#gulley's stump

[caesar1141]

[cognitivejustice]

Fires and unsustainable wood harvesting have depleted the Afromontane forests on Mount Moco, Angola’s highest mountain.

The forests are home to a diverse variety of birds, some found only in Angola.

Since 2010, a conservation project has sought to regrow some of the forest patches and to protect them from wildfires.

The work is promoting bird conservation, but also benefiting the local human community by ensuring a reliable flow of freshwater out of the forest.

Two photos of Kanjonde, taken 40 years apart: the large patch of forest seen above the village in 1973 had been reduced to a fraction of its original size by 2016. 

Now

Mona Bunga, a project coordinator, instructs biodiversity monitor Teresa Sakata on how to use a turbidity tube to measure water quality in a stream flowing out of a restored patch of Afromontane forest.

Broad benefits of restored ecosystems

Habitat restoration work like this isn’t just good for the birds. There’s now a steady supply of freshwater to Kanjonde from the stream that flows out of the forest.

“By protecting the forest we are protecting the river so it can provide healthy water,” says Regina Wimbo, one of the 12 nursery workers who waters and tends to the seedlings and helps carry them across the hillside on planting days.

Wimbo was born and raised in Kanjonde. She says she’s happy to see her work in the nursery now bearing fruit.

“Six years ago we had lower water flow; now we have much more water flowing down,” she says, indicating the stream of crystal-clear water rushing past. There are plans to put in a small weir, and to pipe water directly to the village.

Some residents of Kanjonde are themselves learning how to gather data to measure rates of recovery and keep tabs on potential threats. Like the nursery workers, they’re employed on a part-time basis by the project and its sponsors, and have been trained to survey biodiversity and human environmental impacts at various sites around the village. Birds, plants, wood collection, gulley erosion, fires — they’re all surveyed.

[skyward-floored]

Legend has a brother??

ALL RIGHT ANON LEMME TELL YOU A TALE

This turned into more of a “Legend basically has an adopted family” then just his brother but you know how I tend to get off-topic.

(a link between worlds spoilers, and all the screenshots are borrowed from a playthrough on youtube, literally the first one that comes up)

So as we all know, Legend is technically a conglomeration of two separate Links; the Hero of Legend, (alttp, oos, ooa, & la) and the New Hero of Hyrule (albw (and technically tfh, but that’s not canon to lu)).

And in albw, Link has a family.

So now I’m sure you’re thinking “uh, what? Link never has an actual family except for an occasional sister or the like”, and you’re absolutely correct, because this is Link’s adopted family. It’s never outright stated in the game, but it’s not at all a stretch to come to this conclusion.

Albw starts with Link being yelled awake by a kid named Gulley (the blacksmith’s son) who tells Link that his dad is steaming mad and that he said if Link wants to be a blacksmith he’s going to have to be better about getting up at the crack of dawn.

Gulley obviously knows Link really well as he just enters his house and wakes him up, and Link doesn’t appear to be too upset at him bursting in at all (though that might be because he’s reeling from the nightmare he was having, but I digress).

The waking up is obviously a near daily occurrence as well

When you finally get to the forge and there’s a bit of a hullabaloo with the captain leaving his sword behind, the blacksmith’s wife offers to make Link breakfast once he gets back from returning the sword (he never gets his breakfast :( ).

Now skipping ahead a little bit, the blacksmith’s wife asks Link if he’s seen Gulley anywhere, and asks him to keep an eye out because she has a bad feeling for some reason. In looking around for Gulley, you’ll come up to a clearing with a small bag sitting on a stump. The blacksmith’s wife follows after you and gets rather upset and says this:

Gulley wants to be the one to give Link his bag! That’s adorable! And such a little brother thing to do (duality am I right? Yell at your brother to wake him up, then a little bit later want to be the one to give him the cool thing).

Also sounds like a pretty motherly thing to make a nice new satchel for Link huh? Especially when you hear what the blacksmith’s wife says a bit later.

So yeah, Legend has a mom basically :)

BUT we weren’t really talking about her, we were talking about Gulley! And the biggest proof I’d say of Link seeing him as a brother or at least being rather close to him is the part right after you end up in Lorule.

The blacksmith’s wife’s counterpart (whew!) finds Link passed out on the road and brings him inside (which she complains endlessly about). She lets him regain consciousness, then shoos him out. But if you talk to her again before leaving, she says this:

Gulley is still missing at this point.

And Link is so worried about him he’s mumbling his name while unconscious!

Now I’m sure you could argue there’s just the usual “Link always likes kids” thing going on here, but I really think it’s more of a brotherly sort of worry/affection going on. Taking both Gulley and Link’s side of things, the relationship obviously goes both ways.

And as Link doesn’t appear to have any blood family in-game... I really do believe the blacksmiths are his adopted family, in a similar way as Rusl and Uli are to Twi in twilight princess.

