May 9th, 2014
[West Memphis Wal-Mart]
The West Memphis Wal-Mart parking lot beckoned us from our coffee fueled voyage across Tennessee, where an unsettling nerve arose from the pit of my stomach. It wasn't so much the indigent denizens who frequent this establishment that I saw inside when resupplying my cliff bar cache (I'm quite addicted to those chewy delicacies). No, it was all the memories of those episodes of "The First 48" that suddenly rushed back to my attention. Statistics is just another left brain hindrance, and here, in Memphis, Tennessee, it's the homicide numbers that are causing my angst. Too much caffeine...Too much T.V.
Tomorrow will be a day for head clearing. An alpine start will put us in the Ozarks at a decent time. Who knows...With a little navigational skill we can be climbing before lunch time. Fosters was anything but unusual. Gorgeous hiking, great sport, and generally void of climbers on a weekday, and those westerners I befriended made for pleasant company. But it was most certainly not adventure. No, it was recreation at best, and even if I onsighted 5.10c we did not break new ground. But tomorrow the sun's first rays will strike the Interstate and illuminate our path towards the adventure we seek. For now, all we have to do is make it through the night. Ignore the stories of parking lot shoot outs, ignore the slow roars of big rigs breaking through the chilly air of this southeastern night. All those car doors slamming at this ungodly hour are not actually real. In fact, the only existence that is relevant is that which lies between each ear of mine. Hermetically sealed in this cocoon of a van...or is it chrysalis? ... or shell for that matter...we lie suspended in a purgatory of sorts. Quantum theory lends itself to the idea that nothing exists until our conscious observation collapses the wave function and voilá; the miracle of the everyday and the ordinary materializes before us. The relevance here is that every inch of window is covered in Reflectix, a space age insulator that keeps the van cool in the heat and warm in the cold, so we can't see a damn thing outside. Therefore, we surmise that the only universe currently in existence is this van, and the objects contained within are continuously being created by my own quantum consciousness. The van itself was constructed in a similar way. Its blueprint, the very architecture of it, was designed in my mind before I took to the power drill and saw. It is a manifestation of my very thought. Of course, then, it follows that its interior is a reflection of that same mind...and my... what a mess. Tomorrow we organize. We shall not enter the West in a state of imbalance. The Shadow Puppet has twice purged his stomach contents since we left. We awoke to his throat sounds; loud slow gags that spring me out of slumber and into action. Something is ailing him...
Are we ready for the West?
We had better be...
I don't feel like my old self. Where has that young man gone? The one that was playing chess when the others drooled over checkers? The one that took to preparation as a monk takes to prayer? That planned not only his route but all potential detours? Surely that attention to detail is needed now more than ever. I must awaken that lost soul. Yosemite will not be forgiving. We damn well better start preparing.
Tomorrow will be an alpine start. Breakfast will be oats, banana, and that crap protein powder that never mixes. Maybe even some campfire espresso. The Ozarks await us. How many millions of years have they lied there patiently waiting? I wonder. Tomorrow we will greet them with a rope.
The West Memphis Wal-Mart parking lot beckoned us from our coffee fueled voyage across Tennessee, where an unsettling nerve arose from the pit of my stomach. It wasn't so much the indigent denizens who frequent this establishment that I saw inside when resupplying my cliff bar cache (I'm quite addicted to those chewy delicacies). No, it was all the memories of those episodes of "The First 48" that suddenly rushed back to my attention. Statistics is just another left brain hindrance, and here, in Memphis, Tennessee, it's the homicide numbers that are causing my angst. Too much caffeine...Too much T.V.
Tomorrow will be a day for head clearing. An alpine start will put us in the Ozarks at a decent time. Who knows...With a little navigational skill we can be climbing before lunch time. Fosters was anything but unusual. Gorgeous hiking, great sport, and generally void of climbers on a weekday, and those westerners I befriended made for pleasant company. But it was most certainly not adventure. No, it was recreation at best, and even if I onsighted 5.10c we did not break new ground. But tomorrow the sun's first rays will strike the Interstate and illuminate our path towards the adventure we seek. For now, all we have to do is make it through the night. Ignore the stories of parking lot shoot outs, ignore the slow roars of big rigs breaking through the chilly air of this southeastern night. All those car doors slamming at this ungodly hour are not actually real. In fact, the only existence that is relevant is that which lies between each ear of mine. Hermetically sealed in this cocoon of a van...or is it chrysalis? ... or shell for that matter...we lie suspended in a purgatory of sorts. Quantum theory lends itself to the idea that nothing exists until our conscious observation collapses the wave function and voilá; the miracle of the everyday and the ordinary materializes before us. The relevance here is that every inch of window is covered in Reflectix, a space age insulator that keeps the van cool in the heat and warm in the cold, so we can't see a damn thing outside. Therefore, we surmise that the only universe currently in existence is this van, and the objects contained within are continuously being created by my own quantum consciousness. The van itself was constructed in a similar way. Its blueprint, the very architecture of it, was designed in my mind before I took to the power drill and saw. It is a manifestation of my very thought. Of course, then, it follows that its interior is a reflection of that same mind...and my... what a mess. Tomorrow we organize. We shall not enter the West in a state of imbalance. The Shadow Puppet has twice purged his stomach contents since we left. We awoke to his throat sounds; loud slow gags that spring me out of slumber and into action. Something is ailing him...
Are we ready for the West?
We had better be...
I don't feel like my old self. Where has that young man gone? The one that was playing chess when the others drooled over checkers? The one that took to preparation as a monk takes to prayer? That planned not only his route but all potential detours? Surely that attention to detail is needed now more than ever. I must awaken that lost soul. Yosemite will not be forgiving. We damn well better start preparing.
Tomorrow will be an alpine start. Breakfast will be oats, banana, and that crap protein powder that never mixes. Maybe even some campfire espresso. The Ozarks await us. How many millions of years have they lied there patiently waiting? I wonder. Tomorrow we will greet them with a rope.
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| Foster's Coffee |
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