Not even. The roof box is crammmed, the cabin is crammed, and there is still a lot of stuff lying around. But I have read a first-hand account of an SAS operation, six weeks behind enemies lines during the Gulf War. The author was a master packer, and I learned a great deal from his account.
For example, I learned that I should not apply to the SAS.
I suggest that just maybe (maybe, mind you) we could do without
our 100m cave rope. Lori is having none of that. She has offered to sacrifice
some of her greatly loved fleece garments, but the cave rope is coming. It was
a tense moment, but we quickly put it behind us.
What we did have to sacrifice were the rear seats. Even folded up out of the way, they were taking up too much room. The table had to go, as well, along with the large pot, the old MacIntosh computer I was going to give to my friend Kento and some other trinkets. Our priceless friend Theresa helped us with repacking the crates and bags, and at last, everything fit. Just barely.
Now we have to unpack, because we have to take Theresa home, and the car seats are going to have to be taken to storage. Driving Theresa home, she suddenly exclaims, "Life preservers! You forgot to get life preservers!" We were so tired we almost took her seriously.
The last stuff is packed into our storage locker, the cat is at his new home with Theresa and her animals (that part was hard) and everything else has either been given away neighbours or taken to Goodwill. Ghost Girl is packed to her roof, and we are off!
We almost get into an accident outside of Oshawa. What we have is someone in a big black pick-up truck with a license plate that says "UPS EXEC". I'm assuming that he is an executive for UPS, based on the plate, the fact that he clearly had more money than sense, and I already had a grudge against UPS for charging us a buggerage fee for our Christmas presents every year, assessed at 1/3 of the insured value of the package. Or maybe they called it a "brokerage fee". It felt more like buggery.
UPS EXEC had gone in for the monochromatic look with his big black pick-up, covering the brake-lights with black covers. So instead of the brake lights being a brilliant, attention-grabbing red, they were a dull, easily overlooked red, kind of like a big fat zit on a person with a dark complexion. I noticed the brakelights of the car ahead of him, but otherwise would have rammed him at speed. I can only hope that the person who does ram him is driving one of those armoured cars which could demolish the big black pick-up without scratching the paint.
At the US border, we have to turn over our sliced roast beef, because of the Mad Cow Disease scare. We have four slices of sandwich meat for own use, so it is utterly harmless to anyone but ourselves, even if it is tainted. We were not asked about SARS, even though the guard knows we are from Toronto, and SARS could be dangerous. To his credit, it looked like he felt kind of silly confiscating our sandwich meat.
Don't tell anyone, but we also smuggled in two-pounds of Canadian hamburger meat, crazy anti-social climbers/cavers that we are. So if Americans start dropping like flies from Mad Cow disease, we're going to feel pretty bad.
Our home for the next few nights is the Schoharie Field House, a cabin operated by the National Speleological Society. It doesn't have electricity or plumbing, but it is fairly comfortable. We're sharing it with a Joe, Bill and Rick, who are in the area doing maintenance on cave field houses and property, and smoking what seems to be copious amounts of pot. I'm not a very good judge of copious amounts of pot, but that's the way it seems. Conversation is entertaining, if a little disjointed.
All part of the adventure.
Lori reads Ghost Girl's manual and discovers that you shouldn't raise power windows with someone's hand and fingers in the way. You heard it here first.
A cave trip requires at least three people. The third person of our New York trip was Nina Muller, from outside of Toronto. She arrived at 2am.
Our first stop is Speleobooks, where we get permits to go in the various caves in the area. Speleobooks is run by Emily Davis, who is famous for breaking her leg in Lecheguila cave and being the subject of the largest cave rescue in history. She is a very experienced and dedicated caver and cave conservationist, and it is pretty gratifying when she remembers Lori by sight. (Okay, she didn't remember how to spell our last name, but still.)
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| Nina in the largest part of Becker's Cave |
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We decide on three caves for the day: Ella Armstrong, Becker's and Knox. The entrance to Ella is long, tight, and awkward, leading up to a twenty foot rappel. I wasn't able to make it. Lori and Nina went on, explored the cave, and on the way back, Lori discovered that she needs more vertical experience before ascending any more pits. I sat outside and worked out the kinks in our rope.
Becker's is a small cave, mostly crawling passage with some belly crawls in cold water. It's fun, but not very exciting.
