Author: pseudoisaac

Sat 3-26-16

I was pondering what to get my mom for her birthday. Each year is more sad and different as her Alzheimer’s dementia progresses. I would call it “evil” progress if the word wasn’t almost meaningless to me.

Books are out of the question. Crossword puzzle books (easier and easier) are good and quickly consumed but she has tons of those and she likes buying them herself, during every single grocery and gas station stop in fact. In addition my parents have too much household crap that they can’t get rid of.

So I settled once again on fresh cut flowers. She delights in flowers, plants and gardens. Life for her is increasingly a succession of heres and nows, an abiding present. What’s important is that when she looks around she sees pretty, blooming things, and smiling faces, no matter to what degree she recognizes those faces or can put a name to them.

Her joy is quick and evident, but it must be derived from the ephemeral and not from the “stock-taking” and the integration of a lifetime of experiences that other older people enjoy.

Nevertheless those quickly fading flowers represent her most enduring bequest to me: she imparted a love of green growing things, of living things, of nature. This is the memory of generations, the transmission of a disposition and of a mental and emotional outlook on things.

I will never walk in a prairie without thinking of her as a little girl in North Dakota. I will never walk through a garden without stopping to dwell and think of her tending her own garden, year after year, as I grew up. Her brain cannot keep its integrity, it cannot endure like a rock. But there is another way to achieve permanence: through constant renewal. Although she is losing her memories, they will persist in me and in others who knew her.

Included: I finally fashioned a decent soda can stove.

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Frontenac State Park. It was fun. Low around 30 overnight. I was warm and comfy in my hammock. I have perfected the DIY soda can stove. I fully understand now how tents are inherently warmer than hammocks. I still want to learn to stay warm in a hammock, but I am increasingly convinced I need to acquiesce and get an underquilt.

This park is impressive. I am accustomed to flatland so any time I see bluffs and valleys I am impressed. I got a good look at a pileated woodpecker. I saw about two hundred bald eagles hanging out on the icy expanse of Lake Pepin, socializing, eating carp, preening, and just sitting there staring into space.

The week after, I got food poisoning for the first time in my life. It was awful. If it was any worse I would have gone to an emergency center. Sure enough the CDC’s page on Staph food poisoning mentions its potential use as a bioterror agent. I can see why. It felt like I really had been poisoned. I was incapacitated for about 10 hours. Unfortunately I am having trouble pinning down the culprit. There was that Chipotle burrito (they are infamous for the shits but this was something else entirely), a sandwich and fries that sat for an hour and a half before I could eat it, and some room-temperature cream cheese and bagels. So yeah, I made some poor choices that day.

It made for an odd contrast: feeling capable and adventurous on my one-nighter with the whole park to myself, versus cold sweats and puke and weakness later that week.

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This past weekend I went to a circumcision discussion with a professor of medical ethics, three doctors and two nurse-midwives. One of the doctors, an OBGYN, said she was personally against the procedure but did it anyway whenever parents asked for it. She trailed off with some very inarticulate statement about "picking one’s battles." This is alarming coming from a doctor.

I am continually astonished at the cultural juggernaut that is male infant circumcision. The father wants it done because it was done to him. The mother either defers to the father or doesn’t even realize she has the choice to refuse. The doctor does what the parents demand, or pressures the parents based on what their venerated attending physicians taught them to do. The baby boy is voiceless.

It seems like circumcision is a nameless, faceless part of our culture that can only be brought down over the course of several generations. People don’t even recognize it as a cultural practice. It is invisible, done behind closed doors, kept covered by clothing throughout life, never brought up except when the consent form appears. It was pointed out during the discussion how, at the very least, Jews and Muslims who practice circumcision are more honest about what they are doing – they don’t even attempt to use a weak medical pretext, they seek to justify the genital cutting ritual as a religious and cultural practice alone.

I follow blogs and forums and go to discussions like this for ideas to help speed the awakening. I’ve done my part by not cutting my own children, which I don’t have anyway and won’t ever have. I need more ideas.

