tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-18492746410618756942024-03-14T06:35:33.141-07:00Walking Is DrawingTim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-57983579005380862342014-01-17T10:01:00.002-08:002014-01-17T10:05:16.220-08:00Some Work Along the WayIt has been several weeks since my last post. Three holidays (five when you include Hanukkah and Kwanzaa) have come and gone. And I have not hiked since the last posting. I thought I would try to restart the momentum in this new year by posting some work I have done along the way. These ink paintings/drawings may or may not be the "official" work for this project, but I as these develop and change, I am beginning to see the shape of some work to come.<br />
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So:<br />
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<i>Cirque</i></div>
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Ink and gesso on paper</div>
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<i>When You See Me Again, It Will Be In Mountains</i></div>
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<i>Monadnock Ice 1</i></div>
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Ink and gesso on paper</div>
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<i>What Is It That Moves?</i></div>
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<br />Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-76750817902373111452013-12-09T09:11:00.000-08:002013-12-09T09:18:49.380-08:00Mount Monadnock #3: What Is It That Moves?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04vht_CjOfmb2tUaqWUOw3HUD7I9eOvuMPBNpoFY8dpdG9Ucghp_cOeIQet98AgByGUZbWa_N7kDhT9HFsZAHlrEFt3Nlcf1DMBqIJlLE1AtUgunOKgXwvRoXjfoptuO7v9HNAa-O6qU/s1600/Monadnock+20.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg04vht_CjOfmb2tUaqWUOw3HUD7I9eOvuMPBNpoFY8dpdG9Ucghp_cOeIQet98AgByGUZbWa_N7kDhT9HFsZAHlrEFt3Nlcf1DMBqIJlLE1AtUgunOKgXwvRoXjfoptuO7v9HNAa-O6qU/s640/Monadnock+20.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Watching the snow fall gently on the cypress trees outside my kitchen window, I am reminded that I have yet to post my latest hiking experience. Early on a frigid Thursday morning, November 21, 2013, I headed up Mount Monadnock for the third time, third, that is, in relation to this project. I have retired the home-made GPS drawing device. It was a great experiment, but for whatever reason proved an unreliable tool. In the spirit of the project this is an acceptable outcome. So from now on, I am the device. I am (as always) a point moving in space.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTgQjhEkc7M0dd0SZEvAQ4bzm846JpyxpVuEwmZCd4U7jg9nKz6GasFkLMLxo8lTA5F3_q82uJbkrHaJheQHEhOEynJ02fpyUS-qYvBHeOPXg70ItNu7Rv827arMa3E_v-OVwariD5ug/s1600/Monadnock+9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhTgQjhEkc7M0dd0SZEvAQ4bzm846JpyxpVuEwmZCd4U7jg9nKz6GasFkLMLxo8lTA5F3_q82uJbkrHaJheQHEhOEynJ02fpyUS-qYvBHeOPXg70ItNu7Rv827arMa3E_v-OVwariD5ug/s640/Monadnock+9.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">November 21st was a day just like this... cold, cold, cold and clear, clear, clear; reminding me of something I had heard from the venerable zen teacher, Thich Nhat Hanh, that the true nature of mind is always clear, like the bluest of skies. With this thought I decided to take the trail up the mountain that I had on my first time up for this project: White dot to Red Spot using the Cascade Link, then Pumpelly Trail to the summit. I was curious as to how this hike might be the same or different from it's predecessor. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As I set off from the parking area I was relieved that this was a fairly calm day. The wind was at a minimum. Fortunate, as the temperature was well below freezing. Hat and gloves, multiple layers, hot coffee and spare socks, walking stick--check, check, check, and check. The air was crisp and it felt quite refreshing to step off on a brisk morning into the forest. Within the first hundred yards I encountered a fundamental difference from my previous time up this trail... ice. </span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCopNKoYm-n_nphMi-zy3PT6VxuFeB3u7sxAOsPhI89Qiv3-xpPBsh-nCHirHA8kg83VaW81ywqpLZr-m94ERNi2n7w_mXFabkkcJ1m5ls4MWTtktCD3-ks1fUT-MfSj9S0hUQYf8btHU/s1600/Monadnock+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjCopNKoYm-n_nphMi-zy3PT6VxuFeB3u7sxAOsPhI89Qiv3-xpPBsh-nCHirHA8kg83VaW81ywqpLZr-m94ERNi2n7w_mXFabkkcJ1m5ls4MWTtktCD3-ks1fUT-MfSj9S0hUQYf8btHU/s640/Monadnock+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzFpHEQ6939HmZnpHbsrgP9tGo_SEJ_O3haaS4ywvuu30fMsaJZmhofpbo6NXk07TeYhSyMC2LDjjwvmJV26UxV0Fj3Y119vnbpKR4pj50ACGQdjTr0RXLxMKD8LuDrB8BiZ6joYKEDqY/s1600/Monadnock+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzFpHEQ6939HmZnpHbsrgP9tGo_SEJ_O3haaS4ywvuu30fMsaJZmhofpbo6NXk07TeYhSyMC2LDjjwvmJV26UxV0Fj3Y119vnbpKR4pj50ACGQdjTr0RXLxMKD8LuDrB8BiZ6joYKEDqY/s640/Monadnock+2.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Frozen puddles and icicles were ubiquitous. It was not long before I began to see that a good deal of the trail was going to be like this:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3-iQD29BhkniajIV-Gk94hrnXYJ16CwiotTGPrTmcb4k0bymuKiP39cXSp3LCxkkK4V79sVcjfpQxZmSof6yzwJr3MzqErHVKYEefZuU4sRWTyubJjfB0ns1qS7aJS8aUHgdyh7UyOyc/s1600/Monadnock+10.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3-iQD29BhkniajIV-Gk94hrnXYJ16CwiotTGPrTmcb4k0bymuKiP39cXSp3LCxkkK4V79sVcjfpQxZmSof6yzwJr3MzqErHVKYEefZuU4sRWTyubJjfB0ns1qS7aJS8aUHgdyh7UyOyc/s640/Monadnock+10.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And this:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtf1QrX_sIMG19wyF0FWfve89aDLTgSnRGA9OcAWlBuFyuC1FllXDV-WnBAMwDlSYNfa8zTUOImuCrXM7RLp_1LwOuG1obyd1LkTp3N6j6TvfVdiBqUjLLM-kO-YR2K0mtmSvnB1f9xo/s1600/Monadnock+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLtf1QrX_sIMG19wyF0FWfve89aDLTgSnRGA9OcAWlBuFyuC1FllXDV-WnBAMwDlSYNfa8zTUOImuCrXM7RLp_1LwOuG1obyd1LkTp3N6j6TvfVdiBqUjLLM-kO-YR2K0mtmSvnB1f9xo/s640/Monadnock+5.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And this:</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0yL0DmN6AlktmHmt_zsbnURYFHuVNapJW2o5xwA33r2iqND5SdZwIpEui-GXwvC4PU7Wpv1OUjWWnyozx-6OzL6lMAU9xZlwkdep-Zp66e-OV2QcjepxE2l6Q0ZIrMYNaCVA9vWjNCl8/s1600/Monadnock+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi0yL0DmN6AlktmHmt_zsbnURYFHuVNapJW2o5xwA33r2iqND5SdZwIpEui-GXwvC4PU7Wpv1OUjWWnyozx-6OzL6lMAU9xZlwkdep-Zp66e-OV2QcjepxE2l6Q0ZIrMYNaCVA9vWjNCl8/s640/Monadnock+6.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">And this:</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtuEhTpyd-8OLlzFtuquMDYxTjJfXNMDt920zSm342X5vgRwnRCUdkHahMMAWmrySVpFe6NVSBFyoBr9JBJHl1gKkiFcl0GviVbKrJbesnaIpVGTKh_Pwq6e7y5kxSqsGlJDzxFxm26c/s1600/Monadnock+12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNtuEhTpyd-8OLlzFtuquMDYxTjJfXNMDt920zSm342X5vgRwnRCUdkHahMMAWmrySVpFe6NVSBFyoBr9JBJHl1gKkiFcl0GviVbKrJbesnaIpVGTKh_Pwq6e7y5kxSqsGlJDzxFxm26c/s640/Monadnock+12.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So what I was seeing and feeling was the mountain passing through the season. Or was it the season passing through the mountain? Does this amount to the same thing? Can a mountain move? According to Dogen, in his <i>Mountains and Waters Sutra</i>, mountains walk. One may think he was writing metaphorically, but I think not... there is <i>not</i> a lot of metaphor in zen (and there <i>is</i> a lot of metaphor in zen). Or is it that the seasons are always there and the Earth turns into them? What is it that moves? I am a point moving in space. Or is the mountain the space that is moving through me? Same or Different?</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">These were the questions that arose and subsided with each step until they were just kind of hovering there with me, companions along the way. As Rilke wrote in Letters to a Young Poet,<i> "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;">Don't search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer."</span></i> I began to feel myself occupying the space between dualities, not the same or different, not outside or inside, not water, not ice; like a brook that is still moving, still water, but on the verge of being ice. The liminal or <i>between</i> space. A threshold.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj31n6uxKl59y3ySHjxWI1gegXBjtzxWvIxcfEvS3J4vpSpV1ZrU5KNKcOsldhgih3hj2HAg9A-0QfNvpYxIJ4cjfeL0Y4krkgbHqUxdTZiTeFlwRfeGAjtFdWqAo7XZ19TdIatIRnN7is/s1600/Monadnock+7.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj31n6uxKl59y3ySHjxWI1gegXBjtzxWvIxcfEvS3J4vpSpV1ZrU5KNKcOsldhgih3hj2HAg9A-0QfNvpYxIJ4cjfeL0Y4krkgbHqUxdTZiTeFlwRfeGAjtFdWqAo7XZ19TdIatIRnN7is/s640/Monadnock+7.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">In this space there is only hearing, seeing, walking, a heart that beats. It is not that <i>I</i> see, <i>I</i> hear, <i>I</i> walk, <i>my</i> heart that beats... the experience is outside that kind of dualistic thinking that separates, divides, categorizes. It is the mind that holds, <i>"What is it that moves?"</i> without trying to answer it. But the mind's function is to think and, so, then comes perception, formations, attachments, etc. I quite naturally and somewhat without noticing the difference in mindset began to aestheticize my experience and think of it in terms of art. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">As I photographed frozen pools and hair/needle ice (see image below) I thought of W<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">illiam Henry Fox Talbot's <i>The Pencil of Nature</i>, not so much the book, which was an important and influential work in the history of photography, but the phrase, the <i>pencil of nature</i> or nature's pencil.<i> </i>Talbot's metaphor, to me, rings false, as wild nature does not make art or, more specifically, does not draw. Conditions are such that certain phenomena happen. We, the perceivers, aestheticize them but, beautiful and wondrous as they are, they are still, simply, instances of wild nature. Perhaps our need to call them art or art-like is a need to reconnect to our own wild mind (what I think we do when we draw). That being said, as I photographed the following images, I thought immediately, "these are like... drawings."</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg20Bwg-ZewuwWu5uTIpopVDubigA1zCB8NuJMypnuOknXNnHz6QDnuzNSREdu4A1E0yBBLpwENRD4oU89IhSL9CQvGKk4hBx31XT8dTNGD3tHLgphZ9lghgifPJQE-PYV4IpDHJbCRwOo/s1600/Monadnock+8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg20Bwg-ZewuwWu5uTIpopVDubigA1zCB8NuJMypnuOknXNnHz6QDnuzNSREdu4A1E0yBBLpwENRD4oU89IhSL9CQvGKk4hBx31XT8dTNGD3tHLgphZ9lghgifPJQE-PYV4IpDHJbCRwOo/s640/Monadnock+8.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgReXjM7Q8Ki_nB9Ssjtvv7DlFmSit8YH13J8rCGg0m2_xubbyW5kYXo2UGeiWw3xj9yjFxBukKinXUrwczyeh8yfaGa0Xsg7e-9U6c3ZK58aMxdgvjL6MJUA6vhzR7GfIJ2yT51B16NWI/s1600/Monadnock+13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgReXjM7Q8Ki_nB9Ssjtvv7DlFmSit8YH13J8rCGg0m2_xubbyW5kYXo2UGeiWw3xj9yjFxBukKinXUrwczyeh8yfaGa0Xsg7e-9U6c3ZK58aMxdgvjL6MJUA6vhzR7GfIJ2yT51B16NWI/s640/Monadnock+13.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkNTUNWSGZAhtbsEKZeo1nKG3-i_MC8ylB0dnSBcahbJ7bET5kOFCPBFEZxcVU_y6MFWelpxU3dD4t2VBcv7meZT6Y7gA8F01ewUcQAb9xCSchLf7QgdFEqZPciM4gUe_oU8ybtXe4FQ/s1600/Monadnock+15.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEkNTUNWSGZAhtbsEKZeo1nKG3-i_MC8ylB0dnSBcahbJ7bET5kOFCPBFEZxcVU_y6MFWelpxU3dD4t2VBcv7meZT6Y7gA8F01ewUcQAb9xCSchLf7QgdFEqZPciM4gUe_oU8ybtXe4FQ/s640/Monadnock+15.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMOQM0DoXMvAJRdeyfjSYoaLhMvCcHTbj6KW82Ez03GxNki_rKuXOwuION62LOgsqXcUiuTiNJw3_cVSyVNFGaAwSx1Aqedpu13sCWwS1n3HK7nRI2gPTl8dUeJqW4IQFrPpEXzeJvaug/s1600/Monadnock+16.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMOQM0DoXMvAJRdeyfjSYoaLhMvCcHTbj6KW82Ez03GxNki_rKuXOwuION62LOgsqXcUiuTiNJw3_cVSyVNFGaAwSx1Aqedpu13sCWwS1n3HK7nRI2gPTl8dUeJqW4IQFrPpEXzeJvaug/s640/Monadnock+16.jpg" width="436" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Enso: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">In zen buddhism, an ensō is a circle that is hand-drawn in one or two uninhibited</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">brushstrokes to express a moment when the mind is free to let the body create. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">The <i>ensō</i> symbolizes absolute enlightenment, strength, elegance, the universe. It is characterised by a minimalism born of Japanese aesthetics.</span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Q2il_PjbkYEzvf0v3jPHLVVCqk4Moxjsuyi9xGVLqEt-n_-2ynt5nrlZ92g52D56WmO6Q2o8wosNz8WELZZjtgRS7RbEVzyU4Hr9t9GPyuFXKfwdiAj40XmIJZTKkuVkLwTIMTX6kGw/s1600/Monadnock+18.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Q2il_PjbkYEzvf0v3jPHLVVCqk4Moxjsuyi9xGVLqEt-n_-2ynt5nrlZ92g52D56WmO6Q2o8wosNz8WELZZjtgRS7RbEVzyU4Hr9t9GPyuFXKfwdiAj40XmIJZTKkuVkLwTIMTX6kGw/s640/Monadnock+18.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">So what is it that moves? Is it the seasons? Is it the mountain? Is it the body (the point) that passes through space? I brought the question to <i>dokusan</i> (an interview with a zen teacher) at the Worcester Zen Center. His response, notice I did not say answer, was, "Yes. That is a wonderful question. Good for you."</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooKq6TgtMIWgu8z2WueAkeRMVkE7dFE4DlnuC1U95DNbgK4Qn4OH0yV3_fuAootp_Us-10cVJlAvp_jF82nBmmIrDWkdQt1OgcNJJH_ohAQCID4KKDd_Lq6Ly1OwbQmvHj4iICTediY4/s1600/Monadnock+Ice.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="446" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgooKq6TgtMIWgu8z2WueAkeRMVkE7dFE4DlnuC1U95DNbgK4Qn4OH0yV3_fuAootp_Us-10cVJlAvp_jF82nBmmIrDWkdQt1OgcNJJH_ohAQCID4KKDd_Lq6Ly1OwbQmvHj4iICTediY4/s640/Monadnock+Ice.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">Monadnock Ice </span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">ink and gesso on paper</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">30 x 41 inches</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Trebuchet MS', sans-serif;">2013</span></div>