Knox is one we have been to often before. If you are caving in New York state, Knox is definitely one to visit. It is home of the Gunbarrel, a nationally famous nasty passage. But you don't have to wriggle through a sixty foot tube, eight to twelve inches in diameter. There's a bypass which involves some very low belly crawls. Knox has some large rooms, some belly crawls, some chimney, and a lot of other stuff. It isn't a large cave, but it is varied.
Unfortunately, it is a wet day, and both Becker's and Knox were very wet. Because of the rain, we haven't been careful with Ghost Girl, just throwing stuff in with no organisation. I hope she forgives us.
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That evening, the cavers at the cabin (8 of us) are introduced to the tradition of going through the chairs. I've pictured it to the right. You can see how it would be a test of caver skill and nerve. Unfortunately, only Seth and Bill had the nerve, and neither had the skill. Still, it was an awesome display, and more diverting than stoned discussion of politics, though we got that, too.
Another very wet day. We decide to do Gage cave. The cave is a little over a mile hike from the road, and you have to take a rope, because the entrance is a forty foot pit with a narrow, slick ladder. The ladder is serviceable, but it isn't safe without being on belay.
The entrance to the pit is a square hole in a concrete slab laid over the cave. It is a drainage area, and it is interesting because even on a dry, sunny day, water seeping through the ground turns the pit into a shower, once past the slab. On a wet day, it is like standing in a cold shower. We'll come back to that later.
Once you get to the bottom of ladder, the cave drops off another fifteen feet or so, but this is a fairly easy climb, and then there is a brief crawl through the stream (on elbows and knees for me), and you're into the main part of the cave.
It's a fun cave, but we can't do all of it because the water levels are so high.
Lori left the cave first, using a rappel device for safety. If she falls, I just pull the rope straight, and she stops. Of course, I have to stand in the cold shower to do this, but it's worth it.
Nina goes up using mechanical ascenders, and I have to hold the rope straight to make it easier for her, which means more time in the cold shower. By now, I've been under it for about ten minutes, and I'm drenched. I tie into the closest part of the rope and tell Lori I'm ready to come up.
You know how every couple has the one issue that is never resolved? She says, "I don't think that will work." And he says, "It will work." And then he does it and it works, but the next time she says, "I don't think it will work." With Lori and I, it is dragging the rope up after us. She always thinks it will snag, and it never does. But this time she has the advantage.
Pay attention here, women, because you can use this to resolve your the Issue in your relationship. . Lori thinks I should untie and let her pull up most of the rope, then tie into the end of the rope. I don't want to do this because I am cold and wet and getting colder and wetter by the second. But cold water is pouring down oon me me and we can hardly hear each other shout, so arguing is out of the question. I'm not starting up if I'm not on belay, and she doesn't want to belay me if the rope might snag.
So I untie, let her haul the slack, and tie into the end of the rope. The next time she's says, "I don't think that will work; the rope might snag," I'm going to say, "Absolutely right. The rope will definitely snag." I've learned my lesson.
Speaking of learning a lesson, Nina learned one about her car keys. What to do with your car keys while in a cave is a problem. If you lose your keys in cave, you probably won't find them again. So what many cavers do is hide their keys near the mouth of the cave. Nina was one of those cavers, though I don't think she is, anymore.
After a miserable wet mile slog back to the cars, Nina realises-you guessed it-that she'd left her keys back at the cave. Cold and wet, she is now looking at a miserable two mile hike before she can find any comfort. You will never see a more dejected expression.
Once Nina got back to her car and got changed, we split up, her leaving for Toronto, us for the field house. We had it to ourselves that night, and used the time productively, repacking Ghost Girl. We were also able to cull some more stuff we figure we won't be using.
Today we are driving to Colombus to see our friends Kent and Donna. We've known them since Kent and I were undergrad philosophy students together at University of Texas at Arlington. He's just back from teaching drums in Ecuador, and Donna teaches computer science at Univ. of Ohio.
It's a long, uneventful day of driving. Some gun lobby has posted a billboard as you enter the state reading, "Criminals prefer unarmed victims" which is doubtless true. It doesn't mention that a person is about ten times more likely to be shot by their spouse than by a mugger or rapist. Maybe husbands wouldn't shoot their wives as often if the women were packing too. Wouldn't that be great? A society where people wore handguns to the dinner table, asserting their rights to protect themselves.
Americans have this Red Dawn notion of their own history, in which the regular joe with a rifle rises up to fight off the oppressor. You see it in all the movies about the Revolutionary War, where the Americans defeat the marching Red Coat columns by sniping from the woods instead of playing by the traditional rules. In reality, the Continental army got it's butt kicked by the British until it learned to adopt European methods of soldiering.