(And of course, I have no clue how much of this is canon to linkeduniverse, so it’s possible Legend doesn’t have nearly as much of a relationship with the blacksmith family as I’m making him out to have. But either way, in albw, Link does have a family.)

[twink-between-worlds]

ok were gunna go. fuckin sleep. but here; wip

Legend let out a shaky sigh, sitting on the tree stump in the clearing. He’d started calling it Gulley’s clearing at some point, the kid loved it here. But…the clearing was special to the hero. His eyes trailed along the treeline until landing on a headstone. He…he knows that Marin didn’t really…die, but.. He made her a grave. Maybe it was for himself, he isn’t sure. “Hey, Mar.”He mumbled softly, sighing as he fidgeted with his rings. “Remember that group I told you about? Yeah…I think you woulda loved Wind. He lives on an island like you. Energetic as hell too, though. Gives you a run for your money…he’d probably pull the same stunts that you did if given the chance.”He rambled on, eyes remaining shut. If he opens them, he’ll be hit with an overwhelming feeling of guilt and mourning. So he’ll keep his eyes shut. “Remember when you taught me how to play the ocarina correctly? Cause I played it horribly?”He let out a small, pained laugh.

[dougmeet]

gobsmacked tutorial classic lyrics century talented artists people century first tiny glimpse song much format unhesitatingly lyrical dirigeants edge dreams innermost workings meaning , one , sallied forthcoming walls clearing drybed gulleys arid desert packing cloth absorption craven inhospitable rejection redirecting diamond cut Tanguy moonscape stone trees aliens don’t technology logic Earh’s own timeline chronology stump-carved history minute rings years , decades , disastrous events story bad relief Michaelangelo’s teacher grip Arthurian , hammer Gods Zeus Norse God Thor , pounds force , such cuneiform hieroglyphs recordation Nature , Epic preordained entitlement Man climatological Pepys’ journals awesome extinction epochal collision decimates one blink Time’s capricious tic , climax , , girds crack , don’t smartphone it’s Sultanate # SWACK .

HAPPY  #10000 VIEWS TODAY!  #TENTHOUSAND  #REELS  #thanksgiving2020 If you played a part in this @creators  #réel Personal  #Milestone  #THANKYOU @reels.of.ig @leedongwook_official @officialrezapahlavi #instagramreels @design THANKSGIVING ALSO TO 1. @marlon_style 2. @fionaappleig  #muse 3. @thetrashapp  for trying to bury me! 4. my mentor @bella.poarch for everything. Except for all of the curious fandom who are  #reelinintheyears with me. #mrjyn #dougmeet

[optionalobjectives]

Prime Cut

You know what is all kinds of good? Getting out of the city, buying a ranch, rolling around in a new Dodge Ram blasting Blake Shelton’s “God’s Country.” Oh yeah. That’s the kind of thing that just doesn’t feel as good sitting parked in traffic on the way to K street in DC. Some folks in my profession are pissed that they either have to move out to Grand Junction to keep lobbying the BLM or find ways to schedule regular flights and split their time. Or they would, anyway, except they’re doing everything over Zoom these days. Not me. I sold up in Bethesda and plowed some money into a couple thousand acres in Mesa County. My commute is shorter, my sky is bigger, and I can roll all around my new property however I see fit. So I’m not in the center of power anymore. Big deal. The steakhouses in Washington might have more power brokers per square foot, but the beef is better out here.

And it’s not like I had to settle for some falling apart, tin-roofed shack, either. The new place is pretty recent construction - two stories, plenty of square footage, jacuzzi out back. Smoking room with a pool table. Built-in gas grill on the patio. A kitchen sizable enough that I got a personal chef a couple days a week just to make good use of it. A movie theatre where I can run my own damn screenings of the latest Christopher Nolan film or whatever else. It’s a shame Disney pushed back Black Widow, because I’d love to get a hold of a screener and throw a life-sized Scarlett Johansson up on the wall. She’s hot. Not hot enough for me to watch that Jojo Rabbit bullshit, but hot.

Anyway, since nothing new is coming out to watch in my new theatre, I thought I’d take a break from re-watching some of the Duke’s finest and walk my property. Give the Dodge a rest, and take an afternoon on foot.

So I’m hiking around, boots crunching on this sandy gravel, picking my way through some overgrown and dried out grass (which I should probably get a fire crew up here to thin out and burn), and I head up this gully. It looks like a seasonal creek, but there’s nothing running at this point. It’s right at the end of summer, heading into the fall, and it’s plenty dry. I know from the property map that this gully cuts into some foothills, but I want to check out the grade. Really find out what I’m working with in case I get a few head of cattle and one of them heads in this direction. If it’s too steep or too narrow, I might need to fence it off to avoid some trouble further down the line.

Luckily, this thing seems pretty much flat. The hill it cuts into doesn’t have much of a slope, and by the time the vegetation gets too thick the walls are only a little over head high, maybe six and a half, seven feet up. I figure that it’s worth climbing up to get a different perspective on the whole thing and check out the terrain. I grab into the hard clay of the wall, pull on an exposed root, and swing my right arm over the top. It looks like there’s a tree stump or something up there, so I grab a hold of that.

