I'm flying over the ridges and humps and desert that define the valley that Las Vegas exists in. I want to come back, not to Vegas and the strip but to Vegas when I can rent a car and head into the hills. Hills gently scuplted by wind and roughly carved by water, areas where prospectors would go to seek their fortunes. Me, I just want to go where I can bed down and see the stars in all their glory at night.
Right now I'm passing over Lake Mead. Even from here I can see the marinas that are too far inland from the water to be any use. The ongoing drought has had it's effect. The water levels are down and islands that didn't use to exist are visible. All along the lake there is a band of white indicating the area that's been submerged since Hoover Dam was built all those years ago. Interestingly, Hoover Dam made both Lake Mead and Las Vegas. When it was bing built in 1931, Las Vegas was the only place the workers had for release. And go there for release they did, to gamble and fight and let off steam. Now, at one end of Lake Mead, I can see a grayish/greenish spot where it appears the lake has dried up some and left mineral deposits behind.
In three hours or so I should be home. Granted, I won't get to post this until after that but still... I miss the mountains. Growing up in New York State, not far from the Adirondacks, I knew mountains and hills. Cincinnati was supposedly built on 7 hills and it is not as flat as Columbus or Indianapolis but I miss mountains. I miss being able to climb up and see for miles. Though these mountains are not like those. The Adirondacks were/are thick with trees and streams and lakes. The mesas and canyons and ripples of earth that stretch high here are brown with sand though the trees are beginning to appear now. There's a ridge that defines the end of the desert and the beginning of life.
And now the continent is beginning to show it's backbone. The rippling stages where the canyons are deeper and the ridges are higher and the mountains are working their way up to the sky. It is a desolate land from here, even though I know it is filled with life. And, as I look down on random road passing through a canyon's bottom I can almost see a streak of blue and yellow being followed by a blur of brown that suddenly runs into a canyon wall with a splat.
If Murphy's Laws are religion, I must be a saint.
What else explains semis bursting from tunnels I paint?
A thousand Rube Goldberg nightmares lie smashed in my garage --
How many falling pianos can that damn bird dodge?
Tom Smith, Operation: Desert Storm
The sun is casting it's shadows across the canyon walls, a sundial that has existed since time immemorial, measuing the steady pace of time not in the frantic minutes of man or even the steady days of the sun's motion or the month's of the moon's phases but in a longer pace, the pace of a stream cutting a canyon into the desert floor, of the wind rounding a mesa's cliff edge, of time itself slowly carving into the landscape like a prisoner marking lines on the cell wall. The features are remarkable in their differences. Some canyons appear on the horizon, their snake-like path curved into the landscape by the water. Other canyons are short tributaries that run into the river, when precious rain gathers and follows the contour of the land down, taking part of the land with it. There's one spot where the river has cut back on itself, leaving an almost perfect circle of a canyon with a spire rising out of the middle, being worn no more by the water but by the relentless wind that passes over and around.
We humans can be like that as well. We take the hardest parts of our life, those that seem made of adamant and we can look back over time and see how the storms we have weathered have worn away at parts of us, leaving the core pieces sticking up from what has worn away. Often times these may be jagged and discdnnected but they are still us. And now the desert is giving way to greenery once again, patches of farm land in fertile valleys stretching away to the north. They seem to fit here, unlike the splashes of green that represented golf courses scattered across the Las Vegas landscape, where green seemed to rise up like a jarring blot on the land. Here the muted browns of wheat and attendant crops are slowly giving way to the green of grass. The mountains are covered with the velvety green that signifies a forest top seen from miles high in the air. Part of me wishes I knew where I was, though another part is glad that I can just sit back and enjoy the scenery.
The land is folding in on itself more, as though the land were a giant's rug that had been folded up poorly for too long and its wrinkles were evident now that it was unpacked. And there are peaks of brown sticking up from the trees and some moutains capped in white. My ears are popping as we climb higher to keep pace with the rising land in front and below us. The mountains below are not as old as the Adirondacks I grew up with, but they are impressive. They stretch higher and farther, giving pause to weather systems who want to cross them and helping the rain decide whether it will water the vegetables in California or flow down to the Gulf of Mexico. Or stay here. Below me there is a green lake, nestled in the middle of nowhere, just below the snow line and above the tree line. A lake that wouldn't have many boaters on it because it wouldn't be easy to get to as there are no roads to it.