On a recent Saturday I got together the things I needed for a single night of stealth winter hammock camping down by the river. This time I did it right: I over-prepared (or so I thought) with warm layers. I made sure I had extra nylon string, rope and cord for my rain fly, hammock and guy line. I filled up my water bottle and kept it in my jacket, in the inside breast pocket, where I slept with it all night. This stuff fit into my backpack fine. I didn’t have to carry any food or a cook system since I hiked in and set up in the dark around 2130 and I took down and climbed out at dawn at around 0730. When setting up I relied only on my stealthy red light, not the full white one.

The night was just fine. The low was around 30 degF and it was humid, even more so that close to the river (my hammock was about 20 feet from the water on a little peninsula that turns to rotting muck in the spring and summer). I tied up the hammock as taut as possible to be horizontal for with less compression. I did not get the restful sleep I wanted because I woke up several times with cold feet and had to curl up or rearrange my layers so I was wrapped more mummy-like. I had two pairs of thick socks, thermal underwear tops and bottoms, athletic pants, thin polyester pants, a sweater, a cotton hoodie, a fleece jacket, a larger jacket, and two fleece balaclavas. I had my thick gloves as well.

One thing I could have used was glove liners in the morning for warmth and dexterity while taking down my stuff (those metal components were cold). I also should have more completely mummified myself once I got in my hammock. I did not wrap myself up completely and cover my face when I first got in. I also had to pee in the middle of the night but I refused to get out of my hammock and mentally commanded my bladder to shut up. This interfered with sleep so a pee bottle would have been nice. I also should have had only one balaclava over my face and the other one bunched up around my neck to impede loss of warm air from my torso and neck. One other consideration is better use of my sleeping pad. I had two squares that were roughly 1.5 ft on a side. I had one of each under my pelvis and back area. I could have deployed one under my feet in a U shape and the other under my pelvis instead. Basically anywhere my weight compresses the insulation of the sleeping bag would be ideal for a section of pad. I might look into inflatable sleeping pads as well ($53 for the bestseller on Amazon). A DIY underquilt may be in my future too.

In the morning I enjoyed looking at the river and seeing everything around me illuminated in dusky light. My surroundings had undergone a transformation from the night before when I had hiked in under moonlight and city glow. The whole experience was satisfying for me, both during and after. I did not have any tight moments and I enjoyed it before, during and after. Now I know I have the skills for one-nighters above 30 degF. And I can do it stealthily and with minimal effort and expense. Therefore nights with lows above 30 degF are the trigger for me to pack up and set out for wherever I want to go.

I took a hike on and along the Saint Paul side of the river, toward the end of that stretch of below-zero weather. There was some cool graffiti to look at. The limestone cliffs are sweet to see from that perspective. And there were loping coyote tracks and beaver sign. I even found the homestead of the big specialized rodents. I encountered no people out there, which is another reason winter landscapes seem so much bigger.

I came across the carcass of a raccoon, I think. It died face down in the snow. Another animal came along and not only peed directly on it but shat on it too. This illustrates the point that the only dignity animals have is that which we project onto them.

In addition I marveled at the dynamics of ice. The river is not in fact frozen through and through. Instead a thick layer of ice spans the river and is supported by its own buoyancy owing to the ice’s lower density than the flowing water below. Creaks and groans emanate from the river’s edge in occasional outbursts, and these are only the audible hints of shifting, fast-moving pressure changes transmitting constantly through the solid ice. The center of the river is strewn with shards of clear ice that are pushed up during unknown nocturnal movements. As I walked closer to the shore I broke through thin suspended films of ice that covered much thicker ice below. And I stepped into a pool of ankle-deep slush owing to pollution with road salt. Fortunately I had the right boots on.

​Desirable personality traits come naturally to some people. Others have to work for them. This is not a bad thing: the person who kicks ass in the gym and meticulously plans the diet to stay in shape is in a sense more praiseworthy than someone who is effortlessly a slim and healthy eater. I have decided that one of the things I have to work for is optimism and good-nature.

