The Road Ahead

The forecast called for snow in Yellowstone National Park this morning. Instead I woke up to a chilly drizzle which issued from low-hanging clouds that shrouded the geyser basin in a mist made luminescent by the rising sun. The gloomy weather seemed appropriate to me on a day like this, for today marks the end of a glorious chapter - a passage, if you will - in my life. Today I left Yellowstone.

As I watched the sun set on Montana for the last time just a while ago, it struck me that I'm no less fascinated by this country than I was two-and-a-half months ago. In fact, I would say that I'm even more captivated. There seems to be no end to discovery here, and the more you learn the harder it is to walk away. Yet this is a walk that is necessary. We must all physically come down from the mountain at some point - even if our spirits remain on the summit. However, the walk is not that of a frustrated or defeated man; it is one of a changed man.

I'm still finding it hard to believe that, at this time tomorrow, I'll be frantically packing my belongings in preparation for moving back to school. Ohio seems distantly unfamiliar to me - a sort of sub-mythical place that I've heard stories about, but have no real understanding of. It's funny how viewpoints can change in just less than three months. In expressing to one of my closest friends my anxiety of returning to Ohio, it was suggested to me that I re-read Psalm 104: "O Lord, how manifold are your works! In wisdom You have made them all. The earth is full of Your possessions," (Psalm 104:24 NKJV). I realized that, in this sense, Ohio is no different from Yellowstone. God is not partial to any certain region of His creation, so why should we be? Wherever we dwell, so also dwells the Lord.

Certainly my heart is ready to come back home (if I can call it "home" - these days I feel more like a homeless wandering nomad). The things I've seen and the lessons I've learned this summer have truly been life-changing. I have acquired a new outlook on life and, perhaps more importantly, I've become better acquainted with myself as a person, as a worker, and as a follower of Christ. I miss my family and my friends, and I really should be getting on with the business of graduating... But my body and my soul want nothing more than to remain in the mountains - free to continue exploring and growing.

Who's to say, though, that growth and exploration can't take place in Ohio? We are limited only by ourselves in this regard, and my summer experience would be worthless if I was unwilling to take it and continue to apply it - no matter the setting. In any case, I'm going back whether I like it or not. The choice is mine whether to embrace the fact or rebel against it, and I choose the path of acceptance.

I have decided that this will be my last blog entry. It's a shame that it consists of incoherent ramblings, but at this point in time, my brain is just as messy with flurries of emotions and thoughts as I try to turn it back to civilization. I would like to thank everyone who has been reading along this summer, and I hope that you've managed to mine a nugget of truth or two from the chaos that is my writing. Thanks to my family and friends who have been so supportive of me and this crazy adventure I've been on. Most of all, thanks to God for revealing Himself to me and helping me discover who I am in His eyes.

Wildy yours,
Paul

Heritage

I was told yesterday that this has been one of the busiest weekends of the entire season at the Grill. I also learned this firsthand as I witnessed the perpetuation of an out-the-door line which continued from 12:30 to 4:30. I kid you not. This was four hours straight of grievously fire-hazardous crowds. We literally ran out of veggie burgers. Veggie burgers. And they said that Saturday was even worse.

But I wasn't there on Saturday. I was hanging out with my progenitors.

Things have been a little lonely around here lately, so when my parents showed up - presumably to make sure that I was still alive - I was delighted to take the day off. (Who am I to turn down the opportunity of having a vehicle at my mercy?) Of course, these plans had been in the works for several weeks and, admittedly, I was really looking forward to their visit. I haven't seen a familiar face all summer, so in order to keep the familiar faces close by, I designated myself as the official tour guide and packed their three-day trip with as much sightseeing as I possibly could. (Also, who am I to turn down the opportunity of having a vehicle at my mercy?)

And drive we did. As I've noted before, Yellowstone is an enormously large place. We saw just about all of it, plus the Grand Tetons. Dad said that he put close to 800 miles on the rental car in three days. Needless to say this was a tiring weekend - rivaling some of my more strenuous hiking treks.

Anyway, our journey started as soon as they arrived at Old Faithful. We exchanged greetings, checked them into their cabin, and hit the road. I took them up the eastern arm of the Grand Loop road, stopping to explore various places along the way. "Exploring" is, of course, much safer when Mom is around, but she put up with (I'm sure) more than her fair share, going out on several motherly ledges - so to speak.

We all, I think, agreed that of the two Grand Canyons we've seen this summer, the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone is the prettier. But we didn't have time to linger around all day. We were on a schedule!

I found that over the course of the summer, my method of verbal communication has changed. I'm not entirely sure if it's for better or for worse, but it was noticeable in my conversations with my parents. Most of my conversations these days don't last any longer than five minutes, so it was odd to find myself talking with the same humans for hours at a time. It's funny how even the simplest things seem special after time spent without them.

As we drove, we slowly ascended into the lofty northeast corner of Yellowstone. Passing Mount Washburn, I was eternally grateful that I had decided to abandon its ascent the previous week, because I might not have been alive when my parents arrived. Driving up a mountain is much easier anyway, and it leaves you with enough energy to get in a good CrossFit endorsement.

Who needs a gym?

Cruising right along, we made it to our destination: Tower Falls. Looked at the falls, hiked two miles on the wrong trail, ate PB&J in the car, drove an hour and a half back to Old Faithful in the dark. It was a good first day.

The great thing about parents is that, while they never completely stop being your parents, they become less like parents and more like companions as time progresses. My dad often jokingly refers to himself as "Wise Sensei", and though his kids roll their eyes as they imagine him wearing a gown and a fu-manchu while sitting cross-legged in his dojo, we secretly admit that he holds more wisdom than we give him credit for. After all, it is we who ask the majority of the questions in the house - not him. And where I used to roll my eyes, I'm now eager to listen because soon I'll be needing to use that wisdom; and Dad won't be over in the living room waiting for me to ask him about it.

The next morning was an early one, finding us awake at 5:30 so that we could get to our destination at a good hour. I must admit, the Grand Tetons are much prettier than Yellowstone. Certainly Yellowstone comes out on top, thanks to its incredible diversity, but in a purely aesthetic sense one would be hard-pressed to find a more beautiful spot on the entire planet.

Great googly-moogly, I rest my case. But seriously, I think this picture is hanging somewhere in God's bedroom. I had really just wanted to see some moose*, but this... This is one of those places that you have to experience in order to believe it. I could tell this was going to be another good day. (*Zero moose were seen.)

Basically we hiked in this the whole morning, and I'm not even going to write about it because trying to describe it would be useless. So here's a picture of us:

The rest of the day was spent in and around Old Faithful. I'm actually considering renting out my parents to a travel agency, because it seemed like every time we passed a geyser, it erupted. We saw several geysers erupt that I've never seen before, affirming my longtime suspicion that my parents are magical.

Day three was - in true Paul Conover fashion - entirely made up on the spot. I knew we would go north, and that's about it. So, getting on the road with nothing else planned, we ended up at Mammoth Hot Springs. It's important to note that, over the course of three days, I heard Wise Sensei mutter "I just don't get it" more times than I've ever heard before. How did that rock get there? Why did those trees grow in the middle of that hot spring? What the heck's going on here?! ... They're the same questions that I've been asking all summer, and that scientists have been asking for more than a century. They're questions that we may never know the answers to - not even Wise Sensei.

After pondering the Mammoth Hot Springs for a while, we climbed a mountain. We had been thinking about climbing another, more mountainous mountain, but eventually decided that this less mountainous mountain would suffice (even though the less mountainous mountain was still quite mountainous in relation to the mountainous amounts of mountains that there are to mount). Regardless of which mountain we climbed, Mom was a hero. You see, Mom isn't a big fan of heights. She also isn't a big fan of the fact that her children are (literally and figuratively) living on the edges of cliffs. On top of that, she hadn't been feeling well that morning. Nevertheless, she willfully climbed the mountain. Bless her heart, when I went to take this picture...