And the land flattens out again.It is a continually repeating effort, canyons and mesas and then flat land and then more canyons and mesas as we climb higher. Soon that process will begin to reverse itself.
Now we've crossed the spine of the continent and can slowly descend across the farmlands. I can see more lakes that are pale shadows of themselves due to the drought. Some are nothing more than empty depressions where you can tell a lake used to be.
And now the land below has changed color again. The greens are interspersed with mustard yellow, as though someone had tripped and spilled a box of ground mustard seed on a green carpet. I'm curious what creates the yellow color and I wonder if I'll think to research that this evening. And I see train tracks. C took the boys to see their Grandmother via train a couple of years ago. I envy them that trip, for I'm a train fan and have fears that Amtrack won't exist much longer. They've already stopped traffic out of Cincinnati I believe. Perhaps I'll get to Europe and get to ride the trains there. If I ever get a chance to do a Grand European tour I want to fly to England, travel the rest of the continent by train and auto and then take a line back home. But that won't be for some time yet.
I'm not sure why but there are large circles of farmland appearing, like a tire with spokes radiating outward and small circles passing inward. I'm guessing it has to do with irrigation but I deon't know for sure. They are very strange, verdant green spots showing up in the midst of muted browns and yellows and greens. But they do add an interesting variety to the patchwork quilt of squares and rectangles that are covering the land below as though a city planner had regulated the way the land should be divided and then decided to add whimsical green eyes peeking out from various spots.
I'm looking forward to getting home. For lots of reasons. Not the least of which is that my sinus infection is still there. Another is the turbulence. We seem to have encountered a spot of it rough enough to require the seatbelt sign to be back on. Now there are more signs of life, clusteres of buildikngs indicating towns. After an hour or so without them they appear almost alien against the background I've come to expect. But they are welcome as they mean I'm getting closer to my car and home.
Did you know Billy Joel has a Broadway show? Twyla Tharp choreographed Movin' Out to his work. I've been listening to it. It's not bad but I prefer Billy's versions.
I'm about out of battery power so I'm gonna save this and close down and post it when I get home.
Peace, gentle readers
-J <suffering from major turbulence right now>
I'm flying over the ridges and humps and desert that define the valley that Las Vegas exists in. I want to come back, not to Vegas and the strip but to Vegas when I can rent a car and head into the hills. Hills gently scuplted by wind and roughly carved by water, areas where prospectors would go to seek their fortunes. Me, I just want to go where I can bed down and see the stars in all their glory at night.
Right now I'm passing over Lake Mead. Even from here I can see the marinas that are too far inland from the water to be any use. The ongoing drought has had it's effect. The water levels are down and islands that didn't use to exist are visible. All along the lake there is a band of white indicating the area that's been submerged since Hoover Dam was built all those years ago. Interestingly, Hoover Dam made both Lake Mead and Las Vegas. When it was bing built in 1931, Las Vegas was the only place the workers had for release. And go there for release they did, to gamble and fight and let off steam. Now, at one end of Lake Mead, I can see a grayish/greenish spot where it appears the lake has dried up some and left mineral deposits behind.
In three hours or so I should be home. Granted, I won't get to post this until after that but still... I miss the mountains. Growing up in New York State, not far from the Adirondacks, I knew mountains and hills. Cincinnati was supposedly built on 7 hills and it is not as flat as Columbus or Indianapolis but I miss mountains. I miss being able to climb up and see for miles. Though these mountains are not like those. The Adirondacks were/are thick with trees and streams and lakes. The mesas and canyons and ripples of earth that stretch high here are brown with sand though the trees are beginning to appear now. There's a ridge that defines the end of the desert and the beginning of life.
And now the continent is beginning to show it's backbone. The rippling stages where the canyons are deeper and the ridges are higher and the mountains are working their way up to the sky. It is a desolate land from here, even though I know it is filled with life. And, as I look down on random road passing through a canyon's bottom I can almost see a streak of blue and yellow being followed by a blur of brown that suddenly runs into a canyon wall with a splat.
If Murphy's Laws are religion, I must be a saint.
What else explains semis bursting from tunnels I paint?
A thousand Rube Goldberg nightmares lie smashed in my garage --
How many falling pianos can that damn bird dodge?