It crumbled in my hand as I grabbed it, which was inconvenient. What was worse was that it was some kind of anthill or termite mound, because as soon as the damn thing crumbled I could feel the bastards inside of it swarm all over my hand. I dropped back into the gully, barely avoiding sliding down on my butt and staying on my feet. My hand was already stinging, burning like hell, swelling up. Needless to say, I made it back out of the gulley in less than half the time it took me to walk up.

It’s about a half mile back to the house and, even with my hand in searing pain, I clear the ground quickly. Claudia should be around today to make dinner, and sure enough, I spot her Durango in the driveway. Bursting in through the door, I yelled, “Claudia! Hey, it’s an emergency!” She came running around the corner, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel and looking concerned, asking “What is it, Mr. Connoly?” I say it’s my hand, it’s been bitten by some local bugs, what kind I don’t know, and can you give me that towel. She walks me over towards the sink instead and gently runs some cool water over it. I can barely feel it, though, because of how badly my hand is burning up. It’s swelled up like I blew into one of the plastic gloves she uses when she’s preparing a spice rub.

I keep it together, but I’m still cursing and swearing, not at Claudia but at this whole stupid situation. She runs over to the freezer, asking over her shoulder, “are you allergic to anything?”

“No, not insects or anything that I’ve ever found out about. I get poison ivy, I guess, goddammit, nothing, uh, hey, thanks.” Claudia interrupts me interrupting myself, handing me a baggie full of ice cubes, wrapped in a kitchen towel. “So, Fred, listen,” she says, “That looks pretty serious, and I know you’re new to the area, but you have to know there are some venomous things out there. We should get you to urgent care or a hospital right away.”

“Yeah, fuck, I know.”

“Good.” She’s steering me away from the sink by my shoulders now, as I hold the cloth-wrapped ice-cubes. “Let’s get you into my truck. You shouldn’t drive with that hand or the amount of pain you’re in.”

“Yeah, okay, fine. Where’s shit,” I wince with pain, “where’s the closest one?” Claudia opens the door to her truck and helps me climb into it. “It’s probably the Redlands one. C’mon, let’s get going. It’ll definitely be faster to get you there one way, instead of waiting for an ambulance to come out here and drive you back to a hospital.”

We get going, Claudia tearing ass down the road. I tell her not to worry about any kind of speeding ticket or anything - I’ll pay any ticket or court cost at this point, and you could say I know a few good lawyers. I try and keep it quiet, and Claudia doesn’t talk much in the 15 minutes there except to continually check in on the condition of my hand. It’s holding pretty steady, with my fingers inflamed to something like twice their usual girth. Extraordinarily painful. I can’t move any of my joints much, everything is so swollen, so I’m just holding it, resting it on top of the wrapped ice. Sonuvabitch it burns!

Claudia screeches to a halt in the mostly-empty parking lot and helps me out of the car. We’re already making a scene, me cussing up a storm, Claudia practically carrying me over her shoulders. I’m blinking back tears as we move through the automatic doors and into the lobby. They take me in back quickly, seeing as I might be poisoned. Claudia says she’ll wait for me in the lobby. The nurse practitioner on duty, named James something-or-other, checks my heart rate, blood pressure, all that. It doesn’t seem like a snakebite or any of the more venomous spiders, at least. He says they’ll need to run more tests, but since he doesn’t see a stinger or anything to remove that the swelling will probably go down. He prescribes some prednisone, wraps my hand, and advises me to contact my PCP. I’m supposed to return if symptoms get worse or if any new ones appear.

My hand feels a little less like I’m sticking it into an open flame, at least, and is mostly hot and numb. I’m not feeling much when I touch anything with it, although I can feel the cold of the ice cubes. They charge my insurance a ton for a few more fancy ice packs, and I head back into the lobby to sign paperwork. Or attempt to sign it, anyway, since I can’t really write anything. I ask if they have some digital way of signing things, or if they can send it to my secretary, and then I remember to call my secretary and cancel appointments for a few days.

Claudia drives me back home and makes me some kind of soup in a hurry. Then she finishes the salmon she had in progress even though it goes straight into the fridge. It’s for tomorrow, she tells me. After I hear her close the door on her way out, and hear her truck’s tires slowly crunch the gravel at the end of the paved driveway, I drift off watching some tennis replay on ESPN.

When I wake up, the stream has ended and my TV is sitting dimly on some menu screen with a bunch of recommended “30 for 30” documentaries. Something smells incredible, and my stomach rumbles. It’s hard to describe. A meaty, seared smell, like finished pit barbecue. Or the first sizzle of a steak hitting a searing hot pan, salt and fat and high heat. God, it’s irresistible. I lurch off the couch, and head into the darkened kitchen. It smells like Claudia came back - maybe she started some ribs in a slow cooker or something, just to make sure that I had food prepared for the next day or two. The clock reads that it’s about 2:30 in the morning, so that seems unlikely, and everything is off. I’m checking the inside of the oven, putting my good hand over the stove to sense if there’s some residual heat, looking inside the refrigerator, but there’s nothing new, just the platter of salmon.

