Having seen the San Rafael Swell from the top (i.e. from the Wedge Overlook), I decided it was time to see it from the bottom. I rented an inflatable kayak from the Carbon County Rec Center, waited for some rain to blow over, then impulsively decided to go down a Class II+ section of the nearby Price River. It proved a challenging introduction to the sport. Water's powerful. Like, crazy powerful. Buoyancy is no match.
In any case, I survived (and, thanks to Jack's Plastic Welding, my stuff even stayed dry!), somewhat wiser.
Kayaked the San Rafael River a few days later, from Fuller's Bottom to the San Rafael Campground. The run was every bit as beautiful and impressive from the bottom as one would expect from the top. Went down a nearby creek the next day. Here are some pictures:
Made it to Telluride early Saturday morning, in plenty of time to see some incredible music (including Jerry Douglas, Béla Fleck, Sam Bush, and Yonder Mountain String Band). Fittingly, a half-moon rose in the south-eastern sky while Yonder performed.
But Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros stole the show--giving one of the best live performances I've ever been privileged to see. Such tremendous and positive energy, channeled through a full stage of nine musicians. The band's carnivalesque sound is borne out in their costumes--appearing as a band of gypsies, transported to Telluride's mountain stage straight from their depression-era migration to California's fruit fields in search of work. I can't help but wonder if the band members appear on stage as themselves, of they're in elaborate and brilliant costume. Whether sincere to affected, the result is brilliant.
I often find it off-putting when a band's lead singer doesn't play an instrument. Not so for Alex Ebert, whose eccentrism and energy would only be encumbered by an instrument and less mobile than a tambourine (at any given time, up to four tambourines are often being played on stage). I suspect he's mad (or, again, a brilliant performer), but the passion that courses through the songs is powerful, almost palpable when performed for a live audience.
I don't know if I've gained any new appreciation for their debut album, Up From Below--but I have tremendous appreciation for the band. If you get a chance to see Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros live, do. Period.
---
It's funny--I'm certain I've seen more "celebrate diversity" bumper stickers in Telluride than anyone representing the diversity to be celebrated. What an incredibly white place. You'd think I would be de-sensitized to angle-saxon overload, living in Bozeman the last six years.
I'm off to Mesa Verde and Natural Bridges, en route to Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. Whoo!
In any case, I survived (and, thanks to Jack's Plastic Welding, my stuff even stayed dry!), somewhat wiser.
Kayaked the San Rafael River a few days later, from Fuller's Bottom to the San Rafael Campground. The run was every bit as beautiful and impressive from the bottom as one would expect from the top. Went down a nearby creek the next day. Here are some pictures:
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| 2010.06.18 Rivers! |
Made it to Telluride early Saturday morning, in plenty of time to see some incredible music (including Jerry Douglas, Béla Fleck, Sam Bush, and Yonder Mountain String Band). Fittingly, a half-moon rose in the south-eastern sky while Yonder performed.
But Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros stole the show--giving one of the best live performances I've ever been privileged to see. Such tremendous and positive energy, channeled through a full stage of nine musicians. The band's carnivalesque sound is borne out in their costumes--appearing as a band of gypsies, transported to Telluride's mountain stage straight from their depression-era migration to California's fruit fields in search of work. I can't help but wonder if the band members appear on stage as themselves, of they're in elaborate and brilliant costume. Whether sincere to affected, the result is brilliant.
I often find it off-putting when a band's lead singer doesn't play an instrument. Not so for Alex Ebert, whose eccentrism and energy would only be encumbered by an instrument and less mobile than a tambourine (at any given time, up to four tambourines are often being played on stage). I suspect he's mad (or, again, a brilliant performer), but the passion that courses through the songs is powerful, almost palpable when performed for a live audience.
I don't know if I've gained any new appreciation for their debut album, Up From Below--but I have tremendous appreciation for the band. If you get a chance to see Edward Sharpe & the Magnetic Zeros live, do. Period.
---
It's funny--I'm certain I've seen more "celebrate diversity" bumper stickers in Telluride than anyone representing the diversity to be celebrated. What an incredibly white place. You'd think I would be de-sensitized to angle-saxon overload, living in Bozeman the last six years.
I'm off to Mesa Verde and Natural Bridges, en route to Grand Staircase-Escalante National Monument. Whoo!
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8:47 am - ugly duckling 2010.06.15
I'm kayaking down the Price river, running the section between the Scofield Reservoir and the UT 6. I'm cold--a logjam a few miles upriver dumped me. The sun's out, but the day is cool--especially when wet. The sun reflects off the rippling water, the tall marsh grasses on either side, the small, whitish sandstone outcrop ahead at the bend.