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<br />Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-89395808392163022632013-10-29T11:52:00.001-07:002013-10-29T17:38:41.371-07:00Mt. Lafayette: The Way of Mountains<i>Amid ten thousand streams up among</i><br />
<i>thousands of clouds, a man all idleness</i><br />
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<i>wanders blue mountains all day long,</i><br />
<i>returns at night to sleep below cliffs.</i><br />
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<i>In the whirl of springs and autumns,</i><br />
<i>to inhabit this calm, no tangles of dust:</i><br />
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<i>it's sheer joy depending on nothing,</i><br />
<i>still as an autumn river's quiet water.</i><br />
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--Han Shan (Cold Mountain)<br />
translated by David Hinton<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYA5kW8APEEmUSRJvy6_7qe4rdbNKxewUmSf3n2DBS5oP9rGQdz01DsQQKcTqIPKlRJI5uwbi_pt2qRgN-wj-HW28RnulayRgDw4V7LStAuSiFIYCRZjdmKQ_Njc2YyCYS9Zae25cc_6w/s1600/Above+Clouds.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYA5kW8APEEmUSRJvy6_7qe4rdbNKxewUmSf3n2DBS5oP9rGQdz01DsQQKcTqIPKlRJI5uwbi_pt2qRgN-wj-HW28RnulayRgDw4V7LStAuSiFIYCRZjdmKQ_Njc2YyCYS9Zae25cc_6w/s640/Above+Clouds.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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On October 16, 2013, I "walked" up Mount Lafayette (5260 feet) in New Hampshire via Little Haystack (4760 feet) and Mount Lincoln (5089 feet) along the Franconia Ridge. I reached the ridge by ascending up the Falling Waters Trail. The descent took me down the Greenleaf Trail to the Old Bridle Path (Thoreau's way up). It was a nearly 9 mile loop through mist, clouds, bright sun, and wind. It was an arduous hike; steep ascents on slick rock and crossing Falls Brook several times on the way up. While Mount Katahdin was a strenuous climb and the mountain's being, bearing, and views were spectacular, my time with Mount Lafayette and its companion peaks has proved, so far, to be my most aesthetically stimulating and spiritually moving experience.</div>
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For all that this project will eventually result in artworks, this hike is the first in which I actually thought about art. From the outset, as mist rose off the cascading Falls Brook into the tree tops diminishing visibility to about 25 yards, I felt that I was walking through a Sung (or Yuan or Tang or...) Dynasty landscape painting. </div>
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I have often felt kinship with the "mountains and waters" painters and poets and the aesthetics that underpin their work. Taoism and later Ch'an (Zen) Buddhism very often informs their choices both formally and in terms of content. In his book <i>Mountain Home: The Wilderness Poetry of Ancient China</i>, David Hinton, outlines the philosophy behind, not only the poems (and, by extension, paintings), but more significantly the lives of the makers. What one finds is no separation between poet/subject and form and content/object. The human is melded with the wild: one cosmology. This point of view elides with my own which despite its ancient roots, I believe, to be intrinsically relevant to today's aesthetic discourse and notions of the marriage of process and content. Hinton writes, "... the importance of the rivers and mountains poetic tradition is not by any means limited to Chinese culture, for it is a poetry suffused with a worldview that is, however foreign <i>(to Western sensibilities)</i>, remarkably contemporary and kindred: it is secular, and yet profoundly spiritual; it is thoroughly empirical and basically accords with modern scientific understanding; it is deeply ecological, weaving the human into the "natural world" in the most profound way; and it is radically feminist--a primal cosmology deriving in some sense from Paleolithic spiritual practices centered around a Great Mother who continously gives birth to all things in the unending cycle of life, death, and rebirth." The animating principle of this paradigm is <i>tzu-jan. </i>Again, Hinton, "The literal meaning of <i>tzu-jan</i> is <i>self-ablaze</i>... But a more revealing translation of <i>tzu-jan</i> might be <i>occurrence appearing of itself</i>, for it is meant to describe the ten thousand things (or the stuff of the universe) emerging spontaneously from the generative source, each according to its own nature, independent and self-sufficient, each dying and returning into the process of change, only to reappear in another self-generating form."</div>
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From Hsieh Ling-yun (385-433 C.E.)</div>
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As for my</div>
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homes perched north and south</div>
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inaccessible except across water:</div>
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gaze deep into wind and cloud</div>
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and you know this realm utterly.</div>
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And to add a contemporary "voice": Pat Steir</div>
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The ascent took me over boulders, roots, and watercourses and often I found myself climbing straight up. I was more tired out (though exhilarated) after only about 3 miles than at any time on any previous hike, including Katahdin. At times there were only the stones in front of me. Great stone upon great stone. Moss and stone. Water and stone. Root and stone. </div>
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And then I turned around.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKC6yPbJkjiaRKCk_f-3PTyzE2BHox_WaVnxnGu5LJqkhICboIuFXRLDyV8MtjX7B6TtmfeRRx5iCOm4pPO2SmP-u9KjL6P9bQaEPc3crfzynH76zgszyv2Ckk2eiQnk-tivlgW7v1Ug/s1600/And+then+you+turn+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcKC6yPbJkjiaRKCk_f-3PTyzE2BHox_WaVnxnGu5LJqkhICboIuFXRLDyV8MtjX7B6TtmfeRRx5iCOm4pPO2SmP-u9KjL6P9bQaEPc3crfzynH76zgszyv2Ckk2eiQnk-tivlgW7v1Ug/s640/And+then+you+turn+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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As I approached the tree line I found myself above a cloud forest... like Han Shan:</div>
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<i>If you're climbing Cold Mountain Way,</i></div>
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<i>Cold Mountain Road grows inexhaustible:</i></div>
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<i>long canyons opening across fields of talus,</i></div>
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<i>broad creeks tumbling down mists of grass.</i></div>
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<i>Moss is impossibly slick even without rain,</i></div>
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<i>but this far up, pines need no wind to sing.</i></div>
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<i>Who can leave the world's tangles behind</i></div>
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<i>and sit with me among these white clouds.</i></div>
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(...like Georgia O'Keeffe. Her view was from an airplane, but I did think of this painting briefly)</div>
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Coming out on Little Haystack I was afforded a view of the Franconia Ridge and the trail leading over Mt. Lincoln to Lafayette. A flock of about a dozen ravens soared up and down the face of the mountain. Great shaggy birds gliding through a curtain of cloud. Clouds were pouring into the valley and onto the peaks sometimes obscuring the trail. But a gust of wind would raise the curtain and reveal views of the surrounding peaks... like Washington and Mount Liberty.</div>
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I'd met a few hikers along the way, those going up and coming down. And I was put in mind of how there is always a human presence in those ancient paintings, whether it be a figure, a boat, a hut, pagoda, or temple. We often tend to think of nature in its so-called pristine state as being devoid of human presence, but we occupy this planet and live all over it. It's just that we have lost the way of living lightly upon it. If we can remember that we belong to this place, not vice versa, then perhaps we can re-inhabit it, or rather join with it again... seeing it and being seen by it as mutual embodiments of each other. <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">Or as American poet Gary Snyder wrote in his essay </span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Opening the Mountain</i></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">, “Nature, not in the abstract, but (like anybody) a kind of being, actually there to respond to being seen in the moment.”</span></span></span></div>
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Coming over Mt. Lincoln I came upon the most unusual flora I'd yet to encounter on any hike; a spongy purple moss that I've yet to identify, but believe to be a type of sphagnum or peat moss. The Franconia Ridge is an alpine tundra zone and is home to a variety of flora, including the same phosphorescent green lichen that I found on Katahdin. In fact, all along the trail I encountered mosses growing on everything and fungi aplenty.</div>
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I ate lunch on Lafayette peak in the company of ravens, wind, and four lichen coated angular stones that I dubbed the Four Immortals. Hot tea, apples, PB&J.</div>
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Mount Lafayette as seen from Mount Lincoln</div>
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I made my way down through clouds, cairns, and scree. I looked back a few times at where I'd been and noticed I still carried the feeling I'd had at the outset. It wasn't a grasping or trying to hold on to something intangible, but rather a kind of continuous flow... like falling water, like wind-bourne clouds, like seeing and being seen.</div>
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<br />Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-55102564988414923552013-10-21T13:13:00.000-07:002013-10-21T13:13:17.989-07:00Mt. Greylock: Letting Go of Views<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><i>"When you come to the place where you are practice occurs." -- </i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Dogen</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">On October 1, 2013 I drove west on Massachusetts State Route 2 to North Adams, MA to hike to the top of Mount Greylock. I descended into the mist-shrouded Hoosic River Valley in North Adams... sun above, clouds below. The river and town were completely blanketed in a flannel-like cloud. I expected visibility to be nearly nil at the trailhead and was not disappointed.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Mount Greylock is the highest peak in Massachusetts at 3491 feet. The trail I chose to follow is aptly named Thoreau's Footsteps as it is partially the route that Thoreau took to the summit. It follows the Bellow's Pipe Trail to the Appalachian Trail South to the summit. On the way down I took the AT North to the Bernard Farm Trail back to my car. This is a 9.6 mile roundtrip hike.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: inherit;">I found much of the early part of the trail to be like the image below... a narrow, soft, leaf strewn path through a forest of mostly green but changing deciduous trees. It was much like the trails I remember hiking in the Cherokee National Forest when I lived in Greeneville, TN (2000-2006). The sun was burning off the fog, but every surface was wet with dew. There were several rills on my right carrying water downward. These did not appear to be creeks or brooks, but rather shallow waterways cut by erosion as water drains off the slope. I encountered robins, blue jays, juncoes, frogs and toads as I made my damp way upward. </span></div>
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As I proceeded upward on the increasingly steep trail I climbed toward and through autumn in full swing. There were Mountain Ash, with their large, bright red berries, Large-leafed Goldenrod, Yellow Birch, Bartram's Shadbush, with their five-petalled white flowers (mostly gone-by), and Balsam Fir.</div>
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This hike, while quite steep in places, did not offer the challenges of, say, Monadnock or Katahdin with their great piles of stone and exposed rock faces in the wind. The passage to the top was ultimately a pleasant walk through the woods where I flushed out a few ruffed grouse and watched, at length, as a chipmunk rooted about in the leaf duff and scurried back and forth to an unseen den with nuts and nuts and nuts.</div>
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Emerging from the forest near the summit, I crossed a road (one that motorists may take to the top) and encountered, on my right, a group of motorcyclists, I hesitate to say bikers, in full regalia and, on my left, a phallic tower with what I can only describe as a giant light bulb on top. The tower is a memorial to WWII veterans. On it's side is a plaque describing the mountain. </div>
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The summit was a bit of a disappointment as it was overrun with cars, tourists getting their pictures taken with the Great War penis, and folks filing in and out of Bascom Lodge's restaurant. A bus full of high school-aged students pulled in and they poured out over the summit, cell phones pointed "inward" to get that selfie with the mountain for Facebook. Okay, this is the age we live in, but when "experiences" of nature, especially mountains, seem so packaged, easily accessible, and, ultimately disposable, is it any wonder that our wild places are at risk? </div>
