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Back before the now-time began, and well before the world ended, Marci and I were lovers. Now we’re married, so even though we’re still lovers it doesn’t count. We’d been working “starter jobs” the year after college, and when those came to an end (or rather, when we decided to end ‘em) we went on a six-week driving trip through the Great American Southwest, starting in the ‘burbs north of Dallas, Texas, where we both grew up.
Among the images I remember clearly from the day we left:
One: Marci turning around in the front seat as we drove away from her parents’ house to look back at her mom and dad. Her father was holding up three fingers: three weeks. Marci shook her head and responded with extra fingers: six weeks. I had to marry her after that. Not in the shotgun sense, of course. I just had to! Couldn’t get enough of her company. That was twenty years ago. I still can’t get enough of her. Crazy, huh?
Two: we stopped by my folks’ house. Said goodbye. Told my dad, “Westward, Ho!” and then had to turn back to him as M and I walked to the car. “Uh, which way is west?” Dad laughed and pointed. We made it to California.
Anyway, skip forward nearly a month into the trip. Marci and I had left off from camping in Yosemite on the return route from San Francisco and had driven up over the cold Tioga Pass, where the snow at the end of May was up to our waists. And that’s no exaggeration: we hopped out of the car and jumped around in waist-deep snow. We’d spent weeks in the desert prior to that, so deep snow was quite novel. We were headed from the forests and high mountains back down to the desert on the eastern side of the Sierra Nevada mountain range.
Within the course of that morning we had traveled from the forests of Yosemite Valley up and over the high and frozen Tioga pass, and eventually down the jagged range toward the hot desert flats. We were headed south, roughly in the direction of Las Vegas, with no real destination in mind for the night, and no sign of humanity on our two-lane highway. Over the course of about an hour, our crackling car radio noise resolved itself into music and voices and a message called to us, transmitted from some distant oasis and beckoning over the invisible airwaves.
The message was this: All You Can Eat Pizza Buffet!
Our car glided toward the source as if traveling on a giant Ouija board, up a steep mountain ascent to the small mountain town of Mammoth Lakes. We had never heard of Mammoth Lakes, but it’s a popular winter ski destination for Nevada and California folk. Marci and I drove around the town, high up in the mountains, and set up our tent in the campgrounds at the edge of town. Over lunch, we met some locals who gave us directions to a natural hot springs.
We found the hot springs at the end of an unmarked road in the desert several miles out of town. Jumping into our bathing suits, we climbed down the steep steps to the spring. Ropes were placed to keep people away from the most dangerous areas; good thing, since otherwise I would have dived right into the rapidly boiling water pools ringed with sulfurous steam-farting mud fumeroles.
The swimmable areas were deep and hot, and the water was high in minerals and made our skin tingle. Where our feet could touch the bottom we could feel a rumbling beneath the ground, as if thundering herds of pachyderms were heading straight for us. It was unnerving, like standing above an underground nuclear test site not knowing when the next bomb blast would blow.
There were a few others at the hot springs, and we all talked about the experience of hitting so many wildly different climates within a single day: cool forests to snowy mountain passes to desert hot springs.
Back in Mammoth Lakes we drove around the deserted town looking at the pricy winter chalets until heading to the promised pizza land for the dinner buffet. When night fell in Mammoth Lakes it fell hard; the temperature dropped and shattered on the ground like broken icicles. We weren’t ready to nod off or face a few hours in the cold tent, so we drove through the town in search of night life. We couldn’t find any. There wasn’t a movie theater, and there didn’t seem to be any bars or restaurants open at night. The streets were deserted by 8 PM.
M and I wandered around the local grocery store, the only place that seemed to be open apart from one self-serve laundromat. We made small talk with the two employees, who asked us if we were in town to go skiing. Mammoth Lakes is so high up that even though ski season was over and only the locals were left in town, the upper reaches of the mountain remained open. So Marci and I decided that we’d tarry a day and go skiing.