I admire those who see the good in people immediately, and act open and kind, and are spontaneously interested in others. I however must work for it. I’ve pocketed many tools for a healthier attitude, now they just need deliberate use.

Thanks to video games I know very well that in interactions with non-playable characters you can choose charm or intimidation depending on which ending you want. You only opt for the destruction/ultimate power/unexpected loneliness ending on the second playthrough. You go with justice/unity/sacrifice if you only plan on playing once. As a genuine skeptic I anticipate only one playthrough, so I’ll make sure to choose charm in all my interactions.

Plus there’s always the out-of-left field approach for difficult interactions. My New Year’s resolution is an every day carry (EDC) one: I’ll always keep a pack of Kraft Singles in my pocket so that in a pinch I can present a slice and say, “Pardon, would you care to sample this cheese?” (People like cheese.)

Included: I have the privilege of seeing my favorite places undergo a dramatic transformation. In the summer I hack through overgrown reeking underbrush alongside the river. And in the winter on those same paths I encounter wide open icy purity, an entire river locked in ice. This is something to grateful for.

Sun 11-8-15

I learned about two coworkers’ charges for drunk driving. As is typical, both have a flippant, “welcome to the club” attitude about it.

One is a man in his late twenties; the other is in his early fifties. The younger one was going down 35W in Minneapolis in the wrong direction when he was pulled over. This newsworthy detail and his blood alcohol level resulted in felony charges. Neither are adolescents, both should know better. And even if they didn’t know better, they should have taken on some level of shame and seriousness after going through the court process.

One thing that annoyed me was not just the flippancy, but the fact that the older coworker had expressed interest in my biking to work. He often came over to chat about it and said he was going to bike in from his White Bear Lake home someday. The dissonant thing is this: when I’m on my bike I feel a gnawing fear of drunk and distracted drivers, to the point where I don’t enjoy the ride unless I’m on a protected trail and separated from traffic. I feel that any of the dozens of cars roaring toward me from behind could be drifting into my lane, about to kill me.

And then there was this: the older coworker had to go to Minneapolis for a court appearance, and he loudly joked about how he was afraid of getting robbed or shot there! To me this was galling. I don’t wish to betray my prejudices by ascribing it to a defective suburban mentality. I think the statistics bear out my attitude here: in Minnesota 88 people were killed in drunken driving incidents last year. Eighty-two were murdered. And of those murders, the conventional wisdom is that only a minority are random crimes. I grew up in Minneapolis and was never robbed or assaulted. I have however had a lot of close calls with drivers who should have been obeying the speed limit and paying attention to the road. For all I know some of them may have been drinking with impunity.

In other words I believe have more to fear from my smiling drunk driving coworkers, who I must work with every day, than from my fellow city dwellers.

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Summer is over, despite that last glorious (freakish?) day in the 80s. And it’s okay that it’s over. I am ready for thick snow so I can ski the trails at Fort Snelling State Park. I have made special efforts to appreciate the spring and summer. I have been busy, but I have:

– Walked

– Hiked

– Bike commuted

– Camped

– Photographed

– Observed through binoculars

– Recorded

– Researched

– Discussed

– Chronicled

– Collected

…in ways that exposed and emphasized natural events around me. I’ve seen my first ever spruce grouse and red-headed woodpecker and a blood moon/supermoon/full moon. A highlight was camping in Crosby-Manitou State Park, which was the roughest terrain I’ve ever hiked. I’ve suffered setbacks in crafting my personal narrative rooted in curiosity and enthusiasm, but I am getting there.

Because of all this I’ve regret-proofed my experience of the turn of the season and I look forward to the cold weather. Cold weather also makes playing video games for many hours somewhat more acceptable. I just wish that at the end of the game they didn’t show you that screen that displays your total play time.

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This is a neat place and it will be my destination for the next astronomical event (maybe the 28th for a lunar eclipse).