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I ate a lunch of an apple, a pear, and PB&J sandwiches, read a few poems, and headed down the mountain as the cooling sweat dried on my back. I was feeling let down as I crossed the parking lot, but as I reentered the woods, I found that with every step I began to let those feelings go. I realized that I'd come toward the summit with preconceived notions. I knew in advance that there was a road, a tower, and a lodge. The disappointment was with me before I even began the hike. I'd created it in my mind and carried it with me, an extra weight in my pack. That view perverts the essence of the project which is not only based on hiking and mountains, but also on a non-attachment to outcomes. Not only does it pervert the essence of the project, but more importantly it inhibits my perception of reality, to see what is before me <i>as it is</i> as opposed to how I expect it or want it to be. So I attempted to return to the present moment, and remembered what Dogen said: <i>When you come to the place where you are practice occurs. </i></div>
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Walking down the mountain I took particular notice of the elaborate root structures of trees, alive or otherwise. Twisting and spiraling, spreading out like the hem of a voluminous gown, displacing stones, or blanketed in moss. They put me in mind of a question/koan that my first zen teacher, Barbara Rhodes, put to me when I was a fledgling zen student: <i>Where is your original root?</i> A question like that cannot be grasped with thinking. I don't believe I ever answered it, even adequately, let alone "correctly." I always tried to figure it out. Here in the forest, on the side of Mt. Greylock, I let this question burrow into the ground along the innumerable tree roots. I did not find an answer, but rather a letting go of the need to have one. Better to live the question.</div>
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I continued down the trail turning onto Bernard Farm Trail seeing trees dotted with fungi and great boulders of quartz. These were the little moments that interrupted my thinking and brought me back to the present moment. For despite the above thoughts on letting go (and the actual letting go), the reverie on that very subject continued to unfurl in my mind... trying to articulate it, to find the words to describe what is ultimately outside of language... like trying to make straight the very twisted root that woke me up in the first place. So it was like this... think think think... caterpillar! think, think think think... fungi! Let Go!! think think think think think... quartz! Let Go!</div>
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Not far off the trail I encounter a truly surprising sight; something that I never would have imagined in a lifetime of imagining; something so unexpected that it stopped all thinking like nothing else I'd yet experienced on the trail... a real letting go of preconceived views...</div>
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The wreckage of a plane crash! It had obviously been there for some time. I have been unable to find any information about it, but haven't really tried that hard either. I prefer to let it be, to let it go, and move up and down these mountains, a point moving in space.</div>
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Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-54725796443249302102013-10-17T09:28:00.005-07:002013-10-17T09:28:56.634-07:00Monadnock 2: Looking At It<div style="text-align: center;">
"They who simply climb to the peak of Monadnock have seen but little of the mointain. I came not to look off from it, but to look at it." </div>
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Henry David Thoreau</div>
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On September 23, 2013, three days after my return from Maine and the excursion to Mt. Katahdin, I climbed Mount Monadnock for the second time.</div>
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Upon arriving at the gate to the Monadnock State Reservation Area I was informed that there were 400 high school students on the mountain that day. I later learned that it was lawrence Academy's Mountain Day. Once per year they take their students out to hike a mountain. This is a great idea as it turns students loose in a classroom without walls, or rather, a classroom with walls that they must scale. A direct experience with the natural world is, for the most art, missing from not only our children's lives, but all of ours. That disconnect may be more directly responsible for our environmental crises than any coal burning power plant as it is the ignorance of where we live that allows for its despoiling.</div>
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But enough soapbox... armed with the knowledge that the mountain's most popular trails would be overrun with visitors, I set off on a less used one, the Palmer Trail to the Cliff Walk, over Bald Rock to the Summit. The quote that leads off this post aptly describes the way I have applied myself to this project. And I have written that it's rather the more intimate moments and smaller gestures that will likely inform the art made from these hikes and climbs as opposed to the grand vistas. That being said there is nothing like looking off from a high peak to distant ranges, hills, cities, and towns. Or seeing the landscape dotted with lakes and ponds, etched by rivers, gridded into fields, or aflame with color from Autumn's paintbox. My route, at first, took me through coniferous forest with a soft footpath which was a relief after the rocky trails on Mount Katahdin. The easy passage, though, soon gave way to steeper and steeper sections that took me out onto Bald Rock. It was here and on the climb to the summit, often using my hands to pull myself onto shelves of rock, that I took particular notice of the nature of the stone. The granite was formed by magma as it escaped and cooled. In some places one could imagine the "liquid" origins of these fields of stone. Such close contact with hand and eye, one might begin to see stone as much more than inert matter.</div>
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To get to the summit from Bald Rock, one must first descend into a not too deep valley before ascending over granite, and hard mica schist to the top. Below is the view of the summit from Bald Rock.</div>
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The approach from this side is nearly straight up and the wind, as on my last visit to Monadnock, was cold and blowing hard. So despite the nearly cloudless day, I was in need of a jacket and wished I'd brought some gloves.</div>
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I stopped on top for a sandwich and some water, but the summit was over populated, so I beat a hasty retreat down the White Dot Trail, a steep nearly straight descent to the parking area. Before I went down though I wanted to look around at the "party" on the mountain. There were maybe 100 people on top with me. Some were looking outward and pointing to landmarks, some were talking quietly, some were laughing and shouting with friends... their joy evident. There was one man reading and a small group of smokers. however the majority of people were looking for a signal, faces pointed down at their phones. I beat it out of there.<br />
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Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-69737874610783745462013-10-07T09:21:00.006-07:002013-10-07T09:21:56.083-07:00Mount Katahdin 3: Coda<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Thursday night at West Branch Pond Camp. A cabin, a shower, a meal, and a bed. The full moon rose over the pond. In the morning, tea, and a moose across the way.Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-58259096812983119962013-10-07T09:17:00.001-07:002013-10-07T09:26:42.169-07:00Mount Katahdin 2: Saddle and Summit<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On Wednesday, September 18, Robert, Marc, and I set off for the summit using the Saddle Trail. While only 2.2 miles to the summit from Chimney Pond, this trail is mostly uphill and a good deal of it is over exposed rock above the treeline. Citing a bad knee, Marc set off a bit earlier than Robert and I, figuring we would catch up with him. As I ate breakfast, made lunch, and filled my day pack and water bottles I could feel my anticipation growing by the moment. However this kind of "future-thinking" was quickly put to rest by the nature of the trail...</div>
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It was slow going with a good deal of scrambling and clambering over rocks. We carefully picked our way up and up and as we broke the tree-line were afforded some spectacular views. I could feel my chest swell with emotion as I turned on the trail and saw, a couple of thousand feet below, the pond from which we had ascended (and we still had about a mile and a half to go to the summit).</div>
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We climbed up the moraine that leads to the Saddle, a broad and slowly ascending table-land that leads to the peak. Staying to the right of the trail blazes for surer footing and to avoid sending a shower of stones down on those coming behind we slowly made our way toward the lip/rim of the cirque. When we reached the Saddle the wind hit us full in the face. There were gusts of between 40 and 50 miles per hour up there. Robert and I stopped to rest and put on our jackets. Marc was nowhere in sight. it seemed that his knee was not slowing him down. We still had a mile to go, so it was off along the Saddle Trail toward the summit. The Saddle Trail winds its way through scrubby gasses and piles of lichened stones. Looking around one feels on top of the world with spectacular views of mountains upon mountains and a landscape dotted with lakes and ponds. The sky comes right up to your face (but does not stop there).</div>
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Closer at hand this place feels otherworldly. The lichen is an eerie, almost phosphorescent green and it covers vast fields of pink granite stones, and amid them jagged rocks that jut straight up out of the earth.</div>
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Mount Katahdin is the northern terminus of the Appalachian Trail (southern terminus is at Springer Mountain, Georgia). One must traverse the Knife Edge and come over the South Peak before one reaches the end. I saw one silent, but clearly jubilant "through-hiker" run up and kiss the sign at the summit. </div>
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View of South Peak from the summit. The tiny vertical forms on top are some AT through-hikers.</div>
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We had approached the summit from the other side. We passed several hikers who were on their way down, wind and sunburned, and smiling. They all had a particular look in their eyes that spoke of something newly discovered... it may have been an affirmation, or it may have been a surprise, but there was something that hinted of knowing in their gaze.</div>
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It was late morning when we at last we came over the final "stone steps" and arrived at the summit. There were several hikers there, some milling about, some eating lunch, some taking photos, some texting loved ones, or posting images to Facebook (the summit is about the only place where one might get a signal in Baxter Park). We found Marc, who apparently had been waiting for about 10 minutes. It was time for the "Summit with Sign" portraits:</div>
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Marc Ayotte</div>
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Robert Lidstone</div>
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Yours truly</div>
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In a previous post (Mount Monadnock 1: Am I a Pilgrim?) I wrote that the summit seems almost beside the point. However, on this mountain, to reach the summit seems, conversely and most definitely, the point. I don't necessarily mean the purpose. What I am getting at is that the summit is a point of stillness, a center from which one can look outward and/or inward. </div>
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On the way to Chimney Pond with a view of the cirque forever in my eye, I was aware of the vastness of time and its emissaries; the glacier, its passage, and the great walls of stone left in its wake. Also, the depth of the forest, its history, both ancient and and more recent; old growth, through logging, and then a protected wilderness. While I didn't see all of them I was aware of the denizens of this wild place, the moose, the deer, pine marten, black bear, beaver, owls, ravens, juncoes, butterflies, dragonflies, rabbits, hawks, sparrows, coyote, and warblers. Some say that the mountain lion has returned to these high places. </div>
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On the Saddle and at the summit something is different. There was only the present moment and its great silence. The silence was entirely interior. It contained the wind, the very few voices that the wind did not carry away, the eating of lunch, the taking of photos, the texting, the walking. There is the mountain and my sitting on it... the feel of it against my back, under my hand, its wind in my ears and against my face, the taste of it in my sandwich and the wetness in my water. In the Zen tradition of Buddhism, the position that the zen master takes before the assembly when presenting a lecture is called the "mountain seat." I have a new understanding of this phrase. Zen does not go in for symbols. I now understand the "mountain seat" in a whole new and, possibly, more correct way. </div>
