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

Double Rainbow!

Make that Sun: 2 / Paul: 1. For reasons unknown to me, my friend the sun betrayed me again today by roasting my head, shoulders, knees, and toes. Perhaps it was teaching me a valuable lesson – higher altitude, if colder, means closer to the sun and less atmosphere to filter its fury. I’ll keep that in mind so that the next time I go hiking without sunscreen, at least I’ll know beforehand that I will be rendered crimson.

Otherwise, today was great. I hiked 12 miles into the beautiful wilderness, took full advantage of “Employee Appreciation Day” (which included 40%-off at all stores – the perfect opportunity for me to snag some deodorant – and a banquet which showcased dinner that was good enough to not be cafeteria food), learned that volunteering at the Backcountry Office might be the coolest job ever, and finished off the day with a double rainbow. All the way across the sky. Yes, today was great. There’s currently a fire blazing in the huge fireplace at Old Faithful Lodge, and the sun is setting directly behind the perpetually-steaming geyser…

…And yet this sunburn is really a bummer.

Oftentimes we focus so intensely on minute tragedies that we forget about the gorgeous 200-foot explosions of boiling water that happen in our lives every 93 minutes. Everybody is a culprit of this – especially those of us whose explosions are particularly dazzling; those for whom extravagance is normal and boring. I find myself falling into this category too frequently, running after all of the “stuff” that life tells us we should run after. It seems that, for many with Parker Brothers inclinations, LIFE is just a game in which the person who accumulates the most stuff comes out as the victor. In the game of LIFE, you don’t get points for watching sunsets or chatting idly with strangers – those things simply get in the way of ultimate victory. But what kind of victory is a daily 9-holes in Naples if that’s the only story you can tell your grandkids? “You should’ve seen the shot I had on the back fairway. Truly a work of art.” I’m slowly realizing that the things that make me truly happy are the things that can’t be put on credit (though you wouldn’t believe that by looking at the bill). What good is a sportscar if you don’t have anybody to ride shotgun? Though this isn’t just about money.

It’s about experiences. I recently read Donald Miller’s A Million Miles In A Thousand Years, in which he wonders what kinds of things he would talk about with God when he got to Heaven. He ultimately decided that the conversation would revolve mostly around his acquisition of a Boy Scout merit badge, for lack of anything better to talk about. Miller raises a good question, and I strongly recommend any of his books to anybody… But I have a revision to make to this scenario. I would rather that my heavenly conversation be a continuation of the one I had been having with God my whole life. One of the greatest benefits of enduring friendship is the ability to look back on mutual experiences and remember once again why you keep these people around. Most of the time you’ll find that the experience was memorable because they were around. It’s funny how simply the presence of certain people can completely change our experience. What might have otherwise been dull and unfulfilling could turn out to be unforgettable. And the great thing about this kind of relationship is that almost every aspect can be translated to human relationships as well.

Perhaps another night I might write more extensively on some of the many subjects that I just rambled about, but right now I’m going to cap off this good day with a goodnight. 

But wait! I have a photo album up!

...and it will be coming soon, because I can't figure out how to link it to the blog. Help with this would be appreciated

But here's a sample from my good day:

Big and Little

My apologies for the lapse yesterday. It was a long and tiring day and, quite frankly, I didn't feel like writing anything. Get over it.

Anyway, the sun found me wide awake when it finally decided to get out of bed. In fact, I had already been up for about an hour and had started on my hike. I scolded the sun for being so lazy, and it grumbled and scolded me for not making it any coffee, then later it took revenge by ruining a bunch of my pictures. I'm not quite sure of my next plan of attack, but I guarantee it will be swift and merciless. But that's besides the point. The point here is hiking. If you look to your right just a tad, I've started a log of all the hikes that I've completed. Three so far, but more will follow. Actually, just today I joined the 100 Mile club, and I vow to reach that goal by the end of the summer...

Well whoop de do.

Yellowstone encompasses 2.2 million acres. Which is more than 3,400 square miles. Which is roughly the size of Rhode Island and Delaware combined. You could run three consecutive marathons in a straight line without leaving the park. To put it in Ohio perspective, if my house in Troy and my school in Cincinnati were picked up and directly translated on top of Yellowstone, I wouldn't have to worry about paying for two entry fees, because the schoolbus would never leave the park. Within this nation-sized park are more than 1,100 miles of trail. This equates to 42 marathons. Enough road to allow me to walk two-thirds of the way back home to Troy.

