It is such a luxury to live along the Colorado Front Range, surrounded by beautiful high mountains, forests, rivers, and a wide diversity of flora and fauna. We had a great time at a recent family hike up Mt. Brainard, which tops out at a little above 10,000 feet. The forests were full of wild strawberries, and the small streams were full of flowing water. But the real discovery was the abundance of wild mushrooms and lichens we had never seen before. Here are two of them:
That beautiful pale pink mushroom creating lovely steps up along its face.
"Those unharnessed runners
from glen to glen!
Nobody tames
that royal blood,
each one aloof
on its rightful summit,
antlered, watchful.
Imagine them,
the stag of high Slieve Felim,
the stag of the steep Fews,
the stag of Duhallow, the stag of Orrey,
the fierce stag of Killarney..."
From Sweeney Astray a version from the Irish by Seamus Heaney
Art: Illustrated Manuscript: Gaston Phoebus, Le Livre de la chasse (Paris, ca. 1407)
Kilimanjaro Rainforest, 1967
Just today, I received a Facebook message from an old friend, Mary, who lived in Tanzania when I was 14. She recalled when we climbed Mt. Kilimanjaro in 1967. At 14 years old, I was the youngest of the troop, composed of students from the Economics department, my father (who was teaching Contemporary African Literature), and Mary and her younger brother. My father made it to the first hut, at about 8,000ft. He then decided to wait for me since climbing mountains wasn't his forte. I continued with the group, but when we reached what was to be the final ascent to the summit, everyone in my party -- except me--was too sick from the altitude (one travels from 2,000ft to 16,300ft in three days). Due to my age, the guide did not want to take me alone -- so close, but no go. I returned with everyone else, very disappointed.
Then a year later, in 1968, I had a second chance. Everyone was young and eager for this trip -- including my older brother Gil who had just arrived from the States; the Hill sisters, Pru and Deb (who climbed in waterproofed hightops); Mary and her older brother Andre; and the Martin brothers. This time was more successful; five of us reached the snowy, icy summit at 19,300 ft. So this time -- in honor of that trip -- I dug back to the small collection of photos I have -- most of them taken with a tiny disposable camera!
Leaving the hotel, we hiked for about 6 hours through farmland, a three-mile band of rain-forest that was wet and misty, like being in cold, green clouds, and then rocky hills of running streams and short, scrubby trees -- until at last, we popped out above the clouds here, having arrived at Mandara Hut: the first campsite at 8,990ft.
My father Emile, enjoying the rest and the camp as the clouds rolled in below. He was happy enough with having accomplished this much of the trip. I wonder now, if he was hoping that I would back out as he did have to hang out here for two more days while I wandered up to the last hut on the first trip.
Leaving Mandara Hut, the sky became more expansive, bluer, and free of clouds as the path opened into a beautiful alpine stretch. As we continued to climb, the alpine fields gave way to steep rocky terrain, much drier, the course now inundated with big clumps of long grass, low clinging plants, and massive bluffs colored with black and white zebra stripes. We also got our first views of Mawenzi Peak -- a rugged, craggy peak at the base of Kilimanjaro's volcanic plain and the snow-covered top of Kilimanjaro, high above. We arrived in the late afternoon -- footsore and starving at the second campsite, Horombo Hut at 12,400 ft.
Kilimanjaro Snow Capped Peak.
The third day of climbing took us through a vast high-altitude desert -- without water, without much of anything except sparse rocks and a couple of grave markers. Known as the "The Saddle," this flat, barren stretch was deceptive. From afar, we could see our destination Kibo Hut at 15,500 ft, which seemed close enough. But we walked for hours over the soft, sandy soil, and like a mirage, it never seemed to get closer. By the time it was in front of us, we were exhausted, and for some, their ears were ringing from the altitude, and they were suffering headaches and nausea as well.
Mt. Kilimanjaro, The Saddle. 1968
The trail to Kibo Hut, Mt. Kilimanjaro, 1968
One doesn't sleep long at the last hut. For some it is impossible. I will confess that I loved it. I felt giddy (probably due to the lack of oxygen) and extremely happy. We were awakened at 12:30AM -- and by bright full moonlight, we made the final ascent -- up through a rocky path that became snow and ice for the next five-six hours. It was challenging -- one could see a bit of the ledge above you, which beckoned like the end of the trail until you got to it and discovered another shelf above it. My brother was sick as a dog, throwing up the last mile up to the summit -- but he refused to turn back. I am glad because it was the most memorable and epic thing we ever did together.
The summit is 19,300 ft, and we signed our names in a book with other intrepid climbers who had made it up there. We arrived at the summit at sunrise, which was breathtaking as the moon was still high in the early dawn. Below us was stretched East Africa and the Indian Ocean on one side where we were sitting, while the other side gave us a view into the mouth of the volcano, filled with ice, snow, and stone. The journey back to base camp took two days -- from the summit, we barreled down the trail to 12,000ft and then slept like stones. In the morning, we ate a quick breakfast and walked down the hills to the hotel, where we began our trip at 2,000ft. There, they presented us with wreaths of everlasting flowers for successfully reaching the summit. I still have some of the flowers left in a keepsake box.