That night we gained valuable camping experience and learned some interesting lessons. For instance, we learned that a cheap tent and sleeping bags and thin foam pads don’t keep you very warm when the temperature drops into the low 20′s. And I learned that when the temperature gets that low, and you have to get up to pee at 3 am, you’re going to be really sorry that you left all of your clothing outside the sleeping bag. Apparently, blue jeans freeze at about the same temperature as water.
The next day, clad in jeans, caps and work gloves, we headed up the mountain to rent skis for the day, The rental area was at the base of the lift, and the man working there… Hmm, I’m not sure how to describe him. There are tales told around the campfire, stories to scare children that generally end with someone being grabbed. He could have been featured in one of those stories.
He had some sort of skin condition. He looked like he’d been burned all over his body. The sun couldn’t do it alone; he must have been through a kiln. His skin was in tatters, peeling off of every exposed surface. He looked like chipped beef, like one of those trays full of bacon that you see in brunch buffet lines. He was extra crispy. As he fit Marci for boots, she suddenly turned to me and exclaimed, wide-eyed, “Oh! I forgot the sun screen!”
That’s about the end of this part of the story. Except for the poignant scenes where Marci and I skied together. Twice, as my father used to day: the first time and the last time. When she said she could ski, I thought that meant she could ski. A miscommunication: Marci thought those little bunny hills constituted skiing, and I thought that skiing was skiing. So when we got to the top of the mountain, where that late in May only the upper blue and black slopes remained open, and Marci found out that she could not actually do the type of skiing that involved actual skiing… well, it wasn’t pretty.
She tried her best, and I really felt for her. Actually, she did okay on the left turns, skiing ever so slowly across the steep and icy slopes. And then she fell on each and every right turn, dropping on the same spot on her hip as the snow soaked through her jeans. Eventually she got so tired and frustrated and black and blue and sore and wet that she started crying and I was getting impatient waiting for her to Get Up! since it was obvious to me that the only way down was down. Since then we’ve been able to laugh about it with a standing joke about such situations: Stop Crying! Roll!
We gave up that night, and stayed at a motel. The next morning, we cooked breakfast over our camp stove-on the pavement by the motel parking lot. Ah, roughing it. Since then, Marci’s gotten “back on the horse” so to speak: we’ve gone skiing together several times. She takes lessons while I attempt to break my legs skiing well above my limits. Well, you know what they say: if it doesn’t kill you, try try again.
http://www.dsbenson.com/
Ok, this is crazy tweaky techy stuff, but I’ve put together a whole-house music and video system that’s working amazingly well. Apple based, but you could do most of this with iTunes for Windows as well, though you’d have a harder time setting up screen sharing (still possible; I’ve got it working) and automatic backups. One thing that makes this nice is that since it’s all off-the-shelf and wireless, it works in my old house. Ain’t no hard-wired networking here.
I have been quite happy with this setup, built up over time:
- TiVo Series 3 for HD DVR. I added a larger hard drive. A recent update lets me stream Netflix movies to my TiVo. Not bad quality, either. Only problem with TiVo, apart from having to pay quite a bit for it, is that my cable cards don’t let me get OnDemand. I believe that limitation no longer exists for the newest models. But I’d rather pay for TiVo than continue to be stressed out by hating Comcast’s comparatively horrendous DVR.
- Comcast cable for HD and Internet, though I always want faster internet. I may switch to fiber-optic soon, as I’m not thrilled with the “you never know what you’re going to get” speed of my cable modem. Middle of the night? Blinding fast. Middle of the afternoon? Not much better than DSL.
- Mac Mini with 1TB external drive as iTunes media server, hooked to my stereo and TV. If I was going to start over, I’d consider using a Drobo for its nicely designed RAID system. I was using a software RAID, but I’ve had some problems with my Mac Mini with that, and dropped the RAID since I’ve got other backup. I’m nervous about it, though.
- Any Mac on my network can fully operate that Mac Mini without my having to turn on the TV, because of the terrific and simple-to-use screen sharing feature in Leopard (10.5). You can enable this in the System Preferences. Wonderful feature, and works incredibly well.
