Playing tourist/tour guide

Recently had Mom and my sister here to visit - awesome! Showed them around the region and saw quite a few things I hadn't experienced myself. Quite a nice mini-vacation, as it were. The girls are now in New York spending Mom's money (and possibly Dad's, if they find clothes that are expensive enough).

As is customary, I took them up to the Snowy Range first:





And did a lap around Centennial, pop. 100, home to the worst kitsch in the West:



I showed them how fantastic science is:



Then it was off to the rodeo at Cheyenne Frontier Days, which was unexpectedly cool. I'd never gone to one myself, and the girls had certainly never seen anything like it. They were pretty stoked, not least because of the fantabulous hats:



I was a little taken aback at the sheer violence of this most Western of sports, though. It's surprising that these guys last more than a few years doing it professionally:



Then it was off to Rocky Mountain National Park. Arguably one of the coolest mountain ranges this side of the Atlantic, it has grand vistas:





Cute wildlife (hi, Chip! Or is it Dale?):



Pretty lakes:



Unfortunately, most of the park sits well above 10,000 feet and seeing stuff does require walking uphill frequently. Evidently, this doesn't agree with city slickers from sea level for very long:



But temporary hypoxia-induced setbacks aside, we had a blast while they were here. Hope this becomes a yearly tradition - I think it's Dad's turn next year. This time you'll catch a fish, Dad, I promise!

Georgia Boy Awareness Day

I've recently been informed by a certain anonymous reader that I'm portraying my good buddy Tom in a somewhat negative light. Admittedly, it's easy to take that spin - for one thing he photographs so very, very... curiously:



But I'm not an unfair or cruel man - especially not to my friends. So, in an effort to remedy this perceived smear campaign against one of Laramie's finest, I give you a list of Tom's recent accomplishments:

• Acquired no less than three novel and derogatory nicknames in a single weekend up in Lander, including "Dr. Felchman", "Pantene" (an updated version of the previous "Silky") and "a wig riding a chicken".


• Through diligent work at the gym, swelled his already over-sized biceps to such a diameter that the last nickname actually seems appropriate:




• Yarded on gear up numerous finger cracks, while exclaiming "I had it that time!"


• Had a local bar proclaim Wednesdays "Tommy Night". Unfortunately, only patron on Wednesdays is the aforementioned Tommy.


• Had a novel drink named after him at the above bar. Again unfortunately, the name was in fact "Buttercup".


• Fell off a route at Beehive Buttress - likely the first time any climber accomplished this almost Herculean feat.


• Frequently took intellectual high ground by referring to his level of education - his "pH level intellect", to be precise.

Of course this is only a minute sample of all his neigh-well-heroic deeds - the most impressive of which might be putting up with all the shit he gets from his friends...

In other news, I've got family coming in this week and I'm excited about that. Hopefully we'll enjoy some rodeo, mountains and good steaks. If you want to come visit at some point, just shoot me an e-mail!

People from the New Country

I've been listening to a lot of country and bluegrass lately. Both are forms of music that are pretty specific to the US, and to a somewhat limited demographic at that. I guess if you hang around the West and/or rural areas long enough you become part of that demographic. One song in particular has been going 'round and 'round in my head in the last few weeks: "American Remains" as recorded by The Highwaymen. A kind of country version of CSN&Y, this super group only made a couple of albums but put out some great material. This particular song details the lives of "the heroes of the homeland": American archetypes, you might say, all hailing from the interior of the country. From the "shotgun rider for the San Jacinto line" to the "river gambler [who] makes a living dealing cards", they all represent some aspect of the uniquely American experience. It's easy to dismiss the difference between New York City and Kansas City as insignificant compared to, say, the difference between Stockholm and Paris, but there's definitely something about the center that isn't like the edges.



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...

Breaking the back of winter

Many of the ancient peoples living Up North, where I grew up, felt an understandable paranoia about winter. Not only did it get colder than a witch's tit; the sun also seemed to disappear for months on end. By the time winter solstice had reduced daylight to a two-hour phenomenon they must've been pretty riled up about the world coming to an abrupt end. To appease the gods they sacrificed cattle, horses, humans or even the king (who was, after all, responsible for keeping shit running properly). And wouldn't you know it, soon enough the days started getting longer and the snow began to melt. Although an occasional storm might come in and set things back a bit, winter's back had been broken.

Both physically and metaphorically the same thing happened here in the last week. As I'm typing this I can hear the steady drip-drip of water melting off the roof and the sudden crash of an icicle falling down. And for the first time in what feels like a good long while I can actually sit back and relax on a Saturday afternoon. It's been a long and shitty semester thus far, but things are finally starting to look up.

Somehow it all started on January 11. Up until that point winter had been going surprisingly well - relatively warm, little snow, lots of climbing, excellent Christmas and New Year's. A couple weeks' worth of grappling with the slippery rock down in Fort Collins had substantially improved both footwork and balance, and pulling down hard on plastic was putting some muscle on me. Unfortunately my tendons did not respond in a similar fashion. Ever since I re-dislocated my left shoulder a few years ago I tend to climb with that arm slightly bent: it stops too much pressure hitting the joint. Instead most of the force goes into the muscles in that arm, and a lot of those attach around the elbow. And wouldn't you know it, in mid-January it all become a bit too much. A wicked case of elbow tendonitis/tendonosis (hard to tell which one) pretty much put me out of climbing and weight lifting for two months. The endorphine withdrawal did not make me a particularly happy man...

The next sucker punch hit me right in the back of the skull about a month later. After coming back from Sweden - a wedding, family and friends made the visit quite enjoyable - Amanda unexpectedly broke up with me. I guess in retrospect I kinda saw it coming for a while, but at the time it was quite the shock to the system. The less said about the weeks after that the better. To put it mildly my life didn't improve any.

Around the same time I started preparing for my preliminary exams. As I've mentioned before job security in grad school is somewhat sketchier in the US than in, say, Sweden. If it's my department in particular or the system here in general I'm not sure about, but the upshot is that there's a test of your abilities at the end of both the first and second year. If you fail, you're out. I dodged the first punch in May last year, but this time around it was more like a long series of body blows: you just had to stand there and try to take it. Life outside of work slowly faded away and eventually I was thinking of nothing else. The added stress of having my job (and hence my stay in the US) depend on my performance pretty much turned me into an asocial wreck. On the day of my oral examination I was about ready to puke out of sheer nervousness. But with a little help from my friends I pulled through and came out the other side with my sanity intact and my spot in grad school secure. A great learning experience, no doubt, but I'm not quite sure I needed that kind of pressure in my life.

But hey, it's all in the past now. My elbow finally healed enough that I can climb on it, next week promises to be warm and sunny, me and Amanda are cool, and I'm back to being productive at work. I felt ten feet tall walking down the hallways of the department yesterday. Winter really is ending, in all sorts of ways, and I'm looking forward to what tomorrow has to bring.

I still have a job!

15 minutes ago I passed my preliminary exams and thus did not get fired this year either. Yay me! Now I'm off on a bender. Three to four years until the next ordeal of that magnitude. That should leave me time for a few drinks...