Mary reminded me that we returned by a city bus over 500 miles of rough corrugated roads, packed with people, chickens, babies, parcels of all sizes and us. It took all night, and where we sat at the back, a window stuck open, the red dust from the road covered us completely. We arrived home in Dar es Salaam a mess: my feet were a wreck of blisters, my face sunburned, and grime on top of grime from not having changed my clothes for five days. But yeah...I was really, really happy. (That's me in the blue parka, and my brother sitting below me. And beneath that photo are Gil and I on the morning of our arrival back in Dar. )
This is a really gorgeous painting by Jacopo Tintoretto depicting the "Origin of the Milky Way, 1575-1580." Jupiter (Zeus) seeks to give immortality to his son, Hercules, conceived during an illicit affair with a mortal woman Alcmene. He knows that only the breast milk of a goddess can accomplish such a thing and as luck would have it Juno (Hera) is lactating. Jupiter discovers Juno sleeping and attempts to latch the baby to her breast -- thinking she might not notice (really? ) When she wakes and pulls her breast away from the feeding infant, her milk sprays into the heavens and produces the stars. (Click on the image to see a larger version)
Here is a wonderful and incredibly informative little podcast about The Origin of the Milky Way from Karen Allen of the National Gallery in England exploring the wealth of creation myths alluded to in the painting (including the origin of lillies) and lovely details about Tintoretto's artistic storytelling. It's fabulous.
“Traveling is a brutality. It forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things: air, sleep, dreams, sea, the sky - all things tending towards the eternal or what we imagine of it.” --Cesare Pavese
The above is one of my favorite quotes as it seems to suggest to me not only the physical journey but the deeper emotional well of any good narrative of self-discovery. It's the foundation or backbone on which so many wonderful novels I have read over the years seem to rest. I am drawn to them because such a structure is how I tend to think when constructing the shape of a story or novel; our separation from the familiar, our trust in strangers, the off-balance, the journeying, the transformations and the leaning into all things eternal.
Here is a short list of my favorite novels that I have reviewed over the years that I feel in many ways embody the sensibilities of Pavese's brilliant observation:
Pedro Paramo by Mexican author Juan Rulfo' opens with spare, compelling prose, like a darkly lived fairy tale, hinting at the ghostly journey to come in an altered landscape. In late August, Juan traveled to Comala, a hot and dry town. The popular myth has it that "when people die and go to hell, they return for a blanket." Juan is greeted by Eduviges Dyada, an old friend of his mother's, and quickly learns that Pedro Páramo, the father he is seeking, is long dead. But the conversation takes an odd turn, as Eduviges tells Juan that his mother had told her just that day to expect him. When Juan tells his mother is dead, Eduviges merely shrugs and responds, "So that was why her voice was so weak." Read more > >
Thaliad by Marly Youmans, both novelist and poet, composes her story in free verse reminiscent of heroic epics (a sort of Homer meets Gerald Manley Hopkins). Thaliad recounts the aftermath of a fiery apocalypse and the perilous journey of a band of children led by a girl whose prophetic visions are guiding them. They seek a mystical a sanctuary on the edge of a lake where, even as children, they must confront the challenges of re-creating a world illuminated by hope and love. In this stunning narrative the eternal is always close at hand in both violent and transfigurative powers. Read more >>
The Tiger's Wife by Tea Obrecht is an astonishing novel, set in what was once Yugoslavia over the course of WWI, WWII, and the recent wars that resulted in its dissection into new territories. War forms an continuous backdrop throughout the novel, often as a distant but deeply felt anxiety and sometimes exploding on the community. Travelling is a hazard as boundaries shift with the conflicts and "our city," or "our fields" abruptly become someone else's property. Identities shift too as the long married wife whose origin, faith, or language suddenly mark her as an enemy to the new state. Nadia, the novel's protagonist, is a young pediatrician who sets out on a perilous journey, crossing newly minted borders to understand the reasons for her beloved grandfather's strange disappearance and his death alone in a remote village. Read more > >
Sometimes I find it so amazing to live here in Boulder, beneath the Flat Irons of the Rocky Mountains. Every morning there is always something extraordinary to see, and to be filled with wonderment. Sometimes it is the elk coming down from the mountains to feed in the green flood plains where we walk, or to hear the early morning frog in the spring singing loudly to each other an invitation of sex. Sometimes the deep indigo blue of the bluebirds or the sun-yellow colors of the Mexican finches as they migrate through the fields of sunflowers and long grass.
And sometimes, it is this gorgeous pre-dawn sky and the full harvest moon brilliantly white as a cosmic egg, just before its descent behind the mountains.
I am heading to the desert for a while and bringing new projects along....looking forward to the dry cool nights, and the stars high overhead.
And then I found these fall beauties from Madeleine Tosh! Let's see how fast I can knit while trying to finish preparing a second novel for re-release (Flight of Michael McBride) and spend time up in the mountains of the Mogollon Rim. Forget covid, forget elections, forget strife. Just be a maker....
A few photographs of my grandfather, Pierre Menager's work, have surfaced. I am always charmed by his informal paintings...they have so much life and so little social distancing. A barn dance and a wedding...They make me happy on these dark days.
And another favorite to hell with social distancing moment from "Stray Dog" directed by Akira Kurosawa. A muggy summer, a thief who steals a young officer's gun, a chase, and this scene where a troop of burlesque dancers, exit the stage and throw themselves on the ground backstage in a heaving, sweating jumble.
And these romantic lovers, kissing snails publicly defying social distancing then and now....I found these guys on my morning walk near the lagoon...so romantic!
Midori Snyder is the author of nine books for children and adults, published in English, French, Dutch, and Italian. She won the Mythopoeic Award for The Innamorati, a novel inspired by early Roman myth and the Italian "Commedia dell'Arte" tradition....more