...I'm fairly certain I could hear it pounding in her chest. We had been talking about personalities, and how mine has changed in the past few years. She said she was the type who would rather read stories about other people who do dangerous things. I said that I used to be like that, but that now I want to be the person writing the stories. So when she yelled that I wasn't to take a single more step out onto the cliff's edge, I asked her how she was planning on reading my stories if she didn't let me write them. As quick as any loving mother, she replied, "It'll be hard to write your stories if you're dead at the bottom of a cliff." I had to laugh, because it was then that I realized how strange this situation was. If you had told me four years ago that I would very soon climb a mountain in Yellowstone with my mom, well,  you wouldn't have even thought to make up such a ridiculous story to tell me. Yet here we were, hiking up the side of Bunsen Peak, and it was perfectly natural. I have to commend my mother immensely for finding the strength to let me come out here. Her motherly instinct, I'm sure, was begging her to stuff me in a bag and haul me back to good ol' safe ol' Troy, Ohio. But I think she understands that this, like the time when I was potty training under her watchful eye, is a vastly important time in my life. And I appreciate that she's beginning to let go gracefully.

Climbing the mountain was probably my favorite part of the three days I had with my parents. It was later noted that I haven't had as much one-on-one time with them since before my brother was born. It's probably true. But what better time to get some facetime? Before now, they were just always there - like the furniture, only it gives orders and packs your lunch. It's so easy to take your parents for granted. I realize now that when it seemed like they were breathing down my neck, they were really just trying to shape me into the man that they knew I could be, but that I didn't yet want to acknowledge. My dad always says, "See, I do know what I'm talking about," which is a fatherly way of saying, "I told you so! Nanny nanny boo boo!"... It's scary how often I find that this is true. Many times I'll learn a life lesson and think, I feel as though I've learned this from someone before. More often than not, it was my parents who taught me in the first place - I was just too stubborn to learn it the first time around. Even now I think I'm too smart for my parents. I'm not, but it's nice to wish.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that my parents are the best in the world. If you take offense to that, then too bad; because it's true. I don't tell them that nearly enough, though.

River to Ridge

In my dream last night, I did a lot of running. Some villains were attempting to blow up a school that I was trying to save, so with the help of a motley crew of relatives, friends, acquaintances, my dog, and more than a few strangers, we agreed to settle things over a prison-rules game of softball. Before I could find our who won the game, however, I was awakened by my roommate - who decided that four feet away from my face at 7am was the perfect time and place to give himself a buzzcut with a broken beard trimmer. I do remember, though, that right before the screeching swarm of bees alerted me to morning, I was struggling against injuries to both of my legs as I ran to save the life of my uncle, who of course, was in dire peril for one reason or another. Upon waking, I discovered that the pain in my legs was very real. Weird, I thought.

It didn't take me too long to determine the source of my cramping legs. As it turns out, hiking in canyons is slightly more difficult than hiking in the comparatively tame hills that I'm used to. I can't say for sure why that thought didn't cross my mind until I was staring up at the canyon's cliff-walls; sweating like a politician in church; knowing that I still had two miles to the rim. "This really sucks," became my battle cry, and I put it to good use. I can't remember the last time I drank so much water... And that was just the first time I had to climb out of the canyon, and I wasn't even wearing my pack or soaking wet.

Rewind to Wednesday afternoon. In trying to figure out what to do on my weekend, I discovered that I have literally hiked every inch of every trail in the Old Faithful area. This poses a big problem to me, who is not rich in transportation options. In fact, my only reliable modes of transportation are attached to me and don't smell all that great. So I began to meticulously plan a trip that may or may not happen, depending on the generosity (or lack thereof) of those with vehicles. It became apparent to me that I would not be able to reach my destination, hike out, hike back, and get a ride home - all within one day. "Screw it," I decided, "I'll just go camping." It was shaping up to be a 35-mile weekend, but hey, these are things I have to see before I leave Yellowstone. So, backcountry camping permit in hand, I packed my bag and made a trip to visit my very lovely friend at the activities desk to make sure there was a spot on one of the buses the next morning. Bingo. Transportation accomplished.

Thursday morning I woke up, wondered what I was getting myself into, went back to sleep, woke up again, looked at the time, snatched my gear, ran out the door, devoured breakfast, and caught the bus just in time. I sat in the back and listened to the same guided tour that I've heard several times before on the same bus. One lady commented that she was glad I had bear spray with me. Thanks, lady... The trip was uneventful to say the least, with the exception of one spot in Hayden Valley, where we observed bison in rutting season.

Hmm... Bison sex. Interesting... The incredible part of this rather uncomfortable scene was that (aside from the shamelessness of roadside "dating") we got to watch the progression of two of North America's largest male land mammals as they eyed one another, exchanged words, got to arguing, then began butting heads and fighting with enough force to effectively demolish any decent living room. All this to show off for the ladies. If only humans were as civilized...

Anyway, we arrived at the Grand Canyon of the Yellowstone at around noon, and when the vacationers dispersed for lunch, I went on my merry way. I had registered for the campsite at the furthest extremity of Seven Mile Hole - a daunting name for a trail, in hindsight. First, though, I made a quick side-trip to Inspiration Point, which turned out to be somewhat less than inspiring...

...Yeah right. I was freaking pumped to get hiking. And so I set off. I had ambitiously planned another side trip to the summit of Mount Washburn, the trail to which intersects with Seven Mile Hole shortly before Seven Mile Hole plunges into the canyon. Thinking I was a pretty macho dude, though, I decided that I would just hike down, set up camp, come back up, hike Washburn, then descend again for the evening. That way I wouldn't have to lug my pack up the side of the mountain.

This plan would've worked, but for a few minor exceptions:
- I am not as macho as I like to think I am
- The canyon ascent was brutally unforgiving
- As soon as I got to the rim, I got smashed with a thundering hail storm
- At this point, it's already 6:30 and getting dark, and there are still 5 miles to the summit of Washburn
- I am not as macho as I like to think I am

So about a mile into the Washburn Trail, I realized that I was being an idiot and I turned around, having done nothing more than hiking some odd useless miles and having to strip down to my skippies to avoid getting all of my clothes completely soaked (but of course they got wet anyway). So yet again - only this time discouraged and wet - I descended to my campsite where, luckily, my camp was mostly not-drenched.

Now having some time to kill, I decided to go exploring. There was a neat little stream not too far from camp, so I went to check it out. This was a good decision.

Nothing like a nice jacuzzi session after a long hike. [Note: They say it's very illegal to get into hot springs. I say, If a person gets into a hot spring in the canyon and nobody's around to see it, did he really get into the hot spring?] Under normal circumstances, this would've poached me like an egg, but given that this hot spring was connected to the much cooler canyon stream, the temperature was perfectly safe. In any case, this made my evening. [Note: I don't recommend just jumping into any old hot spring though. People die from doing that... Which explains its illegality.]

Trying to get to sleep was something of a bother, considering that my pants and shirt were still wet, but eventually I fell asleep, dried off, and actually ended up having one of the more pleasant nights' sleep that I've had here. I think there's something about total solitude that puts me at peace. That, and I was completely worn out from the hike. Whatever. It was a pretty decent evening.

