a collection of some of my analogue photos from my recent trip to nederland, co.
Thursday, March 26, 2015
Tuesday, March 24, 2015
on the verge
I have been on the verge for a few years now. How one comes about being on the verge, I don’t know. The verge of everything? Sounds too poetic. Ambiguous. The verge of nothing? Too dismal. You can’t understand it in that sense. Simply, on the verge. We never achieve anything, at least within ourselves. Within that daiquiri of ice that brooms are thoughts, within that tough brazened hull of our forehead that means to venture quite regardless. The limited, limited few. Without insatiable people, the rest of the world couldn’t be satiated. They recklessly strive for things that they will never reach; they are, in fact, on the verge. You cannot leave the verge once you are part of it. You can buy a home in Montana and marry a woman named Rebecca from Missoula, but someday, a star will tread across the blue velvet curtains of earth and remind you that you have a calling. Whether it be to man a spacecraft to space, or to create some novel painted greatness. We have an affinity to the verge itself, not to the task at hand. We are like mindless spies who only require our next target. We are the engines for anything, and it’s all quite spontaneous and unruly. Our boat-like souls tip and splash. We don’t know how to spend our lives in a boat, no matter how perilous the outcome may be. We were dragged by our pale ankles in the dawn of some unimportant night into boats that we would be destined to abandon. The verge is a short lived thing, but it’s an inescapable enigma. We are as destined to die on the verge, as most are to die with far less purpose a couple decades later.
Never coach us from the depths of our oblivion. Never shout our purpose lost; for it will never be. Never proffer our work to be unmanned, unsolved, or unfathomed. We are the ripples of night; the windswept skin of people jumping from planes; the red stars that burst too quickly; we are illuminated, bathe in the light, blacken our white! We are bound to serve an arguable “something.” I have been on the verge for a few years now. How one comes about being on the verge, I don’t know.
Never coach us from the depths of our oblivion. Never shout our purpose lost; for it will never be. Never proffer our work to be unmanned, unsolved, or unfathomed. We are the ripples of night; the windswept skin of people jumping from planes; the red stars that burst too quickly; we are illuminated, bathe in the light, blacken our white! We are bound to serve an arguable “something.” I have been on the verge for a few years now. How one comes about being on the verge, I don’t know.
a foggy uproar
My French roommate and I embarked south on a Sunday
afternoon to Monte Gorbea, just outside of Vittoria, Spain. Monte Gorbea is the
highest elevation (1400 m) in our immediate area. After Monte Pagasarri and the
Pyrenees, I expected this hike to be fairly easily. Another hiking friend from
my university had told me that it was an easy hike, but that the last kilometer
to the top was pretty steep. We joked about how crazy the Spanish drivers were,
as were leaving our apartment. That back home (for both of us) people drove a
lot better. However, within the first ten minutes of our drive out of Bilbao — I got to see just how ironic that
conversation was.
I’ve never seen someone so mad in my life. Not at me,
not at the government, and most definitely not at a minor delay in traffic.
He cursed endlessly in french out
the window, and I spent a good while just thinking “Is he going
to physically attack the driver in front of us?” He kept the car within inches of any vehicle determined
to delay our hiking endeavor. I decided that it must have been a cultural
difference between us. In places like Chicago, everyone is an aggressive
driver; nobody stands out as an ostentatious lunatic. But here we are at a
standstill in Indauxtu, and he’s the only
screaming frenchman in the bunch. What a sight it must have been to see this
quiet American reading a book next to this pugnacious frenchman. Out of fear of
getting punched in the face, I kept quiet and repeated “está bien, está bien” whenever my reassurance seemed necessary.
It wasn’t until we were driving at 80km/hour, swerving through
the monte out of Bilbao that I felt I should say something.
His GPS kept pointing us in the
wrong direction, and it was making him crazier every second. I took over the
driving instructions as if I knew exactly where we were, which wasn’t true. He trusted me long enough to not kill me, or
the perfectly happy drivers around us. We left Bilbao in the direction of
Vittoria, and I just couldn’t have
predicted a stranger or riskier start to a fairly short trip. We drove through
a small down just thirty minutes later, and we followed the signs that pointed
us towards Monte Gorbea. We parked, grabbed our bags, and headed towards the
trail.
I don’t think there is a more efficient set of hikers than
two young men. We asked each other constantly, “Do you need a break?” When really we were asking “Am I better
than you?” That prideful bit of banter in a
couple of semi-experienced hikers is always somewhat of a dangerous thing. We
aimed to hike to the top within two hours; and with our passive competition
between us, we did just that. We passed horses and cows, but the higher you
hike in the Basque country, the more likely you are to find a herd of sheep.
