch deep.
So I scooped the loose granitic gravel into a hole, making it easier for him to drink. It was strange how this didn't muddy-up the water. Here I was, surrounded by the Collegiate Peaks (all Fourteeners) and the marvelous Arkansas River. But the mere sight of such things had little effect on me.
It was only when I scooped out a drinking hole for my little poodle, and felt the desperate lapping of his little tongue against the palm of my hand, that I was strongly affected by what was around me. I guess William Blake really was right. ("To hold infinity in the palm of your hand...")
I pushed the bike uphill for a long way, knowing that when we turned around, it might be easy to bike down the dry wash. (A more prudent approach would have been to test that theory closer to the start.) Indeed, it worked out just as hoped. It's one of the advantages of mountain biking.
Descending the dry wash on the bike was a strange experience because I couldn't really steer the bike, properly speaking. I could only react to the changes in the looseness of the granitic gravel. The path was troughed and concave, and I could only try to keep the wheel straight.
Looking at my front wheel, it appeared as though it were stationary and the gravel was flowing by, like water flowing by the bow of a sailboat. I could only help the gravel steer me back to the center. With each minute, this unusual mountain bike ride seemed more like kayaking down the Arkansas River. It gave me the unusual satisfaction of actually connecting with a water sport for perhaps the first time in my life. And I was on dry land.
This blog isn't a travelogue of Breaking News of the day. There is too much of that approach on the internet. The more minute-by-minute writing becomes, the more trivial it gets. So I rewrote this other experience, hoping that a couple "moments of truth" will come across more clearly to the reader.
_____________________________________
The Little Poodle and I "paddled" upstream -- on the mountain bike -- along the popular Arkansas River, near "Byoona" Vista, CO. We saw one river rafting company after another. As luck would have it, we made it in time for their mass "descension" of the Arkansas River. (If balloonists at the Albuquerque festival can have a mass ascension, then rafters in Colorado can have a mass descension.)
It seemed like a documentary about the D-Day invasion of World War II. Actually it all happened quickly and smoothly.
It has always been a poignant experience to watch people enjoying any water sport. I have tried to connect with the water over the years, and nothing really worked. So I surrendered to my fate as a land mammal.
The little poodle, not being a Labrador retriever, felt the same way. So we turned away from the river and biked into an area dominated by foothills of spheroidally-weathered granite. The road was actually just a dry wash of decomposed granite: small, clean, bright, and loose. It is tiring to bike uphill through loose gravel. A rocky path is actually easier.
We plodded onward, uphill -- or rather, upstream--and into the hot morning sun. Along one section there was a rivulet of clean water that the parched poodle desperately wanted a drink from. He needed some help because the rivulet was only a half inch deep.
So I scooped the loose granitic gravel into a hole, making it easier for him to drink. It was strange how this didn't muddy-up the water. Here I was, surrounded by the Collegiate Peaks (all Fourteeners) and the marvelous Arkansas River. But the mere sight of such things had little effect on me.
It was only when I scooped out a drinking hole for my little poodle, and felt the desperate lapping of his little tongue against the palm of my hand, that I was strongly affected by what was around me. I guess William Blake really was right. ("To hold infinity in the palm of your hand...")
I pushed the bike uphill for a long way, knowing that when we turned around, it might be easy to bike down the dry wash. (A more prudent approach would have been to test that theory closer to the start.) Indeed, it worked out just as hoped. It's one of the advantages of mountain biking.
Descending the dry wash on the bike was a strange experience because I couldn't really steer the bike, properly speaking. I could only react to the changes in the looseness of the granitic gravel. The path was troughed and concave, and I could only try to keep the wheel straight.
Looking at my front wheel, it appeared as though it were stationary and the gravel was flowing by, like water flowing by the bow of a sailboat. I could only help the gravel steer me back to the center. With each minute, this unusual mountain bike ride seemed more like kayaking down the Arkansas River. It gave me the unusual satisfaction of actually connecting with a water sport for perhaps the first time in my life. And I was on dry land.
Comments
Anyway, you said:
Descending the dry wash on the bike was a strange experience because I couldn't really steer the bike, properly speaking. I could only react to the changes in the looseness of the granitic gravel. The path was troughed and concave, and I could only try to keep the wheel straight.
Isn't that exactly what life is like? We can't really steer all that well. We don't have that kind of control though we like to think we do. As events occur around us (looseness of the gravel) we can only react to them and guide our wheels around them with the simple goal of not falling down. That makes it a good day.
As evidence of the ages is all around, it matters little to the direct experience of life. What matters is the clean drink of water that the little dog so relished. So often I feel that way myself. As the world seems to crumble around me.....constant conflict, greed, trivial pursuits, superficiality, etc., what gives true joy is something simple, something often overlooked because of the busy-ness that consumes the world around me.
There is also something to be said for providing that relishing drink of water to another, that bond that holds us all together, man and dog, man and other. It is often true that we take greater pleasure in providing what another so needs than in providing it for oneself. You said nothing about your own thirst and it seems like you were the one doing the work.
Interesting metaphor....the gravel flowing by like water. I think you do yourself a bit of a disservice in dismissing water as something you relate to. Being near water isn't always about water sports. It wouldn't draw my interest either. Take out the water sports and the large human population and you have the heart of the planet. The in and out of the tides is like a heartbeat and the surge of the ocean like blood running through veins. It supports a whole world of marine and plant life and like the mountains, is aged and wise. Life on this planet couldn't exist without it.
The movement of the land is slow and hard to see. The effects of wind and rain erosion, crumbling granite, etc. But the movement of the ocean is quite visible, quite everchanging, impossible to control though people try with meager success. With the ocean, one never doubts who's boss. If you can feel that riding on wash, you would certainly relish it with the ocean.
Not vocabulary but another teaching moment from the pages of Occupation of Independence.
If you think shorelines are interesting, more power to you. It would be to my advantage to appreciate it more. Tides are pretty interesting.
Thanks again for a great comment.
We are all more than just "recording devices." We can't help but bring a personal element to our observations which is why any two people observing the same event have differing observations.
Well, Boonie, what can I say? Perhaps it is all just about the ability to feel that flow you initially talked about. Everybody doesn't really tune in to that, you know.
I have come to think that this sort of perception is enhanced by solitary living for it seems necessary to reduce the bombardment of societal stimuli that tends to keep the senses pretty busy.
So, you're right, it's not a personal or self-absorbed ego sort of thing. Thank goodness. It does go beyond any given individual since it is a tuning in to a bigger picture.
Yep, mispronouncing Spanish and French place names is a Colorado thing.