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On Mt. Katahdin I experienced a depth to reality that is beyond utterance... I'll try... the miracle of being alive in the present moment.</div>
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After about an hour, we headed back down from whence we came. Back across the saddle, down the moraine, and on to our camp at Chimney Pond. I said to my companions when we arrived at the lean-to, "This has been a damn good day." And it was. We spent the night at Chimney Pond and headed back to Roaring Brook and our vehicle on Thursday morning. We took our time... a leisurely amble over stones and stones, and down and down and down. Autumn is coming and we're headed to West Branch Pond for our last night in Maine.</div>
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Here's a the GPS Drawing of the week on the mountain.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaietwRTWf9VNUV7gG8gzZeVjSp77q7ZpaFH4xDDyhyphenhyphenWiOwm74nYyjK49BxcPjyVqihFkqhnHsujs0X3HFg3Eb3khR5E8gAfh4tdiJyMABwLTHIodY8LrNCDgIZTkIDzTchbjOUcODi1E/s1600/Katahdin+line+drawing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="398" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaietwRTWf9VNUV7gG8gzZeVjSp77q7ZpaFH4xDDyhyphenhyphenWiOwm74nYyjK49BxcPjyVqihFkqhnHsujs0X3HFg3Eb3khR5E8gAfh4tdiJyMABwLTHIodY8LrNCDgIZTkIDzTchbjOUcODi1E/s640/Katahdin+line+drawing.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<br />Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-2803697180305467002013-10-02T10:33:00.000-07:002013-10-02T10:47:40.774-07:00Mount Katahdin 1: Wind Sweeps Mind<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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On Monday, September 16, 2013, I set off with 2 companions for Mount Katahdin in Baxter state Park in Maine. My traveling companions were Robert Lidstone, of Lancaster, MA and his high school friend, Marc Ayotte, from Auburn, Maine. I had only recently met Robert. We were brought together by a mutual friend who made Robert aware of my project. Robert kindly invited me to join his "expedition" to Katahdin. </div>
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We would be spending the first night at the aptly named Roaring Brook Camp. The following day, Tuesday, we ascend to Chimney Pond Camp where we will spend two nights. Wednesday we hike to the summit spend the night at Chimney Pond, and return to Roaring Brook on Thursday. We will spend Thursday night at West Branch Pond Camp. A site visited by robert's family for decades. It, along with Katahdin, is one of his sacred places. I am grateful to Robert for sharing it with me. He treated us to the night there in a cabin (with showers, beds, and meals). It is his intention to share these places that he loves so that we may have great experiences and in turn share them with others. I had intended, originally, to make the hike alone, but going up with others, people with whom to share stories and silences, made it a richer experience. Not to mention closer to Thoreau's trip as he went up with guides and friends. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpKMl4AzYsLphXSK_qWO20t3uPlZU0pZvT3HBQUTG5LYN6Cq5SiZyWZEdgFdSeu-LKK3dwD2z9LGwCizJ2ch9QZG_01UGgYPYW5xY1k6_qTVRvdGxtHisx-FcA4YcmxhEIO9fAFYvgXqs/s1600/Chimney+Pond+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpKMl4AzYsLphXSK_qWO20t3uPlZU0pZvT3HBQUTG5LYN6Cq5SiZyWZEdgFdSeu-LKK3dwD2z9LGwCizJ2ch9QZG_01UGgYPYW5xY1k6_qTVRvdGxtHisx-FcA4YcmxhEIO9fAFYvgXqs/s400/Chimney+Pond+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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My boon companions and I arrive at Chimney Pond on Tuesday, 9/17/13 </div>
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(L-R Robert Lidstone, Marc Ayotte, and yours truly)</div>
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Wind and Water</div>
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As mentioned above we spent the first night camped at Roaring Brook. Our lean-to, a wooden shelter with walls and a raised floor, was positioned within yards of the brook. We were in for a cold night as the forecast called for a hard frost. And the north woods did not disappoint as the temperature steadily dropped to freezing. As Roaring Brook Camp is designed for "car-camping" we did not need to eat trail food, but ate a sumptuous meal consisting of salad, steak for Robert and Marc, and BBQed seitan for me, the lone vegan. A hot cup of tea and early to bed finished the long day of travel (about 6.5-7 hours of driving which included stopping to pick up Marc in Auburn, ME). </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghMWTgBPLQAEmIqfILUDR780VYoaRGxDpnPqZio4e6IueSV8XAhp8pis_ekV_cogGty0X9ZUu2d5YGHDWoqj864U5XJ1aZMqLsAePIBWwOEX6_yRWM1IBSYkTTQ3wEI3mz3-kMoqvhLWI/s1600/Roaring+Brook+Lean-to.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghMWTgBPLQAEmIqfILUDR780VYoaRGxDpnPqZio4e6IueSV8XAhp8pis_ekV_cogGty0X9ZUu2d5YGHDWoqj864U5XJ1aZMqLsAePIBWwOEX6_yRWM1IBSYkTTQ3wEI3mz3-kMoqvhLWI/s400/Roaring+Brook+Lean-to.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Roaring Brook lean-to (apologies for blurries). That's my pack and stick on the far right.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJVanlQQy-Nx92vAoHTXFlqHuNweEl1jcs1F00_eqjJxsfMszgVbuCwu3tzsUPW8uoV744-HFfRxVeJfp43C1f0yXgnFUYrvZ4rRPGsQQB_F_oCNBo4-FdMAEPZnZUspHQcSGWk_VFhM/s1600/Roaring+Brook+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUJVanlQQy-Nx92vAoHTXFlqHuNweEl1jcs1F00_eqjJxsfMszgVbuCwu3tzsUPW8uoV744-HFfRxVeJfp43C1f0yXgnFUYrvZ4rRPGsQQB_F_oCNBo4-FdMAEPZnZUspHQcSGWk_VFhM/s640/Roaring+Brook+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLk7fRxhF3Ef-DsdDsyTMULKKCisagBmlCiiVlZXOR4HCmhM3kA1Ka8gw4viUtiuDBJgn9_jVByH2rtnzfXjaP_TUz0v0NjPzhM7QO1PfPDO_aiiwuN3KGp6SUMk9jmvUgQ9iEYmM0A8/s1600/Roaring+Brook+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiMLk7fRxhF3Ef-DsdDsyTMULKKCisagBmlCiiVlZXOR4HCmhM3kA1Ka8gw4viUtiuDBJgn9_jVByH2rtnzfXjaP_TUz0v0NjPzhM7QO1PfPDO_aiiwuN3KGp6SUMk9jmvUgQ9iEYmM0A8/s640/Roaring+Brook+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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A bright, waxing moon rose that night and the wind picked up and scoured the mountainside. When I woke in the morning after a restless night I had the feeling that the continuous chant of Roaring Brook had purified my ears and the all night rush of wind down the mountain had swept my mind clean. </div>
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Robert volunteered to clean up the camp and sent Marc and I on ahead with a plan to meet us at Basin Pond (about an hour from Roaring Brook). Despite fitful sleep I set off with Marc (and a full pack... 25-30 lbs.) with what I can only describe as a cheerful awareness. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzhB3M7B2wUbT379ACRj5OTaXhE50uUvT7aafHcfz3AO5VeH8KnU-xwyzi4QnIhU3Cd7kLcmbL9OcMuzoEL3gk6elVxw5OuYUBD9p5e4hBL1AOYUOykB8S7rdsRngQFtS0VPt3uscxe0/s1600/Toward+Chimney+Pond+(the+trail).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkzhB3M7B2wUbT379ACRj5OTaXhE50uUvT7aafHcfz3AO5VeH8KnU-xwyzi4QnIhU3Cd7kLcmbL9OcMuzoEL3gk6elVxw5OuYUBD9p5e4hBL1AOYUOykB8S7rdsRngQFtS0VPt3uscxe0/s640/Toward+Chimney+Pond+(the+trail).jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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The trail to Chimney Pond is mostly steep and mostly stones, although there are flat stoneless stretches. It was on one such stretch that I came upon evidence of a fellow earthling.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GYnKeZwo-eNO3Et6FrnKlCZFNe-wI1519nTHUgelXyyb46rTs3O0DAu-De5Cjrti6kDNlv859Wvkip2Zlez3Za0BAl1hfPzXpD0ankTxi1oIWS_nKxQ-mBchaRl2PP7NRCINVG_mfn0/s1600/Moose+track+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3GYnKeZwo-eNO3Et6FrnKlCZFNe-wI1519nTHUgelXyyb46rTs3O0DAu-De5Cjrti6kDNlv859Wvkip2Zlez3Za0BAl1hfPzXpD0ankTxi1oIWS_nKxQ-mBchaRl2PP7NRCINVG_mfn0/s640/Moose+track+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Moose Tracks!</div>
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I saw plenty of tracks and some droppings, but despite the abundance of these magnificent creatures in this forest, we did not encounter any during our time in Baxter Park. This may be due to Maine's opening a moose hunting season, a natural and intelligent wariness of humans, or simple bad timing. However, on our last morning in ME, at West Branch Pond, a moose came out of the trees across the pond to feed on grass at water's edge. A photographer in a neighboring cabin (from Princeton, MA as chance would have it) lent me her high-powered binoculars and I was afforded a beautiful view of a great being in his element. Alas, he was too far away for my little camera. But here's an idea of what I saw. <i>This is not my photo. I repeat, not my photo</i>.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjdyZ7dunTM9r1GQBV-xRFAVNoOMidWvMX28lD5U7VahpbCjRgQkflPAZ_stED8nWEgamHNj1obptqZ488UtbTTQEk_EeM4Smk4R3VDxEPPYqg8y6OShVWGZCr0xtKhrkhPUXBqUD0f0/s1600/BullMoose.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="426" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCjdyZ7dunTM9r1GQBV-xRFAVNoOMidWvMX28lD5U7VahpbCjRgQkflPAZ_stED8nWEgamHNj1obptqZ488UtbTTQEk_EeM4Smk4R3VDxEPPYqg8y6OShVWGZCr0xtKhrkhPUXBqUD0f0/s640/BullMoose.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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And just to be clear: <i>Not My Photo</i></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Mt. Katahdin, a 5267 foot peak, is part of a l</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; color: black; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;">accolith</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> (an intrusion of magma underground) that formed in the </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acadian_orogeny" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;" title="Acadian orogeny"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: black;">Acadian</span></a><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Acadian_orogeny" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; color: #0645ad; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;" title="Acadian orogeny"> </a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">orogeny (a long-lasting mountain building event), when an </span><a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Island_arc" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; color: #0645ad; font-style: normal; text-decoration: none;" title="Island arc">i</a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">sland arc collided with eastern North America approximately 375-400 million years ago. On the sides of Katahdin are four glacial cirques carved into the granite by alpine glaciers and in these cirques behind moraines and eskers are several ponds, of which Chimney Pond is one. A </span>cirque<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;"> is </span></span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">a concave amphitheatre shape, open on the downhill side corresponding to the flatter area of the "stage," while the "bowl" generally consists of steep, cliff-like slopes down which ice and glaciated debris combine and converge from the three or more higher sides. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">A <i>moraine</i> is any glacially formed accumulation of unconsolidated glacial debris (soil and rock). This debris may have been dragged off a valley floor as a glacier advanced or it may have fallen off the valley walls as a result of frost wedging or landslide. Moraines may be composed of debris ranging in size from silt-sized glacial "flour" to large boulders. <i>Eskers</i> are long (sometimes kilometers so), winding ridges of stratified sand and gravel. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXv8r8Qy1A1UB2UnMarR1G0MOo4W2pDYMVJ5P9SP1lKETaDMGlbGRjeYTcZTmN1TPn3sx8GnQyafE9_akZuu3YOpgtGH0H_0hFWRdL0uuTALmbeucMd8-zLC9qpF0xcjd1VlqwyTWRJD4/s1600/View+from+Chimney+Pond+trail.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXv8r8Qy1A1UB2UnMarR1G0MOo4W2pDYMVJ5P9SP1lKETaDMGlbGRjeYTcZTmN1TPn3sx8GnQyafE9_akZuu3YOpgtGH0H_0hFWRdL0uuTALmbeucMd8-zLC9qpF0xcjd1VlqwyTWRJD4/s1600/View+from+Chimney+Pond+trail.jpg" width="640" /></a></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif; line-height: 19px;">These
images are views from the Chimney Pond Trail of where we
were, ultimately, headed. Baxter State Park, for all it's trails and many visitors, is a deep and broad wilderness. One does not immersed oneself in it, but rather one is gathered in by it. A Dogen wrote in his "Genjokoan<i>,</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">" </span><i>To carry yourself forward and experience myriad things is delusion. That myriad things come forth and experience themselves is awakening</i>. And, </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>When you see forms or hear sounds fully engaging body-and-mind, you grasp things directly</i>.</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif; line-height: 19px;"><br /></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif; line-height: 19px;">All my senses and consciousness(es) were completely
filled with this mountain wilderness. It is startling to recognize that
one's psyche is completely in line, at one, with one's sensual
experience. Of course, once I awoke to this, it, for a time, became a
self-consciousness, thinking about it rather than simply letting the
mind roll out with sight, sound, smell, and touch. However, like the
wind the night before, the towering peaks, the walls of rock and
glacial debris, the massive architecture of time, the present moment
spreading out in all directions cut through all thinking. I did
notice, though, a feeling of kinship with those that came this way
before me, and those that find themselves in mountains everywhere.