I switch the lights on. That’s when I notice that the bandages on my hand are soaked. They feel looser, too, but they’re a concerning light pink, mixed with some yellow. It’s like blood and pus saturated the wrap all of the way through. There’s no way it’s good to keep that kind of thing on.

It doesn’t seem right to unwrap that in the kitchen, so I head into the bathroom. The delicious aroma comes with me, without fading at all as I traverse the house to the downstairs master bath. I find the end of the wrap and start to peel it off, and I catch a big waft of something amazing. Just fresh cooked meat. I speed up, which has the effect of squeezing juice out of the bandage and into the sink. It’s mixed with bits of skin, which swirl down the drain. I get the whole thing off in a flash.

I stare at my hand. Who wouldn’t? It’s gone down in size, but it’s raw as hell. And completely pockmarked up and down with tiny holes. No maggots, no worms, no sign of anything except that it looks like dozens of small openings all up and down, front and pack, each dripping with fluid.

The sight should turn my stomach, but instead it rumbles. I’m famished, ravenous. I can’t tell you how good this smells. It’s more than a smell, it’s a goddamn aroma.

I lick my hand. At first I hesitate, like I’m about to touch my tongue to a dish that just came out of the oven. I chuckle a little bit, imagining a waiter saying, “careful sir, don’t touch the plate, it’s hot.” What the hell am I doing.

What the hell am I doing.

It tastes good. It’s like the seared edge of a filet, perfectly seasoned. Maybe some brown butter, maybe some truffle. Rich. Dry aged. Tender.

I pull back, staring at my hand, waiting for something to fly or crawl out of it. But nothing happens. It’s just me, the aroma, and the aftertaste.

Have you heard about how much closer a shave you can get with a straight razor? I switched a few years ago and I’ve never looked better and never looked back. It’s such a clean feeling, sharpening the blade and then running it gently, and at just the right angle, across your face and neck.

There’s my razor, right there on the counter. I grip it lightly in my left hand, not my usual grip, but I can make this work. And I’ll tell you, I’ve never managed such thin slices before.

[vastimpersonalforces]

African Canadian in Union Blue

by Michael Fraser; winner, CBC Poetry Prize, 2016 I was AWOL, an unpaid ridge runner, hawking distance from the coal-shaded Fifty-fourth Massachusetts, pulling fleet foot through night brush, my feet bramble-clawed and day-sore yowling for a pair of spendy cruisers. Bounty men near caught me in tamarack larch. I saw their smoothbore guns day clear, their eyes haired-up and owly. I was hanging by my eyelids and angled abeam through light-blazed meadow balm, jumping log cob and bull stumps, moss-bitten rot-hole fallers, deploying all the natural speed my buck-bred seed-folk gave me. I was baseborn in Chatham, mammy giving life to six pin-baskets in a rickety pushcart. If I were to see him now, I'd ask daddy why he heeled-off before eyeing me wrapped in scrapped yarn. His master named him John, echoing the new testament, and what mammy's broken water branded me. Whitney's cotton gin nearly snapped his hamitic saddle-brown back half open. Some days he bleated raw like a crushed side-born calf, sliding away from full breath. Heard he upped and skyrooted through Virginia pine faster than whiskey jacks whistling over feed camps, and sparked mammy's teenage mind before stone-rolling to his novel life, a rail toad booming around rusted aged jimmys and ragshag toonerville trolleys. I continued dim-moon travelling west through puckerbush, sledge, and prick-filled tanglewood, lodging with other lucked-out negroes beside slick calm finger lakes, hauling soaked rick to hem-load tipcarts. We'd light down to chew tuff cow-greased pone before snacking tobacco ropes, our smoky tea-skinned black bodies day-whipped and legged out. White clodhopper abolitionists and schoolmarms let me sleep on shakedowns and boil-up my battered threads out back, stooped over hose bibbs, rubboards, or wind-turned mill wash. A swamp Yankee and his jake leg wife above Rochester stodged up scrapple, fire-burnt tunkup, and slack salted Pope's nose. We popped it down with overproof lamp oil and everyone was all in, plow shined. My mind was so jag skated, I talked all my closed business like I was up a redwood tree. Can't extract when my head clunked the sewed-rag shuck bed. I night-woke bedfast with scarlet runners beetling my bare flesh. Sweat runnelled and rilled either side of my chest hillslopes. Heard hushed words and realised they were studying to forlay me to sellers. Morning I pretended to smudge along, then lit out crow-quick past tumps and shadebark glades of knurled hickory. On the final night, I met bullhorn thunderheads throwing froth-smurred gulley washers and stump-mover skies. I squinched and child-stivered through teeming chizzly freshets that sizzled and gaffed me, the mud water pooling the path's apron. Almost done in, I saw America's back forty sproutland, sun-glimming and drying after the rains had sugared-off. I went down the ravine scoop smiling towards birlers and their floaty Niagara chuck boats, waiting to river cross into Canaan.