Approaching the bend, I flush a duck and ducklings (Northern Pintail, I believe). Three, four, five--everything's moving quickly. I can't count them all. I've never seen so many.
They take off down-river, the ducklings stringing out behind their mom. The ducklings form a chain--ten feet long--anchored to their mother. They're swimming as fast as they're able--yet with sufficient presence of mind to form a line. Schoolchildren could learn from ducks.
They're beautiful, swimming quickly downstream. I feel a pang of regret that my presence, in my big, yellow, rented inflatable kayak, is causing such wonderful creatures such distress. If only they knew that I mean no harm.
Rounding the bend, with the ducks all in a row, I'm able to count nine ducklings. But wait--wasn't there one more?
Then I seem him, the tenth duckling. He's swimming twenty feet behind the chain of siblings. He's smaller, and is swimming with a sort of spastic, frenzied gait. His siblings are smooth and composed. I wonder if it's simply on account of his size (working harder to try to keep up), or if he has some deformity.
He can't keep up. The other ducks easily outpace me in my little rubber kayak. He can't escape. He stays barely ahead of my bow. )
The duckling's mom and siblings continue quickly, smoothly, easily down the river. The distance between them grows. It becomes apparent that he's being left behind.
The bunch soon disappears around another bend ahead. Their straggler sibling stays just ahead of my bow, growing visible exhausted. I cross to the far bank to give him (her?) some space. He stops, then starts, then finally stops. I float past. His family has long since passed out of sight.
And I'm heartbroken. I've just witnessed duckling--smaller and slower than his (her?) siblings--abandoned. They never hesitated. The hen never slowed or turned her head. She'll count her ducklings when the danger's passed.
Three or four times more I encounter the bunch. Rounding a corner, I see them. They startle, and resume their quick course downriver.
I doubt that ducks share our notion of the atomic family. I'm sure, on the river, the hen that slows to wait for the slowest duckling looses the whole brood. But I couldn't help but to feel some measure of guilt for how I had just broken a family--had thrust the youngest and smallest into premature independence.
Approaching the bend, I flush a duck and ducklings (Northern Pintail, I believe). Three, four, five--everything's moving quickly. I can't count them all. I've never seen so many.
They take off down-river, the ducklings stringing out behind their mom. The ducklings form a chain--ten feet long--anchored to their mother. They're swimming as fast as they're able--yet with sufficient presence of mind to form a line. Schoolchildren could learn from ducks.
They're beautiful, swimming quickly downstream. I feel a pang of regret that my presence, in my big, yellow, rented inflatable kayak, is causing such wonderful creatures such distress. If only they knew that I mean no harm.
Rounding the bend, with the ducks all in a row, I'm able to count nine ducklings. But wait--wasn't there one more?
Then I seem him, the tenth duckling. He's swimming twenty feet behind the chain of siblings. He's smaller, and is swimming with a sort of spastic, frenzied gait. His siblings are smooth and composed. I wonder if it's simply on account of his size (working harder to try to keep up), or if he has some deformity.
He can't keep up. The other ducks easily outpace me in my little rubber kayak. He can't escape. He stays barely ahead of my bow. )
The duckling's mom and siblings continue quickly, smoothly, easily down the river. The distance between them grows. It becomes apparent that he's being left behind.
The bunch soon disappears around another bend ahead. Their straggler sibling stays just ahead of my bow, growing visible exhausted. I cross to the far bank to give him (her?) some space. He stops, then starts, then finally stops. I float past. His family has long since passed out of sight.
And I'm heartbroken. I've just witnessed duckling--smaller and slower than his (her?) siblings--abandoned. They never hesitated. The hen never slowed or turned her head. She'll count her ducklings when the danger's passed.
Three or four times more I encounter the bunch. Rounding a corner, I see them. They startle, and resume their quick course downriver.
I doubt that ducks share our notion of the atomic family. I'm sure, on the river, the hen that slows to wait for the slowest duckling looses the whole brood. But I couldn't help but to feel some measure of guilt for how I had just broken a family--had thrust the youngest and smallest into premature independence.
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8:06 pm - Evening settles over the San Rafael Swell 2010.06.11
I flit between melancholy, elation, and despondency. Same days I'm seized with passion, with purpose. I run. I read. I connect and engage. Live fully and richly. And some days ... I withdraw. I evade my responsibilities. I avoid my inbox. I turn off my phone. And drink beer and watch shitty television. And write run on sentences.
Hello, blog. It's been a while.
