A year ago I was looking for the experience of art. This search had taken me through much of the world's art project, and this night it took me on a walk through Zion in the dark. Luckily I had a headlamp on, and the path was easy.
I had just walked up to the Angel's Landing area. I didn't hike to the end of that path, but I approached it again. At the time, it had been two years since I'd first visited this land of adventure and beauty. It was covered in snow then. I walked up to the start of the Angel's Landing hike, and made it halfway to the view of the valley. I turned back halfway because there was so much snow, the sun had already set, and there was a 1,000 foot steep drop on each side of me. I had a wall to protect me on the left, to which I was clinging. On the right it sloped more, say, downwards, with a layer of snow to protect me.
I hung there a minute or so, took a few pictures,
tried to step and had the snow crumble, and thought of someday loving
someone and having a family together, however large that family would
be, and that maybe that was more important than risking my life at such a
critical point. After all, this wasn't the view that had inspired the journey. It wasn't even the poetic finish line of the journey. Just another beautiful challenge open to everybody. And there was still this glorious view and experience at this moment, for me. But maybe sharing something like this with someone else was why I could walk away from it for now. Not necessarily even this place, or hiking, or even nature, but simply the beauty of the world in any of its forms, however they come.
I turned around and went back to the area with wide paths, but then realized I was soaked and it was 20 degrees outside. Then I ran back to the road, and a French neurosurgeon gave me a lift in his family of four's rented RV. After returning to safety I slept in my tent and hitchhiked to Bryce Canyon and Las Vegas.
In 2012, two years later, I was back in Utah, and then back in Bryce Canyon, and then back in Zion. So of course I went back to Angel's Landing. It was summer after all. And of course I had to wait all afternoon for the heavy thunderstorms to pass before attempting. And of course I met all the people who turned back or, worse, got stuck during the thunderstorm, and decided to head back. And naturally, I was the only one there when I got to the trail head, and it was in the midst of dusk. I was aware of the last bus back, and I would have time, but visibility would be an issue. Last time the "snow" warning mattered. This time the "dark" warning mattered. Not to mention the mud. I got really pumped up listening to a few gangsta songs and rushed into it with full enthusiasm for ten seconds, climbing up and down swiftly, and it was even more vertical than I remembered, and then I remembered the whole lesson of the previous journey and said "forget this". I went back and decided to try that other really lovely path that a lot of people had recommended. That path went even higher, it just wasn't as close to the valley, which, once again, would have been past sunset. Although it was dusk, and it was still spectacular because it was totally quiet and peaceful and I was in solitude. Even better, I could see the entire expanse of the course ahead of me, and it looked insane. My course was insane enough as it was. I was happy I had abandoned it. I wasn't born to be a dedicated rock climber. I just liked the basic physical challenge and exhilaration of moving my body amongst the beauty of the natural wilderness.
To celebrate that, I took three pictures in the lingering light. One was of me standing on top of a pyramid. It was the same pyramid which was the original aim of my journey through southern US in the winter, and one of the reasons I first walked away from Angel's Landing beyond imminent danger. I had not only survived, I had continued to take new world-expanding risks and made it to my goal. The second picture was of me standing in San Francisco in front of City Lights Bookstores. I didn't have to keep subjecting myself to intense dangerous behavior anymore. I just had to move to San Francisco and write a book about it. After all, last time I made it to San Francisco after hitchhiking through Utah to Las Vegas, then to Death Valley and back. The natural world wasn't there to conquer anymore, but to be enjoyed... or was that really true just yet? After all, I didn't know this at the time, but I would go on to hike alone at night through a Grizzly Bear Management Area in Yellowstone Park, stargaze on my back in a canoe on Jackson Lake by the Grand Tetons in Wyoming, do the same in Glacier Park in Montana, and climb the steepest highest and ultimately snowiest mountain of my life by myself... twice. Then working at the winery and living in the stressful and semi-dangerous place in San Francisco when I didn't really have any true commitment to either. Speaking of which, the third picture I took was in Tokyo, Japan, on the day I eclipsed my personal record for living abroad, the same year they had the earthquake.
They all reminded me that even though each milestone had been glorious, I had made many mistakes along the way, and would continue to do so to this day. The range and extent of mistakes have evolved through time and experience, but life is always new and sometimes you're not quite sure what to do. Yes or no? Keep going or turn back? Is this the fight? I know I should be fighting for life, but is this the best way? Is enjoying this going to make my life better overall? Will it make it worse at all? Which things matter and which don't? Depending on the changes in your life, these questions will come at varying intervals.