But Americans would rather live in a society where domestic murder is ten times higher than their neighbours, and where gun-suicide among teen-ager is epidemic. It's a democracy, so they have that right.
We arrive and Kent and Donna's around 8 pm, after 11 hours of driving, in time to have dinner and catch-up converation about how society is gone to Hell, and then the first shower in three days. It feels good to be clean again.
Everyone should have some friends like Kent and Donna. Their values are similar enough to ours that we trust them, and they are smart enough that when the values differ from ours, we have to wonder if we are mistaken. Just ordinary conversation about the things we like or dislike in the world forces us to question our own positions.
This is not to say that our entire day is spent in deep, introspective scab-picking. We spend some time catching up, watching movies, playing computer games.
It is very nice to have a day with absolutely no commitments. I try to clean our cave rope, but 340 feet of stiff rope in a bath tub does not work very well. Besides, the cave clay just does not want to come off. We're going to have to take it to a laundry mat.
We have other guests for dinner, two of Donna's computer scientist colleauges from Mexico. The more vocal of the pair gives me an excellent metaphor for ethics from the needs of Internet Protocol. We talk about movies and philosophy. Luis has read Heidegger and Husserl, two 20th century German philosophers I've studied. I've rarely met a philosopher who could discuss Husserl, much less a computer scientist.
We also learn the Spanish word for geek: ñoño.
They don't know what is what--Fatboy Slim
They just strut
What the fuck?
We spend the day at the Columbus Zoo, which is entertaining and educational. It isn't educational in that we learn a lot about the animals. Most of the information presented is pretty basic. But nothing is more educational about humans than to watch them in the presence of other animals. I'm surprised at how many are talking on their cell-phones but I'm always surprised at how many people are talking on their cell phones instead of doing what their doing.
Another thing I noticed (and if you pay attention, you may notice, too) that some of the kids who are wearing head-to-toe Nike™ are really quite fat. But the fact that they're dressed in athletic clothes tricks you into thinking that they're in shape. Watch for it!
Today we begin our drive to Dallas, to see Lori's stepfather. We make it as far as Arkansas. Most of the day is spent in Kentucky.
Some actual highway signs in Kentucky:
Lori scored the first speeding ticket for the trip. I know there's all sorts of evil stereotypes about the cops in backwoods places like Kentucky, but ours was perfectly professional. He seemed alarmed that we didn't have an adress, but otherwise it was just a business transaction. But they shore dew talk funny down here.
Another day of driving to get to Lori's childhood home in Dallas. Here's an important driving tip for visitors to Dallas. Don't use your turn signal when trying to change lanes. The people in the next lane will speed up to prevent you from getting in front of them. People who don't live in Dallas always assume I'm exaggerating about this, but I'm not. Don't hit the turn signal until you're halfway into the other lane.
Reasons to visit Dallas:
But the place I most wanted to go shopping, Half-Price Books, was in the middle of remodeling, so I didn't really enjoy it. However, I did score a copy of Georg Stellar's journal of Berring's expedition in the 18th century. Stellar was the naturalist on the trip that discovered that Russia was separated from Alaska by the Berring Strait. He also discovered one of the coolest birds around: the Stellar's Sea Eagle.
Eight more days in this place. Jesus Christ.
So I go into a magazine store because I'd kind of like a Linux magazine. And, you guessed it, they don't have any Linux magazines.
Now, you may be saying: it is unfair to expect them to carry magazines catering to geeks tinkering with obscure operating systems. Maybe. But there aren't any PC Addict or MacWorld magazines either. There are no computer magazines at all that aren't dedicated to computer games.
There is a huge gun magazine section. It is as big, in fact, as the porn section. Hmmm.
I know it must seem like I'm harping on the gun thing, but Americans don't realize how this stands out to foreigners. It is a prominent part of American culture that does not exist in other civilised countries. It isn't just that we aren't allowed to have guns. We are allowed to have the magazines, but we just aren't as interested.
And let's face it, there is something seriously wrong with a culture where a fourteen year old can buy a gun but not a Playboy. I don't want to come across as a great fan of Playboy but pictures of naked beautiful women are not harmful to the same degree as firearms are. I know, I know. Guns don't kill people, people kill people. But it is also true that skin mags don't masturbate, people masturbate. And making it easier to masturbate seems less wrong than making it easier to murder. Am I overlooking something obvious here?