Morning came slowly, and with it my dread of the ascent to the rim of the canyon - this time with my pack and with wet shoes. But I decided that the sooner I got the heck out of there the better. The last thing I wanted to do was to have to climb out in the heat of the midday. So off I went, water bottle close at hand. There were some places that were so steep - and soggy - that I literally had to crawl on all fours up the trail. Let's just say that this hike would give many a CrossFit workout a run for its money. (2.2 miles weighted lunges, Rx'd weight 30#, 1 round for time) But then sights like this are so much better appreciated when you're drenched in sweat and gasping for air.

Long long long long story short, I made to the top. The plan now was to hike along the canyon rim until I reached the Howard Eaton, which I would take for 15 miles to Fishing Bridge, where I planned on hitching a ride. The rim hike was quite pleasant, though it found me ascending and descending halfway into the canyon a couple more times to get some good pictures. In fact, I'll just let the photos do the talking about this trail:

 

So yeah, moisture was kind of the story of the day. Water water everywhere... Anyway, I discovered at the end of the trail that my hopes of hiking the Howard Eaton back in the direction of home were for naught. I owe this to the smartypants who went and got himself mauled by a bear earlier in the season (See Bear Spray). The park authorities closed the Wapiti Lake Trail - and several other nearby trails - for the remainder of the season, and it just so happens that the Howard Eaton shares about 0.2 miles of the same trail. So my access point was cut off, even though the Howard Eaton veers off in the complete opposite direction after parting with the Wapiti Lake Trail. Bummer. I concluded, though, that this must have happened for a reason, because another 15 mile hike wasn't exactly looking appealing at the time.

So I hitched a ride with a nice European family (I swear, the Europeans are amazing for hitchhiking) and sort of just flew by the seat of my pants. After a nice conversation, I told them they could dump me off at the trailhead of Elephant Back Ridge - another flippin' mountain that I just had to climb. At this point, I'm thoroughly exhausted. But hey, there's a top to every mountain...

...And half of the hike is always downhill. So what the heck? It's only my legs that I'm bothering.

Obviously, though, my legs have their own way of getting back at me.

[Footnote: Gross Elevation Change within the 27 hours I was on the trail: 6138 feet]

Who Is John Galt?

It was one of my goals for the summer to finish what I started. That is to say, I was determined to complete the mammoth 1100-page-dictionary-print odyssey of a philosophical novel that I had started and given up two summers ago. The brick (er, book) in question being Ayn Rand's Atlas Shrugged - the story of a dystopian American society in which all of the truly great minds have gone on strike, refusing to come out of hiding to fix the crumbling world. Years ago I had read Rand's The Fountainhead, having been drawn to its architect protagonist, but not having any other clue as to what lay in store. What I found was an intriguing philosophy which, at the time, was groundbreaking for me, and eventually led to a great deal of research on Rand, her works, and her way of thinking. While The Fountainhead remains among my top favorite books, I began to realize, through my research, that something was amiss with the ideology. Atlas Shrugged ultimately drove home those doubts.

Nevertheless, I continued reading - both out of a mounting curiosity and the determination to finish the darn thing. Oh, and also I plan on writing an essay to submit to the Ayn Rand Institute for the annual Atlas Shrugged essay contest; which is partially the reason for this post: to practice. Of course, ARI expects a well-constructed essay that conveys a sound understanding of the book and its implications, and I intend to give one to them. But I have no intentions of giving them an essay that spews praise and admiration of the book or its implications, because I have none to give. Of course, the book is incredibly well-written and interesting (or else I would've stopped reading a long time ago), but I can't consciously bring myself to agree with the crux of Rand's philosophy: the virtue of selfishness.

Through her novels and formal work, Rand espouses her philosophy, which she calls Objectivism. Despite my research of years past (which, I'll admit, was for a high school paper, and thus was shoddy at best), I had been confused about the name Objectivism. I understood that the "objective" - as opposed to the "subjective" - embodies that which lies in observable fact; for which right and wrong are distinct entities (i.e. sandwich-crafting). And I went ahead and made the intellectual leap to the connection between the "objective" and Rand's reality-as-reality philosophy. But I didn't really complete the circuit until reaching the climactic 50-page speech towards the end of Atlas Shrugged. In said speech, the underpinnings of Objectivism are made crystal clear within the first two pages, and are continuously reiterated over and over forever and ever for the next forty-eight. "A is A", repeats John Galt - the book's hero and orator of the speech [hereafter "Galt" and "Rand" are interchangeable] - meaning that a thing can be nothing other than itself. "Man is Man," he says. Through this logic comes the idea that man is bound to objective fact, which is the standard to which he must rise.

The characteristic that separates man from animal is his ability to reason. It is what has allowed him to climb out of the jungle and into the modern world. His mind is thus his ultimate possession, and his ultimate purpose is to use it. Logic, therefore, is the moral law, and as such, rules the actions and beliefs of the main characters. Nothing is said or done that defies the logic of survival. "Rational self-interest" is the lifestyle - that is - "the rational pursuit of my own rational goals is the meaning of my existence." What, you might ask, is the difference between "rational self-interest" and "reckless greediness"? Why not just rob a bank, do a bunch of drugs, kick your boss, and generally do whatever the heck you want? The answer is simple: these things ultimately are not in your own self-interest. Jail is decidedly not the "rational goal" of any person. In a factual world of pure, natural, logic, the only "rational goal" can be that of achieving the highest possible standard of living; in other words, material success.

Atlas Shrugged projects this idea through an industrial screen. The heroes (Dagny Taggart, Hank Rearden, Ellis Wyatt, etc.) are individuals who build their respective industrial empires (transcontinental railroad, steel, oil, etc.) on their own merit: hard work, dedication, and - most notably - their own brilliance. The villains (James Taggart, Orren Boyle, The State Science Institute, etc.), on the other hand, have gained their industrial power through favors, inheritance, and dishonest means. In the end, who is the better businessman; the one who built his company by his own power, or the one to whom it was given? Galt refers to the latter as the "looters" - men who prey upon the achievements of others, claiming them for themselves in the name of "the good of mankind". She regards unearned wealth (physical or otherwise) as the paramount of evil. Wealth is exchanged - properly - by means of trading: one service equally for another. Every action must benefit the self. This is how Galt views industry...

[So far, so good. There shouldn't be too many grievances so far with the philosophy (which is - so far, essentially - conservative economics), outside of simple political differences of opinion. But as we continue, things start getting hairy.]

...This, in Galt's "A is A" world, holds true in every facet of the hero's life. Trade. Every action must benefit the self. Self-sacrifice is the purest form of evil. What does this do for love? Brotherly love is out of the question, because it, in essence, is self-sacrifice. Certainly supernatural love, too, is unmentionable for the simple logic that it is beyond logic, and therefore nonexistant. We're left with romantic love, which really becomes "vicarious self-exaltation". Romantic love and its related acts are nothing more than very personal trade. Protagonists claim to love one another for the right reasons, but their love is conditional as long as the other keeps up his/her end of the bargain. Unconditional love is impossible because, after all, my lover might fail me, or I could find someone better. The villains in the book make the argument that the heroes love unfairly, saying that one should love another not for their good qualities (which is simply a love that they have already earned), but that true love is love for a person's bad qualities. Here I agree with Galt, though for a very different reason. It's true that nobody in their right mind would love someone for their bad qualities. Love of evil is a great evil. However, we are called to love in spite of bad qualities. Galt insists that Original Sin is man's most malicious illusion, because it dooms him to eternal servitude to those better than him. Yet, inevitably, every single person will mess up at least once in their lifetime, effectively removing the possibility of a perfect human. So, no matter what the case, all love is love in spite of bad qualities. The difference arises when we consider the worth of other people to us. Again, in the case of romantic love, nobody would choose a partner who meant little or nothing to them; rather they choose a partner that means everything to them! But for whose sake do they mean everything? Does a loving husband look at his wife and say to her, "I love you because you represent an achievement which I, through my moral living, deserve"? Not unless he's John Galt, whose thinking brings a whole new meaning to the term "trophy wife". No, a relationship cannot last unless each person is willing to love for the sake of the relationship - not for self's sake, or even for the other's sake, because each is a form of slavery. Rather, it is the union of two imperfect people striving for perfection that is to be loved.