After I made it down from my Zion hike, in the dark with a headlamp light, I saw the bus coming, ten minutes ahead of schedule. Luckily I was high enough up to see it, but that also meant I had a ways to go. So I sprinted down the trail, over the river and through the parking lot to the bus stop, where the bus stopped for quite sometime because I was the only one still out there. The man driving the bus was a smiling character, a guy in his early 60's who was enjoying the early stages of retirement after a lifetime in some kind of energy source industry where he got to travel to other countries. He fought in Vietnam and lived a long hearty life, and he was mostly glad that he was still alive and had so many great people in his life. There were still so many new things to be enjoyed and explored. He asked me a little about myself, and I shared a vague summary of my travels with him, and he said I was doing it right.
When I walked off he said, "Good luck to you, young man," and smiled as he drove away.
He called me "young," and I was two days shy of 28. What a great world! In theory I have a few more decades to do things like that. But there are other priorities. Like that pyramid journey, and that book, and those travel memory milestones that make them both possible and worthwhile. Those and eating lots of vegetables and less junk, with more comprehensively healthy consumption, for body and soul.
Today I didn't do anything too special besides teaching people words, asking them their wishes, and shopping like a good consumer of the world. I walked to Amoeba music and picked up my first Art Tatum CD. It's been a long time since I've gone to a store, looked through the rows of records and then bought a tangible copy. I still get physical CD's from time to time, but usually online. It was great to be out and about, exploring yet another new neighborhood and finding something good.
When I went to the counter, the guy asked me if I played piano. Why does everyone always bring that up when I demonstrate a love of the music the instrument produces? Why don't they ask me if I play guitar or drums when I buy a rock album, or if I rap when I buy hip-hop? Are people that suspicious of pianos? Anyway, I said no, I just loved music and had heard he was perhaps the greatest jazz pianist ever. In my experience that title goes to Hiromi, but then again, I'm not a pianist, so what do I know? The man pointed at Art and said, "This is God."
We talked a little more about music as I paid, and he told me that he thought one of the most underrated pianists in the world was Errol Garner. He's one of Hiromi's top influences. I knew who Tatum was because somebody on a jazz comment board likened Hiromi to the reincarnation of Art Tatum's spirit. Then this other guy got in a long argument with him about it, and I got bored about them comparing two totally different people. It's always fun to notice a resemblance, but beauty is beauty in all its forms.
Now that I'm home, I can say that I do not disagree with the man's choice of vocabulary when describing Tatum's place in this world. Then again, I wouldn't disagree with him about most people he would call God. But if there is some sort of elite quality club, Art belongs there.
I had just walked up to the Angel's Landing area. I didn't hike to the end of that path, but I approached it again. At the time, it had been two years since I'd first visited this land of adventure and beauty. It was covered in snow then. I walked up to the start of the Angel's Landing hike, and made it halfway to the view of the valley. I turned back halfway because there was so much snow, the sun had already set, and there was a 1,000 foot steep drop on each side of me. I had a wall to protect me on the left, to which I was clinging. On the right it sloped more, say, downwards, with a layer of snow to protect me.
In 2012, two years later, I was back in Utah, and then back in Bryce Canyon, and then back in Zion. So of course I went back to Angel's Landing. It was summer after all. And of course I had to wait all afternoon for the heavy thunderstorms to pass before attempting. And of course I met all the people who turned back or, worse, got stuck during the thunderstorm, and decided to head back. And naturally, I was the only one there when I got to the trail head, and it was in the midst of dusk. I was aware of the last bus back, and I would have time, but visibility would be an issue. Last time the "snow" warning mattered. This time the "dark" warning mattered. Not to mention the mud. I got really pumped up listening to a few gangsta songs and rushed into it with full enthusiasm for ten seconds, climbing up and down swiftly, and it was even more vertical than I remembered, and then I remembered the whole lesson of the previous journey and said "forget this". I went back and decided to try that other really lovely path that a lot of people had recommended. That path went even higher, it just wasn't as close to the valley, which, once again, would have been past sunset. Although it was dusk, and it was still spectacular because it was totally quiet and peaceful and I was in solitude. Even better, I could see the entire expanse of the course ahead of me, and it looked insane. My course was insane enough as it was. I was happy I had abandoned it. I wasn't born to be a dedicated rock climber. I just liked the basic physical challenge and exhilaration of moving my body amongst the beauty of the natural wilderness.
