graveyardreview

[graveyardreview]

Valley Cemetery, Yosemite National Park, California

Grave’s and Redwoods!

We had been on the road for two weeks, making our way across the northern midwest plains, over the Rockies, to the Pacific Northwest. We had spend ten hour days behind the wheel logging miles, and now, we were stuck in a traffic jam in Yosemite. Granted, we didn’t time our trip well, but it was not one that we could time. We were traveling during the peak season. With all of that in mind, it was hard to fathom sitting in a running car, surrounded by Half Dome and El Capitan, waiting for the traffic to clear. Crawling passed the valley campsite/town, we could see it was bustling, people were grilling, a small shanty-esqu village was buzzing with the evening preparations and relaxations. And I, as usual, needed to pee. 

We pulled off and parked the car, hit the valley shanty town campground bathrooms and decided to look around. Towards the Park Employee housing, in what felt like a part of the village you were not supposed to be walking around in, there appeared a sparsely populated, but weather worn cemetery, headstones sprinkling the gaps in between the redwood trunks. Walking into the cemetery you I was struck by everything about it. Who were these people buried here? How have they earned the right to rest forever in such an incredible place, nestled between the homes that house the rangers and the redwoods they are sworn to protect? There are so few graves for such a large space, some stones being hand carved, some more traditional and recognizable monoliths, and some, bare wooden posts. What is this place? Who are these people?

George Anderson earned his right to rest here, the first person to summit Half Dome in 1875. Without the use of modern equipment, his grave, decorated with a small water stained picture dictating his right among the heroes of climbing. Fake daisies decorate the edges of his uneven gravestone. 

The cemetery strikes me as a small frontier settlement’s. Which I suppose it is to a certain degree, sitting on federally protected lands, without the conveniences of modern consumption, the capitalist expansion stopping at the park border (except for the gift shop and overpriced market stores and cafe’s of course!). There is nothing but nature here. This is what we come to visit, a glimpse of what the world once was, a glimpse at a world in which we were not masters, but elements. This is a world the people buried here knew, it is the reason they rest where they do. Most of these people lived in the Valley, as homesteaders, tour guides, and stewards of Yosemite. They wished to stay among the Red Woods, in a valley that is so mystically ancient, that it has captured the human imagination since it was first inhabited. 

Outnumbering any stones here are red wooden markers, grave’s of the native peoples of this valley. The Miwok people, a tribe that called the valley home during the summer time, lived undiscovered here until the 1850′s. After raids on miners and store keepers in the area came to a head, a small volunteer army battalion was created to locate and subdue the native people. They set off into the unconquered mountains and burst into the unknown valley. A battle ensued in which the Miwok people were defeated, forced to resettle on reservations, and keep the peace. The band eventually left the reservation and returned to the valley where many of them lay in their final rest. 

Galen clark a prominent mountaineer during his time, entered the park as a tourist in 1855. Upon finding out that he suffered from consumption a short while later, decided to live the rest of his days in the Yosemite Valley he had been so in awe of. He dedicated the remaining years of his life to the protection, documentation, and beauty of the Mariposa grove (which he located and named) and the valley. He dug his own grave, carved his own headstone, and planted the giant sequoias that surround his grave site today. He lived for 40 more years, becoming instrumental to the protection and stewardship of the Valley. 

Those that lay in the Yosemite Valley cemetery, they are the children of this place. The founders, protectors, the people that shed their blood for the land they rest in. This is what cemeteries are meant to be, a remembrance of those that have a direct connection, a part of - not a part away, of the land, the history, the place and time of their existence. This is a direct connection to the past, a tangible line towards the exact moment you stand amongst the memories of those before. In the middle of the town, the center of it all, surrounded by the very trees they first came to see, their roots acquiring the dearly departed. And here, there is only a small fraction of the history, the life, the incredible vibrance of what was and how it led to now. 

Summary (out of 5 headstones): 

View - ++++ (4) Headstones: It’s surrounded by giant redwoods and mountains!

Accommodation - + (1) Headstones: There’s nothing really, but a short walk to                                                               bathrooms.

Quality of Graves - ++++ (4) Headstones: Beautiful, hand made, old, rugged!

Historic Nature - +++++ (5) Headstones: Doesn’t get much more historic!

General Ambience - +++++ (5) Headstones: It’s in the middle of Yosemite!!!

Overall Rating: 3.8 Headstones! A must see!

[graveyardreview]

Pioneers Cemetery, Jackson’s Bay, New Zealand

 Bogans!

