Inspired. Absolute. Final.

There is a billboard on the New Jersey Turnpike right around exit 8A.  Near the split going north.  It could actually be around exit 10.  Or 13.  I have no idea since it eventually blends in with all the other billboards which are advertising more earthly needs.  Such as lawyers who can beat any DUI charge and some guy who will clean anybody's gutters for only $199.99, no matter the size of the house.

This billboard is an advertisement for The Holy Bible.  It doesn't really specify New or Old because, I imagine, that would be too much information to digest while cruising along at 77 mph.  When it comes to billboards on the NJ turnpike the copy better be concise and easy to process because the drivers have more important things to concentrate on.  Like trying to avoid being rear ended by the bullies in their Cadillac Escalades who tailgate you so close you can't see their headlights if you aren't doing 85 in the fast lane.  The sign does a good job of getting your attention.  Even at 77 mph there is no question that they are indeed talking about the Bible of Yahweh.  As opposed to say "The Saltwater Fisherman's Bible" of which I also happen to own a copy.   It might seem superfluous that the publisher of the number one selling book of all time has to pay for billboard advertising.  But even the most popular brands in the world, like Coke and McDonalds still have very hefty marketing budgets to beat out the competition.  That's how they stay so prominent.  Coke has Pepsi to compete against, McDonalds has Burger King breathing down its neck, and the Bible has what, The Origin of Species by Charles Darwin?

Any book with the word bible in the title, we must assume, is basically a users manual.  Like "The Bible of Digital Photography".  And fundamentally, the Bible is The users manual for the human race.  At least the westernized half.  And furthermore, it has become the prevailing view of the Christian Right that most of us have not RTFM.  That's why they feel the need to advertise it on the NJ Turnpike.  A perfect metaphor for the Road to Hell. We are all so busy rushing through our lives that we barely give any thought to what really counts in life; our relationships with other people, our relationship with our self, and our relationship with our creator (in the Jeffersonian tradition).  I have absolutely no argument with the idea that, like assembling an unusually frustrating piece of Ikea furniture, we need to be smacked in the head by our spouses and told to rtfm already.  My issue with this particular admonition is that number one, this user's manual is 2000 years old, number two, it was originally written in the arcane Aramaic language, and number three, even the experts have been arguing about most of its injunctions since Constantinople first decreed that it be the official manual for the western world.

As for the readability of translated manuals I have only to refer you to the user's guide for your new Japanese digital camera to illustrate the confusion caused by supposed literal translations.  The Japanese tend to create buttons to turn default modes off, while we in the West prefer buttons to turn modes on because we consider individualism a virtue above the rest.  So when a Japanese manual says push this button to turn something on, they really mean off.  If you have ever owned a Subaru or Honda, you know what I mean.

Secondly, because The Bible can be so mysterious, even for scholars, we are endlessly forming study groups and discussing how we can apply its lessons to modern life.  It is kind of like using an MS-DOS manual for a Windows 7 computer.  The hardware is basically the same but the software certainly has changed.  To be fair, the Bible was once updated from 1.0 (The Old Testament) to 2.0 (The New Testament) but we are now living in 10.0 and our designer surely had to know what would happen once a virus named Beezlebub 1.0 infected the system.

I am not arguing that the Bible wasn't inspired.  It most certainly is.  I am just saying that proclaiming it Absolute and Final seems a bit Talibanish to me.  Without the violence of course.  I hope even the most fundamentalist among us wouldn't incite violent and deadly riots in the streets if some Afghani Mullahs ignorantly burned a few bibles. But you get my drift about taking an ancient document too literally.  In the interest of full disclosure I must admit I have never actually read The Bible.  I have attempted to fully read it.  I have also attempted to fully read The Origin of Species and Democracy in America, two of my favorite books that I have never read.  They were written in the nineteenth century and who but a handful of college professors and history geeks can actually read anything written in archaic prose.  That's why some genius came up with the "For Dummies" series.  User's manuals for the rest of us.