[df-afield]

February 2017, Silverton, CO

Max and I step onto the tarmac in Durango with golden light settling on the mountains and lungs full of fresh air. It's not quite enough to make me forget about my astronomical overweight-bag fee, but it's a promising start. Broth is inside with a sign that reads "Shred Express"; we hop aboard, make a stop at Ska and then we're on to Telluride.

We pull into Carhenge and settle into our Tokyo-style accommodations, then regroup with Matt and Lizzi and head to ...There. The operative question is what part of Brooklyn we're in. Answer seems to be Park Slope. Not sure how I feel about that but the very relaxed staff is able to get me a painkiller so it works out OK. Somehow from here we up the ante and make our way downtown to the Last Dollar. There's a celebrity sighting inside, and we order 4 William Clintons but only find two willing mouths. Not exactly off to a restful start.

First day on the hill has our noob asses careening into Gold Hill Chute #1 for a free stone grind of death and bulletproof bumps. “Bad Aspect” is declared and we get the fuck out of there, doing a little better for ourselves with a few Black Iron Bowl hikes (“buen aspecto”), a visit to Giuseppe’s, and some NE-style trees into bump gulley to round out the day. We go tend to an apres reservation back There, which turns into a 7 course marathon as the wheels come off the establishment. We lose Roth to a Shred Express pickup in Montrose, make an offering to the ski tree and settle in for an Oh Hell game at the booth in Brown Dog.

A little slow getting out of the annex the next day, we make our way back up to Black Iron and hit the stairs. Just M & M and I for this one, and we have a nice line down Dihedral Chute and over to the Stump Jump. We rally the rest of the crew for a couple more trips up the ridge, this time just to the early steep face, with another lap over to the aforementioned perfect air. Get some BBQ and jams for lunch, and then a little afternoon mogul masochism wraps things up.

M & M and I hit the road right away, hype levels going through the roof as we navigate the precipitous road outta the Switzerland of Colorado and gawk at the peaks. Jaws still on the floor as we roll into town and discover the skijoring course in front of the Bent, then follow the music into the Rum Bar. Take in a little bluegrass, befriend Jack and Laura, and realize that we are in Westworld, and it is a zero-bitchassness town. The hosts sure look real though. Learn about the drone-induced equine mauling over a frosty Euphoria in silence at Bottom of the Barrel, then go rage with Liver Down The River for a bit before packing it in to get ready for the next day’s mission.

The Bent

No bitchassness here

Matt wakes us before dawn with the Horn Of Rohan, we hit Mattie and Maud’s and cruise up the canyon with asses fully puckered in anticipation. There’s a bit of equivocation about our pace in the parking lot, but fucking old man winter himself walks right up to us and asks if we’re game for the summit. Duh.

Climbing the stairs to the "lodge"

Get the day started, though, and things don’t go that smoothly. Our route is down Raff to the Mortuary. There’s some shaky obedience in the ranks, and then Shocklee compliments my turns and asks if I’m from Wisconsin, which is just downright puzzling. Turns out I’ve got a partner in style. Humor doesn’t last long though; Rob begins freaking out, and we found where they were hiding the bitchassness. Excruciatingly slow progress downhill, even as his friends insist that he “does daffys off 30-footers when he’s inbounds”. Hubris.

Next run is down Cabin; between the storm and the cowardice, summit mission is off. Rob decides he wants “redemption” and snakes first drop, looks like shit while he’s doing it. Grind our teeth but have some great turns down the bowl. Things are looking up in the next run; we hit up the gully skier’s right of lift line (RMYF…?) and get the green light to run it out to the bottom. Don’t have to ask us twice, and first several turns in particular are through some deep and excellent wind deposits. Tired of pulling around the Belafontes, I make a gear exchange for the Powders. Next run is a bigger hike up past Hollywood rock; turns out Rob drags ass going uphill too. We contemplate Laura Bush in more ways than one, but Shocklee redirects to Slashed Eyeball. Terrain here is super cool, snow a little less so, and the group is a goddamn mess, stopping in slide paths, dropping gloves, and of course making a mess of actually skiing the chute too. More carnage ensues on a subsequent traverse, but I’m able to sneak a first-drop on a sparsely-treed pitch with a little air near the top. Pretty fun stuff.

After that we hustle to make two more runs, coming down the front side first on Tiger #-something, and then hiking up to Corner Pocket. See some Warren Miller pros along the way but aren’t impressed. Max gets first tracks and does a barrel roll; Lacasse and I back up and take the cornice with a running start, still pretty mellow in the end. We cross the bridge at the bottom of the gully and head to the tent for a massive pitcher, mend some fences with our group and truck back down the road. Find the crew at Avalanche, get our regularly scheduled pizza in and then head to Rum Bar for a little more excitement. Laura is back on her loop, we drink them out of Kahlua and switch to White Rooms. Quiet night in the end, big day ahead. Alarm clock seems to ring as soon as head hits the pillow.