Brotherly love, as forbidden by the principles of Objectivism, is nothing like it is portrayed as in the book. Does "for the good of mankind" necessarily have to be equivalent to the Marxist slogan "from each according to his ability, to each according to his need"? I think not. In a perfect world, perhaps so. But in a world of dishonesty, waste, and vice, each man can only be expected to pull his own weight. One cannot require his brother to pick up his own slack. However, one should always be prepared to help his brother. This is a biblical tenet: "Anyone who has been stealing must steal no longer, but must work, doing something useful with their own hands, that they may have something to share with those in need." (Ephesians 4:28 NIV) Galt bisects humanity into what she calls the "producers" and the "looters"; or "those who create" and "those who take". And there is constant tension between the two factions. The looters want to keep taking, and the producers don't want to keep giving. Truly, it isn't right that a producer should have to provide for a lazy bum ("A sluggard's appetite is never filled, but the desires of the diligent are fully satisfied" - Proverbs 13:4 NIV), but he should be prepared to. Self-sacrifice - condemned as evil by Galt - isn't black and white. I hold that there are two kinds of sacrifice: receptive self-sacrifice, which is an act performed that does not benefit the self in any way, but is nonetheless beneficial to others (charitable donations, etc.); and needless self-sacrifice, which benefits nobody (jumping off a bridge, etc.). The former is virtuous, and the latter, lacking benefit, is necessarily iniquitous. But why do we love our brother in the first place, that we would give of ourselves to him? The answer isn't logical. It can't be proven, and in fact, it goes against what we observe in nature: We love our brother because he, too, is a creature with a soul, struggling to figure life out just as we are. We help him because we pity him. It's a feeling, not a fact, and Ayn Rand would disapprove greatly of it. Yet everyone - even Rand's heroes - feels it.

Of course, if we take a look at Jesus' Golden Rule, "love your neighbor as yourself" (Matthew 22:39 NIV), we come to the answer straight away. But even then we see that our love for our brothers is not an act of slavery by him. We are to love him as we love our own selves. We are all equals - not to take or be taken advantage of, but to work together for the glory of He who defies logic and reason.

Perhaps the most abhorrent form of love, according to Galt, is the completely unfounded love for the supernatural. "A is A" and nothing else. "A" is not sometimes "B", and "A" cannot be "G". "A is always A". There is no room in Galt's universe for the non-absolute; the inexplicable. If the human mind cannot possibly fathom it, it cannot exist. So goes the "logic". Yet it is faulty logic - a bold accusation against John Galt, who declares himself "a man of the mind". Unless a thing can be "absolutely" proved non-existent, there still remains the possibility of its existence. By definition, the "non-absolute" cannot be "absolutely" proven either way, so one cannot "absolutely" deny its existence. Therefore, it's not so easy to write the supernatural off as imaginary. In as "absolute" terms as I can muster, I see two paths to follow from here:
      1. Believe, without "absolute" foundation, that God does not exist, that the universe is nothing but really cool random matter, and that there is no meaning to life other than to survive in the best way possible.
      2. Believe, without "absolute" foundation, that God does exist, that there is a higher meaning to life, and that when our physical bodies die, something happens to our souls; for better or for worse.
Even (and especially) the strictest of logical thinkers has to admit that, of the two choices, the second has a much greater potential reward. When faced with this mandatory gamble, the choice seems easy - put faith in God, and if you're wrong... Well, it doesn't really matter after all... This is supernatural belief in its elemental form. Either way, there is no "absolute". A leap of faith is required in every single conceivable circumstance. So why not make a leap of faith that's worth something? Believers of every religion, cult, faith - regardless - have gone through this process in their minds. This is basically as far as human logic can reach into the supernatural: Since I can't really be absolutely sure one way or the other, it seems that I stand a better chance of having my eternal soul (which I may or may not have) live forever (which my instinct tells me would be best for me) if I put my belief in a higher being and do what he/she/it tells me to do. Of course, our faith is infinitely more complex than that, but face it; you've thought that very same thought. Probably a number of times. The great thing, however, about our logic is that though it cannot prove God's existence one way or another, it drastically enhances our perception of Him. If we were stupid or if we were programmed robots, we wouldn't have any clue (even less than we have now) of the grandeur of God. This is why we love God: because, despite our self-perceived high-and-mighty intellects, we are faced with the incredibly undeniable conclusion that we don't know squat. But we believe that Somebody does, and that that Somebody has taken a mystifying interest in us relative nobodies. We love Him - in spite of Galt's 50-page speech on the contrary - because our minds are unable to do anything meaningful otherwise.

"Romantic" is one of the words that most accurately describes Rand's writings. (Romanticism is, in fact, the subject of one of her nonfiction works - aptly entitled The Romantic Manifesto.) Her characters are more like legendary heroes than normal people. She uses them as a standard rather than an illustration. Of course, this is hard to avoid when she's trying to endorse a very specific philosophy, and we'll find that most philosophical literature speaks of its characters in terms of perfection. However, these characters inevitably have an air of being shockingly un-human (with the biased exception of Jesus Himself - even though he, too, was shockingly un-human, only in a very different sort of way). Her characters rarely, if ever, make mistakes. When they do, it is usually due to an over-estimation of the rest of the human race. John Galt is perfect in every way. How, then, can his principles apply to the common man? Rand writes in such a way that it seems that, in order to practice her philosophy correctly, one must be a genius in every sense of the term. Personally, I cannot build a revolutionary static-electricity motor, as Galt did. I cannot keep a transcontinental railroad running smoothly single-handedly, or invent a new type of metal that's stronger and lighter and cheaper than steel, and I cannot devise a way to pump oil out of solid rock. Perhaps I could do these things if I tried really really hard, but industry is not my calling, and I do not have a brilliant inventive mind. I wouldn't last a split-second in the executive office of Francisco D'Anconia. How, then, can I be a good little objectivist? The way I see it, I can't if I expect to stay alive. The only thing I can do is to run my business (because a business is about the only thing you can run effectively under the doctrines of Objectivism... Try running a family that only knows how to love conditionally) to the best of my capabilities, work my butt off, and pour my entire life into having the very best hardware store on Main Street. When I'm on my deathbed, though, am I going to be satisfied with my life, knowing that my family hated me and that I missed countless opportunities to enrich myself, but that, hey, I had the very best hardware store on Main Street? Not if I have an ounce of humanity in me.

Looking back on a life like that - in which material gain was my only objective, and my mind was my only friend - would be like looking at a great golden serving platter without a scrap of food on it. Is that where logic gets us?

