Dunes

The High Desert. That's an accurate name for this part of the Great Basin. I'm beginning to think in terms of years, to remember when this dry spell started.

And no, these are not snow drifts. These are dunes.

It seems I always end up making a trip to the dune fields about this time of the year. This year it got dark, and I almost missed the light. I don't think I have really adjusted to moving the clock, and the days getting so short.





The blue light is what had my attention. The shadows on the dunes were filled with a beautiful blue light.

W.V.F.D

Old Trees

I've just uploaded some more images to my long ignored flicker account. Have a look.

Landscape-Mindscape

White Mountains, in California, at a photography workshop.


It was a beautiful spot, among groves of Bristlecone Pines, some of the oldest living organisms on the planet.

Independence Day 2008

We had a nice spot to watch the fireworks tonight. Sitting in the grass on the slope of the # 8 tee box at the WGC. Beautiful evening; clear, cool, calm, and not a cloud in the sky.

Wishbone

There is this shot. It's a little late since it was taken in March I think. But I liked it. The last snow of the season. About three days later it was all gone. The trail will wrap around the back side of this ridge when it is constructed next spring. Those Humboldt's over in Pershing County, and the Humboldt River Valley show up nicely.

Which Way Did They Go ?

It must be a sign of the times.
end-of-scenic-route reminded me of this shot.





















One thing you might want with you up on the mountain is a good set of body armor. A little thicker than this sign. A helmet might be a good idea as well.

Happy Mother's Day

These young orphans wish they had their mothers.

They get special love and care, and have their stories told in a color-coded alpha numeric script code.

Sun Down again

The view down the street this afternoon.


















We've been having some strong wind storms. This afternoon, about sundown, the wind was taking the dust northeast. The wind blows huge amounts of soil, very fine dust mostly, into the air, and then carries it away in huge choking clouds.

The lands producing most of this dust are the vast acres burned by wildfire. The oceans of sage and clump grass having been burning away over these lands in what has become a annual ritual. The burned lands may never recover. There are now invasive species of grass weed that are propagating so quickly that the same lands can burn year after year. Mostly cheatgrass. There are a lot of different strategies, and tactics, much discussion, and some execution, on how to best address this problem.

I don't think there is a local solution. It appears to me that a different climate, one that provided more rain and snowfall, might be required. That may not come anytime soon.....

I wonder if 500 years from now this area will be the north reaches of the Mojave Desert?

Jungo Flats

This afternoon we made our way in the sedan, to the beach, but we couldn't ever find the water. We could always see it, just over there, but we couldn't ever sneak up on it.

This image reminds me of a vistor from the far east we saw in NYC, on the south tip of Manhattan Island. He had his cell phone mounted on a 5' tripod, and was taking a photo of the Statue of Liberty The photographer above is using her iPhone.

Wait till you see the video morsa made, you'll be amazed.

Sleeping Giants

quarter past six

The snow on the north side of this low peak reminded me of a sports car, a 911, with door handle.

Today the proposed route layout is complete.

WINNMO

It's coming together. JP, the trail designer, is laying loops on the mountain. This is him, at the
foot of the mountain. headin' up.














This is JP talking with the mountain.
Seeking permission to seek the summit.

ICE

Used to be that ice was a real valuable commodity around these parts. Still is I guess, but not like the days when you had to cross Nevada on Highway 40.

104 degrees, dry hot wind blowing, driving the narrow blacktop with all the windows rolled down. The Mayor, he used to sell ice cream cones, said people would stop for a while just to let their tires cool down. The big swimming pool, right downtown under a canopy of huge trees, was a real popular stop on a family trip.

Finding a gas station with a good supply of ice to keep things cool to the next stop was a near necessity. That and a couple of canvas bags of water strapped on the front, catching bugs, and the odd jackrabbit or deer.

Walt Whitman

The teeming streets of Walt Whitman's America. A hundred and fifty years later.

I think it was the prospect of a new start, a new administration in Washington, that brought Walt Whitman's Leaves of Grass to me. I bought the anniversary edition of this work a few weeks ago, and for the first time, read this famous piece of very American poetry.

Walt knows.

I recommend it.

This is from the opening of the preface in the 1855 first edition:

The Americans of all nations at any time upon the earth have probably the fullest poetical nature. The United States themselves are essentially the greatest poem. In the history of the earth hitherto the largest and most stirring appear tame and orderly to their ampler largeness and stir. Here at last is something in the doings of man that corresponds with the broadcast doings of the day and night. Here is not merely a nation but a teeming nation of nations. Here is action untied from strings necessarily blind to particulars and details magnificently moving in vast masses. Here is the hospitality which forever indicates heroes . . . . Here are the roughs and beards and space and ruggedness and nonchalance that the soul loves. Here the performance disdaining the trivial unapproached in the tremendous audacity of its crowds and groupings and the push of its perspective spreads with crampless and flowing breadth and showers its prolific and splendid extravagance. One sees it must indeed own the riches of the summer and winter, and need never be bankrupt while corn grows from the ground or the orchards drop apples or the bays contain fish or men beget children upon women.

Other states indicate themselves in their deputies . . . . but the genius of the United States is not best or most in its executives or legislatures, nor in its ambassadors or authors or colleges or churches or parlors, nor even in its newspapers or inventors . . . but always most in the common people. Their manners speech dress friendships the freshness and candor of their physiognomy the picturesque looseness of their carriage . . . their deathless attachment to freedom their aversion to anything indecorous or soft or mean the practical acknowledgment of the citizens of one state by the citizens of all other states the fierceness of their roused resentment their curiosity and welcome of novelty their self-esteem and wonderful sympathy their susceptibility to a slight the air they have of persons who never knew how it felt to stand in the presence of superiors the fluency of their speech their delight in music, the sure symptom of manly tenderness and native elegance of soul . . . their good temper and openhandedness the terrible significance of their elections the President's taking off his hat to them not they to him these too are unrhymed poetry. It awaits the gigantic and generous treatment worthy of it.