Hiking out to shuttle pickup

Back at Mattie and Maud’s, Kramer is in civilian clothes; the black toe has got him out for the count. We put 3 in the Prius, leave camber behind, and head up the canyon. Barely avoid getting sold a heli package in the tent, we come down to the parking lot and Shocklee promptly recruits us into a full group. New crew is fully comprised of ski-town locals, and we hit it off right away. Get on the mountain for a warmup down Cabin; everyone’s on good behavior (tracks are spooned), it’s bluebird and the snow is perfect. Shocklee abuses Lacasse with a top-to-bottom run, but we’ve passed our test.

There’s not much discussion of the matter; on the next lap, we pack up for Billboard. Not too bad a physical slog in the end, up until the ridge proper anyway. At a flat section a steep face with a hell of a hero line through it comes into sight; turns out those Warren Miller pros have it in ‘em after all. Things really start getting interesting once we hit the ridge proper. Clinging to the rope for dear life, rock climbing footholds, and Lacasse helping Felix out with a ski-pole staircase. Group’s getting real tight, and we’re psyched as hell to even get to the top, and I remark that it’s just a bonus we get to ski something down from there. Understatement of the century.

The group making the final ridge climb, courtesy John Shocklee's instagram

Shocklee points below to the main route, which is Pope Face into Pope Chute. On offer as well, he says, is the line we saw on the way up, Panty Waist Face. Shocklee nominates Lacasse and I for this one, and scares everyone else off of it. At least he offers to accompany us down to the entrance, so on we go. No pressure.

Approaching final ridge climb; Panty Waist Face visible in center of frame

The entrance is a traverse through some rocks, with no cornice or lip into the main face. The existing line threads through some rocks, not super tight but enough to make you think. Beyond a choke it’s a sea of snow. We make a detailed plan with Shocklee, and then it’s go time. I’m in front, so the honors fall to me. The first turn is a committing one down the fall line, take a couple of controlled arcs and then really let things open up as I shoot through the rock choke. The run is right out of a ski movie; fully planing on the snow, wide-open steep face all around me, absolute freedom of movement. I fly down to the bench and look up to watch Lacasse figure-8 my line, and am just able to get my phone out to capture this last turn and slide into home.

The run from top to bottom

We regroup from there and cruise down a huge powder field out to the cat track. We reward ourselves with a slice of pizza out of Roth’s bag and then a quick sandwich break, then get back to work. We head for Goal Post, a cool rocky line sitting in the sun that’s more corn than pow but is still a blast. After that we get a choice and I point us towards Mandatory Air. The top pitch is a smooth powder gully where we give the group the run of things, counting to 20 in every language we (Roth) know and telling the next skier to get the fuck out. We meet above the real attraction, the “ pretty radical” Mando Main chute. This begins with the eponymous feature, a short ice fall spanning the entire 15-ft chute before an apron where you can dump some speed. Shocklee warns of bad aspect and I get my ass to the front of the pack so that my Powders will have something to turn in. I navigate down to Shocklee on the apron with no problem, then make my way down into the narrowing chute. It shrinks to a couple of ski widths as it bends to the left, and I carry a bit of a shameful sideslip in a river of slough into a big turn around the curve, mercifully finding a bit of real estate to dump more speed, and then fake my way through some more exhausted turns in dust on crust and finally emerge in the sun to watch the rest of the group navigate. Everyone skis it great, and we try to hustle down to the bus for one more. The bus gets us back at 3:01, so that’s a wrap, and probably for the best.

Roll back to town and connect with Kramer (day was “pretty good”), dispatch the Shred Express on another airport run and settle in for a long night. Golden Block brewery turns out to serve both Dub Cs and White Russians, and we close them down with the admonishment “you’re gonna be sick!”. Jack also there with some choice words about Shocklee. Reunited with Roth somewhere along the way, we stumble over to Avalanche where we get a tour and drink them out of some insolvent brand of coffee liqueur. Lowest-level Oh Hell game proceeds. Next morning and skiing not looking to be in the cards, haven’t exactly got our sea legs about us. Make a last pilgrimage to Mattie and Maud’s and send Matt on his way. Then we’re off to soak and try to get our wits about us, and even catch the Liver From The River drummer at the brewery in Durango. Whew. Memorable stuff.