To conclude this hasty mess of philosophical reflections (and what has kind of turned into a book report), I will once again remark at what a provocative set of ideals that Ayn Rand has given the world. Many things can - and perhaps should - be learned from it: the concepts of hard work, business integrity, and proper use of the mind; and the condemnation of laziness, second-handing, and unjust distribution of wealth. But just as evil cannot exist without good, the shortcomings of this philosophy couldn't exist without its truthful tenets. The sanctity of the ego is an inflation of these tenets to the point where they become the only truths - where self-acclamation becomes the sole purpose in one's life. Yet Rand fails to explain, "WHY?". If, logically, we are nothing more than chemicals and minerals, bound back to earth, then what's the point of creating a million new motors and amassing the world's largest wealth? In one of the saddest scenes in the book, a minor character who had been a villain throughout, finally "gets it" after being mortally wounded during a factory riot. His last moments were witnessed by the great Hank Rearden, who was the source of the character's change of heart. Rearden, attempting to carry him to safety, acknowledges that this character has finally changed. But then he dies, and Rearden feels nothing at the fact that his new "son" is now little more than well-organized dirt... As I read this, my mind was screaming, "What's the point?!?" So the guy had two minutes of "realization", but then what? Nothing? He just dies and that's it? THAT, not the big "O", is the gaping hole in Objectivism.

...

At my brother's request, I decided to make this a full-fledged book report and include a very abridged Character Log:


Dagny Taggart - The protagonist. She is the Vice-President of Operations of Taggart Transcontinental, the nation's largest railroad.
Henry Rearden - Owner of a number of productive enterprises, including Rearden Metal - a revolutionary metal that is stronger, lighter, and cheaper than steel.
Francisco D'Anconia - Childhood friend of the Taggarts. A genius in everything he did, from business to recreation, and owner of the giant D'Anconia Copper dynasty. Turned into a worthless playboy for no apparent reason.
James Taggart - President of Taggart Transcontinental. Older brother of Dagny. Weak-spirited and uninspired, he feeds on the successes of others.
Wesley Mouch - The Economic Controller of the United States. Nothing happens to the economy without his permission or the oversight of himself or one of his scrooges.
John Galt - A mystery. A legend. People talk about him, but nobody seems to know who he is. "Who is John Galt?" is a common slang expression meant to convey hopelessness.

...

So yeah. Hopefully you haven't given up reading by this time. If you're still with me, I thank you for sticking it out! I really would recommend Atlas Shrugged to anyone. It's an excellent read; rich in thought-provoking ideas and practical lessons. However, I encourage that you read with a grain of salt. I don't believe that Rand had a very good understanding of how life is meant to be lived, despite her undeniable brilliance. There's another book that I would recommend anyone consult with questions about life. It's extremely long, but I consider it to be pretty much exhaustive when it comes to advice about life... It's called The Bible, and you probably have a copy lying around your house somewhere. It's an excellent read.

I'd say it's the best read ever read.

The Hair We Wear

I was gently reminded today, once again, that facial hair of any kind is not permitted in the kitchen. Company policy, they tell me. It's been a few days since I last shaved because, you know, I'm in Yellowstone... So my homework for tonight is to drag out the cheapo (I speak of quality here, considering that the Yellowstone General Store Company has something of a monopoly on essential toiletries) single-blade Bic razor and, once again, remove from my face the beginning of that which I had so earnestly looked forward to growing this summer.

I can't be certain what it is about the beard that is so enticing to me. Honestly, though, I think it's mostly the tractor-beam pull of laziness. Something keeps growing on my face. Social ethics request that I kindly get rid of it, but...I'll do it tomorrow. I have more important things to do; like blogging... It's either that or the beard helps cover up my boyishly round face - which is a lot like shoving a cat into a burlap sack. You're free to exercise your imagination with that metaphor.

In any case, I won't have to worry about that because I'll be (mostly) perfectly clean-shaven this summer, and despite my whining, I can't say that the fact bothers me an incredible amount. Because a beard can be an incredible asset, or a crippling handicap. There's a very fine line that separates the lumberjacks from the wizards from the pedophiles.

Of course, some people wear beards for style, some for neglect, some for perceived style, and some for reasons unknown to the greater percentage of mankind. Every beard, however, tells a story. Many are boring and irrelevant, but every once in a while you come across a beard full of wisdom and experience.

I recently watched the movie Into the Wild (rent it, buy it, steal it, watch it now), which tells the tremendous real-life story of Christopher McCandless - a young man who gets fed up with the consumerism and insincerity of society and, upon his graduation from college, sets off on a tramp's journey to nowhere in particular, eager to find a more meaningful purpose than the 9 to 5 desk job that seemed looming in his future. Especially interesting to me was watching the progression of his beard throughout the film, as it was a constant reflection of his circumstances. From squeaky clean college graduate to wandering vagabond, his story could, in part, be told by the hair he wore.

Let's face it. Few physical attributes can be as genuinely expressive as one's hair. Its maintenance - or lack thereof - requires a special effort because, after all, it's attached to you. Hair is one of the first things that gets noticed on a person, and leads to first impressions such as: Sorry, this company doesn't hire pedophiles; or, Excuse me, but I was wondering if you could turn my dentist into a newt; or, I want to help you build a log cabin then live with you in it forever and have your babies.
[Please note the pun at the beginning of this paragraph]

You can tell a lot about a person from the way they choose to groom themselves, but you can't look into their soul. That requires interaction. Many times we pass people off as a first impression, and that's all they ever are to us. How many times, though, have we actually been forced to get to know someone and they turn out to be completely different than the stuck-up, greasy, insensitive jerk that we were certain of? As it were, at least one of my best friends used to be a stuck-up, greasy, insensitive jerk. After all, the best way to gain a friend is to be a friend... That, or get extremely rich.

I'm done talking about hair and related thoughts.

Clockwork

It rained today, and nothing of any significance came of that fact - other than that I found myself sitting in front of the great fireplace thinking...

I am privileged to bear witness to hundreds, if not thousands, of different personalities each and every day. Most people that I come in contact with are visitors to the park, here for only a few days. And, for the most part, these people are perfectly amiable.

One of my favorite things to do is to talk with complete strangers. For example, the other day while sitting writing postcards, I got into a conversation with the guy sitting on the couch opposite me. He was impressed that people still have the capacity to write things with pens, and I was impressed that he was a professional photographer from Las Vegas - a profession in which I assume is hard to gain notoriety; especially in a city like Vegas. We ended up talking for roughly an hour about photography, architecture, and his homemade mobile photo studio; and I daresay we almost became friends. Check out his website at www.robertrodriguezphoto.com. I promised to give him props on the blog, but seriously, he shoots some incredible photos.

On the other hand, however, there are the irritable tourists. You know the type: I've planned this vacation out to the second, so FOR PETE'S SAKE YOU'RE GOING TO ENJOY IT!!! This is Daddy's only week off... I'm reminded specifically of one woman who came through the Grill, found a minor something wrong with her meal, took it out on one of my coworkers, then proceeded to sit grumpily in her booth and write a novel on the back of a comment card. I was astonished by this woman's bitterness, and wondered why some people seem so miserable on their vacations. What's with the stress? Isn't that exactly what a vacation isn't? Honestly, I think that a lot of people treat their lives like checklists:
Go to college... Check.
Get a job... Check.
Get married... Check.
Have a boy and a girl. Name them Billy and Susan... Check.
Get a raise... Check.
Appear to have it all together. Become the envy of "friends"... Check.
See Old Faithful erupt... Check...
...And heaven help the person who stands in the way of checking off "Enjoy vacation with family."

I wonder what would happen if some geological disturbance caused Old Faithful to quit being faithful - or worse, retire for good. Would people still come to Yellowstone? Certainly the Old Faithful Inn would feel the pressure, and I'm willing to bet that someone would try to sue the National Parks Service for ruining their vacation.

But in reality, Old Faithful - though awesome - is pretty boring compared to much of the rest of the park. People are drawn to it simply because it's predictable. It's something that everybody is supposed to see. Somebody told them when to show up, and like clockwork, the geyser erupts. Photos are taken for proof. Check. What's next? Let's go to the gift shop to buy some more proof.

