kanji

24 February, 2003
Many Rivers To Cross

Saints be praised, the rains have ended, for now. As has the flood tide in the cellar, now expressing the heavenly essence of disinfectant. Beats the alternative.

The first hint of sunshine made my accelerator foot itchy, also my shutter finger. Keys and camera. Color me gone.

For a while, at least... all roads to the mountains, passable. Bordered in sagging snow, drained by raging melt. For the first time in over a year, the Rapidan became a boiling, orange froth, with an interesting reverse surf rising at the dam. Quite a different scene, compared with the anemic trickle that mocked the name "river," back in the summer.

Virginia, Land Of Extremes II.

When I returned, Miss Jane had arrived from down south. No hug. No kiss. No fun.

No shit.

Pleasantries exchanged, chores continued, I gathered up my stack of vinyl to pre-program tomorrow's show... 80's psychedelia. Dream Synd1cate, Green 0n Red, Chamele0ns, obscure jangly, non-acidic twang. It's going to be like flipping burgers on the turntables. Strangely enough, though I'd though the music would be dated, it still came across as fresh and well-played.

Game On. A leave day sacrificed for community radio.

I can now see the top of my drawing table. LPs in order. Living room floor clear of debris. Another tasty experience in the kitchen.

Got to keep on movin'. Many rivers to cross.

......................................................................

Hostel Environment

Days Twenty-three and Twenty-four

Jerry Johnson to Missoula. Rest day in Missoula.

Another bittersweet morning... the savage grace of the Lochsa, muscles soothed by hot springs, the carnal could-have-beens. The road, awaiting action.

Steadliy rising, the mountaintops converging, details in the treeline sharpening, we neared Lolo Pass. Along the way, the invisible boundary between Idaho and Montana passed, somewhere near Lolo H0t Springs. A shallow facsimile for what could be found, just off the beaten path. Concrete. Parking lots. Crowds. The antithesis.

Gravity shifting on the long downhills off of the Bitterroot range (the westward boundary of the Rocky Mountains), we descended into Missoula.

A pleasant, progressive-leaning city, alone in the western reaches of the state... home to the group that organized the ride. Our destination.

Telling, the fact that there are no photos to document the stay. Perhaps the feel of the city detracted from the location in the wilds... even mental pictures are few. No recall, either, of the way the town was framed by the saw-toothed mountains that I know were there. This must have been more about lounging. Looking for love letters that wouldn't come. Witnessing "punk" bands in rough-hewn western bars, and in worse-for-wear-and-tear neon-dressed old speakeasies. Abusing the "all-you-can-eat" policies in the restaurants. Recharging.

Craving the return to open spaces.

.


hit me with your rhythm stick




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