Wildflowers in Bloom

My legs are stiff.  Instead of attending to my blog, yesterday I most irresponsibly took to the mountains to escape the heat and the crush of civilization in the city.  I have missed the mountains.  In spite of the beauty of the places I have visited in the last five weeks I have also missed standing atop a ridge and seeing perhaps 50 miles or more in all directions.   

We could feel the air temperature dropping even as we drove up the canyon and it seemed easier to breathe.  As a last reminder that even up the canyon the hothead yahoos are ever-present, we saw some poor soul trying just to turn her vehicle around on the shoulder of the road who was honked at and yelled at by two passing vehicles.  But surprisingly, within a quarter mile up the trail, one could only hear the leaves rustling, insects buzzing and an occasional scurry or flapping from deeper in the brush.

Sadly, when hiking these days, one must choose one’s path partly on the basis of whether or not it is used by mountain bikers.  This trail was not—in fact we passed only two hikers in approximately five hours.  That was divine.  The wildflowers were obviously in full summer bloom and the aspen groves lined the trail the entire way–opening up into glorious meadows in a few spots with a chorus of color.  And even when we were not near the stream the aspen leaves wafting in the breeze imitated the sound of rushing water.

But lest it sound too idyllic, we were sweating like pigs, being eaten alive by deer flies, and walking through stinging nettle with shorts on—on the way up.  The humidity yesterday was high for Salt Lake City and additionally, there had obviously been a lot of recent rainfall in the mountains.  The heat of the day was sucking the moisture from the soil and plants–creating a kind of greenhouse feel.  We quickly became sticky and hot from the steep rise in elevation.  I was suffering, in particular, because I have been roaming Europe at sea level for weeks now and the elevation was taxing my lungs a bit more than usual.  This particular hike starts at about 7,500 ft. and climbs to 9,760 ft. on the ridge above a small lake.  I had to stop repeatedly to breathe in the stretch near the top, because it was so steep.

But the pay-off is the view from the ridge.  We could see Antelope Island in one direction; Park City in another direction, and a cascade of peaks looking south down the range of the Wasatch mountains.

The stretch of the trail on the ridge and down to the lake is a bike trail and a few bikers whizzed by us.  I took the opportunity to curse them after they had passed.  I usually do this silently, but yesterday, I held up my fist and cursed them aloud!  Just around the bend a few minutes hike away, there they were—one rider fixing a flat tire and the others giving visual support and trying to maintain their cool.  I noted that perhaps the cursing actually worked.  We hiked down to the lake and enjoyed the isolation—since during the time we were there no one else was at the lake.  We ate our apples, cheese and crackers and watched a few bikers inching along the ridge from Guardsman Pass.  On the way back up the slope another couple of bikers rode past us down the trail—these going somewhat more slowly.  I noticed blood oozing from the corner of one of their mouths.  We had seen them on the ridge from below lingering there for some time.  From that distance we were not sure whether or not they were hikers or bikers.  I then thought, “Perhaps I should be a little more careful with my curses. But then, well, the guy is still alive, so maybe it just slowed him down.”

The hike back was perhaps the most tranquil.  The air had cooled and the light was fading quickly.  The insects had stopped buzzing, humming, and biting and the woods seemed almost eerily—but soothingly—silent.  On the downward slope I was all too aware of the nettle and managed only to brush my fingers across it.

And as we drove down the canyon, the sun–which was by now an enormous fireball in the evening sky–shot its glare sideways across the cliffs like a Maxfield Parrish painting come to life.

Not All Tapas Bars are Created Equal and Food Isn’t Always Just Food

Perhaps the most memorable meal of my summer travels was in a minuscule Tapas bar in Seville. The Bar itself was indeed tiny—consisting of only a long carved wooden bar with a marble countertop and few, if any stools, inside the building. The seating was comprised of slightly gritty tables jammed somewhat haphazardly in every inch of sidewalk next to the bar that isn’t required for foot traffic along the street. The efficient, yet jovial waiters bustle around in white shirts with rolled up sleeves and black slacks, and in some respects the operation and appearance of the place could have just stepped out of another century. I might add that the previous night we had seated ourselves at another similar Tapas bar without the slightest notion of what to expect. After perusing what seemed to be an extensive hors d'œuvre menu and eying the delicious looking fish being served on the table next to ours (which happened to be serviced by another establishment), we vacated for the fish dinners.

After a quick bit of research the following morning concerning the protocols of dining in a Tapas bar, we decided to take the Tapas plunge. We scouted out a little bar, just around the corner from Alfalfa square which offered Tapas for 2.80€ per item. What appealed to us almost as much as the price was the somewhat less chaotic location. It was still an active little street, but was not in the square. I’m convinced that what we experienced was some of the most delicious sampling of Andalusian specialties available. For starters we ordered olives, gezpacho, goat cheese, tuna with onions, and shrimp--along with cold white wine and bread. The olives were marinated in herbs and chilies and were the size of small eggs. The gezpacho was served in a glass--more like a drink--but with all the flavor of a chunky cold soup.  The goat cheese was served warm with a honey glaze and a small sprig of rosemary on top—and was fabulous on the fresh bread. Large chunks of fresh tuna were baked with large onion slices—in a sauce that was reminiscent of fine French onion soup. The shrimp were large, cold, fresh and sweet, and served in their shells. Of course, one must add the romance of the narrow cobbled calle in the heart of old Seville to the experience, as well as the fact we had been walking the city all day in simmering heat. When the sun set and the evening breeze began to cool off the city and such delectable dishes were whisked out of what appeared on the surface as a tiny little corner bar—eating such a meal was practically like dying and going to heaven.

Needless to say, we sampled another round of items (one of which had to be more goat cheese). We sipped more wine, watched the moon rise, and amused ourselves with the parade of locals trying to squeeze their small cars into the tiny parking slots next to our table.

Throughout our summer travels we tried to replicate the Tapas delirium, but we never came close. For Tapas, the center of the universe is Alfalfa square in Seville.

Contemplating the Human Condition

The human condition is generated by chemistry but orchestrated by this organism we call society. Having escaped my local environment for over a month, upon my return I am slammed against the wall of American dogmatism and hyperbole—its rather depressing. It occurs to me that the ‘news’, is to a great extent really a self-perpetuating stream of gossip, negativity and manipulation. There is something very liberating about leaving the media behind and exploring the world through sight, sound, taste and touch as I was able to do for the last month or so—in defiance of hyper-connectivity. I find that my most scintillating memories are of unexpectedly delicious meals, chilled white wine on a blisteringly hot day and the thrill of rounding a corner to glimpse some unanticipated foreign wonder. And honestly, one need not go far to experience the foreign—just beyond the familiar, really—and how far is that? But if one can travel much further, that can even amplify the joy.

We formulate our condition only in part. Our bodies dictate our level of happiness and one can do only so much to achieve and maintain a healthy physical form—but there is joy in physical well being. The human condition is, however, determined perhaps more by the level and quality of engagement in emotional, intellectual and aesthetic experience. Whether we realize it or not, we must compose and orchestrate our experience to feel its pangs, its flights of fancy, and its wells of insight. I try to remember that what is eliminated from our scope is as important as what is embraced. And from time to time I visit the Onion Cellar and savor a little glass of absinthe for my aesthetic health. "Turn on, tune in, drop out"?