This rather depresses me. My 100-mile promise seems like, well, 1/11th as awesome as it did before. In order to really get a feel for Yellowstone over the next 9 weeks, I'll have to hike roughly 126 miles per week, which simply isn't doable without some better socks... Okay fine, I could maybe do it...

But honestly, this place is enormous. Yellowstone evokes a profound feeling of smallness, which is accentuated especially on the lonely trails that weave through the sequestered backcountry, apparently directionless. A Yellowstone hiker is nothing if not humbled, and lying if not terrified. It is on these paths - paths that are perhaps used more frequently by nature's hikers than human hikers - that one is faced with his own frailty. No longer is he able to pretend mastery of "his" domain, but instead is at the mercy of He that governs all domains...

When I reached the turning point of my hike, Mallard Lake, I found a comfortable rock and sat down for a while, trying - and failing - to take it all in. The sun had just barely come up, and the water seemed to be nothing more than a reflection of the land and sky.

I opened my Bible and randomly turned to Psalm 104, which miraculously fit the morning perfectly: "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). It was evidence to my ever-creeping suspicion that I wasn't as alone in the wilderness as I thought I was. It hit me that the whole time I had been walking in God's back yard, and I pictured myself stumbling through some bushes to find Him sitting stretched out in a lawn chair, wearing dirty jeans and enjoying His handiwork.

It's impossible to not feel this way in places like this. There is no church or sanctuary on this earth that even comes close to rivaling the holiness of nature itself. But this holiness isn't the same starchy holiness that we typically associate with places of worship. Creation emanates a sense of casual majesty - which does not impose or request that you please keep down the racket, but instead invites you to pull up another lawn chair and have a chat with the Creator.

It seems to me that these instances don't just happen as a result of any kind of goal-setting on our part. If we go out in search of spiritual renewal/discovery/disruption/etc., we might find it, but probably not. How much more aware are we of the things that take us by surprise? I think we're setting ourselves up for failure when we start designating tangible goals for spiritual matters. I think God is more interested in the questions we ask than the questions we answer...

Being several hours ahead of schedule, I took my merry time on the way back from the lake, and ended up taking more pictures than apparently this internet connection can handle uploading (3 hours and counting). I'm in the process of putting together a real-time visual account of the summer thus far, and will be posting the link as soon as (more like if) the pictures make their way into cyberspace. Until then, it looks like I'll be stuck surfing around in an internet that oftentimes seems bigger and more untamed than any wilderness that I'd be willing to hike.

Bear Spray

This evening I come to my computer, brimming with tales of adventure and organic cooking grease. That is to say, you won't be interested in anything I did yesterday. Or today for that matter. Except maybe that I bought fingernail clippers today after identifying them as yet another seemingly trivial, yet immensely important tool that I left at home in Ohio (others include shampoo, a towel, and laundry detergent... I'm currently in the process of re-evaluating my relationship with personal hygiene).

I guess I did buy a can of bear spray last night. It took me about an hour to do so, considering the general store is finding it difficult to keep the shelves stocked after the events of Wednesday morning (If you don't know what I'm talking about, CLICK HERE). But after trekking from one end of the park to the other, I managed to snatch the last one on the rack, with bearly any time to spare. After relaying my pun to the cashier, who gave me a sympathetic chuckle, we got to talking about how it would be in my best interest to actually read the instructions before I go out into the wilderness bearing bear spray. It certainly would be unfortunate to come across an angry Yogi and reach for my can of liquid bear TNT only to discover that it was at the bottom of my backpack, carefully wrapped in 13 inches of child-and-apocalypse-proof plastic. Even worse, we decided, would be the scenario where I point it backwards and create for the bear a marinated entree: Curried Paul. Nevertheless I was comforted by the story of the man who put his unfortunate family in a line and systematically doused each and every one with a healthy dose of the stuff, apparently thinking it was a more potent insect repellant. At least I knew enough to avoid doing that. At least I'm not that unbearably dense...

