Day: November 18, 2023

Once upon a late afternoon, in a small, sunlit corner of the city, there lived a chap named Finn. Finn had a van, not just any van, but one he dreamt of turning into a solar-powered haven on wheels. The day had started with a fierce determination. “Today,” he declared to his cat, Mr. Whiskers, “is the day I make our van a sun-chasing chariot!”

So, there he was, sprawled on his couch, surrounded by a maze of catalogues, sticky notes, and technical manuals about solar panels, power inverters, and batteries. His mind was a whirlwind of watts, volts, and amperes. Finn dove deep into the ocean of information, swimming through pages of product reviews and DIY forums. He was so engrossed that even Mr. Whiskers’ meows for attention turned into distant echoes.

Hours ticked by, and Finn’s initial enthusiasm waned under the weight of choices and calculations. Each option seemed better than the last, and soon, he was adrift in a sea of decision fatigue. The sun dipped lower, casting a golden glow through his window, reminding him of the day’s fleeting nature.

With a heavy sigh, Finn closed his laptop, his dream momentarily parked in the corner of his mind. He ambled into the kitchen, the aroma of a hearty stew greeting him – a small but comforting victory. He ladled the thick, steaming stew into a bowl, the warmth seeping into his fingers. With each spoonful, the tangled thoughts of solar panels and batteries began to unravel.

Cookies followed, their sweetness a perfect epilogue to his meal. As he nibbled on the last one, a sudden realization hit him – he hadn’t written his daily blog post. “Oh, bother,” he mumbled, crumbs falling onto his lap.

Finn shuffled back to his laptop, now an old friend waiting patiently. He began to type, his fingers dancing across the keys. The story of his day – the solar power dreams, the ocean of options, the comforting stew, and even the forgotten blog – all spilled out in a rhythmic clatter. He smiled, finding humor in his own foibles.

As he concluded his post, Finn realized something profound – not every day needs to be about grand achievements or monumental decisions. Sometimes, it’s the simple joys, like a bowl of stew and an unexpected blog post, that bring the most satisfaction.

Finn leaned back, content. His solar-powered van dream hadn’t faded; it was just parked, waiting for another day’s adventure. Meanwhile, he had a story to share, one filled with dreams, dilemmas, and the delightful unpredictability of life.

The Connector

http://obits.reviewjournal.com/obituaries/lvrj/obituary.aspx?n=corey-buxton&pid=144325753

We stood there reading the plaque. The prior morning our shuttle driver Zach told us of a boy scout who died crossing Hop Valley. Erie and creepy is the feeling I felt. To be standing in a spot where a immense struggle came to an end. Tragic. We wonder what little overlooked details led to this person’s death.

She and I

Red Rock

Climbing out of Hop Valley

It was like a portal. That spot, where it all ended for someone. Our journey was only a day and a half old but really, it was just beginning. And crossing over that portal it was a new journey. One that switched to personal wonder to the enjoyment of just being able to be there. And to be there with someone special.

Vodoo

And just like a portal the tunnel of trees opened up into the Lower Kolob Plateau. A total change of scenery. There were knolls, one named Firepit just to the left and Spendlove beyond that. We figured we were close to our water drop off of Kolob Reservoir Road. After what seemed like a eternity crossing a sage covered and extremely sandy valley we arrive at our stashed water.

Zion Grassland

After a hour break in which my partner proceeded to have lunch and I just snacked on water and one nibble from a pemican bar (Buffalo meat and cranberries) it was time to head down the Connector Trail. A trail from the Hop Valley trailhead to the Wildcat Canyon Trail. This section turned out to be much like a serengeti type of landscape. Totally beautiful and wide open. As the sun started to bring out the color in the distant cliffs I realized our daylight was dwindling. And we still had some distance to cover.

Layers

What made matters worse is that it made everything so beautiful that my camera was in overdrive. At some point you have to put the damn thing away and hike. I did have a slight advantage with my fitness. I could run ahead and gain enough time on my partner that it gave me time to take some pictures.

Layered

It was the sun that determined the end of my photo-taking-addict behavior. It left. Just dropped out of the sky. And just like that it was getting cold and dark. I snapped off one last shot and looked around for my partner. Then I started hearing coyotes.At first from a distance and then it seemed as though the were closing in on us. And my partner.

Rough Traverse

She was back there all alone and it sounded like the barking was right upon her. I sprinted back on the trail. I discovered her about a mile back starring into the hillside. She then looked back at me eyes wide.

“Are you OK”, I was trying to catch my breath.

“Yea … does the barking seem to be getting closer”

And with that the barking stopped. We were close to Wildcat Canyon and our next campsite. We had crossed the portal from Hop Valley and crossed the Connector Trail. A perfect segway to tomorrows rim hike.

This post has been edited to protect the privacy of friends. So I hope no one thinks I am trying to freak them out by changing the story.

There is an ancient tale about a warrior in quest of a magical sword that will make him invincible. Along the way he meets by chance a wise old master who gives him a set of spiritual disciplines to follow. The warrior pursues them diligently for years. Then one day the magical sword finally appears to him as promised. But as he grasps the hilt, he realizes that the spiritual practices have worked; he no longer cares about the powers the sword would give him.

“Hey, am I a fuck up?”

“Bill, you’re not a fuck up.”

“I think I am a fuck up.”

My friend contemplates as the artic winds ruffles his parka. It’s flapping like a flag does  in a wind storm. Winds are howling through the guy-wires that secure the towers. We are on top of University Mountain and it’s November. He takes a couple steps to get a better view of the valley floor where city lights twinkle. Why do city lights twinkle from a distance? Anyway, the 6 inches of snow crunches under his boots and he looks back at me.

“No, your not a fuck up.”

“Dude, I am virtually un-datable, I choose mountain biking over a good job, and my bedroom is a bike shop.”

We start back down the mountain. We loft with great strides over snow drifts and land with small controlled slides. We stop at times to take in the quietness and winter wonderland. Near the bottom of the ridge we pause to remove all our summit gear.

“Your not a fuck up.”

“I still have clothes from high school, my “good” clothes have holes in the ass from commuting, and if I were to interview for a job upgrade I don’t even have anything to interview in.  I don’t have dishes and my only big piece of furniture is a futon.”

I turn and start hiking down the hill. My left foot hits a rock and I stumble. Wincing from pain my little toe starts throbbing. I regain my composure and make a mental note that my baby toe will be hurting in the morning.

“I’m a fuck up”, I report out loud. The words crystalize and float out into the frozen air.

Near the end of the evening we celebrated a great hike in town at a local pizza joint.

“My idea of fine dining is the Bridge Pizza where only the attractive women, ones with mud on their faces and chain oil on their hands, hang out.”, I proposed to my friend as I stuffed half of my bacon and chutney garlic slice into my mouth.

“The closest thing I have to a girlfriend is a bike”, I added.

“Wow! You are a fuck up.”

Special note: This blog post has two main goals. One is to confuse the hell out of anyone who has not seen Away We Go and two to say the word “fuck”  more times (8 now) in one blog then ever.  Thank goodness for small things.