Maybe I'm just prejudiced because I have, on occaision, taken a peek at a Playboy but I've never taken a shot at my wife or my classmates. What room do I have to criticise when I haven't really tried it?
I know, I know. Americans have the right to bear arms. I wouldn't try to talk them out of it. I just don't see that it makes for a better society.
You may have picked up already that I have a taste for the absurd. And this taste could not have been more greatly satisfied than by the following account, which is absolutely true.
The object pictured on the right is a cannister for flour, sugar, etc. It was part of a set of three that Lori's mom had on her kitchen counter for over two decades. We made fun of them and tried to make her get rid of them, but she loved them and they stayed.
She died last year, and her husband Darryl has moved into a retirement home. We noticed that he had one of these cannisters in his closet, and found it amusing that he chose that of all things to remember his life with Joan (Lori's mom).
Then we asked where he was keeping her ashes.
"No!" you are saying. "It couldn't be." But it is. Horrible? Certainly. Absurd? No doubt. But oddly fitting.
The trip has been derailed by family difficulties in Texas. I'd like to go into relentlessly vituperative vivisection of exactly what went wrong, but it wouldn't be nice to the reader. The main villains are a hopelessly befuddled con man who tries to protect the feelings of his loved ones by lying to them about how much he's stolen from them, and vicious, grasping gold-digger who's only redeeming virtue is that she's too stupid to come up with a workable plan to screw everyone involved. A+ for effort, though.
Some actual signs seen in Dallas:
This last was the name of a store, but don't you assume they're to go. How often does a conversation like this go on:
Customer: I'd like a dozen Red Wigglers, please.
Clerk: For here or to go, sir?
Or how about this?
Customer: Smith, party of five. I believe we had a reservation.
But enough about condoms. Did you know that Cadillac makes a pick-up? They must have been thinking of Dallas when they designed this.
And speaking of Cadillacs, you would not believe the number of Christian Cadillacs in this ugly town. Now, I'm not a Christian, but I do know my way around the Bible and around the various Christian doctrines, and Jesus would not have approved. "Jesus wants us to have nice things." Bullshit. Jesus liked it when people gave him nice things. He never said you should engage in obsessively conspicuous consumption. Just the opposite.
And why are there Christian Fishes on these cars? Do they expect you to say, "Hey, that car has a fish on it. Maybe I should accept Jesus as my saviour"? Or maybe, "Don't cut them off, Hiram. They're Christians, just like us."
In the 80's, while Dallas county had the largest number of policemen killed in the line of duty in the USA, it also issued a Christian Yellow Pages. Maybe it still does. If you put the Dallas Christians to the question about issues like this, they answer something like, "Because the Church is so successful in Dallas, Satan has to intensify his battle against it. That's why there is so much violent crime in the city with the highest church membership in the world."
I'm not making that up. I hate this place.
I've heard people use the verbs "misabuse" and "impotate" here. The former means "abuse" and the latter means "to make impotent". I've heard several people talking about "pre-planning" which is planning you do before the activity. Anywhere else, you'd just assume that planning took place before acting. Here, it's an important distinction.
I really, really hate this place. Another excuse Dallasites have for why their city sucks like a black hole is that all the yankees (or "meskins" or "my norties" or...) are ruining it. Wrong. No other city in North America rivals Dallas for sheer pretention, ignorance and hostility. If this is to be blamed on outsiders, we still need an explanation for why this city attracts the worst yankees, mexicans and other minorities.
A few days ago I was talking to a Mexican who happened to be on of the most learned men I'd ever met (and after ten years in University, I've met some learned people). Now I'm surrounded by rednecks (some with University degrees) who think the only way a Mexican can become successful is to sell drugs.
I'm actually being unfair. During the crisis of the past couple of weeks, there were many kind, honorable, literate people. They helped keep a true miserable experience from being unbearable, and I owe them a great deal.
But I wouldn't have been in such great debt to them in another city, where being a prick isn't considered a duty to self, God, and country. (By the way, you ignorant crackers, you have to either take down your "United We Stand" bumper sticker or the Confederate flag. Both together just doesn't work, for reasons that would be obvious if your patriotic pride were in any way coupled with an intellectual interest in the country you're so proud of.)
Oh, fuck. Now I've got some kind of foam dripping off my mouth onto the keyboard. I'd better go wash it off.