[readbookywooks]

Death hesitated. YOU WOULDN'T LIKE IT, he said. TAKE IT FROM ME. “I've heard that some people do it all the time.” YOU'VE GOT TO BE TRAINED TO IT. YOU'VE GOT TO START OFF SMALL AND WORK UP. YOU'VE NO IDEA HOW HORRIBLE IT IS TO BE AN ANT. “It's bad?” YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE IT. AND WITH YOUR KARMA AN ANT IS TOO MUCH TO EXPECT. The baby had been taken back to its mother and the smith sat disconsolately watching the rain. Drum Billet scratched the cat behind its ears and thought about his life. It had been a long one, that was one of the advantages of being a wizard, and he'd done a lot of things he hadn't always felt good about. It was about time that .... I HAVEN'T GOT ALL DAY, YOU KNOW, said Death, reproachfully. The wizard looked down at the cat and realized for the first time how odd it looked now. The living often don't appreciate how complicated the world looks when you are dead, because while death frees the mind from the straitjacket of three dimensions it also cuts it away from Time, which is only another dimension. So while the cat that rubbed up against his invisible legs was undoubtedly the same cat that he had seen a few minutes before, it was also quite clearly a tiny kitten and a fat, half-blind old moggy and every stage in between. All at once. Since it had started off small it looked like a white, catshaped carrot, a description that will have to do until people invent proper four-dimensional adjectives. Death's skeletal hand tapped Billet gently on the shoulder. COME AWAY, MY SON. “There's nothing I can do?” LIFE IS FOR THE LIVING. ANYWAY, YOU'VE GIVEN HER YOUR STAFF. “Yes. There is that.” The midwife's name was Granny Weatherwax. She was a witch. That was quite acceptable in the Ramtops, and no one had a bad word to say about witches. At least, not if he wanted to wake up in the morning the same shape as he went to bed. The smith was still staring gloomily at the rain when she came back down the stairs and clapped a warty hand on his shoulder. He looked up at her. “What shall I do, Granny?” he said, unable to keep the pleading out of his voice. “What have you done with the wizard?” “I put him out in the fuel store. Was that right?” “It'll do for now,” she said briskly. “And now you must burn the staff.” They both turned to stare at the heavy staff, which the smith had propped in the forge's darkest corner. It almost appeared to be looking back at them. “But it's magical,” he whispered. “Well?” “Will it burn?” “Never knew wood that didn't.” “It doesn't seem right!” Granny Weatherwax swung shut the big doors and turned to him angrily. “Now you listen to me, Gordo Smith!” she said. “Female wizards aren't right either! It's the wrong kind of magic for women, is wizard magic, it's all books and stars and jommetry. She'd never grasp it. Whoever heard of a female wizard?” “There's witches,” said the smith uncertainly. “And enchantresses too, I've heard.” “Witches is a different thing altogether,” snapped Granny Weatherwax. “It's magic out of the ground, not out of the sky, and men never could get the hang of it. As for enchantresses,” she added. “They're no better than they should be. You take it from me, just burn the staff, bury the body and don't let on it ever happened.” Smith nodded reluctantly, crossed over to the forge, and pumped the bellows until the sparks flew. He went back for the staff. It wouldn't move. “It won't move!” Sweat stood out of his brow as he tugged at the wood. It remained unco-operatively immobile. “Here, let me try,” said Granny, and reached past him. There was a snap and a smell of scorched tin. Smith ran across the forge, whimpering slightly, to where Granny had landed upside down against the opposite wall. “Are you all right?” She opened two eyes like angry diamonds and said, “I see. That's the way of it, is it?” “The way of what?” said Smith, totally bewildered. “Help me up, you fool. And fetch me a chopper.” The tone of her voice suggested that it would be a very good idea not to disobey. Smith rummaged desperately among the junk at the back of the forge until he found an old double-headed axe. “Right. Now take off your apron.” “Why? What do you intend to do?” said the smith, who was beginning to lose his grip on events. Granny gave an exasperated sigh. “It's leather, you idiot. I'm going to wrap it around the handle. It'll not catch me the same way twice!” Smith struggled out of the heavy leather apron and handed it to her very gingerly. She wrapped it around the axe and made one or two passes in the air. Then, a spiderlike figure in the glow of the nearly incandescent furnace, she stalked across the room and with a grunt of triumph and effort brought the heavy blade sweeping down right in the center of the staff. There was a click. There was a noise like a partridge. There was a thud. There was silence. Smith reached up very slowly, without moving his head, and touched the axe blade. It wasn't on the axe any more. It had buried itself in the door by his head, taking a tiny nick out of his ear. Granny stood looking slightly blurred from hitting an absolutely immovable object, and stared at the stub of wood in her hands. “Rrrrightttt,” she stuttered: “Iiiinnn tthhatttt cccasseee -” “No,” said Smith firmly, rubbing his ear. “Whatever it is you're going to suggest, no. Leave it. I'll pile some stuff around it. No one'll notice. Leave it. It's just a stick.” “just a stick?” “Have you got any better ideas? Ones that won't take my head off?” She glared at the staff, which appeared not to notice. “Not right now,” she admitted. “But you just give me time -” “All right, all right. Anyway, I've got things to do, wizards to bury, you know how it is.” Smith took a spade from beside the back door and hesitated. “Granny.” “What?” “Do you know how wizards like to