I stumbled into this graveyard as I looked for a place to take a leak. I’d been driving along the West Coast of the southern island for several days and decided to take a break in Haast at a fancy hotel. Well, fancy for out here I suppose. It smelled of mildew and had the off color pink of a British colonial resort, with tube television to boot. Naturally, I loved it and after my first night, asked to stay for another. I’d just finished a hidden gem of a trail that cut you across the peninsula and dropped you off in the totally secluded Smoothwater Bay. It was glorious, isolated, rainforest trekking. I pictured myself setting up camp on the Smoothwater Bay beach and spending the rest of my life there. On the way out near the trail head I saw a cut into the forest. Then there was a sign that read “Pioneers Graveyard”. Naturally, I needed to investigate. 

I had never witnessed such a sight. Let alone, such a graveyard! A hundred years of powerful nature reclaiming our monuments to the dead. And what dead indeed! These were the western settlers who came to hack out some semblance of ‘civilization’ in this harsh and unforgiving environment. Even in current times the area is sparsely populated and the few houses you do see have their own water towers and solar panels/turbines. There are mountains everywhere, cliffs, Surrounded by the ocean, and the ever growing rainforest. 

The graves are overgrown, almost indecipherable if it weren’t for their distinctly man made, body sized, patterns. They read of German and British settlers, ferry boatmen and their families who died young from disease or accidents. They are the first western settlers ever to come to this beautiful and dangerously powerful place. The graveyard is nothing more than a small clearing with encroaching trees surrounding it. It’s hard to tell where it begins and where it ends. But no more than a dozen graves lie here. The crosses are rotten, the wrought iron fences rusted and thrown aside from tree roots, the gravestones moss covered and worn unintelligible. 

As far as facilities go, this graveyard has a LOT to improve on. While the road that carries you to Jackson Bay dead ends and drives right by the graveyard entrance, I would hardly had known it was there if I had not had to relieve myself so urgently. There were no bathrooms, but the forest did provide some privacy and while there were plaques and markings, there was little indication that this was a historic site for anyone outside of the plaque near the entrance. Here lay pioneers, some of the first westerners to traverse this harsh environment, yet, there graves lay unmarked and a mystery, eaten away by time and moss. 

However, there is something uniquely ominous about a graveyard forgotten by time. Any run of the mill cadaver yard has some old as hell bodies laying in it. But they are usually well kept, kempt, and often visited. This one, however, had not received more attention than that of the forest eyeing it’s stolen real estate. Akin to the earthquake battered graves of Lyttleton, and the flimsy crosses of the Antarctic, here were our monuments meant to withstand time, and anchor our memories beyond our lifetime. Yet, within even a short 100 years, they were being reclaimed beyond deciphering. 

William Frederick Burmeister was one of the first ferryman of the area, and in all likelihood one of the more prominent men in the small settlement of Jackson’s bay. He, at the least, received a plaque individually. Perhaps his descendants still work the dock here. I wondered which of the graves was his, and what possessed a man to travel from Hamburg Germany to the frontier’s of New Zealand in the late 1800′s? I can only imagine the sight of Smoothwater Bay in his time, or better yet, before his time. 

Summary*:

View - +++ (3) Headstones: Not much to view outside of the forest.

Accommodation - + (1) Headstones: Literally none.

Quality of Graves - +++++ (5) Headstones: Old, worn, torn up, time battered!

Historic Nature - +++++ (5) Headstones: Pioneers mother fuckers!

General Ambience - ++++ (4) Headstones: You can’t get more ambience then seclusion in the the rain forest.

Overall Rating: 3.6 Headstones! Worth the trip!

(*All ratings are out of 5 headstones with a maximum overall rating of 4)

[graveyardreview]

The Crosses of Ross Island Antarctica

There is no graveyard here, as there is none in the Alaskan bush outback, or the inaccessible peaks and valleys of the Himalayas, there is just the force of nature. Those that perished here, from the cold, the unimaginable storms, or the freezing sea, they perished for a purpose. And scattered like worn and polished sea glass among an expansive ocean, they rest, unsurprisingly, circled around the here and there human dwellings. Only near the outcroppings of scientific settlements are they supported, otherwise they would be wiped away by the hurricane wind, and the unforgiving darkness of winter. 

With all that in mind, as far as graveyards go (as I must stick to my mission of critiquing graveyards) it’s a downright catastrophe! The graves are scattered, they are hard to reach, difficult and dangerous to navigate, and at the bottom of the fucking world. I shouldn’t even call them graves! They are mere memorials. Where are the bodies, I ask you? Well, somewhere either in the barren expanse of the continent or long ago eaten by the gigantic sea creatures of the frozen sea. If I wanted to see memorials I would have gone to Paris, it certainly would have been easier to reach. Graves dammit, it is graves I want with rotting bodies buried beneath! It’s just like these explorers, to have given themselves up for the greater good of human knowledge, to give of themselves so much that they gave the entirety of their being, including their physical bodies, never to be seen again. 