While Thoreau's activities form the structure of this project, I also
had John Muir and Gary Snyder at my ear in equal measure. </span><br />
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<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Piute
Creek</span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #3c3930;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">BY </span></span></span></span></span><a href="http://www.poetryfoundation.org/bio/gary-snyder"><span style="color: #102d5d;"><span style="font-family: ArialMT, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">GARY
SNYDER</span></span></span></span></span></a></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">One
granite ridge</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">A
tree, would be enough</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Or
even a rock, a small creek,</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">A
bark shred in a pool.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
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<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Hill
beyond hill, folded and twisted </span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Tough
trees crammed</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">In
thin stone fractures</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">A
huge moon on it all, is too much. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">The
mind wanders. A million</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Summers,
night air still and the rocks </span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Warm. Sky
over endless mountains. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">All
the junk that goes with being human </span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Drops
away, hard rock wavers</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Even
the heavy present seems to fail </span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">This
bubble of a heart.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Words
and books</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Like
a small creek off a high ledge </span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Gone
in the dry air.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">A
clear, attentive mind</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Has
no meaning but that</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Which
sees is truly seen.</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">No
one loves rock, yet we are here. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Night
chills. A flick</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">In
the moonlight</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Slips
into Juniper shadow:</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Back
there unseen</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Cold
proud eyes</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Of
Cougar or Coyote</span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: #3f3f3f;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;">Watch
me rise and go. </span></span></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-style: normal; font-weight: normal; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
</div>
<div style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; margin-bottom: 0in; text-align: right;">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">While
this mountain (all mountains, really) looms large in our collective
imagination. I am finding that the quiet, intimate, small "gestures"
</span></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;"><i><span style="font-weight: normal;">may</span></i></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">
be leading me towards the form this project's art will take.</span></span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-family: Times-Roman, serif;"><span style="font-style: normal;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-GBplZhkU0TT-suluYbghGhA0JC42yq8hzBwiKHPCt1I05HPvQyt0ed97N2LYl7ryipgKr1G0QpqierV4unqSjaVGbwxtdG0bCv1xbaG5y2mJUrQB9XopJV_7KYJvxSYePQAQT4JCHo/s1600/Curlicue.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2-GBplZhkU0TT-suluYbghGhA0JC42yq8hzBwiKHPCt1I05HPvQyt0ed97N2LYl7ryipgKr1G0QpqierV4unqSjaVGbwxtdG0bCv1xbaG5y2mJUrQB9XopJV_7KYJvxSYePQAQT4JCHo/s1600/Curlicue.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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Scribbling Branches</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0KzYVEmOqBY-vA1qv9KF2F_YYLaMNhMdfTWOEEw_K9SfpUiglsXIPDDhbwvWM5NALQALXFvpa42B-RG05oK82Wgypg9NwauKZgTG_E_144YPWqChLd86dz8MJMc3fPAw61xOR4HugeQ/s1600/Sign+of+Autumn.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw0KzYVEmOqBY-vA1qv9KF2F_YYLaMNhMdfTWOEEw_K9SfpUiglsXIPDDhbwvWM5NALQALXFvpa42B-RG05oK82Wgypg9NwauKZgTG_E_144YPWqChLd86dz8MJMc3fPAw61xOR4HugeQ/s1600/Sign+of+Autumn.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Approaching the Autumnal Equinox</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05q-Eje6cLln6USXsgK2zLmuq54XpcaOXsJ2WyzmTBwHAM1E5IBW2pw6lI4OOVcGeA-6jyxg9WcqERsYBJmLRDyEsV09RJ3_lCLlJTqWMw08rJWm387XzaK5dmE588mkJ-_cJR-hkuhQ/s1600/Toward+Chimney+Pond+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi05q-Eje6cLln6USXsgK2zLmuq54XpcaOXsJ2WyzmTBwHAM1E5IBW2pw6lI4OOVcGeA-6jyxg9WcqERsYBJmLRDyEsV09RJ3_lCLlJTqWMw08rJWm387XzaK5dmE588mkJ-_cJR-hkuhQ/s1600/Toward+Chimney+Pond+1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Water touching stone</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivnpHrb9U73eS932M6-O_Nk8_z9mTDsegH6TnQegwG5IHHDM011t-M7R2qYSist0ezVAFOqiIabjGoWormzq8qW5YiiDFCFIpxtmHF71paDSt8kWyotGHmqIwIblMghO13NDlwbXDtzQ4/s1600/Wind+on+Chimney+Pond.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivnpHrb9U73eS932M6-O_Nk8_z9mTDsegH6TnQegwG5IHHDM011t-M7R2qYSist0ezVAFOqiIabjGoWormzq8qW5YiiDFCFIpxtmHF71paDSt8kWyotGHmqIwIblMghO13NDlwbXDtzQ4/s1600/Wind+on+Chimney+Pond.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Wind and Water</div>
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Look for Mount Katahdin Part 2: Saddle and Summit</div>
Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-21114047614804253952013-09-25T10:43:00.002-07:002013-09-25T10:43:22.962-07:00Mt. Monadnock 1: Am I a Pilgrim?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG5Phos6Ps8dYYtv_ecX6kkVw2nmmKZ2jAwT8hQLAz5mts9dM7lnCAQnxpUnTq5lPJq73sfUgl-TW_VoPMR666fxPm3gxM-M2u7z-4mPTCwYJXonbsC3MPSh8-GfO01OhNK1hrg7jZKA8/s1600/Monadnock+Summit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG5Phos6Ps8dYYtv_ecX6kkVw2nmmKZ2jAwT8hQLAz5mts9dM7lnCAQnxpUnTq5lPJq73sfUgl-TW_VoPMR666fxPm3gxM-M2u7z-4mPTCwYJXonbsC3MPSh8-GfO01OhNK1hrg7jZKA8/s640/Monadnock+Summit.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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On September 9, 2013 I set off for the first of 4 hikes up Mount Monadnock in Jaffrey (and Dublin), NH. As mentioned in an earlier blog post,<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> t<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">he word <i>m</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; text-decoration: none;">onadnock</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> is an Abenaki</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">-derived word loosely translated as "mountain that stands alone,"</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> although the exact meaning of the word (what </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i>kind</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> of mountain) is uncertain. The term was adopted by early settlers of southern New Hampshire and later by A</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">merican</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> geologists as an alternative term for an </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><i><a class="mw-redirect" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Inselberg" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial initial; background-repeat: initial initial; color: #0645ad; text-decoration: none;" title="Inselberg">i</a>nselberg</i></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"> for </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">any isolated mountain formed from the exposure of a harder rock as a result of the erosion of a softer rock that once surrounded it. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">At 3,165 feet, Mount Monadnock is nearly 1,000 feet higher than any other mountain peak within 30 miles and rises 2,000 feet above the surrounding landscape.</span></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I took the White Dot Trail to the Red Spot Trail via the Cascade Link, turning onto the Pumpelly Trail to the summit. This was a strenuous and steep hike with a lot of scrambling over and among rocks and boulders. As I approached the Pumpelly trail above the treeline and the summit, the painted <i>blaze</i> trail markers gave way to <i>cairns</i>. A cairn, an example of which is in the foreground in the image above, is a human-made pile or stack of stones. Since pre-history cairns have been built for a variety of purposes: as landmarks or monuments, as astronomical markers or ceremonial altars. In North America their most common use is as trail markers for hikers and/or bikers in places where the trail may not be so evident such as in moorlands, deserts, tundra, or </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">above the treeline on mountains.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">The appearance of the cairns which are in abundance on Monadnock redirected my thinking away from the summit. While I am climbing these mountains to get to the top, it is becoming increasing clear to me that the summit is nearly beside the point. The point is the walking (or scrabbling, clambering, mountain-goating, or sliding on my butt). The cairns, in serving as a reminder of this, had me paying close attention to them; their individual form, size, structure, and relationship to other aspects of the landscape around them. That may sound like I was looking at them as sculpture, but art was not on my mind in these instances. Each cairn, this one short and squat, that one elegant and symmetrical, this one nestled among larger rocks, that one seeming to grow vertically from a large slanting stone, seemed to me to be representative of the person who made it. They became talisman-like, general and specific at once... participants in an act of ritual. And this is what the hikes feel like they are becoming... ritual enactments. In this spirit, after sitting still with them for a bit, I photographed every cairn I encountered.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;">Here is a sampling (there are 15 images):</span></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">I have read that this mountain is the second most climbed mountain in the world behind Mount Fuji in Japan. According to the park rangers, Mount Monadnock is the 3rd most climbed mountain following Mount Fuji and Mount Tai in China. Regardless of whether or not this is true, fact or legend places Monadnock in the company of some of the most sacred peaks on the planet. Mount Fuji is one of Japan's three holy mountains, along with Mount Tate and Mount Haku. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Mount Tai is one of China's <i>Five Great Mountains</i>. It is associated with sunrise, birth, and renewal, and is often regarded the foremost of the five. Mount Tai has been a place of worship for at least 3,000 years and served as one of the most important ceremonial centers of China during large portions of this period. These are places of pilgrimage. Is Monadnock, also the site of a pilgrim's journey? Am I, then, a pilgrim?</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Henry Thoreau, a self-described nature mystic, returned to Monadnock 3 times after his initial trip in 1844. Monadnock was quite dear to him. It is not a wild peak like Katahdin in Maine (more on this mountain in the next post), but a peak that has been used recreationally/socially since before his visits. He commented on the names chiseled on the summit (humans always feel the need to leave a mark). So what is it that drew him and draws others (including me) repeatedly to this place? Yes, there is excellent, challenging hiking to be had on Monadnock, but that can be found in myriad places. I think it is in the going, the walking, the being in one's body in a particular place, enacting a ritual that brings one into an intimacy with oneself. Not the self that goes to work, sits in traffic, and sleeps in front of the TV, but the larger self that contains all and is contained by all, and the attempt to bring some of that presence into one's everyday life. Eihi Dogen, the 12th century founder of the Soto school of zen, wrote that zazen (sitting meditation) is the ritual act of awakening. Is this walking, </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;">scrabbling, clambering, mountain-goating, sliding on my butt</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 19px;"> not also thus? This is the question I will take with me as I continue to climb.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span></span>Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-59722167820586243472013-08-20T16:10:00.001-07:002013-08-20T16:15:27.264-07:00Mount Wachusett: The Second Time<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">On August 14, 2013 I headed off for Mount Wachusett for the second time (GPS drawings appear at the end of this post). Thoreau made 2 trips to Wachusett, his second being in October of 1854. This time he went by train to Westminster and from there on foot. He stayed at the Foster house on this trip, 4 miles from the train. It was then a 2 mile walk to the summit via the summit road. On his first trip to Wachusett Mountain in 1842 which he documented in <i>A Walk to Wachusett</i>, Thoreau was still very much under the sway of the classics, looking to find evidence of their universality in the world around him and through them place himself, <i>"Who knows but this hill may one day be a Helvellyn, or even a Parnassus, and the Muses haunt here, and other Homers frequent the neighboring plains?" </i></span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">By 1852, he seems more in tune with his own physical and spiritual experience and how that fits into the universal fabric. The mountains are not symbols, nor are they mythic. They are, however, for Thoreau evidence of the divine, <i>"We could at length realize the place mountains occupy on the land, and how they come into the general scheme of the universe. When first we climb their summits and observe their lesser irregularities, we do not give credit to the comprehensive intelligence which shaped them; but when afterward we behold their outlines in the horizon, we confess that the hand which moulded their opposite slopes, making one to balance the other, worked round a deep centre, and was privy to the plan of the universe..." </i>This is a more mature Thoreau, out from under his education and mentors.