When I was a child, I would sometimes wake in the middle of the night and be terrified because in my sleepy haze I could not remember if I had said nightly prayers and my Catholic upbringing suggested that if I died I would go to hell. Because I forgot to kneel and give thanks to the lord for this great privilege of being born. Seriously. This was real. The guilt and fear was through the roof. I lived with this terror of eternity in a fire pit.
Now I sometimes wake and gently remind myself how fortunate I am.
One thing about being a nomad and explorer is that perspective is never more than a thought away. Nary a day passes that I am not thankful for my blessings. A great home; great family; Brittany and Marti and great friends. A job that gives me more financial latitude than I deserve after a life of chasing butterflies with no fixed compass.
I’ve traveled enough in 3rd world countries, and even in this country, to really understand how fortune favors circumstance. I’ve never gone to sleep wondering if my child had enough food for the next day or two. Or wondering if I was sick if I could afford medical care. Or worry about where my next meal is coming from or getting thrown in prison for my political views or sexual preferences. It’s not all been rainbows and unicorns. I’ve had a few rough days, within the context of a mostly fortunate life. My own mother had a far more difficult life than I had. I try to give her some good experiences and remind her of our love when we can. But it can’t give her back the years of sacrifice for choices that were almost essentially made for her.
I’m reading Jonathan Raban’s ‘Old Glory’ (Jonathan Mark Hamilton Priaulx Raban actually). I’ve read a few of his books before. He is an Englishman, was an Englisham. — he died last year. He was an explorer and wrote of his travels. Much as I fancy myself to be. A better writer than me by a country mile.
He says something odd here, at the beginning of the book, before he has even started on his epic boat journey down the Mississippi. On page 47 of my edition he writes ‘Most travel involves the reassuring presence of other travelers: one joins that easygoing society of professional solitaries who are themselves just passing through—the salesmen, homesick U.N. peacekeepers, drifters in search of jobs, political scientists pretending to be agricultural advisors, anthropologists who haven’t had a bath for weeks, and the rest of that roving crew who prop up bars in foreign places make for poker schools and conversation‘.
I’m taken here by the word ‘reassuring’ in that paragraph. I’ve always preferred being a solo traveler. I need that solitude of time to absorb and digest and reflect without the distraction of discussion. I like to be the fly on the wall in strange places where learning by observation is as meaningful as participation. I will admit however, that I am one of those strange folk who are more likely to strike up a conversation with a stranger than someone I know. If I’m in the hotel bar on travel and see someone I know, I am more likely to turn around and head for a different bar where I know no one and, ironically, often find myself in some of the most interesting conversations with new acquaintances.
I’ve read several books in part or in whole dedicated to the Mississippi River. ‘Rising Tide’ by John Barry is an exhaustive history about the river and the Mississippi basin. John McPhee, one of my great writing heroes, wrote a brilliant book called ‘The Control Of Nature’ in which he describes how the Army Corps of Engineers have tried to control the Mississippi (unsuccessfully to date), in part by encouraging flow through the Atchafalaya River several hundred miles upstream from New Orleans. And of course I read ‘Huckleberry Finn‘ about 17 times when I was a kid.
There are other memorable river books in my library including ‘The River Why‘, the brilliant, ‘A River Runs Through It’ (Montana’s Big Blackfoot River) and Edward Abbey’s ‘Down The River’ (Colorado River).
“The wilderness needs no defense–only more defenders.”
Edward Abbey
The Greenbrier River, which runs right in front of my house, is the largest un-dammed River in the Eastern United States and it follows the famed Seneca Trail. It’s mystical and beautiful. One day clear as a swimming pool and rolling quietly over a rocky bottom and the next day muddy and roiling with 5’ waves breaking over boulders. I’m grateful for the opportunity to have a lovely view of a bend of a stretch of this 162 miles long river.
Jimmy Carter vetoed dozens of planned projects to dam rivers while he was President. Again, In Jimmy Carter fashion, recognizing that the projects served political interests and generated wealth for entitled developers but were catastrophic for the environment. JC. My man. We are now seeing a movement to rip out these dams and let rivers run wild once again.
Driving from Ohio to Black Dog Ridge, we must have passed half-a-dozen dead raccoons on the side of the road. Road kills. They are sweet and cute little critters; very smart and dextrous with their long claws. But they’ve developed no utility for road crossings. This is their achilles. This and dogs. People use dogs to chase the raccoons into a tree where they can be easily shot and killed for their skins. My uncles must have killed a thousand raccoons back in the day. I never went hunting with them for raccoons. I had read ‘Where the Red Fern Grows’ which ostensibly highlighted the intimate relationship between hunting dogs and hunters, but it also articulated the plight of the clever raccoons — which made me not want to be a raccoon hunter.
Marti and I walked 7.6 miles today up and down the hills here on the estate of Black Dog Ridge. My knee is expressing its displeasure. I must decide to medicate with more whiskey or take an ibuprofen. I try to keep the ibuprofen down to 800 or 1,000 mg’s per week. An abundance of caution for a liver already overtaxed by whiskey and wine and vodka. But so far, it seems my liver may be the best part of me—it’s handling everything I throw at it.
Brittany and I went to a wine tasting dinner at the French Goat on Thursday. It was nice’ish. A little stuffy with Republicans and wines were Australian which are mostly just okay in my view. But it was nice to be out.
Saturday we went to the Strawberry Festival at Alderson and it was remarkable mostly for its being completely unremarkable. As small town festivals go, it was just an excuse for people to set up an awning and sell their paintings and homemade key chains and dog treats. The same faces and vendors and food trucks as last year’s harvest festival — with just a single stand actually selling strawberries. But I bought a new handle for my post-hole digger and an antique meat clever that may come in handy someday.
Morning now and the river basin is so full of mist that I cannot even see the river. But it will clear when the sun gets over the mountaintops. We’ve work to do today. Guests coming this afternoon so the house and deck must be put into order enough for company. Brittany started our wine-making venture yesterday so we need to put that gear away and let the yeast and sugars do their thing in the dark of the closet.
Planning is nearly done for Africa in August. I need to get two more flights for the 3 of us sorted out. And I am working with our manager at MYO to organize a nice dinner party in the desert for our sponsors and closest supporters. Always more to do. But first a few more minutes to read.
Humbly submitted
Robert Myres, Flanker, Portneuf Valley Rugby Football Club (ret.)
The Martini Tales 