be buried?” “Yes! ” “Well, how?” Granny Weatherwax paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Reluctantly.” Later, night fell gently as the last of the world's slow light flowed out of the valley, and a pale, rain-washed moon shone down in a night studded with stars. And in a shadowy orchard behind the forge there was the occasional clink of a spade or a muffled curse. In the cradle upstairs the world's first female wizard dreamed of nothing much. The white cat lay half-asleep on its private ledge near the furnace. The only sound in the warm dark forge was the crackle of the coals as they settled down under the ash. The staff stood in the corner, where it wanted to be, wrapped in shadows that were slightly blacker than shadows normally are. Time passed, which, basically, is its job. There was a faint tinkle, and a swish of air. After a while the cat sat up and watched with interest. Dawn came. Up here in the Ramtops dawn was always impressive, especially when a storm had cleared the air. The valley occupied by Bad Ass overlooked a panorama of lesser mountains and foothills, coloured purple and orange in the early morning light that flowed gently over them (because light travels at a dilatory pace in the Disc's vast magical field) and far off the great plains were still a puddle of shadows. Even further off the sea gave an occasional distant sparkle. In fact, from here you could see right to the edge of the world. That wasn't poetic imagery but plain fact, since the world was quite definitely flat and was, furthermore, known to be carried through space on the backs of four elephants that in turn stood on the shell of Great A'Tuin, the Great Sky Turtle. Back down there in Bad Ass the village is waking up. The smith has just gone into the forge and found it tidier than it has been for the last hundred years, with all the tools back in their right places, the floor swept and a new fire laid in the furnace. He is sitting on the anvil, which has been moved right across the room, and is watching the staff and is trying to think. Nothing much happened for seven years, except that one of the apple trees in the smithy orchard grew perceptibly taller than the others and was frequently climbed by a small girl with brown hair, a gap in her front teeth, and the sort of features that promised to become, if not beautiful, then at least attractively interesting. She was named Eskarina, for no particular reason other than that her mother liked the sound of the word, and although Granny Weatherwax kept a careful watch on her she failed to spot any signs of magic whatsoever. It was true that the girl spent more time climbing trees and running around shouting than little girls normally did, but a girl with four older brothers still at home can be excused a lot of things. In fact, the witch began to relax and started to think the magic had not taken hold after all. But magic has a habit of lying low, like a rake in the grass. Winter came round again, and it was a bad one. The clouds hung around the Ramtops like big fat sheep, filling the gulleys with snow and turning the forests into silent, gloomy caverns. The high passes were closed and the caravans wouldn't come again until spring. Bad Ass became a little island of heat and light. Over breakfast Esk's mother said: “I'm worried about Granny Weatherwax. She hasn't been around lately.” Smith looked at her over his porridge spoon. “I'm not complaining,” he said. “She -” “She's got a long nose,” said Esk. Her parents glared at her. “There's no call to make that kind of remark,” said her mother sternly. “But father said she's always poking her -” “Eskarina!” “But he said -” “I said -” “Yes, but, he did say that she had -” Smith reached down and slapped her. It wasn't very hard, and he regretted it instantly. The boys got the flat of his hand and occasionally the length of his belt whenever they deserved it. The trouble with his daughter, though, was not ordinary naughtiness but the infuriating way she had of relentlessly pursuing the thread of an argument long after she should have put it down. It always flustered him. She burst into tears. Smith stood up, angry and embarrassed at himself, and stumped off to the forge. There was a loud crack, and a thud. They found him out cold on the floor. Afterwards he always maintained that he'd hit his head on the doorway. Which was odd, because he wasn't very tall and there had always been plenty of room before, but he was certain that whatever happened had nothing to do with the blur of movement from the forge's darkest corner. Somehow the events set the seal on the day. It became a broken crockery day, a day of people getting under each other's feet and being peevish. Esk's mother dropped a jug that had belonged to her grandmother and a whole box of apples in the loft turned out to be moldy. In the forge the furnace went sullen and refused to draw. Jaims, the oldest son, slipped on the packed ice in the road and hurt his arm. The white cat, or possibly one of its descendants, since the cats led a private and complicated life of their own in the hayloft next to the forge, went and climbed up the chimney in the scullery and refused to come down. Even the sky pressed in like an old mattress, and the air felt stuffy, despite the snow.

[caesar1141]

Monster town

[jonkatzatbedlamfarm]

The Meditation Bench: Over The Gulley Bridge

The Meditation Bench: Over The Gulley Bridge

Meditation Bench My friend Ed Gulley came over yesterday to harass me and muddle over how to pick a spot in our newly-accessible  woodlands behind the farmhouse for a bench to sit on, rest or meditate in our woods. We’ve been thinking about this for years, but were stumped because of a fast-flowing stream between us and our woods. Ed came over with a tree stump, some boards and a drill and nails…