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">For me, coming from a zen perspective, I appreciate Thoreau's reliance on his direct experience, but he loses me a bit with the notion of a creative <i>"hand"</i> involved in their making. However, on the other hand (what is the sound of that hand?), in zen there is a saying, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">"Before I studied Zen, mountains were mountains, and water was water. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">After studying Zen for some time, mountains were no longer mountains, and water was no longer water. </span><i>But now, after studying Zen longer, mountains are just mountains, and water is just water." </i>This speaks of a deeper understanding of things not having a separate self, but arising from a myriad of things that are not that self, what in buddhism is called <i>sunyata </i>which translates as <i>emptiness</i>. The Vietnamese Buddhist teacher Thich Nhat Hanh calls this co-arising Interbeing. It is at the heart of zen and what I was referring to in my post on Dogen's <i>Genjokoan</i>. </span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">This is an image from the road leading to Mt. Wachusett. If a hand didn't <i>"mould"</i> the mountain, hands definitely created the ski trails, 3 of which I crossed over on the hike.</span><br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If my last hike on North Pack Monadnock was about water, moss, blueberries and ultimately Dogen's <i>Genjokoan</i>, this one seemed all about stones. On the way up I took the Bicentennial Trail to Mountain House Trail which I took to the top. As I documented in my first Mt. Wachusett post, the Bicentennial Trail is rocky and rooty and this day was a bit slick after a brief, overnight shower. To my great pleasure the dampness brought out an unexpected sight: a red eft making his way between the roots. the red eft is the juvenile, land-dwelling stage of the eastern newt. Apologies for the poor image. I was balancing on a slippery root as I made this shot.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mountain House Trail is an almost entirely human-built trail ("<i>the comprehensive intelligence which shaped them?"</i>). It is a riprap of stones creating a path up the mountain. American poet Gary Snyder who worked on trail crews out west in the 1950's found a way into his mature poetry through working on ripraps. His breakthrough collection was in fact titled <i>Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems. </i>When I saw this trail the poem immediately came to mind. Snyder, and his work: poetry, essays, and environmental activism, has been and continues to be an important figure for me. </span></div>
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<i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif; font-size: large;">Riprap </span></i></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">by Gary Snyder</span></div>
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<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Lay down these words</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before your mind like rocks.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"></td><td colspan="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">placed solid, by hands</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In choice of place, set</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Before the body of the mind</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"></td><td colspan="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">in space and time:</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Solidity of bark, leaf or wall</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"></td><td colspan="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">riprap of things:</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Cobble of milky way,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"></td><td colspan="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">straying planets,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">These poems, people,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"></td><td colspan="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">lost ponies with</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Dragging saddles --</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"></td><td colspan="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and rocky sure-foot trails.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">The worlds like an endless</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"></td><td colspan="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">four-dimensional</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Game of Go.</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"></td><td colspan="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">ants and pebbles</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">In the thin loam, each rock a word</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"></td><td colspan="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">a creek-washed stone</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Granite: ingrained</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"></td><td colspan="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">with torment of fire and weight</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Crystal and sediment linked hot</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="2"></td><td colspan="2"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">all change, in thoughts,</span></td></tr>
<tr><td colspan="4"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As well as things.</span></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">Mountain House Trail</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">It was quite fun to clunk my stick on the stones as I ascended. It counted my steps and rang out like a gong. It occurred to me that I've had that stick for nearly 20 years. Near the summit I made another little friend. This peeper was hunkered down in the moss. He was no more than 2 inches long, an over-estimate. One of the things I miss, living away from the country as I now do is the sound of peepers in the spring (and tree frogs and owls and crickets and...).</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">I took the long way round coming down, deciding to visit Balance Rock. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;">Balance Rock is a glacial remnant, totaling about 20 feet in height. The rocks may have been "stacked" as the glacier melted or, more likely, are the only two remaining of a boulder field shifted or scattered by the glacier. Some of those rocks may be the ones surrounding the clearing.</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;"> I took Old Indian Trail to West Trail to Semuhenna Trail, which joined back up with Old Indian, to Balance Rock Trail. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;">As I said, it seems to be all about the rocks. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px;">While Balance Rock is a spectacle, I feel drawn to all the stones. There is a great silence within them and around them... more than anything else I encounter in these forests, these great stones, sitting like great buddhas, are manifestations of time. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">As for drawing... if a line is the trace of a point moving in space, well...</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ALI3v7xmiQd1RedEp2YkuNEkTqovPf-2-ZN5pF1X8He_wNhWGEm8ZlL1pcvBTGfbjFMFeaN2Smb3Mej142SFMGgTO-BpbOQ_obMFhd092r-jqaoJgvDrPWYEoGHCPxLRRfHvuY7EeMg/s1600/Wachusett+Mt.+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1ALI3v7xmiQd1RedEp2YkuNEkTqovPf-2-ZN5pF1X8He_wNhWGEm8ZlL1pcvBTGfbjFMFeaN2Smb3Mej142SFMGgTO-BpbOQ_obMFhd092r-jqaoJgvDrPWYEoGHCPxLRRfHvuY7EeMg/s1600/Wachusett+Mt.+2.jpg" height="640" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">A line drawing. The knot-like area is me circumabulating the top.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLdVIeLhSi8jGD-9Bk-JeONc5GNc2j1QNhyBieTQAVQOi0KSdRPKWPoiERXcUm8SIcKLC6QR60LonerYkqP6g3Wouf9SA8c-m20ElpLrcrXGMsEhduNM1VJPF60yIQYn5Y-WVA9NibUPc/s1600/Wachusett+Mt.+Topo.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhLdVIeLhSi8jGD-9Bk-JeONc5GNc2j1QNhyBieTQAVQOi0KSdRPKWPoiERXcUm8SIcKLC6QR60LonerYkqP6g3Wouf9SA8c-m20ElpLrcrXGMsEhduNM1VJPF60yIQYn5Y-WVA9NibUPc/s1600/Wachusett+Mt.+Topo.tiff" height="640" width="498" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">a topo version</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNo6FmeJR2gUzd-sxVU10xrnQOTDy0dNjOiVq8lSkWiIaoEWqmGPPuZfICoj0S1QV4RuK2RsKwrSIPPKXrT87ZrZHBtkCUdTPY1q8Wk65mnTv5WcyjE3wNqzEyMDtRZqhy02UjDOVRkE/s1600/Wachusett+Mt+Terrain.tiff" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQNo6FmeJR2gUzd-sxVU10xrnQOTDy0dNjOiVq8lSkWiIaoEWqmGPPuZfICoj0S1QV4RuK2RsKwrSIPPKXrT87ZrZHBtkCUdTPY1q8Wk65mnTv5WcyjE3wNqzEyMDtRZqhy02UjDOVRkE/s1600/Wachusett+Mt+Terrain.tiff" height="640" width="494" /></a></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">and the terrain</span></div>
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<i><br /></i>Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-58924037884080957462013-08-14T14:41:00.000-07:002013-08-14T14:41:16.781-07:00Realizing Genjo-koan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When I walked on North Pack Monadnock I came upon this hollow tree whose "gate" was about my size. At the very moment I saw it this thought, although I hesitate to call it a thought, came up, "It can see and step right through me." In that split second I came to understand on a deeper level the following from 12th century zen master Eihi Dogen's <i>Genjo-Koan</i> or <i>Actualizing the Fundamental Point</i>:</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; line-height: 18px;">To carry yourself forward and experience myriad things is delusion. That myriad things come forth and experience themselves is awakening."</span> </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">And this too:</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"<span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; line-height: 18px;">To study the buddha way is to study the self. To study the self is to forget the self. To forget the self is to be actualized by myriad things. When actualized by myriad things, your body and mind as well as the bodies and minds of others drop away. No trace of realization remains, and this no-trace continues endlessly."</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="-webkit-border-horizontal-spacing: 2px; -webkit-border-vertical-spacing: 2px; line-height: 18px;">Language is often an inadequate tool in relating experience. I offer a short poem by Gary Snyder that might come close:</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 27px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">as are they</span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 27px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #222222; line-height: 27px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">to the rocks and the hills. </span></span></div>
<br />Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-19688769543899331552013-08-01T09:15:00.001-07:002013-08-08T08:48:05.844-07:00Walking/Drawing: North Pack MonadnockOn Thursday, July 25, 2013 I walked up North Pack Monadnock, a 2278 foot mountain in Greenfield, NH. It was a beautiful day. Not too hot, but warm sun coming through the trees. I took Ted's Trail to the Cliff Trail to the Wapack Trail to the summit. On the way down I took Carolyn's Trail to Ted's Trail back to the car... about 6 miles all told. The trail passes through, and the mountain is located in, the Wapack National Wildlife Refuge (est. 1972, 1625 acres). Thoreau went up a neighboring mountain in the Wapack Range (a subrange of the Appalachians) called Pack Monadnock (Little Monadnock) in 1852, but today it's got 3 cell towers on top and while I will ascend it for this project, on this day I wanted to walk in the woods uninterrupted by roads or built structures.<br />
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The GPS Drawing Device is, after some trial, error, and swapping mine for my colleague's (John Anderson), operational. Here's that day's walk/drawing (appendage and stoppage... see below).<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1OgpgxIcb2BiiLT8XZPeSnDIfTF0q5J5CocZcAHAJMZpx7mWTJR2xnUxvjdb2gFXCvBGSrT7EWzUoHT8V6s7tx5Y8-2ZeGFZhgfDlu3mSOIhMl-vibEXqN_hWxLk2nkimyDBcxtmIms/s1600/Northern+Pack+Monadnock.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjA1OgpgxIcb2BiiLT8XZPeSnDIfTF0q5J5CocZcAHAJMZpx7mWTJR2xnUxvjdb2gFXCvBGSrT7EWzUoHT8V6s7tx5Y8-2ZeGFZhgfDlu3mSOIhMl-vibEXqN_hWxLk2nkimyDBcxtmIms/s640/Northern+Pack+Monadnock.jpg" width="410" /></a></div>
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It' s an experiment and I'm learning its ins and outs. For instance, I neglected to delete the previous data and so my hike got connected to those coordinates when I turned the device on. That's the long, sharp, straight, diagonal line on the right. As the crow flies, a connection to my home in Fitchburg. Also, I'm learning how much life the battery holds. As you can see the line becomes sharp and straight and then stops on my return trip (more on this below). Each battery gets about 5 hours of use before it is depleted. I've got to get rechargeable ones. I'll use the spent batteries in (another) artwork.</div>