I'm neurotic, at some level. Of course, we all are. But, of late, I worry more about my mental health. Not the sort of thing I should be publishing publicly on my blog, of course.
I believe I have a bright mind. And, when I apply myself, I create things I'm proud of. Nothing likely to change the world, but at least things tangible and--sometimes, even--of quality. I think I could do a lot, if I applied myself. But I've consistently failed at that. At consistency.
I'm homeless. By choice, of course. I'm not homeless--I live on the 83% of Utah that's publicly owned. By executives, prodigies, and derelicts, alike. Price (UT) isn't my home. But right now it's my hub.
At the heart of it are menacing dreams of grandeur. Or are they? Some days ... self delusion. But some days ... dreams that seem completely attainable.
Resignation. To a life of obscurity. To quiet desperation (that hackneyed phrase). I have some Henry David Thoreau. That I've been meaning to read. But instead I watch Modern Family to fill that void. The void of things I should be doing. That rushing void of missing something completely withing reach, because you've stumbled. Stupidly. Clumsily. It's funny--that you can fall so far in so little space. Some days.
Utah is amazing. It's its weirdness that keeps it good--at least that was the conclusion. Around a campfire in the middle of no-where, a few nights ago. New acquaintances, happening to be in the same middle of no-where. The only. A campground not on the maps. A campground where gathering wood is prohibited, and filled with drift wood. The visitors there being sufficiently respectful (or sufficiently few) not to crush the twenty feet of cryptobiotic soils between fire pit and drift wood. How unexpected. And wonderful. Derelict drift wood, in a campground overlooking Cathedral Valley.
From my journal, a few nights ago:
Some pictures from Nine Mile Canyon:
Hello, blog. It's been a while.
I'm neurotic, at some level. Of course, we all are. But, of late, I worry more about my mental health. Not the sort of thing I should be publishing publicly on my blog, of course.
I believe I have a bright mind. And, when I apply myself, I create things I'm proud of. Nothing likely to change the world, but at least things tangible and--sometimes, even--of quality. I think I could do a lot, if I applied myself. But I've consistently failed at that. At consistency.
I'm homeless. By choice, of course. I'm not homeless--I live on the 83% of Utah that's publicly owned. By executives, prodigies, and derelicts, alike. Price (UT) isn't my home. But right now it's my hub.
At the heart of it are menacing dreams of grandeur. Or are they? Some days ... self delusion. But some days ... dreams that seem completely attainable.
Resignation. To a life of obscurity. To quiet desperation (that hackneyed phrase). I have some Henry David Thoreau. That I've been meaning to read. But instead I watch Modern Family to fill that void. The void of things I should be doing. That rushing void of missing something completely withing reach, because you've stumbled. Stupidly. Clumsily. It's funny--that you can fall so far in so little space. Some days.
Utah is amazing. It's its weirdness that keeps it good--at least that was the conclusion. Around a campfire in the middle of no-where, a few nights ago. New acquaintances, happening to be in the same middle of no-where. The only. A campground not on the maps. A campground where gathering wood is prohibited, and filled with drift wood. The visitors there being sufficiently respectful (or sufficiently few) not to crush the twenty feet of cryptobiotic soils between fire pit and drift wood. How unexpected. And wonderful. Derelict drift wood, in a campground overlooking Cathedral Valley.
From my journal, a few nights ago:
I don't think we've evolved to ponder the meaning of life. We've evolved to struggle. And in the absence of struggle ... we're left with too much time to ponder. Without struggle, we've lost our raison d'etre We've evolved more intelligence than we need. Evolution-wise, we've succeeded. We've won. We all survive now. Our species has succeeded and filled the earth. Been fruitful and multiplied.
And now we're left with only questions. With an existential need for something as real and as compelling as struggling for existence, for survival.
There is no longer a need to be fit to survive.
Some pictures from Nine Mile Canyon:
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| Nine Mile Canyon |
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7:13 pm - Heisman v. Goldwater: Athletic Success and Academic Recruitment 2010.05.03
Abstract:
Download the full paper here: Mark_Egge-2010-Heisman_v_Goldwater.pdf.
Assuming intercollegiate athletic success leads to increased university applications, is this effect similar between research universities and non-research universities? To find out, 2001 through 2009 applicant statistics for 115 universities with NCAA Division 1-A football teams are analyzed. Athletic success at non-research institutions is found to increase subsequent applications by nearly 10%. Athletic success at research institutions, by contrast, produces a negative, non-significant effect.
Download the full paper here: Mark_Egge-2010-Heisman_v_Goldwater.pdf.
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