To celebrate that, I took three pictures in the lingering light. One was of me standing on top of a pyramid. It was the same pyramid which was the original aim of my journey through southern US in the winter, and one of the reasons I first walked away from Angel's Landing beyond imminent danger. I had not only survived, I had continued to take new world-expanding risks and made it to my goal. The second picture was of me standing in San Francisco in front of City Lights Bookstores. I didn't have to keep subjecting myself to intense dangerous behavior anymore. I just had to move to San Francisco and write a book about it. After all, last time I made it to San Francisco after hitchhiking through Utah to Las Vegas, then to Death Valley and back. The natural world wasn't there to conquer anymore, but to be enjoyed... or was that really true just yet? After all, I didn't know this at the time, but I would go on to hike alone at night through a Grizzly Bear Management Area in Yellowstone Park, stargaze on my back in a canoe on Jackson Lake by the Grand Tetons in Wyoming, do the same in Glacier Park in Montana, and climb the steepest highest and ultimately snowiest mountain of my life by myself... twice. Then working at the winery and living in the stressful and semi-dangerous place in San Francisco when I didn't really have any true commitment to either. Speaking of which, the third picture I took was in Tokyo, Japan, on the day I eclipsed my personal record for living abroad, the same year they had the earthquake.
They all reminded me that even though each milestone had been glorious, I had made many mistakes along the way, and would continue to do so to this day. The range and extent of mistakes have evolved through time and experience, but life is always new and sometimes you're not quite sure what to do. Yes or no? Keep going or turn back? Is this the fight? I know I should be fighting for life, but is this the best way? Is enjoying this going to make my life better overall? Will it make it worse at all? Which things matter and which don't? Depending on the changes in your life, these questions will come at varying intervals.
After I made it down from my Zion hike, in the dark with a headlamp light, I saw the bus coming, ten minutes ahead of schedule. Luckily I was high enough up to see it, but that also meant I had a ways to go. So I sprinted down the trail, over the river and through the parking lot to the bus stop, where the bus stopped for quite sometime because I was the only one still out there. The man driving the bus was a smiling character, a guy in his early 60's who was enjoying the early stages of retirement after a lifetime in some kind of energy source industry where he got to travel to other countries. He fought in Vietnam and lived a long hearty life, and he was mostly glad that he was still alive and had so many great people in his life. There were still so many new things to be enjoyed and explored. He asked me a little about myself, and I shared a vague summary of my travels with him, and he said I was doing it right.
When I walked off he said, "Good luck to you, young man," and smiled as he drove away.
He called me "young," and I was two days shy of 28. What a great world! In theory I have a few more decades to do things like that. But there are other priorities. Like that pyramid journey, and that book, and those travel memory milestones that make them both possible and worthwhile. Those and eating lots of vegetables and less junk, with more comprehensively healthy consumption, for body and soul.
Today I didn't do anything too special besides teaching people words, asking them their wishes, and shopping like a good consumer of the world. I walked to Amoeba music and picked up my first Art Tatum CD. It's been a long time since I've gone to a store, looked through the rows of records and then bought a tangible copy. I still get physical CD's from time to time, but usually online. It was great to be out and about, exploring yet another new neighborhood and finding something good.
When I went to the counter, the guy asked me if I played piano. Why does everyone always bring that up when I demonstrate a love of the music the instrument produces? Why don't they ask me if I play guitar or drums when I buy a rock album, or if I rap when I buy hip-hop? Are people that suspicious of pianos? Anyway, I said no, I just loved music and had heard he was perhaps the greatest jazz pianist ever. In my experience that title goes to Hiromi, but then again, I'm not a pianist, so what do I know? The man pointed at Art and said, "This is God."
We talked a little more about music as I paid, and he told me that he thought one of the most underrated pianists in the world was Errol Garner. He's one of Hiromi's top influences. I knew who Tatum was because somebody on a jazz comment board likened Hiromi to the reincarnation of Art Tatum's spirit. Then this other guy got in a long argument with him about it, and I got bored about them comparing two totally different people. It's always fun to notice a resemblance, but beauty is beauty in all its forms.
Now that I'm home, I can say that I do not disagree with the man's choice of vocabulary when describing Tatum's place in this world. Then again, I wouldn't disagree with him about most people he would call God. But if there is some sort of elite quality club, Art belongs there.
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