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My last walk, on Mount Wachusett (see previous post) was a relatively dry one, but for the sweat. There were no brooks or creeks to cross or meander along. By contrast, this hike had me wandering along and crossing over Otter Brook. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #444444; line-height: 16px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">The <em style="color: inherit; font-style: normal;">Wapack Range</em> is the source of the headwaters of the Contoocook and Souhegan rivers. The north slopes of North Pack Monadnock drain into <em style="color: inherit; font-style: normal;">Otter Brook</em><em style="color: inherit; font-style: normal;">. There are a variety of mosse</em><em style="color: inherit; font-style: normal;">s, ferns, and seemingly well-placed stones, making portions of this riparian habitat into a sort of zen garden...</em></span></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE2ocprbLo_BAKBJktuABraIswnnj2TkwFsxCJ2FrbU3HcZoLVY_tJZg4GkTQWOMG_erA6UUCEdS-UbnCmzwS74ziggvpk5RFfaRvpI7AeJSB5ccDoNvyPEwLG5DMoIqnksPMjDbGV-nA/s1600/Water+Touching+Stone.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE2ocprbLo_BAKBJktuABraIswnnj2TkwFsxCJ2FrbU3HcZoLVY_tJZg4GkTQWOMG_erA6UUCEdS-UbnCmzwS74ziggvpk5RFfaRvpI7AeJSB5ccDoNvyPEwLG5DMoIqnksPMjDbGV-nA/s640/Water+Touching+Stone.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDykce50z3m2TOqLn56fxQA_C5ZnAmWIEUd_sGrl4Je6emNoKF8_P0vRGlUJkU2jL8cyJQKsYYDMME-l-159yP-8Ccyko3jYhNHmCURBUkg3yIQW6d28cjvgs7r9cV4WozBNAlupi1zO4/s1600/Creek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDykce50z3m2TOqLn56fxQA_C5ZnAmWIEUd_sGrl4Je6emNoKF8_P0vRGlUJkU2jL8cyJQKsYYDMME-l-159yP-8Ccyko3jYhNHmCURBUkg3yIQW6d28cjvgs7r9cV4WozBNAlupi1zO4/s640/Creek.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-23gM1PAdSOAZQgFOznUHBQmu65js-bLZet8wXxp52RUMFsEkU8edPKEQHRH4VS3N7niNXk-KWzokxvgzd1jVqah0DpmWbqGy1kbM8zyoA3uYpuG57KJwLgIly5thmVDdnZgbBteapQ/s1600/Moss+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL-23gM1PAdSOAZQgFOznUHBQmu65js-bLZet8wXxp52RUMFsEkU8edPKEQHRH4VS3N7niNXk-KWzokxvgzd1jVqah0DpmWbqGy1kbM8zyoA3uYpuG57KJwLgIly5thmVDdnZgbBteapQ/s400/Moss+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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This forest is quite diverse featuring a variety of habitats: </div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 24px;">Northern hardwood-conifer</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">Not long into the hike my presence and movement flushed out 3 or 4 ruffed grouse from the undergrowth (scrub/shrub). I say 3 or 4 as one of them may have been flushed twiced. Their bursting forth from the vegetation in a fury of wingbeats brought me into the present moment. One's mind can wander on the trail, daydreaming, thinking about the project, about lunch, or what type of fern that might be, when BAM! the mind flies back into the body, totally present. Everything becomes whole, one thing, with no separation: me, grouse, forest, sky, brook, stones, mountain--all one. </span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 24px;">As a zen student for about 15 years, I understand these moments as "waking up" to one's real life... one's true nature. </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 24px;">We often mistake our thinking for our lives, and don't realize/embody them, our lives, fully. Moments like this, without thinking, without speech, are reminders, "I am alive!" </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 24px;">I tried to walk through the rest of the day with awareness, to be present with "what is going on right now," or as Shunryo Suzuki Roshi, zen master and author of <i>Zen Mind Beginner's Mind</i>, would say, "things as it is." </span></div>
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Ruffed Grouse (not my photo)</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 24px;">There was an abundance of familiar birdsong throughout the day: robin, cardinal, chicadee, bluejay, various woodpeckers. Not being a serious birder, there were several startling and beautiful songs which I cannot identify. The Wapack is home to an abundance of songbird species. However, what most captured my attention was the continuous presence of 2 or more ravens (or 1 ventriloquist raven) croaking just out of my sight. I'm sure these great beings were quite amused at the stumbling human with the blinking light on its head. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; line-height: 24px;">Near the top of the mountain: BLUEBERRIES! They were growing as far as I could see and I ate my fill, looking the whole time for any sign of black bears as blueberries are a favorite snack of our ursine friends. They will loll in a patch and eat the bushes bare. But, the berries were plentiful, delicious, surprisingly large, and super juicy.</span></div>
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At the summit I encountered a group of berry pickers with their bags and buckets and I was reminded that Thoreau lead a huckleberry picking party on the day he was released from jail for his famous act of civil disobedience (see Rebecca Solnit's <i>Wanderlust: A History of Walking,</i> page 8). Like the black bear, Henry was a lover of berries. This, we definitely share in common.</div>
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After passing a lovely cairn that lead me toward the summit I paused for lunch with my back against a small boulder whose size and shape held great appeal for me. I'm not sure why, but it seemed to be perfect. I don't know for certain if that stone is a glacial erratic. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">A "glacial erratic" is a piece of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rock_(geology)" style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-color: initial; background-image: none; background-origin: initial; color: #0645ad; text-decoration: none;" title="Rock (geology)">r</a>ock that differs from the size and type of rock native to the area in which it rests.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;"> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">"Erratics" take their name from the Latin word <i>errare</i>, and are carried by glacial ice, often over distances of hundreds of kilometres. Erratics can range in size from pebbles to large boulders. Judging by the size of this rock, I don't think it was placed there by anything but natural causes. It's likely to be an erratic.</span></span></div>
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Peanut butter and banana sandwiches with my back against this rock</div>
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Erratic on the way down the mountain (Note the trail blaze on the tree)</div>
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View of Pack Monadnock from the summit of North Pack Monadnock</div>
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On the way down I followed Carolyn's Trail. It was about at the half way point where the batteries gave out. I had taken off my hat to wipe my brow and noticed that the light was off. Dang! It was working at the summit! Ah well, I shut it off and walked a bit, then tried turning it back on. The light showed briefly, blinked, then went out. The straightness of the line in the drawing shows the connection between the two points of turning it off and turning it back on and the dead battery is the end of the line. As I walked along lamenting the incomplete drawing and worrying about a growing discomfort along my right calf... SCARLET TANAGER!</div>
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Scarlet Tanager (not my photo)</div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="line-height: 19px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Again... a "wake-up" from nature. Bright red filled my mind, worry and pain were gone for the moment. And then... PILEATED WOODPECKER! It flew across the trail not 10 feet in front of me at eye level. "Things as it is" indeed.</span></span></div>
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Pileated Woodpecker (not my photo)</div>
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So, it's a week later and I'm a bit hampered by a calf injury. Muscle or tendon? Ligament or bone? I don't know. If it does not heal soon, I'll be off to the doctor's. But for now, the hiking is slowed, not stopped, but definitely on hold. Doesn't mean the posts will stop. I'll be back in a few days with some thoughts on hollow trees, emptiness, and decay.</div>
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Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-37243020209689941402013-07-18T12:44:00.000-07:002013-07-18T12:44:31.079-07:00Walking Wachusett and a Step Back to the Drawing Board<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">On a beautiful, one-cloud Monday morning, July 15, 2013 at 8:00 with GPS strapped to my hat I set out on the first of my hikes for this project. Wachusett Mountain in Princeton, MA. It is the h<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e3d47;">ighest mountain in Massachusetts east of the Connecticut River (2006 feet) and the l</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #2e3d47;">argest "monadnock," an indigenous word for "a mountain that stands alone," "near the mountain," or "mountain place," east of the Berkshires (again, in MA). </span></span><br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A beautiful, one-cloud day</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stylin'<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">With a red light blinking telling me that I had a signal from a satellite I set off along the Bicentennial Trail. This path runs along the bottom of the mountain through deciduous forest of maple, oak, and birch. The trail was rocky and rooty and I picked my way carefully at first, but soon settled into a rhythm stopping periodically to notice the flora; Wood and Christmas Fern, a variety of mushrooms (unusual, I thought it's having been so dry), and a lone Jack-In-the-Pulpit, whose "jack" and "Pulpit" were well gone by.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Maple<br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN6yhf4NY07LSfqmkUk9rsufdSf_0RC8QKhlTqcb2C44zx21fvc7SUo6CjztkFR_WIpbANfVJ01lgUabRcFJAWPZgx-JT9E_kueaqsHY7dXwSiaxD1yPMYLP1_Cilo3RaVhnq7B6KqGWA/s1600/blurry+wood+fern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN6yhf4NY07LSfqmkUk9rsufdSf_0RC8QKhlTqcb2C44zx21fvc7SUo6CjztkFR_WIpbANfVJ01lgUabRcFJAWPZgx-JT9E_kueaqsHY7dXwSiaxD1yPMYLP1_Cilo3RaVhnq7B6KqGWA/s400/blurry+wood+fern.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Wood Fern</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4GWs4CyuyS0VU0_6LWeh2HRNJk8P0l0Igk9D9PZ2UJO7l5k8kF-TbxjxjuWgK_k3OND6tWWTp7oCpXtjrR5MbopDTD3WkXhKzT-7C2Qge22UKflOpiFe1IIpR2ZwkULoL-W6Y5eQHmmk/s1600/Xmas+fern.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4GWs4CyuyS0VU0_6LWeh2HRNJk8P0l0Igk9D9PZ2UJO7l5k8kF-TbxjxjuWgK_k3OND6tWWTp7oCpXtjrR5MbopDTD3WkXhKzT-7C2Qge22UKflOpiFe1IIpR2ZwkULoL-W6Y5eQHmmk/s400/Xmas+fern.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Xmas Fern<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">For a while I was being led up the trail by a downy woodpecker who jumped from trunk to trunk keeping a steady 15-20 feet ahead of me. I was also accompanied by a wide variety of birdsong with the call of a yellow-shafted flicker piercing through the dense chorus. It was not long before I came upon a sight and situation that Henry David Thoreau was unlikely to encounter on his initial walk to Wachusett in 1842.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ00SIixKrmss7aLcX7cwm56Shqc6Io3ZppttBcjaUtUduOQpMKZb8b4Me8ePXNfigg18jkbRPIIe7XI9WLGGL4tdRHWIOiLc7T3rLhyvvxrofg1rVAx2fg7lpLr_oDvWk-sgmvyaVIX4/s1600/You+can't+go+up+there..jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJ00SIixKrmss7aLcX7cwm56Shqc6Io3ZppttBcjaUtUduOQpMKZb8b4Me8ePXNfigg18jkbRPIIe7XI9WLGGL4tdRHWIOiLc7T3rLhyvvxrofg1rVAx2fg7lpLr_oDvWk-sgmvyaVIX4/s640/You+can't+go+up+there..jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="480" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">A "You can't go up there" sign.<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span><div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The Pine Trail Hill was undergoing construction. As this was not the route I had chosen (it's the most direct to the top and I am looking to wander these hills), I was not concerned. However this trail construction reminded me that for Thoreau, Wachusett Mountain, at least at that time was his western horizon. He saw it as a wild place, which it still is, but now with recreational "inputs" like marked trails and footbridges. Henry had set off in a spirit of pioneering, with his companion Richard Fuller, into the unknown. Of course, leaving from Ralph Waldo Emerson's house in Concord, where he was living, they walked through several towns and villages, farms and fields, walking all day with rests by brooks and streams, on the way to the mountain. They passed through Stow, Bolton, and Sterling among others. "Civilization" was never far off their way. It was not all untrammeled wilderness en route. They camped the night in Sterling and set off to the mountain the next day. By comparison, I drove to the Wachusett Reservation Office/trailhead in Princeton from my home in Fitchburg in a matter of 15 minutes.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">The trail began a slow ascent and I turned onto High Meadow Trail which for a while was less rocky and inclined upward at a steady rate. The woodpecker had left me behind and ahead the character of the forest was beginning to change a bit. Most of the forests that we know in this area are second, third, maybe even fourth generation having been cleared for timber and farms a few times over. Most of the forest at Wachusett Mountain grows in a harsh and fragile environment. The rocky soil on the steep slopes is thin and infertile. The trees have been exposed to frequent ice storms and strong winds that have damaged their branches and caused the trees to grow slowly. Because of the bad form of these trees, they have no value as lumber. The steep slopes also make it difficult to harvest the trees for timber. In fact, there is a small old growth forest growing on rock ledges 500 feet below the summit Mt. Wachusett. It encompasses about 220 acres.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih2IFKI_Yxw-qK9vPKaz8gw7_IHr9TCb6Z_G4wZjHFIXJCqwdXDQpBgItXdy_uNcmg-dL76fvRH-ze0JKAgg9me6nmFdhCj94xzMuNV5wZSzDV_PbAkTKQpTAlkGgJ31qeaBgXvKbr9vI/s1600/trail+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih2IFKI_Yxw-qK9vPKaz8gw7_IHr9TCb6Z_G4wZjHFIXJCqwdXDQpBgItXdy_uNcmg-dL76fvRH-ze0JKAgg9me6nmFdhCj94xzMuNV5wZSzDV_PbAkTKQpTAlkGgJ31qeaBgXvKbr9vI/s400/trail+1.