It got me to thinking about what I would do if attacked by a bear. Of course I would first try to calmly reason with it, explaining that I'm quite gristly and really wouldn't be worth the effort. I learned from Ranger Greg (the man when it comes to bears) that grizzly bears are the second smartest mammals native to North America, so even though Ranger Greg may be biased, I don't see why a peaceful settlement can't be reached - even if I have to trade my pic-a-nic basket for my wellbeing. Bears drive a hard bargain. Yet there are those bears who find cordial negotiation sessions to be boring, and would much rather get on with their business of eating me. This is when I exercise my right to bear arms against the bear (and his arms...which could cause me harm). I whip out the bear spray - which I have carefully excavated from 13 inches of child-and-apocalypse-proof plastic, and have placed in its holster on my left hip - and I let teddy know exactly which one of us has to resort to using weapons to defend himself. If this doesn't work, and the bear is desperately attracted to my raspbearry scented deodorant [Note: it is at this point that I have exhausted my bear puns], I'd like to think that I stand my ground, grab my buck knife, and meet my assailant. A grizzly scene ensues. [Note: Damn...] I actually found myself replaying this scene over and over in my head: I dodge his swipe, roll, and plunge my knife deep into his neck, mortally wounding him; and in the process I accumulate injuries that aren't quite fatal, but will produce a number of manly and interesting scars... But eventually I had to face the honest fact that, if I did ever come face-to-face with a malicious bear, I would be emptying the contents of the anti-bear canister, then running the hell away.

This was a humbling revelation, but I suppose it's better I came to it then rather than the moment when I'm looking at the back of Baloo's gaping throat.

I guess what I'm really trying to say is that I didn't really do much of anything yesterday and today. Perhaps, though, it's when we aren't doing much that we end up making the best use of our time... Just something to bear in mind.

Ho! Land!

Thursday, for the first time in my life, I stepped foot in our nation’s oldest and second largest national park. It was a small footprint - relatively microscopic - but it was the first step towards what I’m sure will be the most memorable summer I’ve yet had.

I’ve been assigned to the Old Faithful Snow Lodge, working at a short-order joint aptly named The Geyser Grill. It’s not a glamorous occupation, and in fact it's a job that I had vowed to avoid for my entire life at any cost... But I suppose given the circumstances, I can peacefully shut up and let yet another occupational vow quietly perish. On the bright side, just think about how awesome our apartment burgers will be next year now that I know how not to make them!

Yesterday I got something of a ‘grasp’ on my immediate surroundings by taking a 4-hour hike around the geothermal features near Old Faithful, starting with a trail called Overlook Pass, and ending with a circuit through the geyser basin. As you may know, the entirety of Yellowstone is essentially a giant freaking volcano - a "supervolcano" in sciencey speak. They say it last erupted about 640,000 years ago, and don't worry because they don't expect it to erupt again for at least another 15,000 years. I'll have to admit, they're doing a pretty good job at not letting on to the fact that they have literally no idea what the heck is going on. They don't. Nobody does... I mean, sure, they can speculate, but when it comes down to it, Old Mother Yellowstone is just gonna get bored one day and blow up the entire western hemisphere. "So why? Why, Paul, are you living on top of a dormant supervolcano?" The answer is simple, really. If and when she goes ballistic, I will be incinerated immediately, whereas everyone else in North America will choke to death slowly on 2,500 times more ash than Mount Saint Helens spat out... But anyway, moving away from the morbid and depressing... I say all that to say this: there are geysers where I live. Notably this one. Old Faithful.

 There are also pools of water - called hotsprings - that are literally just boiling puddles. And they're gorgeous. Sidestepping the boring (interesting?) science, they become colored like this because of bacteria that live in them in such force that, in terms of diversity, they rival tropical rainforests.

Cool, eh? ... Anyway, I'm walking and trying to avoid falling in and boiling my skin off at the same time, which occupied roughly 95% of my brainpower - enough to effectively render me completely oblivious to this, which, in true Yellowstone form, had crept up in the blink of an eye:

Armed only with a University of Cincinnati Rowing jacket... I kept walking towards it. I actually completed the trail (my camera died tragically at the end before I could snap a darn good picture), before it started raining too hard. But I still had to trek the mile back to the lodge, and about halfway back, all hail broke loose. "Aw, hail," I exclaimed bitterly before chuckling at my own cleverness. Yeah, a hailstorm. It was actually pretty sweet because it piled up a lot like snow... Really painful snow that really shouldn't be caught on the tips of tongues. There were drifts of it on the sides of the path, and I wondered if Israelite manna hurt this much.