- Apple Time Capsule backs up the Macs on the network, including my iTunes server. Also gives me a fast 802.11.n network, which is a heck of a lot better than the 802.11.g that it replaced (and that was better than 802.11.b). Much better coverage. I actually kept my older Airport gear as well, and in order to get the best network reach and speed, I just run two separate networks: an “n” and a “b/g”. I believe this works better than a combined “n/b/g” arrangement, and it makes it easy to get rid of the older “b/g” once I ditch the last machine that requires the older protocol.
- Airport Express wireless repeaters in other rooms broadcast music (not video) from my Mini/iTunes to stereos in other rooms. Also extends my network. I’ve got two of these plugged into other stereos: one in the bedroom and one in my office (plugged into the same speaker setup I use for my office computer). This lets me play music (in sync) in multiple rooms at once.
- As another benefit, if you’ve got other computers, I can alternatively use the Sharing feature of iTunes to play my music server’s music through a different iTunes on a different computer. This isn’t the same as using Screen Sharing to control my music server: the former will let me play different songs in different rooms; the latter lets me broadcast (push) the same music to multiple rooms in the house.
- iPhone or iPod Touch can control iTunes on my Mac Mini as well as turn on/off any speakers connected to Airport Express on my network. This is amazingly cool. I can use my iPhone (with the free Remote app from Apple) to choose music and start it playing. Use it nearly every night when we all sit down to dinner. Dial up some dinner music. In the morning? Essentially it does what Screen Sharing does (full control over the iTunes on my music server Mac Mini), but fits in my pocket.
- Logitech Harmony remote controls everything, so the entire system (TV, TiVo, Stereo, Mac Mini, etc.) has a single remote and one-button functions. The Harmony remote took a while to set up and program, but it was well worth it. Otherwise I’d have 10 different remotes.
What’s missing:
- some method to send HD video from one source (iTunes, TiVo) to a remote destination (TV in another room). I could do this with Apple TV or Slingbox, or with some TiVo content, but it hasn’t really been necessary.
- a really good Mac screensaver that avoids burn-in on my TV but also moves the current song metadata and album art randomly around the TV screen. I found one freebie that was perfect but too buggy with Leopard. But in reality, the fact that I now have easy access to my Mac Mini iTunes server from any Mac in the house (via screen sharing) or from my pocket (via iPhone) means that this isn’t much of an issue. I rarely display my Mac Mini on the attached TV now.
Guess I should put up some sort of diagram to make this all clear, but right now nobody’s asking.
UPDATE: I answer more questions about hooking up a Mac Mini to a TV and remote-controlling the Mini here.
http://www.dsbenson.com/
Today is the last day of your life, so far.
So says Ben K, anyway. I’ve been at the end of my life for, well, forever. But apart from occasional aches that I didn’t notice when I was most definitely young, and the haunting comparison between my self-image (which is generally more positive than perhaps is warranted) and others’ image of me as reflected in the words, deeds or expressions of people who are unequivocally still possessed of youth, I can’t say that I feel too much older for the passing of the last few decades.
So what age is old? My grandfather wasn’t old when he went hunting for the last time at age 76. He was walking his deer carcass-laden horse down a mountainside that was too steep to ride, and he sprained his leg and concluded he’d had enough of elk hunting. Lucky the horse and its corpse cargo didn’t fall on him. But I’d say that the man wasn’t old.
I’m not sure how old he was when Granddad sold the riding lawnmower–somewhere in his 70′s–but he sold it to buy a regular lawnmower so he’d get exercise pushing that thing around his huge lawn in the Texas summer. So I know he wasn’t old then. And he wasn’t old at 80, when Grandma finally got him to stop climbing the huge walnut tree to spray for insects. When he reached his mid-80′s, he stopped climbing onto the roof to fix the antenna and the chimney bricks. But I think he only stopped because Grandma made him, not because he was old. In fact, I think he never got old until his brain stopped working and dementia took him places where his body could not follow.
Grandma wasn’t old when she stopped riding 10 miles a day on her stationary bike at age 80. She just used the treadmill instead. She didn’t seem all that old when she stopped working at the library once she reached 95. It wasn’t the driving to and from work that made her stop–she just had too many other things to do. She’s not young, of course, though her legs say otherwise, but her social life is far too social to allow her to really be old.