They are the symbol of the region, and a symbol of the altitude. We hiked past
a herd of sheep after hiking for an hour or so.
The hike is shaped in a way that
makes it impossible to really know where the top is exactly. There were many
moments where I felt like I knew where the peak was, but it always ended up
being just a small step in the ladder. The competition between us died out as
the mountain was obviously beginning to affect both of us. We took short breaks
to drink water and look down below, but nothing more than thirty seconds at a
time. We took pleasure in the brief plateaus and cursed the moments where we
realized there was far more ahead of us. Eventually we came across a higher
peak where fog rolled over the mountain. For a second I thought that we had
finally made it to the last kilometer, but after all of the disappointing
realizations now below us, I had my doubts.
Following the markers across the otherwise pathless
incline, we weaved through the silky, wet terrain. The fog hugged us tight, and
there was nowhere below us to look anymore. It was a real peaceful thing that
moment, to be cut off from all sorts of things. We pointed to a stone marker
ahead of us. And with the waning solace of daylight, we promised to head back
after reaching it. Luckily for us, the cross signifying the top of Monte Gorbea
was visible from our final marker. With delight and awe, we hiked with a
newfound motivation in our step to reach the top.
Neither one of us wanted to hike
back without reaching the top, but I knew that my roommate was scared of losing
daylight. While he was crazy when it came to driving, I was just as maniacal
about downhill hiking in the pitch dark: something that probably will never
phase me as much as it should. I sauntered up the last 100 meters, while my roommate
tried to herd me like a lost sheep to the overlooking cross. Now that we were
reaching the top, he was finally starting to realize that only half of the hike
was over — and that a good portion of what remained would be in
the dark.
I handed him
my hiking headlamp, which I brought for him to use in case it got dark quickly.
He turned the light on immediately, even though it wasn’t necessary. It was at this point that he decided to
tell me that his dad competes professionally in running down mountains like the
one we were on. This was only my third time ever hiking, but I didn’t want to look inexperienced, so I sprinted after him
over the black, tumbling rocks. We weaved; we jumped; and we flew, to each
passing plateau until the light of the world was no longer with us. Our pace
slowed and we hiked closer together, but within a few minutes of darkness the
headlamp’s battery died. I could’ve cared less. I was excited to open my pupils to the
wild, rocky madness in front of us. We spent a good five minutes trying to get
the light to come back on, until I offered my iPhone as a flashlight. He seemed
content with the idea, and we hiked cautiously towards the tree-line.
We warned each other when we found
unstable patches of rocks and paid little attention to anything that existed
outside of the 10 foot radius of the pale iPhone light. The path evened out and
we eventually were able to hike normally again. At one point my roommate
stopped in his tracks and whispered to me anxiously, to listen to a sound coming
from my right. I heard nothing out of the normal, really. All I knew was that
whatever the sound was, it was scaring the shit out of my roommate. What could
it be? The famous serial-killer of the Basque country? Was it a legendary
french hiking myth? There are no bears in this region, or mountain lions, or
anything ferocious for that matter. He tried to explain it to me in hushed and
frightened Spanish, but I was failing to understand the imminent danger. He
switched to english for the brief warning of, “It sound of like wild hog, boar,
and if you hear it, you climb to the tree immediately.”
That made a whole lot more sense to
me. I was still incredulous to the idea that some husky 80 pound beast was
about to charge us. I wasn’t risking it,
though. I’ve never claimed to be a hog expert
or anything. I picked up a couple of rocks from the path and held them in both
of my hands. I felt like it was probably just the fear of hiking in the dark.
It’s not that I’m more courageous; I just sort of tune out the situation
and go to a happy place. And while we’re hiking through a dark forest, I’m just thinking about how badly I need to do laundry.
Laundry isn’t scary. It’s warm and smells nice.