Meanwhile, two hikers eat lunch together under a waterfall that less than 1% of Yellowstone visitors will ever see. They don't have a single informational pamphlet or vacation guide with them, but they're enjoying each other's company.

(Side Note: I'm fascinated by the fact that I'm fascinated with the fact that the waterfalls and geysers don't ever stop going. There is no great big "OFF" switch. The Park Rangers don't shut down the attractions when all of the guests leave. It's a shocking revelation when you're sitting on a ledge observing nature that the river beneath you has been doing the same thing for thousands of years, whether or not anyone was around to sit on the ledge and observe it. And yet I wonder why it's such a shocking revelation. Are we so caught up in ourselves that we find it audacious to think that there are things in this world that are happening without our approval? Do we really not recognize that there just might be a higher power at work here? ... Just a thought.)

I'll be the first to admit that I sometimes find that I'm living my life like a scavenger hunt. I pursue experiences not for the sake of learning anything or even just for the experience, but for the sole purpose of checking them off my list of things that I'm supposed to - expected to - do. I want to do things because they would look good on my resume. I want a good resume because I want to get a good job. I want to get a good job because then I'll appear to have it all together and I'll look really good to everybody. Then, when everybody likes me, I'll be happy.

I think, though, that we have it backwards. Perhaps we aren't happy because people like us. Perhaps people like us because we are happy.

It all starts with attitude. Attitude will determine whether we will truly enjoy seeing Old Faithful erupt, or whether we will resent the fact that it was nine minutes late. Attitude allows us to confidently seize opportunities, and it allows us to be flexible when those opportunities turn out to be duds - which is frequently. The ability to be situationally (as opposed to morally or emotionally) flexible is one of the greatest virtues man can have. But this is impossible if our lives are like grocery lists. We'll pretty much always find that bread, milk, and eggs keep making their way back onto the list.

To live a scavenger hunt lifestyle is to assume that there are winners and losers. We decide that, in order to be a winner, we have to find all of our objects the fastest and in with the greatest style, and blinded by the desire to be winners, we speed through the game heedlessly - resenting anything that stands in the way of victory. Occasionally we pass something irrelevant that nevertheless looks really interesting, but in the name of the hunt we rush past it. Eventually, having collected our items, we return to base, anxiously awaiting the final results, knowing that we are winners...

...But why is it that oftentimes it's the losers of scavenger hunts that ended up having the most fun?

Sandwich Ethics

[Disclaimer: The following words do not in any (most) way(s) reflect an intentionally malicious or slanderous opinion of mine towards any specific short-order sandwich-making establishment, as I realize that most of them are going about things in equally unscrupulous ways.]



Being the son of a quality guy (by profession and by lifestyle), I have been brought up to understand the credo "quality before quantity", and have unofficially adopted the phrase as my life motto. I am morally convicted that the primary concern of any endeavor should be that it's product is more than worth the effort. Anybody can sling garbage at breakneck pace, but true virtue is found in the craft of one's hands.

Thus, when I'm told that the cheese goes beneath the patties of a double cheeseburger (in the glorious name of economy), I feel as if my morals have been thrown into the deep-fryer. It is my duty to provide customers with a culinary experience that is somewhat comparable to the $5 investment they've made; a feat that becomes extraordinarily more difficult if the cheese must go under the patty.

Let me explain myself a bit more clearly. Few things in this life are certain - nearly nothing lies within the realm of black or white. Everything seems negotiable these days. I fervently contend, however, that when it comes to the architecture of sandwiches, right and wrong are distinct entities. (My brother and I have actually been intending to write a book concerning the matter of correct sandwich construction, but at the moment that undertaking is on hold.) That's right, I'm a firm believer that there is an incorrect way to make a sandwich (however, variations of correct assemblies do exist - but those will be outlined in detail in the book).

Anyway, back to the kitchen of a certain unnamed sandwich joint... I stared incredulously at the burger before me and at the manager who had "corrected" my method of its making. My world spun out of control as I was told that, for efficiency's sake, the lettuce and tomato would be placed on the bun first, followed by a slice of cheese, two patties, and topped off with the other slice of cheese and the cap bun. I didn't even know where to begin to criticize this miscreant burger.

Lettuce and tomato FIRST?!?! No. Not now, not ever. The entire purpose of this sandwich is the hamburger, thus it goes first. This is the case with 99.9% of meat sandwiches. Protein comes first; it must always be touching the bun. There is a physics to this which I won't dive into at the moment (keep an eye out for that book), but essentially you don't want the meat floating carelessly around in the middle of your sandwich - for ergonomic and gustatory reasons.

Cheese BENEATH the patty?!?! This one seemed obvious to me. Cheese goes on top of the patty. Boom. I thought that people were born with this intuition. But apparently this concept needs explaining... First, assuming you're making a hot sandwich as I was, you're expecting the cheese to melt; and going back to the first point I made, if there is anything under the meat - notably melty cheese - then attempting to eat your sandwich becomes a desperate juggling act as you try to prevent it from sliding apart. Secondly, the cheese has properties which demand that it be closer to the roof of the mouth; for instance its tendency to stick. Imagine how much more of a pain it is to remove a sticky food from beneath your tongue as opposed to the roof of your mouth. It's a whole different experience. Thirdly, in the case of the double cheeseburger, the aim is to provide a smooth, even bite - an aim that gets exponentially harder to reach as the inconsistency of the burger increases. "Patty, cheese, patty, cheese" makes much more sense than "cheese, patty, patty, cheese."

In a defiant act of civil disobedience, I continued making my burgers correctly, and - if I do say so - with an ignorable difference in construction time. Confident of my ability to make a decent sandwich (value of ingredients aside), I reviewed my reasoning for the making of a good sandwich:

Bottom Bun (toasted) -> Self explanatory. The bottom bun goes on bottom.
Burger -> (See Above)
Cheese -> (Also, See Above)
Bacon (if included) -> Keep the interesting parts of the sandwich together. You don't want to be separating the taste. Also, the bacon gives some friction to the cheese, helping to hold the sandwich together.
Lettuce -> The placement of the lettuce hinges on what kind of lettuce is being used. Since the role of the lettuce isn't as much to provide taste as it is to provide texture, the key is to find a place for it where it won't be interfering with the structural integrity of the rest of the sandwich. This is usually right after the cheese, and always under the tomato. For shredded iceberg (like the kind regrettably used by most burger joints), it goes directly on top of the cheese/bacon. This creates a sort of "nest" for the tomato and the rest of the condiments. This is its only function because, after all, it's iceberg lettuce.
Tomato -> The tomato is the sandwich-maker's best friend; and his worst enemy. It can add the perfect amount of juiciness to the sandwich, completing its purpose; or it can cause the sandwich to self-destruct, leaving the eater frustrated and wholly unsatisfied. The slipperiness of the tomato is the source of its power - for good or for evil. If you can manage to successfully tether the tomato to the sandwich, you have won a great victory. Therefore, it is paramount that the slipperiness of the tomato must not be equally matched by the slipperiness of its neighbors, lest you create a rift in your burger. The tomato must be surrounded by ingredients that are inherently frictional, i.e. iceberg lettuce and the cap bun.
Cap Bun (toasted) -> Self explanatory. The cap bun goes on top.

At the (insert name of burger place at which I'm employed), we stop here. The condiments are left for the customer to add, according to his wishes. However, if I was to add them in the kitchen, their placement would be like this:

Mayo/Mustard/Ketchup -> Between the cap bun and the rest of the sandwich. They act as a lubricant and an introduction to the sandwich, so it's important that they are on top.
Pickles -> Depending on the characteristics of the other "vegetables", the pickles could go either above or below the lettuce. You want them close to the middle of the sandwich because 1.) they need to be secured, and 2.) they have too strong of a flavor to exist on the outsides of the sandwich.
Onions -> Should go on top of the tomato, simply because no other place works for them.