When my great grandparents took a boat to France to celebrate my great-grandfather’s 100th birthday, I’m not sure they were old, even when Grandpa Davis had heart trouble there and they had to fly back on the Concorde. He never did get old. He died at 102. Though when Grandma Caroline passed 100, she needed to be taken care of. So she was old for her last few years.
Another great-grandfather, Zalman, lied at Ellis Island to get into the United States. Immigrants were turned away if they were over 65, because they were thought to be a burden on the economy. Zalman was 75 but claimed to be 64. He ended up working in the U.S. for several more decades, and died at 106. So there.
Marci and I certainly weren’t old in 1988 when we started walking down the South Kaibab trail at the Grand Canyon–quite young in fact–though we felt old by the time we reached the bottom, and even older on the way up and out. It was late May, on our drive back from California. The temperature at the park was warm, but as we descended into the canyon the blazing desert sunlight felt hotter and hotter. We were young lovers then. We’re older than that now, and married. But still lovers.
There isn’t any water available on the South Kaibab trail: that’s why we picked it for our descent. We planned to hike back up the Bright Angel trail, and we knew there were a couple of places to get water on that trail. People die or have to be rescued every year because they ignore the impossible-to-miss warning signs: Do not pass this point unless you are carrying at least 4 quarts of water per person per day! [and again in Spanish]
The lower we descended, the hotter it got. At one point, we were walking next to a black rock face; the heat waves coming off the rock must have been 140 degrees. We were very happy that we heeded the signs and carried plenty of water and Gorp. Good old raisins ‘n’ peanuts.
When we got to the bottom of the trail and set up the tent, we dragged our hot and swollen feet into the icy Colorado River–about 40° year-round because it comes from the bottom of the Eisenhower Dam–our feet promptly returned to their natural size and were completely anaesthetized within seconds.
At the bottom of the Grand Canyon, between the Bright Angel trail and the Kaibab, the park service maintains a campground for hikers, and cabins for the folks who ride down on mules. By the way, I’d never ride those mules. When you hike down the main trails of the canyon, you’ve got a couple feet of stomping width: plenty of space to avoid any fear of heights or falling. There’s even enough space to hug the canyon walls when a mule train waddles by, and try not to spook them as they go, and hope they don’t poop on you. But on a barrel-bellied mule you can’t see the trail. Must look like your feet are hanging over empty space.
We heard that there was a large central cabin with a no-frills restaurant and ice cream, so after we had our camping dinner we clomped on over to treat ourselves to ice cream and lemonade. The place was crowded, and Marci and I joined an older couple at a table. They looked clean and very refreshed-good lemonade. Both of them were around 70, with silvery-white hair.
We talked with them for a while; I asked how the mule ride was, and I was mortally embarrassed when they replied they didn’t know. They’d hiked down the same trail as Marci and me. Well, they obviously weren’t old.
Since then, Marci and I have been passed left and right by hikers in their 60′s and 70′s. On the Appalachian Trail we met a retired couple in their 60′s who were starting a half-year through-hike of the entire trail. One day we were passed by a man hiking at high-speed. He was 72, and had just run in the Boston Marathon.
At Caprock Canyons in north-central Texas, I once met a mother and daughter hiking together. The daughter was in her 50′s, and her mother was 76. Bonnie and Bonnie. They were hiking to get in shape for a summer hike in the deserts of Big Bend. Ben K_ and I hitched a ride back to our tent site with them after our hike. They had a good-times van with the rear seats ripped out to make room for a mattress, and a cooler of beer. Definitely not old.
Meanwhile, my butt gets sore from sitting here typing too long, and I find my back groaning when I carry my not-so-little boy on my shoulders for significant distances, and I notice tiny lines in the mirror that seem to move in tandem with the rest of my face as I nod my head “no” back and forth to catch a glimpse of my growing scalp.
Occasionally I remind myself that I’m not getting old. I have to pace my aging since there’s so much of it to do.
http://www.dsbenson.com/
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