Interestingly enough, the only
thing I was afraid would happen, happened in the worst way possible. A horse
was blocking the majority of the path ahead of us, and the only part of the
path remaining was the five feet at the tail end of the horse. Which if you
know anything about horses, that’s the most
dangerous place to stand. At that moment, I was content with hopping barb wire
fences and getting my arms all cut up, rather than walking by the tail end of a
horse in the middle of the night. My roommate assured me that it would be fine,
and for some reason I listened. We walked past the horse without any problems,
and walked back to his car for the ride home. I happily ate my ham sandwich and
drank a bottle of water as I watched the headlights flicker through a small
Spanish town. The highway unraveled in front of me, and another mountain in the
Basque country was below my feet. While I only stood on the foggy, uproar of
beauty for a short while — a thing that profound stays with you. Even when you
drive into the city lights. Even when you pay attention to things that exist
beyond the tumbling rocks in front of you: where the sound of your deliberate
footsteps can’t be discerned from the roar of
life.
So be it, I’ll hear the sound forever.
primesautière
I was sitting at home reading Tolstoy when my roommate came
in and asked me if I wanted to go and hike Monte Txindoki. 15 minutes later I
was in a car traveling out of the city, not really sure whether I was going to
be in France or Spain by night fall. I’ve
learned to stop asking; I’ve learned to stop caring so much;
but most importantly, I’ve learned how to move—how to go—how to travel— and how to do it all so relentlessly.
It was 11 degrees centigrade with down pouring rain. I wasn’t sure
why my roommate chose the gloomiest day of the week to go hiking, but that
challenge was all the more attractive to me. After every hike, I buy a
coke-a-cola and drink it while taking a hot shower. The refreshing rush of that
sweet, cold sugar, the raucous sound of the shower tuning out the ongoing
world, and the simple, exhausted thought of “I did it.”
The whole drive to Monte Txinkoki, I knew that a cold
coke-a-cola and a hot shower were waiting for me at home. On the drive we
listened to the radio, the rain, and the familiar french voice spouting from
the GPS, until we arrived outside of a quaint hotel & café in Zaldibia. I wrapped my camera as best as I could in one
of my spare shirts before stuffing it deep into my bag.
We walked along the road till we reached the arrow pointing
us towards Txindoki. The rain was endless as we hiked out of Zaldibia, but we
were still warm—we still had that remaining comfort. My roommate had told
me during the drive that this wasn’t quite as steep or challenging as
our last hike to Monte Gorbea, but as we climbed higher towards the clouds and
our clothes became more and more soaked with rain—we both knew that this hike was going
to be much harder.
Within 30 minutes, we had both fallen a few times. The mud
and the slippery rocks were taking their toll, even with a slower pace. It was
agitating, and little was said between us except a few french and spanish
expletives. The greasy and jagged path dissolved below us into verdant, lush
grass. Rain had covered my glasses’ lenses, and my jeans were completely drenched. I took a
moment to wipe my glasses, and to stare at the blurry giant before me: the only
way I could really tolerate the entirety of it.
The wind and the rain had picked up tremendously. We stuck
to the fence posts to keep our footing, but the true climb was undeniably soon.
We didn’t dare look beyond the few feet in front of us, where the
rocks, puddles, and mud waited for us to make a faulty step. We reached a
turning point in the fence-line, where a boulder reached out over the cliff
into the clouded unfathomable. I was just hoping that my camera wouldn’t get
soaked, even after wrapping it in my extra clothes.
And I think that moment, at the turning in the fence-line,
is one of the best photos I’ll never be able to take: where the
world is expressed too fully to be expressed any further. The rain and clouds
flew around me so quickly, that even I wasn’t
capable of understanding what earth pressured splendor had surrounded me. I dug
my fingers into the snowy but green soil in front of me, knowing that with each
minute, I was becoming more of the earth than myself: that my jeans had become
the rain, that my face had become the mud, and that my fingers had become the
very veins that supported the tree of myself, and whatever the wind might soon
make of me.
While love claims to be so strong
that it can merge our souls, I’d like to think that nature is so
strong that it can empty them: not with death or insignificance, but to fill us
completely again with some further grasp at the earth and its personage. In
that moment, I was little more than the earth and a clinging backpack.
We never did reach the top; we knew it wasn’t
within us, or anyone, that day. We just sat in our flooded awe for a bit, and retreated
helplessly along the fence-line. I think that’s one
assurance in life that I can always hold onto, the moments where I’ve
stood at the arresting limits of a single day. And I couldn’t help
but wonder what Levin would’ve thought, or Amory, if they had
stood there like I did. An intelligent man has little to say in a beautiful
place, but has an infinite beauty to say everything about it: I hope that maybe
that’s how I was for a few hours, and maybe with the progress of
myself and each experience—I might widen it, openly.
If the world has taught me anything,
it’s that nothing can be kept, but that everything can be
felt; I hope I feel everything someday.
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