I am not saying one should formulate their world view based on these modern, but dumbed down guides but their existence proves my point.  I also believe a more apropos billboard for the modern texting world might look as follows:

LIFE.  RTFM.

But ultimately the fact that an intelligent designer left us with such an opaque manual seems neither intelligent nor practical to me.   No offense intended.

It's the Trash Stupid

You start to pay attention to your trash when, for 3 1/2 hours, you are driving it back and forth between your full time residence in the burbs and your vacation home in the mountains.  Well, more back than forth.  Much like those truckers who haul New Jersey trash west, then California fresh cantaloupes back east, without first hosing down the inside of the trailer, we were forced to assess the wisdom of our ways.

Soon after purchasing our log cabin we were advised by our new neighbor to take the trash back to NJ on Sunday because trash day in Woodland Valley is on Friday.  So it's all you can eat buffet night for the bears Monday thru Thursday if one leaves their trash out prior to returning home for the week.  And in fact, a casual drive down Woodland Valley Road on a Monday is more like a drive through downtown Detroit after a riot what with all the swerving around the debris strewn about by the bears.  Only it's banana peels, apple cores, styrofoam cups, and trash cans instead of burning tires and overturned cop cars.

Which got us to thinking about composting.  Reduce, reuse, recycle, and repurpose.  Isn't that a worthwhile endeavor?  We are not neophyte composters. For many years we had a chicken wire bordered compost heap right out our back door but also in clear view of our neighbor's kitchen window.  But after a few passive-aggressive comments like "Oh, I see your pile is almost to the top of my window", we decided to move it to the other side of the yard. No longer convenient, the compost was turned less and less and we peeled our carrots more and more into the regular trash rather than cart the organic waste "all the way" to the other side of the yard.  And because in our kitchen nothing can sit out on the counter, our little compost bucket, hidden behind the trash can under the sink, was soon forgotten.

I have always considered myself a "Cadillac Conservationist", which is not dissimilar to my other political affliction, "Limousine Liberal", so in my mind, at least, I was never a conspicuous consumer.  I might own a second home 200 miles distant, which I drive to three times a month, but at least I don't own a yacht, Jet Ski, Porsche, or a Hummer.  And those impossible to open plastic blister packs that all my new toys come in these days?  I tsk tsk several times about the wastefulness as I throw them in the trash, since in Woodbury, NJ only numbers 1 and 2 are recyclable. 

So when Tammy picked up a copy of Country Wisdom News while awaiting her 3:30 massage at the Emerson Resort in Mt Tremper you could say that the starter had already been added to the compost.  If you've never spoken with, nor read about a hard core composter the experience is more Pentecostal revival meeting than cooperative extension newsletter.  After reading the article about the miracles of composted waste matter, Tammy was ready to have her prodigal body dipped in the waters of the Woodland Stream and purged of her wasteful ways.  The author was so enthusiastic about the fertilizing power of compost that I was reminded of  the time when Tammy's best friend in high school rubbed MiracleGro on her breasts.  I am hoping the compost will do more for my melons than the MiracleGro did for hers.

The Envirocycle

In any case, we are obviously not alone in our desire to have our composting be as convenient and scientific as possible.  Some marketing genius figured out that a chicken wired pile which has to be turned with a pitchfork every week isn't going to make anyone a profit.  Nor is it very much fun.  Apparently going simple isn't.  Go ahead and search for composters at amazon.com.  I'll wait.  I don't know how many dinosaurs had to die to produce the oil to produce all this plastic, but just like the supposed energy efficiency of a Prius, I can't help but believe that the carbon energy used to manufacture all this environmentally friendly paraphernalia more than makes up for any carbon energy saved by composting.   Never the less, Tammy eventually settled on an ingenious little solar workhorse called the Envirocycle Composter.  Just 3 turns a week on our way out the door and we should be spreading our fertile gold in 8 short weeks.  I suspect that being able to grow over-sized melons will be just the beginning of Tammy's new found confidence......in the garden.