It has prairie and woodland. The only problem is the oil refinery in the distance, cynically named "Pine Bend Refinery" by "Flint Hills Resources." Sort of like SmileCo has opening a new puppy incinerator and naming it FurryPals Depot.

I sweated a lot and got rained on a little and found a nest with a couple of eggs. It was attached not to a tree but to the stem of a sapling only only two feet off the ground.

Snake River State Forest is not heavily used. The hunter walking trail was overgrown with thorny raspberry bushes that gave me a lot of little cuts. Next time I will bring thicker pants. I met some nice ATVers (not allowed, but their tracks helped me get through the underbrush) and swam with them in a sandy swimming hole below a rocky dam in the clean, tea-colored Snake River. I had time to watch the sun set.

I pitched the hammock between some aspens. I am finally reading On the Origin of Species. It is actually pretty readable.

In the morning a freak lightning storm came through and I evacuated at 5 am. I took the advice of a backpacking book and draped the sleeping bag over my shoulders for protection from the rain. I need to learn to bring a goddamn tarp. What the hell is wrong with me?

The storm was over quickly and I headed to Saint Croix State Park to see the place in full summer. I was rewarded:

• eastern towhee
• leopard frog
• striped skunk
• northern flicker
• common yellowthroat
• belted kingfisher
• wild turkey
• red-bellied woodpecker
• common raven
• porcupine (roadkill)
• killdeer
• and finally: a red-headed woodpecker.

This last one I cannot remember whether I’ve ever actually seen. They are very uncommon. I even heard its beautiful call (it was more like a gurgle-shriek, it was not beautiful). It was tinier than I expected.

Another reflection, a not so happy one: some people use staring as a way of expressing hostility, of showing that they don’t like the look of you and you are not welcome. It’s an aggressive act, but it just has the effect of making them look frightened and weak.

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​Fart Smelling State Park

Today I hopped out of bed more easily than usual and was at my desk, with coffee, by seven. Work was fine. So far I have not screwed up anything major (except once) and I learn new things every day. I just realized I am past my six-month mark.

When biking in I don’t like that I arrive in the morning harried and feeling like I’ve just performed a dance with death. I don’t like seeing people playing on their phones while rocketing down the roads and brushing past my left handlebar. I don’t like tasting the exhaust and hearing the roar of cars as I cross the Mendota Bridge. The problem is, it gets worse and worse as I approach work. The beginning of the trip is that marked bike path on the river road, which seems relatively safe. Then I cross the Highway 5 bridge, which is at least protected from vehicles and is broad. Then I pass Fort Snelling, which is nice. But then I must cross the Mendota Bridge, which is noisy, too narrow to meet another cyclist safely, and only one side is open to non-motor traffic. From there it is dangerous suburban roads. This is where the real risk of distracted drivers is upon me. On these roads high speeds combined with cell phone law impunity make it truly dangerous. As I get close to work I veer around people who have obstructed the crosswalk, heedless. I see them yakking on the phone and wonder who they are talking to at 6:45 am.

When I finally get to work I am relieved not to have been maimed. But it is not a good way to start my day. Well, there are good things: I like having got my blood moving before work instead of just rolling out of bed all crusty. I like seeing the sunrise. I like seeing the fog burn away over the Minnesota River Valley. And I twice see Fort Snelling, a historical site people come from all over to visit.

The ride home is the reverse: it gets better and more peaceful as I approach home. I sometimes stop and sit on the ridge overlooking the Ford Dam in the shade of the oak tree there. Today I watched vultures and cormorants fishing and soaring above the dam. These are two despised birds, persecuted, poisoned, trapped, shot, even now in 2015. But I like them both. I like the rocking dihedral of the vulture’s flight. I like the kinsmanly rows of cormorants as they sit there, lined up on a log at the base of the dam, amid the spray, where I cannot go. And if I can like the birds that others hate, then I can muster the focus and good-nature to look left toward the mists of the valley, and ignore the roar of traffic in my ears.

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