This is the architecture of a cheeseburger. This is it's true form. There is no grey area here, simply the fact that this is the way it is done and there is no other way. No cheese under patties.

I marvel sometimes at the simplicity of making a good sandwich, and the unavoidable inclination of mankind to screw it up. If we can't even get sandwich-making down, how can we possibly pretend to have our entire lives in order? It's a reminder to me that we should leave the thinking to the Man back in the Kitchen. He certainly knows what He's doing.

...

I'm open to any questions/comments/complaints/outrages about sandwich techniques, and I cheerfully encourage them, provided you first put down the paring knife.

Also, seriously. Keep your eye out for that book. It will happen.

Milky Way

I've just returned from trying to wrap my head around the galaxy. I shouldn't have been doing that, because now my head is stretched out and sore, and not much was accomplished in that regard. I'm not sure exactly what I was expecting would happen, but in spite of my better judgment, I was drawn to find a high spot where I could watch the sun disappear behind the distant mountains. The Old Faithful Observation Point seemed perfect, so I hiked up the hill quickly and perched myself on a rock, ready to witness glory. I soon realized - as I have so many times before - that glory revealed itself not in a grand display of extravagance but in the serene peacefulness that overwhelmed me. I opened my Bible and read a bit about the Love of Christ (as described by John), then looked around. There's something fantastically satisfying about reading the Bible in these types of settings. It's as if God is reading over your shoulder, saying things like, "Ooh, this is one of my favorite chapters!" or, " Yeah, that part about my love? Look around you, buddy. Here it is."

As the stars started coming into view, I found myself smiling. I don't know why I was smiling, but I have my suspicions that it had something to do with the fact that the stars were coming into view. If it's true that the stars in the night sky are really just tiny holes into heaven, then I've never been closer to the pearly gates. I must've seen a half-dozen meteors in an hour. The Milky Way was draped across the sky like a great celestial feather boa. There were so many stars that I cast a shadow.

Yet even as I was lost in the grandeur of it all, my mortal body reminded me that it was very cold and I am very tired. I've actually nodded off a few times while typing this... But in spite of humanity's rude calling, my mind is still lost among the stars - my soul still perched on the hill, trying to measure the night sky.

Buffalo buffalo Buffalo buffalo buffalo, buffalo Buffalo buffalo?

There are 488 times as many buffalo in Yellowstone than there are in that grammatically correct sentence. I'll be a bald eagle, however, if I know where they all went. Yesterday I took a long hike through what is basically the City of Buffalo (no relation to the city in upstate New York) - Hayden Valley. Typically herds upon herds of America's largest land mammal do their thing in this particular stretch of Yellowstone, but yesterday not so much. I did run into a few old bulls, but the thundering herds - which I had every intention of pulling a Dances With Wolves with - were absent. Nevertheless, yesterday's hike was fantastic. I'm actually a little regretful that I didn't save it for later in the season because it'll be a hard one to top. I experienced everything from terror to jubilation to a sublime fascination. Here are a few things I learned yesterday:

1. Hitchhiking is harder than it looks --- From now on, I vow that if I'm not running late and if I have room in my car, I will pick up any hitchhiker not toting an axe or a chainsaw. Because now I have an idea of what hitchhikers go through. Being a loner without a car makes inter-Yellowstone travel a real problem for me. There are plenty of other people with cars though, right? And since I'm the center of the universe, it shouldn't be any problem to snag a ride from someone! Clearly not. Actually, aside from the inconvenience of waiting on Good Samaritans, it usually turns out that the people who stop are exactly that. I realized that while it takes an interesting person to hitchhike, it takes an even more interesting person to pick one up. The morning's trip was given by a bearded old man in a Geo Metro who seemed to know everything about the park, and we talked about our various experiences in Yellowstone. Obviously he had a lot more to say than I did, but I was happy to take advice from a veteran. I'm glad, though, that I didn't heed his warning against hiking the Mary Mountain Trail, the undertaking of which, he seemed to think, classified me as a raving lunatic. He left me with a final caution against bears and an are-you-sure-you-know-what-you're-getting-yourself-into farewell that seemed to indicate that he expected to see me in the news today as a missing or mangled hiker... The trip back to Old Faithful was a bit harder to navigate, taking into consideration that the trail I had hiked was 20.2 miles in the opposite direction, leaving me a total of 54 miles away from home - a hike I wasn't about to willingly make. The first car to pick me up wasn't a car at all, but a camper. A camper being rented by a French family (mom, dad, and two teenage daughters), I might add. They offered to take me as far as they were going because they had seen a bear the day before, and were concerned for my safety. I chuckled, but was glad to accept their offer. They even let me take my walking stick on board. I sat in the back of the camper and listened to their rapid French as I looked out the window. I secretly wondered if they were talking about the dirty American on their couch - the daughter sitting across from me adopted a particular disgusted curiosity - but I rather think not. We got stuck in a buffalo jam, and I witnessed the family's first encounter with a beezooon as two of the bison came within an arm's reach of the passenger door. Otherwise, the trip was uneventful and untranslated. We parted ways at the intersection near their campground, and I was on my own again - still 39 miles from Old Faithful. This time I had to walk about a mile and a half before getting snagged by the quintessential hitch. When the sputtering blue Volkswagen camper van passed me, I was a little peeved that not even these dudes would stop for me, but then a little further down the road, it stopped and a man with flowing dark hair beckoned for me. I hopped in and was transported back to 1967. Inside was everything I could've hoped for from a Volkswagen camper van: various feathers, rocks, peace and love stickers, a beat-up guitar, some hand-woven blanket-looking things, a dreamcatcher... The only things that seemed out of place were the driver and her passenger. She was an older woman and he was a young latino, and neither was wearing tie-dye. She explained that she was originally from Oregon, but that she followed her lifelong dream of living in Guatemala, where her friend was from. They were back in the States for a presentation he gave in Minneapolis, and were just road-trippin' it from Oregon, stopping to see the sights on the way. I said that I had always wanted to do something like that, and we ended up having a marvelous conversation about, well, lots of things. I didn't even mind being hunched over without a seat in the back of the van. In parting, I gave them some advice about Old Faithful, and they wished me the best of luck with trying to get my aching feet to work again... Certainly there are better ways of meeting people, but I would say that hitchhiking is one of the best.

2. I am terrified of quicksand --- I can't say that I learned this as much as I reaffirmed it. Yellowstone is unseasonably wet right now, due to an excessive amount of snowmelt. This means that the lakes are up, the rivers are rushing, and the valley creeks are creating swamps. And, as it happens, the Mary Mountain trail crosses several valley creeks. Most of this was okay; I can deal with my fair share of bugs and sloppy ground. But I ran into trouble with one particular spot. Having crossed an obnoxiously wet plain, I was anxious to get back into the woods onto higher ground, and this patch seemed harmless.

But no, that mud is at least two feet deep (it very well could be deeper - I didn't stick around to find out). And I walked right into it. All I know is that before I could say "moose turds" I was mid-calf in mud and sinking. This was exactly what I did not want to be happening while I was alone and 7 miles from the nearest road. With the help of my walking stick, I struggled my way out and quickly went on my way... I'm not saying I would've died. That mud may have only been so deep. But the experience pretty effectively freaked me out and intensified my distaste for water-related mishaps.

3. My boots are not entirely waterproof --- (See above)

4. Navigation skills are an excellent asset --- Especially when trail markers - and a trail - are not readily available. On the plains, the trail oftentimes gets lost or covered, and the only way to decipher what the trail actually is is the use of these trail markers...