Who were these men? No one will ever know. Well, actually, history knows fairly well, but that would take research on my part. What we (aka, I) do know is that most of them perished in the early 1900′s through the 70′s, the most famous of all being Captain Scott’s failed expedition to the South pole. Failed in the sense that he was second to reach it (after Amundsen), and that he did not return alive. This was the final age of earthly exploration. Antarctica being, perhaps still being, one of the last truly wild and unexplored lands. These were the men that sought to understand it and to gain glory from claiming to have defeated it. They were not measley sailers or laborers, but men the likes the world will never see again. Lawrence Oates, one of Captain Scott’s men on their return from the south pole took it upon himself to remove himself from the expedition so that the rest of the party would have more to eat and therefore a better chance of survival. His last words, according to Scott were, “I am going outside and may be some time” he then walked off into the icy desolate continent never to be seen again. 

To be able to walk the same ground as such men as Lawrence Oates, Scott, and Shackleton is worth the trip alone. And while there may not be the frozen cadavers of the last of earths true explorers littering the volcanic mountainside, the rest of the view isn’t half bad. 

Not to mention, upon that island stand some of the sturdiest wooden crosses the world has ever seen. 

*Summary:

View - +++++ (5) Headstones: It’s Antarctica for jimmies sake!

Accommodation - + (1) Headstone: you either have to get a job down there or pay a lot of money to ride on an ancient soviet ice breaker. Either way, prepare to be uncomfortable.

Quality of Graves - + (1) Headstone: I wouldn’t call them graves. No body, no grave.

Historic Nature - +++++ (5) Headstones: You can’t get more historic than this.

General Ambience - ++++ (4) Headstones: Antarctica, what else needs to be said. 

Overall Rating: 3.2 Headstones! Good luck getting there!

*All ratings are out of +++++ (5) Headstones

[graveyardreview]

Lyttelton. Christchurch, New Zealand.

Traveling south and through the tunnel that cuts into the heart of the mountains south of Christchurch, I saw far above in the staggered mountain residences of Lyttelton a cemetery at the top of town. Why, what a pleasant surprise! After huffing it up steep European style streets sans sidewalks I snaked my way around to my goal. What I found there blew me away. The cemetery had been totally decimated by the earthquakes. Lyttelton survived the first earthquake of 2010 without major damage but suffered greatly in the aftershock of 2011. And here you could see it like no where else.

Like the houses, parks, and parking spots of this city, the graves of this Lyttelton cemetery sit on the steep incline of the mountain. Tombs jutting out of the steep edge-like, gaping steps to the mountains precipice, their headstones lay in absolute disarray. Heavy monoliths capsized and cascaded into wrought iron fences, breaking through the tomb caps, smashing the poured concrete and jutting into whatever lay beneath.

If there were ever a cemetery that looked like the aftermath of the zombie awakening, it was this one. Some graves lay in such rubble that the buried layers of the laid to rest received a final breath of fresh air.

Here, not only were tombstones upended, they were shattered to pieces. The brick housing of the larger tombs had scattered and fallen like rocks on a steep cliff, coming to rest sporadically down below. Above, military graves were disheveled underneath a tattered New Zealand flag. Next to the flagpole sat a bench. The view from there, perched at the top of that destroyed cemetery was amazing. The giant cargo ships sat in the vibrant blue port water unloading container after container. Lyttelton, being one of the major ports of the country, see’s the vast majority of the nations imports and exports. The lifeblood of the economy flowing far below in the valley, all the while watched by the far above deceased, their markings scarred with time.

This is perhaps one of the most amazing graveyards I have ever visited. And yes, mostly because it lay in such rubble. Sure the view is amazing, the location crazy (who buries people on the side of a fucking mountain?). But the utter destruction, the total decimation, the fact that these monuments to people that once existed lay in such ruin and disrepair is the exact reason I go to graveyards. It is to witness the passage of time, to remind myself that we are never long for this world, and that even those that will remember us will pass, until there is nothing left but the crumbled remains of some memento to past glory. There is beauty in destruction, and here it was very clearly present.

Summary*: View- 5 headstones, incredible view of the harbor, bay and mountains Accomodations- 2 headstones, trash can and bench Quality of Graves- 5 headstones, I've never seen anything like it Historic Nature- 2 headstones, military graves from yesteryear General Ambience- 5 headstones! superb all around

Overal Rating: 3.8 headstones! You've got to see this!

(*All ratings are out of 5 Headstones)

[graveyardreview]

Bromley Cemetery. Christchurch, New Zealand.