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">Turn right onto High Meadow Trail<br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS7OOuvu90OLdvr3OWo0AjvBF5PkQghXsrRYGCU970I34NrCHy1y6Ogjvk6Qw89qjKCD6U3-1Oigoja0MP5qTDqcspq2fnpCW1ELuKGh51xSLmNvqjR7GSv3GbD8LZdUmc7Nofp4nzf_c/s1600/High+Meadow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhS7OOuvu90OLdvr3OWo0AjvBF5PkQghXsrRYGCU970I34NrCHy1y6Ogjvk6Qw89qjKCD6U3-1Oigoja0MP5qTDqcspq2fnpCW1ELuKGh51xSLmNvqjR7GSv3GbD8LZdUmc7Nofp4nzf_c/s400/High+Meadow.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px; padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">High Meadow<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTLjY3n5eQfZ7YG2kzXZ-qrfmZgc9YHFvN-Ai2YwZG-E7SYMUvlwDsiaKSMREJ_QNgp5UMvEuvhhPUC3eufsTwLgjuQ0iPtQJ8n1O3vfjs84TPiRygxinAReUEtk_BuijD63_HtVg6hY/s1600/stone+wall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiFTLjY3n5eQfZ7YG2kzXZ-qrfmZgc9YHFvN-Ai2YwZG-E7SYMUvlwDsiaKSMREJ_QNgp5UMvEuvhhPUC3eufsTwLgjuQ0iPtQJ8n1O3vfjs84TPiRygxinAReUEtk_BuijD63_HtVg6hY/s400/stone+wall.jpg" width="400" /></a><br /><br /><br /><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0.5em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; padding-bottom: 6px; padding-left: 6px; padding-right: 6px; padding-top: 6px; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7LY8xGP-Q8BA3sbZpCTvr6xQUC5mKxpb9D6I36VLewkAejzcym2VxNYUGdWS-lYn978MwNlED2kQgmlbSp1hiz0Yz9FYj4TGG8ApgoYnURSizM5N9Cihyj_XT7hwHmAMpjBBO8_KJ21E/s1600/stone+wall+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7LY8xGP-Q8BA3sbZpCTvr6xQUC5mKxpb9D6I36VLewkAejzcym2VxNYUGdWS-lYn978MwNlED2kQgmlbSp1hiz0Yz9FYj4TGG8ApgoYnURSizM5N9Cihyj_XT7hwHmAMpjBBO8_KJ21E/s400/stone+wall+2.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="padding-top: 4px; text-align: center;">The ubiquitous New England stone wall<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I also came upon this wonderful fallen tree. It has many attributes that could make it sculpture, except, perhaps, the most important: intention.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">From High Meadow I turned onto Jack Frost Trail which eventual took me into a grove of hemlock trees.</span><div style="font-size: medium; margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px;">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbpWzSYvOV-p2W7fWKaAz0wawK-I-j9kO2Es19d6Z-JI7V4or7X_20PVALywgnDDWnD2k5eYrNFOxjkSWwI8DkyCcKHGVpWVTpISa2vOCc7lwwoMfrZ1oG0ekmzagbAJ3WDxWvoFlt4Y/s1600/hemlock+grove.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQbpWzSYvOV-p2W7fWKaAz0wawK-I-j9kO2Es19d6Z-JI7V4or7X_20PVALywgnDDWnD2k5eYrNFOxjkSWwI8DkyCcKHGVpWVTpISa2vOCc7lwwoMfrZ1oG0ekmzagbAJ3WDxWvoFlt4Y/s400/hemlock+grove.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">Jack Frost trail took me to Mountain House Trail which crossed a road and a paved parking lot to the summit (yes, you can drive to the top)</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">. There I saw a man wielding a weed-wacker, a radio tower, and a lookout tower. There were a few trash cans, one a solar powered compacter. The trails were miraculously refuse free, but on the top where the trash cans are there were empty water bottles, candy/power bar wrappers, and some blue broken glass. </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">Through a break at the tree line I saw the chair lift and I thought, "Henry, it ain't what it once was." </span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">I circumambulated the summit, walking 6 times around it counter-clock-wise (picking up trash as I went) then sat at a picnic table in the shade of the lookout tower for a snack and hydration.</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">I saw no humans on the trail, but on the top I encountered 15 people. Not all at once. They had taken a more direct route up. In fact, it's the route I took down. I walked Old Indian Trail through the old growth. This trail is also the Midstate Trail for a while before that one turns off to the west (it runs the length of MA)</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;">. Old Indian can lead one down to Balance Rock, two boulders one perched atop the other... 2 "erratics" left by the retreating glacier. I passed on Balance Rock and turned onto the paved road that lead back to my car. I stopped into the Reservation Office and took a look at the displays and information about the mountain and its history, natural history and that relating to human activity on the mountain. Thoreau's walk to Wachusett is on the timeline. </span></span><div class="separator" style="clear: both; font-size: medium; text-align: center;">
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif; font-size: small;">As regards a drawing made by the GPS on this walk, well... when I returned home and plugged the memory card into the Macbook the icon appeared on the desktop. Hurray! But there was no data!! While it seemed that I was getting a signal, something either interfered with it (tree cover?) or it could be any number of things... the movement of my head as I walk, the heat of the sun, body heat, digital belligerence, etc. I just don't know. So John Anderson and I will put our heads together and try to solve the problem. This is an experiment. I'm trying to document, in a very real way, a direct experience. It may be that I need a new strategy or process. But I'm hoping we can get this thing working and drawing. </span></div>
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Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-33777900378405841542013-06-27T21:01:00.001-07:002013-06-27T21:04:58.978-07:00<br />
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John Cage rediscovers Thoreau on a visit with Wendell Berry:</div>
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Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-88313334978007083492013-06-27T07:38:00.002-07:002013-06-27T07:38:42.295-07:00<div style="margin-bottom: 0px; margin-left: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-top: 0px; text-align: left;">
I've kicked off this project with a workshop at Crown Point Press in San Francisco. I thought that a series of prints or a book of prints could possibly be the form that the work generated by the mights might take. However, seeing as I knew nothing about printmaking (or rather remember nothing about printmaking from undergrad days), I thought it might be fine idea to brush up. And what better place than where John Cage, Tom Marioni, Sol Lewitt, Richard Diebenkorn, Julie Mehretu, etc., etc. made/make prints. Thanks to a grant from the Framingham State University Center for Education Learning Teaching Scholarship and Service (or something like that...CELTSS), I am in San Francisco making prints at Crown Point Press. </div>
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I came with no fixed idea of what I would work on, less concerned with images than with process and</div>
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ideas. I've taken as source images things at the periphery of attention... tape on the floor or press, shavings from deburring plates, etc. While this may seem all too cerebral, I find it to be wonderfully organic and in keeping with my process/practice. It's a "what it is, is what it means" point of view.</div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">These are the flatfiles for a bit of historical context.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adrian pulling my first print.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Plate inked and ready for chine colle.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Outside the Aquatint room.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Copper plate inked and ready for the press... I'm going for deep, dark blacks. </td></tr>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYIx6C0KRX8K8w3RjTI9CgbvEwWA-Siv3WtYCJS4wvEyDPbYKsJjRHYaRJRC5LIKyolP8VmQKas9YJCflurCVOSgOwNfJVCuCekrvHDoTcZYnKL-vRtDyapOXRwkdZx4DuT-_pkwjCbu0/s1600/Crown+Point+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYIx6C0KRX8K8w3RjTI9CgbvEwWA-Siv3WtYCJS4wvEyDPbYKsJjRHYaRJRC5LIKyolP8VmQKas9YJCflurCVOSgOwNfJVCuCekrvHDoTcZYnKL-vRtDyapOXRwkdZx4DuT-_pkwjCbu0/s400/Crown+Point+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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Plates in process. Blocked out with Asphaltum.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFFr_-EmIGsUyarOu7wo1MZSelwXtjWbkqiU2OqrfChsersle6X3P5lQw_GxVd2UtVamiwYKp33FvM5FuqRqffD5WntwHmRVkMez64X4BZgdJmGnmw9F0Pgv7oUkW_BOgHskgzt0oP5c/s1600/Crown+Point+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmFFr_-EmIGsUyarOu7wo1MZSelwXtjWbkqiU2OqrfChsersle6X3P5lQw_GxVd2UtVamiwYKp33FvM5FuqRqffD5WntwHmRVkMez64X4BZgdJmGnmw9F0Pgv7oUkW_BOgHskgzt0oP5c/s400/Crown+Point+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My work station.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjH0rAe93LtHTMmUXF-dBoWs05oEFVK1585qtEhoABWHc7uv-rlqSR9PoBRgHRQQ5jFRGJStXSilzFmXIM0wpOhBQk5VKBJLPOT_6fP7cPeQo-qleUsgyvcH3J8AxYA5sAtTFx9En69VU/s1600/Crown+Point+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjH0rAe93LtHTMmUXF-dBoWs05oEFVK1585qtEhoABWHc7uv-rlqSR9PoBRgHRQQ5jFRGJStXSilzFmXIM0wpOhBQk5VKBJLPOT_6fP7cPeQo-qleUsgyvcH3J8AxYA5sAtTFx9En69VU/s400/Crown+Point+1.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Workshoppers at work.</td></tr>
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Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-38398257266759968472013-06-22T10:14:00.002-07:002013-06-22T10:14:44.047-07:00A word on the GPS Drawing tool. It employs an Arduino microprocessor. You can check them out at: http://www.arduino.cc/.<br />
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<br />Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-60242193082159420662013-06-19T14:28:00.002-07:002013-06-19T14:28:15.636-07:00The GPS Drawing Device<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Here's the GPS that John Anderson (http://www.johnchristiananderson.com/) built for me. When I approached John, last fall, about creating some sort of drawing device, I was thinking, at first, about a wooden box with a rolling pen in it that I could wear around my waist that would make drawings based on my gait as I walked. But, I've got to hand it to him. He took this on as a challenge. John immersed himself in this with total engagement. He first tried to think up a mechanical means, but the more he thought about it and the more we talked about it, it became clear that the thing needed to be digital. I'll be wearing this thing on my hat as it needs to lie flat and exposed to satellites. Next step is some industrial strength velcro. So if you see someone on a trail in New England with a blinking light on his head, don't be alarmed, that's just me... drawing.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YoeCLnOI-9E0S6gKV8_XNb1-6sv9fUHLVb_dyeaULQOLLSbw0eqpyqT47NksLM8M1Y2WsNLfqEcYhLh12qRaBZzcFEH-BthqBJ_VwXROY7vWIdGErsu9-j4sFJeKeN6OaJDi2p_E5xg/s1600/GPS+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_YoeCLnOI-9E0S6gKV8_XNb1-6sv9fUHLVb_dyeaULQOLLSbw0eqpyqT47NksLM8M1Y2WsNLfqEcYhLh12qRaBZzcFEH-BthqBJ_VwXROY7vWIdGErsu9-j4sFJeKeN6OaJDi2p_E5xg/s400/GPS+1.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7TSDGginZakVyvfRRXxd-3tNFN97OvPOs9_1SQRsbi6Ho6X6MsH-K5DdoHdeRLV3MivHOT3SkhSOUYziV_x77x1IjEQ8mfbNwPeLV1T2yheezfEpwaKcJXKrA1Vfn1X_759DS3E1Krv8/s1600/GPS+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7TSDGginZakVyvfRRXxd-3tNFN97OvPOs9_1SQRsbi6Ho6X6MsH-K5DdoHdeRLV3MivHOT3SkhSOUYziV_x77x1IjEQ8mfbNwPeLV1T2yheezfEpwaKcJXKrA1Vfn1X_759DS3E1Krv8/s400/GPS+2.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLGZBt2Xz08lQ0smZm58hG5AukriPKFkI3LW2dTp4XYNejxiA0QIJxOwO_nuS_i9bSZFskRyq2t8jc_N3OijgiD2Sw4_M2kxaxLXF-Q1c2otvBvFY-4zXTllkTQyHLoHVpss4Sc3OHyJk/s1600/GPS+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLGZBt2Xz08lQ0smZm58hG5AukriPKFkI3LW2dTp4XYNejxiA0QIJxOwO_nuS_i9bSZFskRyq2t8jc_N3OijgiD2Sw4_M2kxaxLXF-Q1c2otvBvFY-4zXTllkTQyHLoHVpss4Sc3OHyJk/s400/GPS+3.jpg" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">GPS Drawing Device built by John Christian Anderson<br /></td></tr>
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<br />Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1849274641061875694.post-21043092285176288982013-06-18T15:05:00.000-07:002013-06-19T13:51:37.155-07:00Welcome to Walking Is DrawingWelcome to <i>Walking Is Drawing</i>. I'm Tim McDonald, an artist and Associate Professor of Art at Framingham State University in Framingham, MA. This blog will document my sabbatical project which I just this moment titled <i>Walking Is Drawing</i>. Over the next several months I will be walking the mountains that Henry David Thoreau walked in (and around) New England. I will make art based on this experience. What form it will take is as yet unknown to me. Paintings, collages, drawings, video, photography, field recordings... all of these? Maybe none of these.<br />
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There are 11 mountains and 15 walks. While I follow Thoreau's footsteps, I'll be tracking my movements with a GPS device built by my colleague at Framingham, sculpture professor John Anderson, a sculptor, animator, cyclist, and all around mensch. The device will allow the mountains themselves to participate in the making of drawings. This is in keeping with the chance-based work I've been making over the past few years. Whether it is using fire or melting ice to make a drawing or using found materials in collage, I try to impose myself as little as possible on the material... kind of taking the "capital A" art out of the art-making process. The drawing below was made with ink and melting ice.<br />
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<i>fragile</i></div>
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burning, ink, charcoal on paper</div>
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2010</div>
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41 x 30 inches</div>
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Over the course of several months I'll be documenting my progress. I'm very excited about the possibilities inherent to this project/process. I'm kicking off the project with a printmaking workshop at Crown Point Press in San Francisco next week. John Cage, composer, writer, thinker, visual artist, student of zen, and user of Chance Operations in his artistic practice, made prints at Crown Point and some of his first work there incorporated sketches from Thoreau's journals. In a way, I feel as though I'm sharing a trail with them both. Stay tuned!</div>
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<br />Tim McDonaldhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05016589034139839917noreply@blogger.com1