The third verse of "American Remains", sung by the inimitable Willie Nelson, recounts the worries of the Midwest farmer who "rides a John Deere tractor" and who's main concern is that "the rain it hasn't fallen/since the middle of July/and if don't come soon [his] crops will die". I recently attended a scientic conference in Iowa City, smack dab in the middle of the biggest collection of corn fields in the known Universe. The official reason for going was to present a poster with some of my work, but at the same time it provided an opportunity to see something different. And different it was: we drove straight through Nebraska and most of Iowa to get there, and the gradual shift from Wyoming prairie to Nebraska flatlands to the rolling hills of Iowa was surprisingly shocking. I stepped into the car at 7,700 feet and semi-arid desert, but when I stepped out again I was a scant 300 feet above sea level and the humidity was hitting 80%. I hadn't seen that much green, or moisture, since I left England. And I've never seen so much unbroken farmland in my life. The area devoted to food production is almost inconceivably vast, and there are at least five more states that contain more of the same. Conversations with the locals provided some interesting perspectives as well: from corn-fed farmboys to PhD students, they all had a slightly different take on life. For instance, one girl who studied the evolution of reptiles was from a tiny farming community. Her parents and relatives were dyed-in-the-wool conservatives who didn't even believe evolution occurred, much less was worth investigating. However, they were firm believers in practicality, decency and taking time off work to help bring in the harvest. Iowa is known as a pretty good political predictor (particularly of presidential elections), and I guess that Midwest farmer represents something fundamental about the American "folksjälen". I'm still not quite sure what, though...
As for the river gambler, I can't say I have much experience with the South. I've been to Kentucky, which is right across the river from where I used to live, but that's about it. Instead I'll illustrate with a little story that the only Southern boy I know (Tom) told me recently:
Imagine, if you will, a summer day at a lake somewhere outside of Atlanta, Georgia. Kids are swimming and playing, adults are by their picnic baskets eating fried chicken and drinking iced tea, and good ol' boys are enjoying the sunny day on their porches with a mint julep in hand. In fact, one of the little kids is Tommy, zipping along on water skis with his equally tiny cousin driving their Uncle Dimmy's boat. Now Uncle Dimmy has a big old outboard engine attached to his boat, and the boat's going at quite a clip. Tommy's cousin decides to mess with him a bit and starts swerving back and forth, dragging Tommy through the wake. Unfortunately the outboard engine is significantly more powerful than well-attached - a testament to the "ambition over safety" school of Southern engineering - and on a sharp turn it comes loose, jumps five feet straight up in the air, splashes down and sinks like a lead case full of gold. The boys now have two problems: they're stuck in the middle of the lake, and they've just killed Uncle Dimmy's boat. The former is easy enough to solve, but the latter involves informing Dimmy, a gigantic man with a short temper and high blood pressure, that they've managed to lose an entire boat engine. Predictably, Dimmy looks like his head is going to explode when they make it back to tell the story. His already sweaty, balding pate now shows bulging veins and has turned an unmistakable purple color. "GodDAMMIT, Tommeh! How intarnation couldja lose mah engine?!" is only the beginning of an impressive, if slighly unintelligable, rant. However, this is not the first time the engine jumps ship, and Dimmy quickly materializes some help and several wetsuits. The huge engine is somehow salvaged from the lake bottom, dripping with mud and now completely useless. The following days are spent listening to Uncle Dimmy's loud cursing and the sight of engine parts flying through the air as he roars "GodDAMN this engine! Kathy, bring me more Dewar's!" after the umpteenth attempt of a rebuild. The hot, sticky Atlanta weather isn't exactly cooling him down, and as the croaking of frogs and buzzing of mosquitoes signals evening, his drawling curses keep ringing out across that little Southern lake, while little Tommy and his cousin wisely stay out the way for the time being...
In more local news, I've finally recouperated completely from my injury and I'm climbing up to spec again. It feels like I'm significantly weaker than before, but somehow the climbing is going better anyway. I have a sneaking suspicion that loss of arm strength actually forced me to stand on my feet a bit and finally acquire some footwork. Or I got used to crack climbing - either way, I managed to lead my first 5.11 on gear recently. Unfortunately that's all the easy success that's likely to come my way this summer, as the ante must now be upped. This involves the horrendous notion of trying Vedauwoo's signature wide cracks - well known for turning better men than I into quivering piles of bloody flesh. A recent bout with Worm Drive (5.11, #5 Camalots through a roof) left me incapacitated for a few days. Little did I know it was possible to bruise your hips climbing, or that you could actually lose skin on your feet while they're covered in thick leather climbing shoes. And for the ultimate in hubris, 8 miles of switchbacks up to the Red Wall (the poor man's Diamond of Long's Peak) capped by 10 pitches of alpine climbing is scheduled for next weekend. If that doesn't crush me, nothing will...