Tom Smith, Operation: Desert Storm
The sun is casting it's shadows across the canyon walls, a sundial that has existed since time immemorial, measuing the steady pace of time not in the frantic minutes of man or even the steady days of the sun's motion or the month's of the moon's phases but in a longer pace, the pace of a stream cutting a canyon into the desert floor, of the wind rounding a mesa's cliff edge, of time itself slowly carving into the landscape like a prisoner marking lines on the cell wall. The features are remarkable in their differences. Some canyons appear on the horizon, their snake-like path curved into the landscape by the water. Other canyons are short tributaries that run into the river, when precious rain gathers and follows the contour of the land down, taking part of the land with it. There's one spot where the river has cut back on itself, leaving an almost perfect circle of a canyon with a spire rising out of the middle, being worn no more by the water but by the relentless wind that passes over and around.
We humans can be like that as well. We take the hardest parts of our life, those that seem made of adamant and we can look back over time and see how the storms we have weathered have worn away at parts of us, leaving the core pieces sticking up from what has worn away. Often times these may be jagged and discdnnected but they are still us. And now the desert is giving way to greenery once again, patches of farm land in fertile valleys stretching away to the north. They seem to fit here, unlike the splashes of green that represented golf courses scattered across the Las Vegas landscape, where green seemed to rise up like a jarring blot on the land. Here the muted browns of wheat and attendant crops are slowly giving way to the green of grass. The mountains are covered with the velvety green that signifies a forest top seen from miles high in the air. Part of me wishes I knew where I was, though another part is glad that I can just sit back and enjoy the scenery.
The land is folding in on itself more, as though the land were a giant's rug that had been folded up poorly for too long and its wrinkles were evident now that it was unpacked. And there are peaks of brown sticking up from the trees and some moutains capped in white. My ears are popping as we climb higher to keep pace with the rising land in front and below us. The mountains below are not as old as the Adirondacks I grew up with, but they are impressive. They stretch higher and farther, giving pause to weather systems who want to cross them and helping the rain decide whether it will water the vegetables in California or flow down to the Gulf of Mexico. Or stay here. Below me there is a green lake, nestled in the middle of nowhere, just below the snow line and above the tree line. A lake that wouldn't have many boaters on it because it wouldn't be easy to get to as there are no roads to it.
And the land flattens out again.It is a continually repeating effort, canyons and mesas and then flat land and then more canyons and mesas as we climb higher. Soon that process will begin to reverse itself.
Now we've crossed the spine of the continent and can slowly descend across the farmlands. I can see more lakes that are pale shadows of themselves due to the drought. Some are nothing more than empty depressions where you can tell a lake used to be.
And now the land below has changed color again. The greens are interspersed with mustard yellow, as though someone had tripped and spilled a box of ground mustard seed on a green carpet. I'm curious what creates the yellow color and I wonder if I'll think to research that this evening. And I see train tracks. C took the boys to see their Grandmother via train a couple of years ago. I envy them that trip, for I'm a train fan and have fears that Amtrack won't exist much longer. They've already stopped traffic out of Cincinnati I believe. Perhaps I'll get to Europe and get to ride the trains there. If I ever get a chance to do a Grand European tour I want to fly to England, travel the rest of the continent by train and auto and then take a line back home. But that won't be for some time yet.
I'm not sure why but there are large circles of farmland appearing, like a tire with spokes radiating outward and small circles passing inward. I'm guessing it has to do with irrigation but I deon't know for sure. They are very strange, verdant green spots showing up in the midst of muted browns and yellows and greens. But they do add an interesting variety to the patchwork quilt of squares and rectangles that are covering the land below as though a city planner had regulated the way the land should be divided and then decided to add whimsical green eyes peeking out from various spots.
I'm looking forward to getting home. For lots of reasons. Not the least of which is that my sinus infection is still there. Another is the turbulence. We seem to have encountered a spot of it rough enough to require the seatbelt sign to be back on. Now there are more signs of life, clusteres of buildikngs indicating towns. After an hour or so without them they appear almost alien against the background I've come to expect. But they are welcome as they mean I'm getting closer to my car and home.
Did you know Billy Joel has a Broadway show? Twyla Tharp choreographed Movin' Out to his work. I've been listening to it. It's not bad but I prefer Billy's versions.
I'm about out of battery power so I'm gonna save this and close down and post it when I get home.
Peace, gentle readers
-J <suffering from major turbulence right now>