Eventually I made it back to the dining hall, where I was arrested by a man who must have seen straight through my bandana-wearing, tough-guy exterior and identified the drenched, helpless puppy dog that I really was. He invited me to sit with him, and reluctantly I did. He noted my Cincinnati jacket and asked where I was from, then pretended to know where Troy was. He spoke quickly and tirelessly, but seemed genuinely interested in the seven words I managed to squeeze in. He patted me on the shoulder a lot... It was something of an awkward encounter, but it made me realize that every single person living and working here in Yellowstone, without excuse, has a screw or two loose. It made me wonder why I had come here. To make some money while becoming one with nature? That's what I've been telling myself, and perhaps it's true. If it is true, then I'm just as crazy as the talking guy - probably crazier... But I think the real reason I came to Yellowstone is that I just wanted to escape. I wanted to break away from what was expected, and I wanted to do something seriously abnormal. I guess you could say that the reason I came here was to "find myself"; and as unbearably cheesy as that sounds, I think I'll stick with it. There's something special about going to a new place where literally nobody knows - or cares - who you are, because they end up telling you who you are. The challenge, then, is to align the person who you know to be yourself with the person the social mirror is showing you... Perhaps this is a struggle we all face throughout our lives, regardless of surroundings.

After talking for a while with my new friend (I'll call him that), we parted ways and I retired for the evening, praying that my roommate wasn't already asleep. Were my roommate already asleep, I would be doomed to listen to his thunderous snoring for at least an hour before I forced myself to sleep. Luckily he was asleep.

iBlog

In thinking of ways to make good on my promise to tell everyone I know about how I'm managing to avoid being eaten by bears, my creativity couldn't muster anything more than this blog. That's right, I'm now keeping a web log. I, like 156 million other individuals, feel that my thoughts are more interesting than the average Joe's, and have decided that it's time the world listen up to what I have to say! I even spent a good part of my evening making sure that my blog page looks better than other inferior blog pages - no doubt the product of the inferior dedication and brainpower of my fellow bloggers. Look out, internet. There's a new kid on the block, and he's got a BigWheel.

Of course, I'm full of more hot air than about 149 million of those other guys, who may or may not be taking this as seriously as I'm going to pretend to be. So here's the deal: I will report on the various random thoughts that race through my head (oftentimes at such speed that I really have no idea as to their composition, but am just left with a general impression of blurred color and dusty eyes), and you will read. It's quite simple, really. I write; you read; and I don't come find you and read it out loud to you. As a man blessed with the speaking skills of an oyster, I beg you: this is the only way I can effectively communicate.

On that note, I'd like to explain just what the heck is going on here...

As you may or may not know, I'm spending this summer in Yellowstone National Park. They even offered to pay me a little bit - provided, of course, I actually go to work and do my duty. Yes, a summer job in Yellowstone. I wish I could say that the application process was rigorous; including many strenuous physical challenges, an IQ test, a beauty pageant, and a talent show. I wish I could say that, of millions of highly qualified and handsome applicants, I was chosen first. But in actuality, all they really wanted to know was if my lungs processed oxygen and if I could spell my name correctly. (Seriously, the application was almost that easy, and I'd recommend that anyone give it a try: http://www.yellowstonejobs.com/) But who am I to complain? I got the job, and I didn't even have to embarrass myself by performing strenuous physical challenges, an IQ test, a beauty pageant, and a talent show. All of this happened towards the end of last year, so you can imagine how much hair I was tearing out in anticipation for the school year to come to a close. Finally, though, it did, and interestingly it did so in the presence of more hair than perhaps I have ever known. But that's a different story entirely, and if you're really interested I will reluctantly share it with you. Anyway, I arrived in Bozeman, Montana on Wednesday, walked around town, found my life's calling, stayed in a motel for serial killers, and took a Thursday morning bus into Yellowstone having absolutely no idea what was in store for me... And that's where we are now.

The purpose for this blog, then, is simply for me to record my thoughts and experiences as I think and experience them. It's a way to let everyone back home (Mom) know how I'm getting along without them. Also, selfishly, it is a personal memoir - which will no doubt suck - that I hope to be able to look back on and remember just how retarded I was in my youth.

So take it however you choose. Read it, disregard it, fall in love with it, fall in love with me (ladies), print it out and burn it, satirize it, discuss it, forget it. Whatever. It's up to you, because my thoughts are now public domain... But hey, I guess that's why iBlog.