Yes, Margaret Blake You are assuredly missed, Broken fake roses.

Upon entering the high hedged gate of Bromley Cemetery you are greeted by a public restroom. A shitter at a corpse hangout? Yes please! As a man-boy who has ISB syndrome (Incredibly small bladder syndrome) this is a big come up. The kiwi’s must be avid crypt tourists themselves, because only the most hardened morbid trekker understands that all those gravestones really fill the bladder. 

The earthquake that ravaged this city two years ago, which left open wounds and gnarled scars viscerally visible to this day, touched this place as well. Even the laid to rest were shaken about, knocking around their submerged wooden campers like a maraca with a hard boiled egg in it. The jingly deceased may not have jiggled out into the sunshine, but their graves certainly were jumbled. Broken headstones, crashed monuments and crosses lay fallen and cracked on the ground. Which, to be totally honest, made the cemetery super fucking sweet. 

Surrounded by the classic, and at this point boring (thanks LOTR…) New Zealand mint green mountains and located far away enough from the city center to lend you a stolen moment of silence, this cemetery should be visited by any looking for something a bit different in Christchurch.

Are there famous people buried here? probably. Famous by American standards? Well I’m sure there’s a few genocidal racists and quacks, but non that we would know of from the last few hundred years. The beauty of cemeteries, for any that have not discovered it already, is that it’s a superior version of a public park. You get green space, monuments, history, and silence without the annoying wanker and his ice cream crazed two year old little shit for brains. The only people you’ll meet here, aside from the grieving relative or two, are those that are in the ground. And those are my kind of people, people either so soaked with grief they don’t even realize your there, or those that are so soaked with decay that they are unrecognizable as having once been human. 

Trash receptacles abound so make sure you bring some lunch to eat over a forgotten dead person. I picked up a steak and mushroom pasty from the mall a few blocks north, it was mediocre, but at least I ate lunch in good company. While there is a bathroom there aren’t any benches, this leaves you only able to sit on the surrounding headstones. Luckily, due to Kiwi Modesty, most of the headstones are the perfect height for sitting.

Summary*: View-3 headstones, beautiful surrounding mountains Accomodations-4 headstones, rubbish bins and public bathrooms Quality of graves- 2 headstones, European style, modest, mostly broken Historic Nature- 3 headstones, no famous people I think, but a large WWII plot

Overall Rating: 3 headstones! A must see! (*All ratings are out of 5 headstones)

[graveyardreview]

Westminster Cemetery. Baltimore, Maryland. 

Ya you guessed it. If your going to a cemetery in Baltimore, it’s gonna be for motherfucking Edgar Allan Poe. This quaint cemetery is located in the back of a brick cathedral, or church, or something. You’ll recognize it by the gaggle of older tourist types, their camera’s slung around their fatty sunburned necks. Most will be milling about unsure of what to take pictures of, or why they are there.

Up front, as you walk in, its a multitude of signage surrounding a monument to Mr. Poe. Behind the informative post’s are smaller, more modest, and frankly, forgettable gravestones. Forgettable not for lack of a striking nature, but because they are so old and worn they have no names or information. Unknown corpses of prominent Baltimoreans long gone to the cold grasp of that bitch, history.

Even more forgotten are the poor shmucks located behind the cast iron fence under the church‘s front porch and tangled up in a garden hose. Boy, what sort of discount did these poor souls get? Or I wonder, was the bargain struck by their penniless children after they croaked. “listen here, I mean, she’s dead right, God rest her soul, so who’s gonna know, ya’know? Just pop her under the church and fug gadabout it! alright padre?....She was such a wonderful woman.” What’s the story behind these tucked away gems? I’d sure as shit like to know.

The rest of the cemetery is most certainly in the shadow of our esteemed poet and author Mr. Poe. And, like the rest of this historic but currently forgotten city, it’s cramped, worn down, and kind of depressing. Like a run down garage behind a nice house. 

The saving grace? The horribly downtrodden life of Mr. Poe! Unrecognized as a genius in his time. In modern times his little cawing influence can be found everywhere. His grave? Confusing. There’s one place he was buried once, then another, then the place where his mother is buried, and then that monument with the horribly disfigured likeness of him where I think he is buried now. Never more Baltimore, never more.

Summary*: View-2 headstones, that of a brick wall and some patches of grass Accommodations- 3 headstones, bathroom somewhere, informative placards a + and - Quality of Graves- 3 headstones, old as hell but very few and small Historic Nature-5 headstones, Edgar Allen mother fucking Poe ya’ll!

Overall Rating: 3.25 You gotta grab some Natty Poe! (*All ratings are out of 5 headstones)