...which frequently get destroyed by buffalo. There were a few times that I actually had to pull out the compass and map to find the right path. This also added a bit of excitement to my day.

5. Bison are awesome --- Though I didn't run with the multitude as I was hoping I would, I did see a few of the loner bulls. I almost literally ran into one coming over a hill. He got spooked and trotted a few yard away and watched me curiously as I went on my way, also slightly spooked. The thing about bison is that they treat us much like we treat fruit flies: they really don't acknowledge our presence until we start messing with their stuff or buzzing around them a bunch. Then they bring down the hammer. You can walk within yards of a full-grown 2000lb buffalo and he won't as much as look at you. (Dinner, after all, is paramount.) I was thinking it would be nice to wield enough raw power to be able to be indifferent to everything. However, in that sense, I'm glad that God is not like a buffalo.

6. My feet smell --- Eh, I knew that already.

7. Solitude makes me a bit strange --- I suppose this is directly proportional to the amount of solitude that I've chosen to get myself into. Yesterday I experienced just about as much solitude as anyone has, at times being ten miles away from the nearest road. After a while of this, I found myself in the thick of a conversation about the problems with fast food (and possible remedies) with three chaps I met along the way: me, myself, and I. Towards the end of the hike, I was verbally commanding myself to keep walking, and chanting "Your feet don't hurt. No they don't. Not even a little." I suppose I don't mind this fact. Why else would I choose to go into the wilderness in the first place if not to completely lose my mind? That's kind of the point, isn't it?

These are the things that I remember learning. Certainly I learned more about myself and my surroundings, but much like most of what goes through my head, its life in my conscious was fleeting. I guess what I'm trying to say is that nature is pretty neat.

Also, I realize that this post is coming two days after I actually made this hike. Look, I'm sorry. Between being exhausted and battling the intensely pathetic internet connection, I haven't had time to put this up until now. The good news is that all of my pictures are now uploaded HERE. Or for the abridged version: HERE.

Simple Machines

Ladies and gentlemen, let it be known that I, Paul Conover, am officially able, without reprimand, to use one of mankind's oldest tools - the knife - in the workplace. Woe be to my previous thinking that I was well-trained in the practice of slicing and dicing, for in truth it has not been until this day that I am truly worthy of wielding kitchen cutlery. And, armed with my culinary Excalibur, I carved and pared with a new confidence. No honeydew was left whole; no cantaloupe left sheathed in calloused rind. Such unbridled freedom I have never before experienced. Yes, today I have become a man.

I found it humorous that I was required to go through "knife training" today in order to make fruit salad. The managerial type, it seems, doesn't care how many years you've been successfully not cutting your appendages off with knives much sharper than theirs, and prefer that they remind you themselves of exactly how to not do so. This, I suppose, makes perfect sense considering that we share the world with a large percentage of idiots - the continuance of whose appendages, in defiance of all logic, depends on this training. In any case, I managed to prove that I was capable of not endangering the lives of myself and my coworkers; and in the event that the blade should slip, I showed that I knew how to bleed away from the foodstuffs... And yet I'm allowed to operate a tub of boiling cooking oil and an express elevator without so much as a "good luck".

It makes me wonder about "spoon training" or "latex glove training" - both of which, I argue, can be just as lethal as the knife. (Personally I would be most interested in latex glove training, because I've come to the conclusion that literally nothing has the ability to make me feel quite as stupid as the act of trying to put on latex gloves. Those of you who also have sweaty palms, I'm sure, can relate.) Because, if you think about it, everything is deadly, or at the very least a carcinogen. Statistically, I guess, more people are hurt by knives than by lettuce, but perhaps that's precisely the reason that "lettuce training" should be implemented. I would anticipate an injury from a knife, but I wouldn't have a flying clue about how to avoid a salad-related injury.

Safety at work. There is none. On the other hand, though, you're no safer at home. Actually, there aren't many places on earth where you can be completely assured of your survival for the next ten minutes, let alone the rest of the time that you plan on living. The fact is, we aren't guaranteed a life that ends conveniently when we're quite through with it. Rather, it's more likely that death will come awkwardly right in the middle of something totally awesome - like skydiving or going to your grandson's high school graduation. It's when we reach this end of the rope - willingly or not - that we are struck with a reality that Eugene Peterson phrases very well: "...keep in mind that when we're raised, we're raised for good, alive forever! The corpse that's planted is no beauty, but when it's raised, it's glorious. Put in the ground weak, it comes up powerful. The seed sown is natural; the seed grown is supernatural—same seed, same body, but what a difference from when it goes down in physical mortality to when it is raised up in spiritual immortality!" (1 Corinthians 15:42-44, The Message).

That's good to know, what with people using knives willy-nilly and such...

Whistle While You Work

Today I found myself doing just that. It was strange, I'm sure, for my coworkers to hear tunes ranging from "Big Rock Candy Mountain" to "A Spoonful of Sugar" issuing from my lips. And I'm not sure if I can rightly say why I felt compelled to serenade the general population, but I did notice one thing: everybody seemed to be in a good mood today. Of course, I'm not taking credit for this fact, but I can't help but think that my good mood rubbed off a bit on those around me - a reminder to me that I am not an island. My actions - even small ones like whistling - can impact those around me.

It's funny how things seem easier when you're feeling jolly. Work is less so. People smile at you. You say all the right things without hesitation. You feel capable of anything... But then you start to wonder, "How long will this last? This must continue! I like this feeling!" and you start focusing on being happy. You start focusing so hard on the feeling of happiness, clinging on to it so tightly, that you squash it like a kid with a hamster. Your interactions become calculated and forced; you stumble over yourself; and as a result you clam up, thinking nobody wants to listen to you anyway, stupid... This is the how the cycle goes (at least for me it does).

Happiness, as I mentioned before, is a feeling. And feelings are fickle - never dependable, and oftentimes they change before your very eyes. Feelings are much like cafeteria food in this regard.

On the other hand, joy is a state of being. Joy is a way of life. Joy is the satisfaction - the certainty - of a life headed in the right direction. I think I'm finally beginning to realize that. Because joy doesn't require a constant cycle of happiness or on-top-of-things-ness, but rather a constant cycle of growth - which necessitates death in a small degree. In fact, I wonder if a life of happiness is a life lived in delusion. Denial...

This came to me yesterday when, perched on the top of a small mountain, I couldn't see a single other sign of human life. I tried to put my finger on what I was feeling at the time. It wasn't happiness and it wasn't entirely humility. It was a kind of sublime satisfaction that I could only describe as joy. I looked around me, wondering where God happened to be in all of this. Promptly, and as if to say, "Right here, you dunce!", a gust of wind almost knocked me off the cliff.

 

It was then that I really realized that joy isn't something that is attained through a series of prescribed steps or methods. It isn't something that can be found in all of the self-help books in the world. Instead, it is something that we each have to find on our own - simply by living like we were meant to. Certainly I can't claim to have any kind of understanding of how my life will be played out, but each day I take a step or two forward (and frequently a step or two back) towards understanding why things do happen; what it is that I can make out of this life that I've been blessed with; and who is the person that I was meant to be. It's the ebbing and flowing pattern of growth that I'm beginning to recognize.

All I can say is that I have a long way to go before I become who I think I am; and when and if I do get there, I will no doubt realize that I was previously mistaken, and will keep moving along in my life and in my faith until at last I meet up with God and figure out exactly what the heck I was so confused about...

Until then, I keep hiking.

Good news! My album is now available!

Here is the abridged version

And here is the version for my real friends who have an exceptional amount of time on their hands