We put the composter right out our back door and the little intermediary bucket to collect the kitchen waste is under our sink.  Our compostable waste flow is now so convenient and accessible that it even meets the American with Disabilities Act standard for wheelchair accessibility.  I have no more excuses.  The only problem is, I am still carting my waste 209 miles south from Phoenicia to Woodbury.  I am hoping to be able to trade my compost for some carbon offsets.  In my mind, I already have.

It's Just a Hill

I noticed an alarming uptick in page views of this blog since it was mentioned on another blog.  Anonymity has its perks and I fear for the sanctity of my thoughts.  Of course a blog is nothing more than a private diary made public so we let the chips fall where they may when we disclose the location of our private thoughts.  But as they say "a life lived unexamined is barely worth living at all".  But when living in the country it is especially important to close the exam room door.  And to make sure your gown is securely fastened in the posterior because if your ass gets exposed, it will be kicked.  Of course I don't actually live in the country, nor do I live in the city.  I am, and always have been, a suburbanite.  A compromise where everyone is happy but few are content.















But now for my actual topic;  If you believe that only Himalayan mountaineers have to turn back 200 feet from the summit, then think again.  The Catskill 3500 Club requires the summiting of four Catskill mountains in winter for a reason: To separate the boys from the men . Or in our case, the girls from the men.  An actual self arrest is very rare below 12,000 feet and rarer still east of the Rocky Mountains, but that is exactly what I witnessed at 3800 feet near Windham NY  in the Catskill Mountains.  Blackhead Mountain is the fifth highest mountain in the Catskills at 3940 feet elevation and one of the four required peaks to be conquered in winter for admittance into the Catskill 3500 Club.  So for our annual Valentine's Day hike Tammy and I decided to knock the bastard off.  It would have been our final mandatory winter summit for entry into the club. "Would have been" being the point of this story.  I don't know if you have ever hiked in the Catskills but most summits have an official DEC sign posted at 3500 feet declaring that camping is off limits above this elevation.  If you are simultaneously a member of the Tea Party and the Catskill 3500 Club then I imagine this sign is like throwing salt in the wound of excessive government regulation.  But if, like me, you believe that perhaps there should be a tree left for our great grand children to enjoy then these signs might as well say "You're almost there!  You can do it!!!!!"  Kind of like your spouse cheering you on at the 26 mile mark during a 26.2 mile marathon.  So when we passed the sign on this hike I felt confident that  my summit PB&J would soon be in my hands.  Because let's face it, the walking uphill sucks but at least the victory lunch is good.

The trail was very steep and icy but quite doable until the 3700 foot mark. We had our microspikes on but I began to worry about getting back down.  There were no foot holds nor steps and the ice was rock hard.  At times the only thing getting us up was grabbing onto a tree branch and pulling ourselves up the ice.  And then when I grabbed one root and it broke sending me sliding into a rock, I started to have second thoughts.
Getting up a mountain is strenuous but not necessarily scary-just don't look behind you-but getting down is where the accidents happen.  Tammy was ahead of me having found a safer route but I was stuck on a ledge too scared to retrace my steps to follow her.  We could practically see the summit.  Then one false step and Tammy slipped and started careening past me, on her ass, heading straight for a drop off.  I am not making this up.  It was like a scene out of a movie except instead of Sylvester Stallone in Cliffhanger, I was Don Knots in the Shakiest Gun in the West.   After sliding about 15 feet Tammy reached out her arms and grabbed onto some overhead branches to accomplish a self arrest that reminded me of Spiderman grabbing onto a flag pole as he falls from the ledge of a skyscrapper.  If this sounds a bit dramatic, it was, because who expects this to happen in the Catskills?  Not me.

We could have made it 100 more vertical feet but now I was seriously alarmed about our dimming prospects for an event free descent.  One bad fall on my previously cracked  rib and all I could imagine was a punctured lung and a helicopter ride home.  A flare for the dramatic means I am never bored.  Is there shame in turning back 100 feet from the summit of a 3900 foot tall hill?  Perhaps, but now I get to go back with full on mountaineering boots, crampons, ice ax, and some rope.  Seriously.  I couldn't be happier.